East India Company's mutinous soldiery, presided over
the butchery of helpless English women and children.

It is difficult to realize that Delhi has been the theatre of such a
stirring and eventful history, as nowadays one strolls down the Chandni
Chouk and notes the air of peace and contentment that pervades the whole
city. It seems quite true, as Edwin Arnold says in his "India Revisited,"
that Derby is now not more contentedly British than is Delhi. Whatever
may be the faults of British rule in India, no impartial critic can say
that the people are not in better hands than they have ever been before.
One of the most interesting objects in the city is the Jama Mesjid, the
largest mosque in India, and the second-largest in all Islam, ranking
next to St. Sophia at Constantinople. Broad flights of red sandstone
steps lead up to handsome gateways surmounted by rows of small milk-white
marble domes or cupolas. Inside is a large quadrangular court, paved with
broad slabs of sandstone; occupying the centre of this is a white marble
reservoir of water. The mosque proper is situated on the west side of the
quadrangle, an oblong structure two hundred feet long by half that many
in width, ornamented and embellished by Arabic inscriptions and three
shapely white marble domes. Very elegant indeed is the pattern and
composition of the floor, each square slab of white marble having a
narrow black border running round it, like the border of a mourning
envelope. Very charming, also, are the two graceful minarets at either
end, one hundred and thirty feet high, alternate strips of white marble
and red sandstone producing a very pretty and striking effect.

In the northeastern corner of the quadrangle is a small cabinet
containing the inevitable relics of the Prophet. Three separate guides
have accumulated at my heels since entering the gate, and now a fourth,
ancient and hopeful, appears to unravel, for the Sahib's benefit, the
mysteries of the little cabinet. Unlocking the door, he steps out of his
slippers into the entrance, stooping beneath an iron rail that further
bars the entrance.

From an inner receptacle he first produces some ancient manuscript, which
he explains was written by the same scribes who copied the Koran for
Mohammed's grandson. Putting these carefully away, the Ancient and
Hopeful then unwraps, very mysteriously, a handkerchief, and reveals a
small oblong tin box with a glass face. The casket contains what upon