THE MEM SĀHIBA’S SPEECH.
“Ari! Ari! what a day is this! Ahi Khudā! what a wind is here! Is not this a tufān? Such an ill-starred river never, never did I see! Every moment, every moment, we are on a sandbank. Come, my children, let her remain; it is the will of God,—what can we do? Eat your food, and when the gale lulls we may get off. Perhaps, by the blessing of God, in twelve months’ time we may reach Etaweh.”
After this specimen of eloquence, literally translated from the Hindostanee in which it was spoken, the dāndees gladly wrapped their blankets round them, and crept into corners out of the wind, to eat chabenī, the parched grain of Indian corn, maize. Could you but see the men whom I term my children! they are just what in my youth I ever pictured to myself cannibals must be: so wild and strange-looking, their long, black, shaggy hair matted over their heads, and hanging down to their shoulders; their bodies of dark brown, entirely naked, with the exception of a cloth round the waist, which passes between the limbs. They jump overboard, and swim ashore with a rope between their teeth, and their towing-stick in one hand, just like dogs,—river dogs; the water is their element more than the land. If they want any clothes on shore they carry them on the top of their heads, and swim to the bank in that fashion. The mem sāhiba’s river dogs; they do not drink strong waters; and when I wish to delight them very much, I give them two or three rupees’ worth of sweetmeats, cakes of sugar and ghee made in the bazār; like great babies, they are charmed with their meetai, as they call it, and work away willingly for a mem sāhiba who makes presents of sweetmeats and kids.
Saw the first wolf to-day; I wish we were at Etaweh,—to anchor here is detestable: if we were there I should be reading my letters, and getting in supplies for Agra. How I long to reach the goal of my pilgrimage, and to make my salām to the “Tāj beebee ke rauza,” the mausoleum of the lady of the Tāj!
CHAPTER XXIX.
PILGRIMAGE TO THE TĀJ.
“HE WHO HAS NOT PATIENCE POSSESSES NOT PHILOSOPHY[125].”
“Whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.”
Etaweh—Moonlight Ride—The Wolves—Bird-catchers—Peacocks—The Bar of Sand—The Good Luck of the Mem Sāhiba—Narangee Ghāt—Betaizor—The Silk-cotton Tree—Fields of the Cotton Plant—The Chakwā Chukwaee—Eloquence of a Dhobee—Aladīnpoor—Noon, or Loon—Modelling in Khuree—Cotton Boats—The Ulāk—Vessels on the River—Plantations of the Castor Oil Plant—Cutting through a Sandbank—First Sight of the Tāj—Porcupines—Bissowna—Quitted the Pinnace—Arrival at Agra.
1835, Jan. 10th.—Ours is the slowest possible progress; the wind seems engaged to meet us at every turn of our route. At 3 P.M. we lugāoed at Etaweh; while I was admiring the ghāts, to my great delight, a handful of letters and parcels of many kinds were brought to me. In the evening, the chaprāsī in charge of my riding horses, with the sā’īses and grass-cutters who had marched from Allahabad to meet me, arrived at the ghāt. The grey neighed furiously, as if in welcome; how glad I was to see them!
In a minute I was on the little black horse; away we went, the black so glad to have a canter, the mem sāhiba so happy to give him one: through deep ravines, over a road through the dry bed of a torrent, up steep cliffs; away we went like creatures possessed; the horse and rider were a happy pair. After a canter of about four miles it became dark, or rather moonlight, and I turned my horse towards the river, guided by the sight of a great cliff, some 150 or 200 feet high, beneath which we had anchored. I lost my way, but turned down a bridle road in the bed of a ravine, which of course led somewhere to the river. I rode under a cliff so high and overhanging, I felt afraid to speak; at last we got out of the cold and dark ravine, and came directly upon the pinnace. I had met, during my ride, two gentlemen in a buggy; one of them, after having arrived at his own house, returned to look for me, thinking I might turn down by mistake the very road I had gone, which at night was very unsafe, on account of the wolves; but he did not overtake me.
The next morning he called on me, and brought me a letter from a relative; therefore we were soon acquainted, and agreed to have a canter, when the sun should go down. He told me, on his way down, the police had brought him a basket, containing half the mangled body of a child; the wolves had seized the poor child, and had devoured the other half the night before, in the ravines. It was fortunate I did not encounter a gang of them under the dark cliff, where the black horse could scarcely pick his way over the stones.
11th.—I rode with Mr. G⸺ through the ravines and the Civil Station, and saw many beautiful and picturesque spots. We returned to the pinnace; he came on board, and we had a long conference. It was not to be marvelled at that the mem sāhiba talked a great deal, when it is considered she had not spoken one word of English for thirty-three days; then she did talk!—ye gods! how she did talk! Mr. G⸺ offered to send armed men with me if I felt afraid, but I declined taking them; and he promised to forward my letters by horsemen every day, to meet the pinnace. Nothing can be greater than the kindness one meets with from utter strangers in India. He gave my husband and me an invitation to pay him a visit on our way back, which I accepted for the absent sāhib.
I was amused by an officer’s coming down to the river, which he crossed; he then mounted a camel, and his servant another; he carried nothing with him but some bedding, that served as a saddle, and a violin! In this fashion he had come down from Sabbatoo, and was going, viâ Jubbulpore, across to Bombay! thence to sail for England. How charmingly independent! It is unusual for a gentleman to ride a camel; those who understand the motion, a long swinging trot, say it is pleasant; others complain it makes the back ache, and brings on a pain in the liver. At Etaweh every thing was to be had that I wished for; peacocks, partridges, fowls, pigeons, beef, were brought for sale; atr of roses, peacocks’ feathers, milk, bread, green tea, sauces; in short, food of every sort. I read and answered my letters, and retired to rest perfectly fagged.
12th.—At daybreak the pinnace started once more for Agra,—once more resumed her pilgrimage; it is seventy-two miles by the road from Etaweh; how far it may be by this twisting and winding river remains to be proved. For some days two bird-catchers (chirī-mārs) have followed the pinnace, and have supplied me with peacocks; to-day they brought a hen and three young ones; they also brought their nets and the snares with them, which I had seen them use on shore. The springes are beautifully made of buffalo-horn and catgut. I bought one hundred and six springes for catching peacocks, cyrus, wild ducks, &c., for four rupees, and shall set them in the first jungle we meet. I set them immediately in the cabin, and caught my own two dogs: it was laughable to see the dismay of the dogs, nor could I help laughing at my own folly in being such a child. My head began to throb bitterly, and I spent the rest of the day ill in bed.
15th.—At 8 A.M. the thermometer was 46°, at 1 P.M. 66°, a great difference in five hours. The peacocks, in the evening, were calling from the cliffs, and came down to feed by the river-side, looking beautiful; there were four male birds on one spot, quite fearless, not taking any notice of the men on the goon. Anchored at Purrier.
16th.—A good day’s tracking; no obstacles; good water, i.e. deep water; anchored late at Dedowlee ke Nuggra.
17th.—Found a bar of sand directly across the river; about fourteen enormous boats all aground; numbers of vessels arriving hourly; every one going aground, as close as they could lie together; in the midst of the bar was one vessel which had been there four days. The sarang of the pinnace came to me and said, “Until that salt-boat gets off we cannot move; in all probability, we shall be utterly unable to cross the bar.” The whole day, in the dinghee, did the men sound the river; in the evening I went with them, to see and satisfy myself of the impossibility of crossing; even the dinghee grounded; where, then, could the pinnace find water?
I determined to send on the servants, the baggage, and food in the flat-bottomed cook-boat, to Agra; to write for a dāk for myself, and to remain quietly in the pinnace, until its arrival; went to bed, out of spirits at the unlucky accident of the bar across the river. In the morning, hearing a great noise, I went on deck; the salt-boat was gone, all the vessels but one were off, and the crew were preparing to pull the pinnace by main force through the bar of sand; remembering the leak, I viewed these preparations with anxiety; that leak being only stopped with mud and towels. They pulled her into the place from which the salt-boat had at last extricated herself; a little more exertion, and the pretty Seagull slipped and slid out of the sandbank into deep water. Such a shout as arose from the crew! “We shall see the Tāj beebee ke Rauza: it is our destiny; the mem sāhiba’s kismat (fate) is good: to be sure, what a number of rupees has not the mem sāhiba spent on the pinnace! Her luck is good; this her pilgrimage will be accomplished; and the sāhib will be pleased also!”
And the mem sāhiba was pleased; for we had got over a bar in half an hour, that, the night before, we calculated might take two or three days to cross, with great risk to the vessel. I had determined to give up attempting to take the Seagull further, not liking the chance of straining the timbers so severely, the vessel not being a newly-built one. “Once more upon the waters!” Thank God, we are not upon the sand!
An acquaintance, the Hon. Mrs. R⸺, has just arrived at Allahabad from England; nothing could exceed her astonishment when she heard I had gone up the Jumna alone, on a pilgrimage of perhaps two months or more to see the Tāj, not forced to make the voyage from necessity. I have books, and employments of various sorts, to beguile the loneliness; and the adventures I meet with, give variety and interest to the monotony of life on the river. Could I follow my own inclinations, I would proceed to Delhi, thence to the Hills, and on to the source of the Jumna; this would really be a good undertaking. “Capt. Skinner’s Travels,” which I have just read, have given me the most ardent desire to go to the source of the Jumna.
18th.—Stags, of the chicara sort, with small straight horns, come down to drink by the river-side; wild geese and cyrus are in flocks on the sandbanks. A slight but favourable breeze has sprung up, we are going gently and pleasantly before it. Nārāngee ghāt,—what a beautiful scene! The river was turned from its channel by the Rajah Buddun Sing, and directed through a pass, cut straight through a very high cliff: the cut is sharp and steep; the cliffs abrupt and bold; some trees; native huts; a temple in the distance; numbers of boats floating down the stream, through the pass; the pinnace and patelī, in full sail, going up it; ferry-boats and passengers; cows and buffaloes swimming the ferry; a little beyond, before the white temple, on a sandbank, are six great crocodiles, basking in the sun. Am I not pleased? One of the fairest views I have seen: what a contrast to yesterday, when my eyes only encountered the sandbank, and the fixture of a salt-boat, our particular enemy! Anchored at Hurrier; fagged and ill from over-exertion.
19th.—We arrived at the city of Betaizor, which is built across the bed where the Jumna formerly flowed. The Rajah Buddun Sing built this ghāt, and very beautiful it is; a perfect crowd of beautiful Hindoo temples clustered together, each a picture in itself, and the whole reflected in the bright pure waters of the Jumna. I stopped there for an hour, to sketch the ghāt, and walked on the sands opposite, charmed with the scene,—the high cliffs, the trees; no Europeans are there,—a place is spoiled by European residence. In the evening we anchored off the little village of Kheil: rambling on the river’s bank, I saw five peacocks in the shimoul (the silk-cotton tree), and called Jinghoo Bearer, who ran off to fetch a matchlock, which he loaded with two bullets; the birds were so unmolested, they showed no fear when I went under the tree with the dogs, and only flew away when Jinghoo fired at them; the report aroused two more peacocks from the next tree; a flock of wild geese, and another of wild ducks, sprang up from the sands; and the solitary chakwā screamed āw! āw! The shimoul is a fine high-spreading tree, the flower a brilliant one; and the pod contains a sort of silky down, with which mattresses and pillows are often stuffed. The natives object to pillows stuffed with silk-cotton, saying it makes the head ache. The large silk-cotton tree (bombax ceiba) is the seat of the gods who superintend districts and villages; these gods, although minor deities, are greatly feared. Punchaits, or native courts of justice, are held beneath the shimoul, under the eye of the deity in the branches. There are fields of kāpās, the common white cotton plant, (gossypium herbaceum,) on the side of the river; the cotton has just been gathered; a few pods, bursting with snowy down, are hanging here and there, the leavings of the cotton harvest: the plant is an annual. In my garden at Prāg are numerous specimens of the Bourbon cotton, remarkably fine, the down of which is of a brown colour.
I have met hundreds of enormous boats, laden with cotton, going down to Calcutta, and other parts of the country; they are most remarkably picturesque. I said the report startled the solitary chakwā. The chakwā is a large sort of reddish-brown wild duck (anas cæsarca), very remarkable in its habits. You never see more than two of these birds together; during the day they are never separate,—models of constancy; during the night they are invariably apart, always divided by the stream; the female bird flies to the other side of the river at night, remains there all solitary, and in the morning returns to her mate, who during the livelong night has been sitting alone and crying āw! āw! The male calls āw! some ten or twelve times successively; at length the female gives a single response, “nā’īch!” Leaving the people, some cooking and some eating their dinners, I rambled on alone, as was my custom, to some distance from the boats, listening to and thinking of the chakwā. The first man who finished his meal was the dhobee, a Hindoo, and he started forth to find me. I questioned him respecting the birds, and he spake as follows: “When the beautiful Seeta was stolen away from the god Rām, he wandered all over the world seeking his love. He asked of the chakwā and his mate, ‘Where is Seeta, where is my love, have you seen her?’ The chakwā made answer, ‘I am eating, and attending to my own concerns; trouble me not, what do I know of Seeta?’ Rām, angry at these words, replied, ‘Every night henceforth your love shall be taken from you and divided by a stream; you shall bemoan her loss the livelong night; during the day she shall be restored.’
“He asked of the stars, ‘Where is Seeta?’ the silent stars hid their beams. He asked of the forest, ‘Where is my beloved?’ the forest moaned and sighed, and could give him no intelligence. He asked of the antelope, ‘Where is she whom I seek, the lost, the beloved?’ The antelope replied, ‘My mate is gone, my heart is bowed with grief, my own cares oppress me. Her whom you seek mine eyes have not beheld.’”
It is true the birds invariably live after this fashion: they are great favourites of mine, the chakwās; and I never hear their cry but I think of Seeta Rām.
21st.—The wind westerly and bitterly cold. Loon or noon, from which salt is made, is in large quantities on the river-side. We lugāoed at Aladīnpoor, the village of Ullah-o-deen, or Aladdin, as you call it; and I can think of nothing but his wonderful lamp. I walked through the village; the moment the people caught sight of me and the chaprāsīs, away they ran and hid themselves. In the middle of the village we found some young men sitting on the ground round a fire, warming their hands over the blaze: they did not show any fear, like the rest of the villagers, and I talked to them for some time. They pointed out their fields of the castor-oil plant, all nipped by the frost. I requested them to let me buy a couple of kids to give to the dāndees, a kid feast would warm them such a cold evening. This morning I saw men brushing what is called noon off the clayey banks of the river: they steep it in water, then boil it, when a very good salt is produced. We sometimes use it at table. A poor man in this way brushes up a little noon, and makes enough for his own consumption, which is of great advantage to him. The natives consume salt in large quantities.
All day long I sit absorbed in modelling little temples, or ghāts, or some folly or another, in khuree, a sort of soap-stone. I can scarcely put it aside, it fascinates me so much. I cannot quit my soap-stone. Any thing I see, I try to imitate; and am now at work on a model of the bā’olī (great well) at Allahabad. Captain K⸺ gave me a tomb he had modelled in soap-stone, and some tools. I copied it, and have since modelled a temple on a ghāt and the bā’olī aforesaid; the stone is easily cut with a saw, or with a knife, and may be delicately carved. That bought in the bazār at Allahabad, weighing two or three sēr, is generally of a darkish colour, because the men who bring it from the Up Country often use it to form their chūlees (cooking places) on the road; it becomes discoloured by the heat. A relative sent me some khuree (soap-stone) from a copper mine hill, near Baghesur on the road to Melun Himalaya, which is remarkably pure and white.
A great deal of the clayey ground on the river’s edge that we have passed to-day looks like a badly frosted cake, white from the loon or noon. A little more work at the soap-stone, and then to rest.
23rd.—I could scarcely close my eyes during the night for the cold, and yet my covering consisted of four Indian shawls, a rezaī of quilted cotton, and a French blanket. A little pan of water having been put on deck, at 8 A.M. the ayha brought it to me filled with ice. What fine strong ice they must be making at the pits, where every method to produce evaporation is adopted! I am sitting by the fire for the first time. At 8 A.M. the thermometer was 46°; at 10 A.M. 54°. The dāndees complain bitterly of the cold. Thirteen men on the goon are fagging, up to their knees in water, against the stream and this cold wind; this twist in the river will, however, allow of half an hour’s sail, and the poor creatures may then warm themselves. I will send each man a red Lascar’s cap and a black blanket, their Indian bodies feel the cold so bitterly. When the sails are up my spirits rise; this tracking day by day against wind and stream so many hundred miles is tiresome work. My solitude is agreeable, but the tracking detestable. I must go on deck, there is a breeze, and enjoy the variety of having a sail. At Pukkaghur eight peacocks were by the river-side, where they had come for water; on our approach they moved gently away. They roost on the largest trees they can find at night. I have just desired three pints of oil to be given to the dāndees, that they may rub their limbs. The cold wind, and being constantly in and out of the water, makes their skin split, although it is like the hide of the rhinoceros; they do not suffer so much when their legs have been well rubbed with oil. What a noise the men are making! they are all sitting on the deck, whilst a bearer, with a great jar of oil, is doling out a chhattak to each shivering dāndee.
24th.—Another trouble! The river is very broad, with three great sandbanks in the centre, and there is scarcely any water among the divided channels. Two great cotton boats are aground in the deepest part. They must be off ere there will be room for the Seagull. Whilst the cook-boat anchors, the washermen will set to work to wash the clothes on the river’s edge, and will dry them in the rigging; and the crews of both vessels will unite to cut the pinnace through the sand. Noon: the cotton boats are off; the dinghee is moving about, sounding the passage.
I have had a ramble on the sands, and have found a shell, the shape of the most curious of the fossils we used to find in the cliffs at Christ Church in Hampshire. I have only found three small ones, and must look for more; they are rarely on the sands. Whilst we were waiting for the cotton boats to get off, I sketched them. The boat called an ulāk is beautiful, like a bird upon the waters—graceful and airy—with bamboos in all directions, which add to the picturesque effect. The natives say there is a soul in every vessel: the spirit of an ulāk must be a fairy, flitting and fanciful. An ulāk will spread her high and graceful sails; her slender mast, a bamboo, will bend to the wind; and she will be out of sight almost ere you have gazed upon her—hidden from you by some steep cliff, crowned with a peepul-tree overshadowing some old Hindoo temple; below may be a ghāt, jutting into the river, with a sandbank before it, on which the crocodiles are basking and the wild ducks feeding, while the sentinel bird keeps a sharp look out, and gives warning to the flock if danger approach them. How many boats I have counted of divers shapes and sizes! there is the pinnace, the pinnace budjerow, the budjerow, the bauleah,—these are all pleasure-boats; the kutcher or kutchuā, the kuttree, the ghurdowl, the ulāk, the pulwar, the burra patailā, the surree or soorree, the ferry-boat, and the dinghee; the beautiful vessels used by the Nawab during the festivals at Moorshedabad, and the snake-boats—nor must I forget the boats hollowed out of a single tree, with their shapeless sterns and bows. One of their methods of painting and ornamenting a ulāk is simple and original. They paint the vessel black; and then, dipping one hand into white paint, lay the palm flat on the vessel; this they repeat, until they have produced a border of white outspread hands. A golden eye is placed at the head, to enable the spirit of the vessel to see her way through the waters.
I walked to a small village, where there was a plantation of castor-oil plants, and of cotton plants. The people were working the finest well I have seen, with the exception of the Persian wheel wells: this employed ten bullocks, and the water came up in five very large skins, which are used as buckets.
25th.—Was there ever any thing so provoking! we are fast in the centre of a sandbank, cutting through it on a chain-cable; it will take the whole day to get through it,—perhaps a day or two. There is a fine favourable wind, the first we have had for ages, and we should be at Agra by sunset, could we cross this vile sandbank. I go on deck every now and then to see the progress: we advance about one yard in an hour! then we leave off work, the stream loosens the sand, and the work begins again, until another yard is accomplished, and then we wait for the stream. It is sadly tiresome work: however, the wind is a warm one, and we have only to contend with the stream and the sandbank.
From 7 A.M. to 3 P.M. we worked away on the bank; at last we cut through into deep water. I was delighted to see a chaprāsī from Agra, with a packet of letters for me. How little did the dear ones in England imagine their letters would find me all alone in my beautiful pinnace, fast stuck in a sandbank in the middle of the Jumna!
26th.—This morning from the cliff the white marble dome of the Tāj could just be discerned, and we made salām to it with great pleasure. The pinnace anchored below Kutoobpoor, unable to proceed in consequence of another great sandbank, a quarter of a mile broad. The sarang says, “To attempt to cut through this on a chain-cable would draw every bolt and nail out of her frame.” The Ghāt Mānjhī is of the same opinion. I have been out in the dinghee sounding, and, fearless as I am, I dare not attempt cutting through such a bank; it would injure the vessel. There are two more sandbanks besides this ahead. It is folly to injure the pinnace, and I have made up my mind to quit her. Is it not provoking, only sixteen miles from Agra, and to be detained here? I have written to the Hon. H. D⸺ to request him to send down my horses; they must have arrived long ago, and a palanquin: his answer, I must await with due patience. What a pity I am not a shot! I saw three deer yesterday whilst I was amusing myself in an original fashion, digging porcupines out of their holes, or rather trying to do so, for the dogs found the holes; but the men could not get the animals out of them. Picked up a chilamchī full of river-shells. Before us are thirteen large boats aground on this sandbank. In the evening I took a long walk to see the state of another shallow ahead, which they say is worse than the one we are off. Six of the great cotton boats have cut through the sand; perhaps they will deepen the channel, and we shall be able to pass on to-morrow. There are peacocks in the fields: what a pity my husband is not here, or that I am not a shot!
27th.—Not being satisfied to quit the pinnace without having inspected the river myself, I went up to Bissowna in the patelī this morning, and found it would be utter folly to think of taking the Seagull further; besides which, it is impossible. I might upset her, but to get her across a bank half a mile in length is out of the question. The water in the deepest parts is only as high as a man’s knee, and she requires it up to the hip-bone. It is very provoking—I am tired of this vile jungle—nothing to look at but the vessels aground; besides which, the noise is eternal, night and day, from the shouts of the men trying to force their boats off the sand into deeper water.
28th.—My riding horses having arrived, I quitted the pinnace, desiring the sarang to return to Dharu-ke-Nuggeria, and await further orders.
I sent off the cook-boat and attendants to Agra, and taking my little pet terrier in my arms cantered off on the black horse to meet the palanquin a friend had sent for me. Late at night I arrived at Agra, found a tent that had been pitched for me within the enclosure of the Tāj, in front of the Kālūn Darwāza or great gateway, and congratulated myself on having at length accomplished the pilgrimage in a voyage up the Jumna of fifty-one days! Over-exertion brought on illness, and severe pains in my head laid me up for several days.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE TĀJ MAHUL.
“I have paid two visits to Agra since I returned from Lucnow, and thought of you and the sāhib whilst admiring the Tāj. Do not, for the sake of all that is elegant, think of going home without paying it a visit. I shall, with great delight, be your cicerone in these regions: if you put it off much longer (if alive), I shall scarce be able to crawl with old age. Do not think of quitting India; it is a country far preferable to the cold climate, and still colder hearts of Europe.”
W. L. G⸺, Khasgunge.
The Tāj Mahul—Arzumund Bānoo—Shāhjahān—The Screen—The Echo of the Dome—Momtâza Zumâni—Her Sons and Daughters—Asaf-jāh—Noormāhul—Ruins of the second Tāj—Offerings at the Shrine—The wall—The Kālūn Darwāza—The Fountains—Melā of the Eed—The Burj—The Jāmma Khāna—The Masjid—The Bāo’lī—Tomb and Masjid of the Fathī pooree Begam—Tomb of the Akbarābādee Begam—Ground-plan of the Tāj—The Minarets—Stones used in the Mosaic—Tomb of the Simundee Begam—The Sitee Khanam—A Farewell to the Tāj.
1835, Jan.—I have seen the Tāj Mahul; but how shall I describe its loveliness? its unearthly style of beauty! It is not its magnitude; but its elegance, its proportions, its exquisite workmanship, and the extreme delicacy of the whole, that render it the admiration of the world. The tomb, a fine building of white marble, erected upwards of two centuries ago, is still in a most wonderful state of preservation, as pure and delicate as when first erected. The veins of grey in the marble give it a sort of pearl-like tint, that adds to, rather than diminishes its beauty. It stands on a square terrace of white marble, on each angle of which is a minaret of the same material. The whole is carved externally and internally, and inlaid with ornaments formed of blood-stones, agates, lapis lazuli, &c. &c., representing natural flowers. The inscriptions over all the arches are in the Arabic character, in black marble, inlaid on white. The dome itself, the four smaller domes, and the cupolas on the roof, are all of the same white marble carved beautifully, and inlaid with flowers in coloured stones.
THE TĀJ MEHUL.
فاني پارکس
The outline of the Tāj, that I have annexed, was executed by Luteef, a native artist at Agra. It merely gives a faint idea of the style of architecture; the beauty of the tomb, the handsome buildings that appertain to it, the marble courts, the fine garden, the fountains, the beautiful trees, the river Jumna,—all are omitted, the mere elevation is represented in the sketch. The dome of the Tāj, like all domes erected by the Muhammadans, is egg-shaped, a form greatly admired; the dome in Hindoo architecture is always semicircular; and it is difficult to determine to which style of building should be awarded the palm of beauty.
This magnificent monument was raised by Shāhjahān to the memory of his favourite Sultana Arzumund Bānoo, on whom, when he ascended the throne, he bestowed the title of Momtâza Zumâni (the Most Exalted of the age).
On the death of Shāhjahān, his grandson Alumgeer placed his cenotaph in the Tāj, on the right hand, and close to that of Arzumund Bānoo; this is rather a disfigurement, as the building was intended alone for the Lady of the Tāj, whose cenotaph rests in the centre. Formerly, a screen of silver and gold surrounded it; but when Alumgeer erected the tomb of Shāhjahān by the side of that of the Sultana, he removed the screen of gold and silver, and replaced it by an octagonal marble screen, which occupies about half the diameter of the building, and encloses the tombs. The open fretwork and mosaic of this screen are most beautiful: each side is divided into three panels, pierced and carved with a delicacy equal to the finest carving in ivory; and bordered with wreaths of flowers inlaid, of agate, bloodstone, cornelian, and every variety of pebble. I had the curiosity to count the number contained in one of the flowers, and found there were seventy-two; there are fifty flowers of the same pattern. The cenotaphs themselves are inlaid in the same manner; I never saw any thing so elegant; the tombs, to be properly appreciated, must be seen, as all the native drawings make them exceedingly gaudy, which they are not. The inscriptions on both are of black marble inlaid on white, ornamented with mosaic flowers of precious stones.
The first glance on entering is imposing in the extreme: the dim religious light, the solemn echoes,—at first I imagined that priests in the chambers above were offering up prayers for the soul of the departed, and the echo was the murmur of the requiem. When many persons spoke together it was like thunder,—such a volume of powerful sounds; the natives compare it to the roar of many elephants. “Whatever you say to a dome it says to you again[126].” A prayer repeated over the tomb is echoed and re-echoed above like the peal of an organ, or the distant and solemn chant in a cathedral.
Each arch has a window, the frames of marble, with little panes of glass, about three inches square. Underneath the cenotaphs is a vaulted apartment, where the remains of the Emperor and the Sultana are buried in two sarcophagi, facsimiles of the cenotaphs above. The crypt is square, and of plain marble; the tombs here are also beautifully inlaid, but sadly defaced in parts by plunderers. The small door by which you enter was formerly of solid silver: it is now formed of rough planks of mango wood.
It is customary with Musulmāns to erect the cenotaph in an apartment over the sarcophagus, as may be seen in all the tombs of their celebrated men. The Musulmāns who visit the Tāj lay offerings of money and flowers, both on the tombs below and the cenotaphs above; they also distribute money in charity, at the tomb, or at the gate, to the fakīrs.
The Sultana Arzumund Bānoo was the daughter of the vizier, Asaf-jāh; she was married twenty years to Shāhjahān, and bore him a child almost every year; she died on the 18th July, 1631, in childbed, about two hours after the birth of a princess. Though she seldom interfered in public affairs, Shāhjahān owed the empire to her influence with her father: nor was he ungrateful; he loved her living, and lamented her when dead. Calm, engaging, and mild in her disposition, she engrossed his whole affection; and though he maintained a number of women for state, they were only the slaves of her pleasure. She was such an enthusiast in Deism, that she could scarcely forbear persecuting the Portuguese for their supposed idolatry, and it was only on what concerned that nation she suffered her temper, which was naturally placid, to be ruffled. To express his respect for her memory, the Emperor raised this tomb, which cost in building the amazing sum of £750,000 sterling. The death of the Sultana, in 1631, was followed by public calamities of various kinds. Four sons and four daughters survived her,—Dara, Suja, Aurunzebe, and Morâd: Aurunzebe succeeded to the throne of his father. The daughters were, the Princess Jahânārā (the Ornament of the World), Roshenrāi Begam (or the Princess of the Enlightened Mind), Suria Bânū (or the Splendid Princess), and another, whose name is not recorded. Arzumund Bānoo was the enemy of the Portuguese, then the most powerful European nation in India, in consequence of having accompanied Shāhjahān to one of their settlements, when she was enraged beyond measure against them, for the worship they paid to images.
Such is the account given of the Most Exalted of the Age; but we have no record of her beauty, nor have we reason to suppose that she was beautiful. She was the niece of one of the most celebrated of women, the Sultana of Jahāngeer, whose titles were Mher-ul-nissa (the Sun of Women), Noor-mâhul (the Light of the Empire), and Noor-jahān (Light of the World).
Noor-jahān was the sister of the Vizier Asaf-jāh, and aunt to the lady of the Tāj. Many people, seeing the beauty of the building, confuse the two persons, and bestow in their imaginations the beauty of the aunt on the niece. Looking on the tomb of Shāhjahān, one cannot but remember that, either by the dagger or the bow-string, he dispatched all the males of the house of Timūr, so that he himself and his children only remained of the posterity of Baber, who conquered India.
In former times no Musulmān was allowed to enter the Tāj, but with a bandage over his eyes, which was removed at the grave where he made his offerings. The marble floor was covered with three carpets, on which the feet sank deeply, they were so soft and full. Pardas (screens) of silk, of fine and beautiful materials, were hung between all the arches. Chandeliers of crystal, set with precious stones, hung from the ceiling of the dome. There was also one chandelier of agate and another of silver: these were carried off by the Jāt Suruj Mul, who came from the Deccan and despoiled Agra.
It was the intention of Shāhjahān to have erected a mausoleum for himself, exactly similar to the Tāj, on the opposite side of the river; and the two buildings were to have been united by a bridge of marble across the Jumna. The idea was magnificent; but the death of Shāhjahān took place in 1666, while he was a prisoner, and ere he had time to complete his own monument.
The stones were prepared on the opposite side of the Jumna, and were carried off by the Burtpoor Rajah, and a building at Deeg has been formed of those stones. A part of the foundation of the second Tāj is still standing, just opposite the Tāj Mahul.
An immense space of ground is enclosed by a magnificent wall around the Tāj, and contains a number of elegant buildings, surrounded by fine old trees, and beds of the most beautiful flowers; the wall itself is remarkable, of great height, of red stone, and carved both inside and outside.
The Kālūn Darwāza, or great gateway, is a fine building; the four large and twenty-two smaller domes over the top of the arched entrance are of white marble; the gateway is of red granite, ornamented with white marble, inlaid with precious stones.
From the second story is a fine view of the Tāj itself, to which it is directly opposite. I sat in this superb gateway some time, looking at the durwān’s snakes; he keeps, as pets, cobra de capellos, caught in the gardens of the Tāj. There are four rooms in this gateway, in which strangers, who are visitors, sometimes live during the hot weather.
A long line of eighty-four fountains runs up through the centre of the garden from this gateway to the tomb itself, eighty of which are in perfect order. Twenty-two play in the centre of the garden; ten are on the sides of the tomb in the courts before the Masjids, and the rest run up in the line from the gate to the tomb. The water is brought across a fine aqueduct from the Jumna. Of an evening, when the fountains are playing, and the odour of exotic flowers is on the air, the fall of the water has a delightful effect, both on the eye and ear: it is really an Indian paradise.
Feb. 1st.—A fair, the melā of the Eed, was held without the great gateway; crowds of gaily-dressed and most picturesque natives were seen in all directions passing through the avenue of fine trees, and by the side of the fountains to the tomb: they added great beauty to the scene, whilst the eye of taste turned away pained and annoyed by the vile round hats and stiff attire of the European gentlemen, and the equally ugly bonnets and stiff and graceless dresses of the English ladies. Besides the melā at the time of the Eed, a small fair is held every Sunday evening beyond the gates; the fountains play, the band is sent down occasionally, and the people roam about the beautiful garden, in which some of the trees are very large and must be very ancient.
A thunderbolt has broken a piece of marble off the dome of the Tāj. They say during the same storm another bolt fell on the Mootee Masjid, in the Fort, and another on the Jamma Musjid at Delhi.
The gardens are kept in fine order; the produce in fruit is very valuable. A great number of persons are in attendance upon, and in charge of, the tomb, the buildings, and the garden, on account of the Honourable Company, who also keep up the repairs of the Tāj.
At this season the variety of flowers is not very great; during the rains the flowers must be in high perfection. The mālī (gardener) always presents me with a bouquet on my entering the garden, and generally points out to my notice the wall-flower as of my country, and not a native of India.
All the buildings in the gardens on the right are fitted up for the reception of visitors, if strangers: they are too cold at this time of the year, or I would take up my abode in one of the beautiful burj (turrets) next to the river.
The two jāmma khānas are beautiful buildings, on each side of the tomb, of red stone, carved outside, and ornamented with white marble and precious stones. One of them is a masjid: the domes are of white marble; the interior is ornamented with flowers in white chūnā and carved red stone. One of the burj near the masjid contains a fine bā’olī (well). The four burj at each corner of the enclosure are of the most beautiful architecture, light and graceful; they are of the same fine red stone, and the domes are of white marble. From the one generally used as a residence by visitors to the tomb, the view of the Tāj, the gardens, the river, and the Fort of Agra beyond, is very fine. During the rains the river rises, and flows against the outer wall that surrounds the gardens. The view from the river of this frost-work building, the tomb, is beautiful: the fine trees at the back of it, the reflection of its marble walls, and of the two jāmma khānas, with that of the elegant bastions or towers in the stream is very lovely.
The fretwork appearance of the Tāj is produced by the quantity of carving on the white marble, which is also ornamented externally with inlaid Arabic characters, and precious stones worked into flowers, around the arches and the domes. The marble is cleaned every year, and kept in a state of perfect purity and repair. Constant attention is requisite to remove the grass and young trees that shoot forth in any moist crevice: the birds carry the seeds of the peepul-tree to the roofs, and the young trees shoot forth, injuring those buildings that are in repair, while they impart great beauty to ruins.
Beyond the Great Gate, but still within the enclosure of the outer wall of the Tāj, are the tombs of two begams, erected by Shāhjahān. The sarcophagus over the remains of the Fathīpooree Begam is of white marble, carved very beautifully: its pure white marble, without any inlaid work or mosaic, is particularly to be admired. The building which contains it is of the lightest and most beautiful architecture, and of carved red stone; the dome of plain white marble.
On the other side the enclosure, to correspond with this tomb, is that of the Akbarābādee Begam. The building of red carved stone, the dome of white marble; the floor and the sides of the apartment that contains the sarcophagus are of white marble. The latter is beautifully inlaid with precious stones. On the top of the upper slab is a sort of royal coronet of precious stones, inlaid on the marble.
Both these tombs are in tolerable preservation from being within the enclosure of the walls of the Tāj.
In speaking of the red-stone of which the buildings are formed, let it not be supposed it is of a red, like the flaming and varnished red in the pictures by the native artists. The red granite is of a sober and dingy reddish colour, and looks very handsome in buildings; the stones are very large, and generally beautifully carved; they are of three sorts: the first is of pure red granite, the second mottled with white spots, and the third sort streaked with white; all very handsome in architecture. I brought away a bit of the fallen ornament of red granite from the tomb of the Akbarābādee Begam as a specimen. The same granite is in quantities in the quarries at Futtehpoor Sickri. The buildings in the old city of Agra are of the same material, and some of them, which must be very ancient, are of this highly-carved red freestone.
I laid an offering of rupees and roses on the cenotaph of Arzumund Banoo, which purchased me favour in the eyes of the attendants. They are very civil, and bring me bouquets of beautiful flowers. I have stolen away many times alone to wander during the evening in the beautiful garden which surrounds it. The other day, long after the usual hour, they allowed the fountains to play until I quitted the gardens.
Can you imagine any thing so detestable? European ladies and gentlemen have the band to play on the marble terrace, and dance quadrilles in front of the tomb! It was over the parapet of this terrace a lady fell a few months ago, the depth of twenty feet, to the inlaid pavement below. Her husband beheld this dreadful accident from the top of the minaret he had just ascended.
I cannot enter the Tāj without feelings of deep devotion: the sacredness of the place, the remembrance of the fallen grandeur of the family of the Emperor, and that of Asaf Jāh, the father of Arzumund Banoo, the solemn echoes, the dim light, the beautiful architecture, the exquisite finish and delicacy of the whole, the deep devotion with which the natives prostrate themselves when they make their offerings of money and flowers at the tomb, all produce deep and sacred feelings; and I could no more jest or indulge in levity beneath the dome of the Tāj, than I could in my prayers.