Forty Thousand Miles Over Land and Water

The Khas Mahl, or Belvedere, overhanging the Jumna, is a little gem, with its delicate rows of cusped arches, and the niches and groinings of its walls. It is open on three sides, and commands a splendid view over the river, with the snowy domes of the Taj in the distance. It was here that the emperor sat in the rainy season.

Then we go down to the little court, paved in squares of black and white marble, called the Pachise, or backgammon and chessboard. There were no pieces used for this colossal board, but Akbar's wives trotted about at his bidding from square to square, thus performing each move. Above this there is the lovely Jasmine Tower, or the Boudoir of the Chief Sultana, most exquisitely inlaid with turquoise and carnelian. We discovered near here a charming little mosque hidden up some steps, called the "Children's Mosque," and where the children were taken separately to pray. It was in the Anguri Bagh that the British officers and their families were confined during that terrible summer of 1857, and here Mr. Russell Colvin, the Lieutenant-Governor, died—worn out with anxiety—and was buried in the marble tomb we saw just now opposite the Audience Hall.

We then descended to a garden, where, in a cool grotto, we found the Shish Mahal, or the Palace of Glass. It is an oriental bath, and the decoration is very eccentric and fantastic. It consists of hundreds of thousands of tiny mirrors covering the walls and ceiling. On entering it is like being in a silver cave. The chunar stone of which it is made is covered with filagree, and the looking-glasses arranged in rows and patterns produce a wonderful effect. We lighted a match in a dark corner, and the effect was bewilderingly dazzling, the gleam of light being reflected and flashed back in our faces a hundred times. The marble baths all round are much carved, but the most beautiful sight of all must have been the bath where the water from the Jumna fell over some recesses lined with looking-glass, which gave back in radiated colours the reflection of the tiny waterfall. About here we see some entrances to underground passages, where, it is said, during the midday heat, the wives and concubines of the king disported themselves in the original garb of Eve before their royal master, causing the corridors to resound again with their merry shouts of laughter.

The Jahangir Mahal, or Palace of Jahangir, Akbar's son, adjoins the palace. The red courts, particularly that called the Begum's Court, with their massive pillars supported by Hindu brackets, and carvings of birds and flowers, looked coarse and heavy after the chaste beauties we have just been seeing.

As we see so often repeated in history, and in our own times, the great palace which Akbar founded as the abode of his dynasty, was destined to be inhabited but for a very short time. Jahangir, his son and successor, lived and died in northern latitudes, and Shah Juhan, his son, began the palace at Delhi. The race lay under a cloud, for the latter emperor was dethroned by his son Aurungzebe, and under him the fort became merely a citadel and the residence of a Mogul governor. It changed hands during the Mahratta war several times, and was finally held by General Lake after the defeat of the Mahratta power at Delhi.

To the founder of the short but brilliant Mogul dynasty, was it given first to call into existence a nationality among the people. On ascending the throne at the age of fifteen, Akbar, by raising the Hindus and refusing to favour the Mussulmans, welded the people into one nation. His latitude in religious matters is shown by the Hindu god and goddesses at Futtehpore Sikri, the Windsor of Agra as it has been called. There is even here a palace called the Palace of the Christian Woman.

It is to Akbar that we owe the most deeply interesting city of India, and to his successors the second, that is, Delhi.

The Jumma Musjid, or Cathedral Mosque, stands opposite, and slightly turned eastwards away from the Fort. It is the second largest mosque in India, but though of vaster proportions, it can claim no pre-eminence to beauty. It stands on the usual platform, and the inside is inlaid with black and red marble. The inscription over the central arch tells us that it was built by Shah Jahan in 1653, in honour of the Princess Juhanara, whose tomb we shall see later on at Delhi. However, the colouring of the three domes is highly peculiar and remarkable. They are of deep red, and the white lines meeting up and down them at right angles form a zigzag, and resemble from a distance the stripes of a zebra.

In the afternoon we drove through a bit of the native quarter to reach the pontoon bridge, and crossing over it came to the tomb of Itmud-ud-Daulah, or Ghias Beg.

Ghias Beg was the grandfather of the beautiful Muntâz of the Taj, and Vizier to the Emperor Jahangir, who honoured him after death by this mausoleum. He was a poet also, and it is told how, when the emperor visited him on his deathbed, and he was asked if he recognized his royal master, the minister replied by a quotation from a Persian poet:—

"Even if the mother-Hindman happened to be present now,He himself would surely know thee by the splendour of thy brow."

The mausoleum is a little gem set in a green garden, and overawed by four red gateways, quite out of proportion and keeping with it. The front presents the appearance of carved ivory, so delicate is the lacework of the marble tracery. Like the other buildings of Agra the outside and inside are embroidered with stones, but these are not so precious, being chiefly plum-pudding or agate stones. The design and finish of the work are however most remarkable. There is a slender vase in blue and green with serpent handles; a basin in blue and white, resembling the old willow-patterned plate; a cup with a spray of flowers, or vase with an outspread peacock's tail. The ceilings, though sadly weather-worn, still show what a splendid and gorgeous mass of colouring and variegated patterns they were. The mausoleum is divided into a succession of courts opening one out of the other, and each is the death-chamber of one or more. Following the melancholy circle of the building, we see the narrow marble sarcophagi of brothers, sisters, a whole family, descending even to the second generation, who find their tombs within this narrow circle.

It is at the top, on the marble chabutra, or platform, that we find the tomb of Itmud-ud-Daulah himself, lying under the canopy of marble, and surrounded by the marble trellis screens.

These Mahommedan tombs always indicate the sex of the person beneath by a very small raised slab, some six inches long by two wide for the man, whilst that for the woman is the same, with the addition of a mitre-like head.

We went home after this, for we were dreadfully tired, and I especially, almost knocked up by another slight attack of fever, brought on last night in the train by a selfish fellow-passenger, who would keep the window on his side of the carriage open.

Bright and fresh we rose the next morning, under the influence of looking forward to seeing the Taj for the first time. We all know "that it is worth coming to India, if only to see the Taj;" and we thought of this as we drove down the well-known road constructed during the famine of 1838.

The Taj Mahal is, I think, the most beautiful, the most heavenly of all earthly conceptions—of all earthly creations, of all works raised by the hand of man. In the midst of this land of glorious monuments the Taj shines forth as the one thing of "perfect beauty." Apart from the loveliness of its outward and earthly form, it stands there as "some silent finger pointing to the sky," an intuition of the quiet beauty of death. It is as if Shah Jahan, even in his heathen darkness, conceived some vague idea of a higher world, another life; as if he felt that by transferring the remains of his loved one to the most beautiful resting-place on earth he was lifting her up to a higher sphere.

He seems to have tried to embody some such idea in the monument which will immortalize his name and the memory of the lovely Mumtaz to whose honour it was erected. It was his way of showing the passion of his love, the erecting of this most beautiful mausoleum that the world had ever seen. We may think it was the work of an ignorant and barbarous mind, but after all it is the form of expression of sorrow which is unhappily must common with us until this day.

The Taj was built in 1648. No wood or stone was used in its construction, for it was built entirely with Jeypore marble, which still retains its pristine purity of whiteness.

The approach to the Taj by the straight Strand Road, with the first view of the marble dome over some trees, communicates a pang of disappointment; but as we pass under an old stone gateway and find ourselves in a quaint native court, the scene grows more in harmony. This court leads us out before the great red gateway. It is very handsome. Formed of red granite, inlaid with white marble, it is topped with a series of little cupolas or umbrellas, that count the curiously uneven number of eleven. Two slender towers that flank the gateway look spiral from their running zig-zag pattern. The broad square which frames the arch is covered with sentences from the Koran, those being chosen which speak of comfort and consolation to the mourning. The irregular and disjointed letters of the Arabic alphabet form a very effective and bold decoration to the arch, and the contrast between the white and red marble is most striking. Passing through we are under the great dome of this gateway, which is covered with the mosque-pattern of crossed triangles. A man with designs of the Florentine mosaic on plates and vases, &c., distracts our attention.

We turn,—and see the mirage of a pure white temple—the glory of the Taj.

The gateway forms a grand frame, the scimitar crossing the dome just touches the keystone of the arch, and the sides seem to widen out just enough to admit of a complete view of the furthest outlying cupola and tower. The first startling effect of dazzling brilliancy is very great, and deep, and lasting. It is here that the Taj became indelibly imprinted on my memory. It is as seen from here that I always recall its now familiar lines.

The stupendous marble dome, crowned with the golden scimitar, is the central object, the first that absorbs the attention of the eye; but gradually the towers and the cupolas around the dome begin to be recognized—to force themselves into the picture. We see that the irregularity of their number is caused by the foreshortening of those on the further side, making them appear in between the fixed four square lines of the others. There are four, like outlying sentries, guarding the marble platform, and four others rise from the platform, from whence in its turn springs the dome.

Then you glance at the exceeding beauty of the idea, that has planned the effect of the cypress avenue, the paved walks bordering the strip of water, that all converge, and lead the eye up to the chabutra, or vast marble platform, whereon stands the Taj. There are no steps in this platform, no visible means of approach.

The three archways under the dome are recessed, and in them the carving is so pure and delicate that even from this distance it looks like the carving on one of those ivory caskets from China. The perfection of finish is astounding. Then, even as we look, the picture is enhanced by some specks of bright colour, which stream out of the shadow of the doorway, some women with saris of peacock-blue, and sea-green, and salmon-pink, tender tints giving a flash of life and light to the silent and awing grandeur—almost sternness, I had said, of the cold marble.

As you approach, as you reach a middle distance, the Taj loses in effect; but here the cruciform pavements meet, and your attention is diverted to two red gateways at the ends amongst the trees. Thus you have behind you the great gateway; on either hand these smaller ones complete the square; whilst before you are the still unexplored mysteries of the Taj.

As we emerge up through the opening on to the great chabutra, blinded by the dazzling brightness of the sun on the marble, which seems to collect and radiate every ray of sun about itself—it is like the purity of driven snow on mountain heights. As we stand under the semi-dome of the entrance, in its relieving shadow, we are conscious of a work almost too superhuman for humanity.

The frieze of marble is delicately carved in bas-relief with lotus-flowers, each piston and stamen of the flower, each vein in every leaf, being delineated with scrupulous exactness. Over this entrance leading into the abode of death is a sentence in Arabic characters from the Koran finishing up the verses of consolation, with an invitation "to the pure of heart to enter the Garden of Paradise."

We pass through the wrought cedar-wood doors.

Through the dim solemn light let in high up in the dome, and struggling through the heavy marble trellis-work, we see the cenotaph—the central romance that gave rise to this "poem in marble."

The beautiful Mumtaz Mahal, the Exalted One of the Palace, was the wife of Shah Jahan, then heir-apparent to the throne. The chosen wife of his youth, the "beloved one" among all his harem, she bore him seven children, and died at the birth of the eighth, when accompanying her husband on a campaign to the Deccan against the tribe of Lodi. Anguish-stricken, his grief found expression in a monument of purity, "after the eastern idea of beauty, which considers as full dress a simple white robe, with an aigrette of precious stones." It has been truly said, "The Taj is not a great national temple erected by a free and united people; it owes its creation to the whim of an absolute ruler, who was free to squander the resources of the state in commemorating his personal sorrows."

The cenotaph is surrounded by a screen of jali, and the entrance to it is just opposite to us. Within the screen she lies, in the centre. The simpler and large tomb of the king has had to be placed at the side, to the left, so that that of the queen is the only one seen on entering. Shah Jahan originally intended to build for himself a similar monument on the opposite bank of the Jumna, and to unite the two by a bridge. He ended his reign in captivity, and, "thus," says Mr. Taylor, "fate conceded to love what was denied to vanity." These are the cenotaphs erected, after the Oriental manner, for show; the real tombs are in the vault below.

The screen is a network of "geometrical combination," rare, intricate, and unique in the world, all carved to the depth of two inches out of solid marble. The open-work fringe of lace at the top has been added at a later date.

On this and on the walls around are what calls forth our most enthusiastic admiration, our greatest expressions of delight.

The cenotaph, the screen, the walls, are inlaid with flowers, and designs in precious stones, agates, and coloured marble. Each leaf, each petal, each stalk, is shaded by the different tones and colours of the stones. Each is perfect in the minute details of drawing, shading, and colouring. Every spray stands out from its marble background; not a turn of a leaf, not the shade of a half-open calyx but what is delicately indicated. Thirty separate pieces are used in every flower, and each spray has three of such. We see thus represented the lotus, the lily, and the iris. They are formed of precious stone; of cornelian, coral, lapis-lazuli, bloodstone, jasper, garnets, turquoise, amethyst, crystal, sapphire, onyx, malachite, and agates. It is an Indian Pietra dura, and differs from the Florentine only in that the latter is in bas-relief.

It took seventeen years collecting the materials for the building of the Taj, and 20,000 workmen were employed in its construction for twenty-three years. It cost over 2,000,000l. Workmen came from all parts, from Turkey, Persia, Delhi, and the Punjaub. The "head master" was Isa Muhammed, the illuminator was an inhabitant of Shiraz, and the master mason came from Bagdad. Many different countries were drawn upon for contributions of precious stones. The crystal came from China, cornelian from Bagdad, turquoises from Thibet, sapphires and lapis-lazuli from Ceylon, coral from Arabia and the Red Sea, garnets from Bundelkund, plum-pudding stone from Jassilmere, rock-spar from Nirbudda, the onyx and amethyst from Persia; and there are many other stones used that we have no knowledge of, nor name for in our language.

A terrible old desperado was the Rajah of Bhurtpore, who caused many of the gems and precious stones to be picked out of the Taj. Government has replaced many of these, and restored a whole corner which was removed by this regal robber; but, though exactly the same when examined closely, the general effect looks coarse beside the original.

The solemn light that glimmers down gives a holy, reverend look to this chamber of beauty and death, and the lotus frieze stands out grandly in the half light. Up there the dome seems to lose itself in space, and looks intensely blue from deep shadows on the cold marble. Each of the octagon arches is crowned by a sentence from the Koran, and outside and inside the writing is so frequently repeated that it has often been declared that the whole of the Koran is thus inlaid in the Taj.

Not the least beautiful and wonderful thing about the mausoleum is the echo that during fifteen seconds lingers on the air, dying away as if with retreating steps down endless cloisters—dying so gently that you know not when it ceases. It is a finer echo than that in the Baptistery at Pisa, which is thought to be the finest in Europe. The echo is so sharp and quick that only one note should be sounded, and this will be multiplied in the distance till you recognize not your own single tone. It is this that causes the discordant sound of voices speaking in the Taj, the echo repeating and mixing the different voices.

"I pictured to myself the effect of an Arabic or Persian lament for the lovely Muntâz sung over her tomb. The responses that would come from above in the pauses of the song must resemble the harmonies of angels in paradise," writes one who has heard it.

We descend into the vault by the long sloping marble-lined corridor. A sweet and sickly smell is wafted along it towards us, the subtle odour of otta of roses perfuming the air. Here is where the royal dust and ashes really rest, and it is very characteristic of the perfection and finish displayed throughout the Taj, that though unseen, and in total darkness, the finish is just as elaborate, the walls, the cenotaph, the frieze of the purest marble; the mosaic of pietra dura as lovely and precious. The tomb of the queen is inscribed with the sentences of praise usual in Persian monuments, but that of the king bears a curious eulogium:—"The magnificent tomb of the King inhabitant of the two paradises; the most sublime sitter on the throne in Illeeyn (the starry heaven), dweller in Firdos (paradise), Shah Jahan Pâdishâh-i-Gazi, peace to his remains, heaven is for him; his death took place on 26th day of Rajab, in the year 1076 of the Hijri (or 1665 A.D.). From this transitory world eternity has marched him off to the next."

The two mosques that flank the platform are of red sandstone inlaid with marble, and face east and west. The western one only is used for prayer, and the eastern one was built as a "jawab," or "answer" to the other, showing how strong was the feeling for preserving the symmetry of the Taj.

We wander round the platform, which dwarfs everything with its immense size, and makes us look like little black specks crossing its glistening surface, and look over into the muddy waters of the Jumna, which washes the red sandstone platform of the Taj on two sides. In all distant views this platform spoils the effect of the Taj, appearing like a red brick wall, on which the white dome alone is seen resting. We look over the river to where higher up we see shining the temples and pavilions of the Aram Bagh, or the Garden of Rest.

Bishop Heber truly expresses and sums up the glorious loveliness of the Taj, when he says, "It was designed by Titans and finished by Jewellers."

Four times in all we visited the Taj. Once again in the afternoon's light and shade, and yet once more by moonlight; but I still thought that nothing could exceed the beauty of that first glimpse through the red gateway. The defects (for what of human make is without?) appear more distinct each time. One long absorbing visit to the Taj is what I would recommend.

All the same by moonlight, what you lose in detail you gain in the overwhelming solitude, the solemnity of the scene. The pure dome shows out against the dark blue vault of heaven, the brilliancy of the silver-tipped turret towers eclipses the shining of the stars. The Taj looks then truly majestic. You fear to break the silence by the echo of your footsteps as you steal quickly round in the deep shadows, and come out on the dazzling platform, in the glory of the full moon by the riverside. At night you feel it is not a monumental palace, but a burial-place; the smell of the tomb is close and vault-like, and you shudder at the vast silence as you escape into the open once more. One curious effect is then always remarked. As you approach the Taj by moonlight it seems to dwindle and recede, and you only realize suddenly that you are near, and almost under the platform.

In the afternoon we drove along a road which has been called the "Appian Way" of Agra, from the tombs and mausoleums which we see along the five miles road to the village of Secundra or Sikandria. We are going to the mausoleum of the great Akbar himself.

Entering under a gateway, which is a veritable study in red and white and other coloured marbles, we find ourselves in a small park. The feeling of disappointment occasioned so often by the ruin and decay around these Indian monuments is absent here, for Secundra delights us with a certain finish and completeness. The trees bordering the broad paved causeway form as effective an avenue, as the cyprus at the Taj, to the pyramidal tomb at their end. Four grand causeways coming from four of these marble and sandstone gateways meet at the marble platform on which stands the mausoleum. The idea of the mausoleum is peculiar and original, as will be seen. The semicircular dome of the entrance, which is whitewashed, forms an incongruity which mars the general effect of the façade.

Down a dim, gradually sloping passage we descend to the underground vault. At its entrance, by the pale light from the doorway, we see the plain marble sarcophagus, surmounted by a wreath of fresh flowers which contains the dust of Akbar, the founder of the great Mogul Empire, the mightiest sovereign of a mighty race.

Under the central dome it stands alone, without name or inscription, marking by its simplicity the chosen tomb of the great monarch.

We climb up one after another the four chabutras. Each one has the staircase unseen at first, but discovered in a corner, and which leads up to the trap-hole, through which we reappear on to the next platform. Thus each one you attain to seems to be the last. We are looking down upon tiers of minarets, and upon the four canopies, pillar-supported, which face each way of the compass. At length we climb the last flight, and find ourselves at the summit on the white marble chabutra that crowns the whole.

All is of marble, white and pure. Here, surrounded by one of those exquisite filagree marble screens open to the heavens, stand the whitest of sarcophagi, hewn out of one single block of marble, wrought, and carved, and fretted until it is like the carving of a sandal-wood box. The ninety-nine names of God in Arabic are inscribed within and around the scroll-work of the tomb, and it bears also the Salutation of the Faith, "Allaho Akbar! Jilli Julali Hoo." The court is surrounded by a cloister with Saracenic arches showing glimpses of the distant view. Tradition says that the sort of half pillar at the head of the tomb was intended for a setting for the Koh-i-Noor diamond, and that it really stood there for some time.

The first view of Secundra brings dissatisfaction. The creator of Futtehpore Sikri, the builder of the Fort and palace of Agra, the founder of the Pearl Mosque, we look to see something more magnificent than this self-chosen resting-place, for by the subtle leading up and preparation we only realize the beauty of the summit, when we look at that jointless tomb, that court of purest marble; its only canopy—that of nature, heaven's blue sky.