The interior is as grand, One stupendous regal hall, divided by arches on either side to break the otherwise oppressive size. White, vast, and void. White, for the walls are painted a dead, uninterrupted white, and the arched roof is the same, save where delicate lines trace out the successive niches in the form of millions of domes; vast, for the hall measures 300 feet from end to end; void, for the walls are totally without decoration, and stand out to add to the vagueness by their blankness and flatness. There are no mural obstructions, no projections (save those ugly red boxes); but stay—not quite empty. Two objects are in the centre, almost lost amidst the oppressive vastness. Standing slantwise across the hall is a silken canopy, suspended over a silver railed enclosure. It is the tomb of the Vizier Nawab, and the plain slab is covered with a gorgeous pall with flowers laid on it. It is rather gaudy, but yet it strikes one as strange and solemn, such a grand spot as a last resting-place amid such intense silence.
Not far from this is the execrable, the tormenting spectacle of a tazia, a tower literally manufactured out of paste-board and coloured paper, of tinsel and ribbons,—the tazia of the last Muhurrum. This Muhurrum is a religious festival commencing on the evening of the new moon in January, and lasting for ten days. It is observed by only one sect of the Mahommedans. On the last day of the festival the tazia is taken and burnt in the streets, a new one being supplied ready for the following year, The Muhurrum may truly be considered a great evil to Lucknow. The beauty of its palaces and tombs are destroyed by the coloured lamps and glass chandeliers hung there for use during the Festival, whilst gateways and archways are disfigured by the masses of nails left after the illuminations.
In one of the galleries of the hall there is a "priest's chair" of ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. But the so-called chair is merely a succession of steps, with a wider one for a seat at the top. The little balconies, or red boxes as they look, hung out from the roof, form a dreadful mareye to the grand beauty. They connect with a gallery running round the hall, and are pointed out as the favourite place in which the Begums played hide and seek.
A fit ending to the grand simplicity of the hall is the octagonal room at the farthest end. Here the moulded archings find a common centre under the apex of the dome, and spread themselves out in a fanlike shape to the floor. This building was commenced in a time of famine, and work was carried on at night to enable the higher class to labour without being seen or known.
We were so delighted with the Imambara that we allowed ourselves the luxury (seldom possible) of a second visit to it. This time it was in the afternoon, and it looked cold and somewhat gloomy in the falling light and shadows. Some priests were sitting around the tomb of the vizier chanting in their musical monotonous tones verses out of the Koran. As one finished the other took up the theme, and the different tones, some shriller, others richer, yet all reciting on one note, repeated by the echo were very effective. I carried away with me a deeper and yet more pleasing impression of the Imambara.
In fit proximity, and so near as to mingle its beauty with that of the Imambara, is the Rûmî Darwaza, or Turkish gate. In fact, from the precincts of the courts the gate is seen rising so immediately behind, and between the minars of the mosque as to appear to form part of it. An imitation of acanthus-leaves, which radiate above the line of the wall, is the curious feature of this gateway. It is flanked by four minarets, and ornamented balustrades projecting outwardly from several tiers. The whole is crowned by a miniature temple with pillars and dome, and around this the leaves strike out in spikes, forming a halo about the summit, or looking like the shafts of a rose window without the circle.
The red-brick clock-tower erected as a memorial to Sir George Cooper is a veritable eyesore, lying as it does in the midst of these monuments of antiquity.
In the afternoon we drove out to the Dilkusha, a hunting residence and park belonging formerly to Saadut Ali Khán, and called by him "Heart's Delight." It is now a ruin standing in a quiet garden, but was the scene of a terrible struggle in the Mutiny between the forces of Sir Colin Campbell and the rebels. He was advancing to the relief of the Residency, and the rebels made a desperate stand here. Later on it was the death-place of Sir Henry Havelock as the forces were retreating to Alum Bagh. There are the tombs of two officers amongst the ruins.
We drove on to the Martinière, or the Mansion of Constantin. It is a school for Europeans and Eurasians, founded by Martin, a French soldier who came over with Count Lally to one of the French settlements. A magnificent and very peculiar building. No one could possibly suppose it had been built for the present purpose, but it was the private residence of Martin himself. First of all, in the centre of a lake, which is supplied from a canal from the neighbouring River Goomptie, rises the enormous fluted column, which from the distance one imagines to be part of the building. The whole design of the college is as fantastic as possible. On all sides Corinthian columns, plain or fluted, little towers with crenelated tops, and a mass of kiosks meet the eye. Lions rampant are mounted on the battlements, whilst curious gargoyles protrude from every corner. From story to story we have the rise of the central tower, each platform being marked by the octagonal towers at the corners, and the winding flight of stairs. The dome which crowns the top is formed by the "intersection of two semicircular arches built up with steps and balustrades, which look not unlike arcs boutant or flying buttresses." Each story seems to reproduce some different style of florid architecture, whether it be Corinthian, or Tuscan, or Gothic. The whole stands on a large platform, and the two wings are built back in a semicircular form, either end being on a level with the central building.
The bell was tolling for afternoon prayers in the chapel, and we joined the boys and choristers who were trooping in. The rich stained-glass window at the east end, which I admired so much, I was told afterwards was only diaphanous paper! Then we went to see the marble bust of General Martin, which stands in the vestibule. It represents a small, wizened face, with the queue and silk bow of the eighteenth century. In the vault below we were shown his tomb, and the large bell he had cast; but it is very uncertain whether the handsome sarcophagus really contains his bones, as the tomb was opened at the time of the Mutiny, and the four soldiers in mourning attitudes guarding the tomb, and made of brick, were then destroyed. Upstairs we went through floor upon floor of dormitories, the monotonous row of red quilts, peculiar to such institutions, contrasting strangely with the very beautiful Moorish decoration in pale green and pink on the ceilings. There are about 250 boys here, of all ages up to twenty-three. Principals and masters are English. It is a very rich institution, as the sum left by General Martin has always been in excess of the wants of the college, and an accumulated surplus of a million is now in the hands of the trustees. The Martinière forms a village in itself, as we saw when we came away, with its outlying mud settlement where the servants live, the mighty range of bath-rooms, and the gymnasium. It is surrounded by the Martinière Park, where, by the roadside, is the stone tomb of Major Hodson of "Hodson's Horse."