I have searched in vain for a true and faithful description of the Taj in the various books published on India, and am gratified to see that those who have preceded me at Agra have, like myself, dropped both pen, brush, or pencil. Photography has made an attempt to portray it, but even this has proved a most miserable failure.
I must confine myself to historical facts. In the year 1623, the reigning prince (Shah Jehan), at the death of his wife, decided that he would erect a mausoleum which would, until the “crack of doom,” make her last resting-place on earth a memorable spot. Indian princes, when they make up their mind to achieve an object, seldom calculate the cost. It has to be, and—it is done.
Strange to relate, after searching the world for an architect, an obscure man—French by birth, a native of Bordeaux—submitted plans to this Eastern ruler—plans and estimates which one would think would stamp the projector as a confirmed lunatic.
Shah Jehan, however, at once accepted them; furthermore, he instructed the architect to proceed forthwith with the work. Materials were sought and brought out from the remotest regions of the globe.
To sum up this sketch, I will quote these authentic facts, viz., that twenty thousand work-men were employed incessantly for twenty-two years to complete this monument.
At the completion of the work His Highness became so intoxicated with the pride of ownership that, fearing lest some other prince of the earth should copy it, he caused the plans to be destroyed; and, horrible to relate, he had the architect’s eyes gouged out to prevent his furnishing any one with copies of the originals (which had been burnt by the prince’s own hands), whilst on the other hand he loaded him with riches, honours, &c.! My poor countryman died of a broken heart, having learned too late how fallacious it is to put trust in princes.
If this wonderful structure strikes the traveller with awe and admiration when seen from outside, his feelings are greatly intensified when he crosses its threshold; and at the foot of the mausoleum, under the centre of the dome, the awful silence becomes almost unbearable. Words cling to one’s tongue, and whispering is the only possible way of exchanging thoughts. Such whispers are carried up in the air to the apex of the huge dome—towering hundreds of feet above one’s head—repeated tenfold by mysterious echoes, and for several minutes are wafted from one side of the building to the other.
A prayer, or hymn, or tune sung in the lowest possible key, is likewise repeated crescendo until it reaches an almost deafening pitch; then again gradually becomes lower and lower until the last note is lost in the death-like silence which pervades this great marble sepulchre.
At each corner of the immense square on which the Taj-Mahal stands, are four white marble towers, with circular stairs leading to the minarets at the top. From these a grand view of the Taj can be had, as well as of the majestic Jumna, whose waters bathe the foot of the edifice.
Marvellous as it is to see the Taj in daylight—difficult as it is to describe its grandeur and beauty—much more marvellous and indescribable does it become when seen by moonlight. The soft effect of the rays of the moon vaporises the outlines, the white marble assumes a bluish tint, and the stillness of the night—all add to the enchantment.