parade ground.  Crenellated walls, a park of artillery, and roomy English barracks greet the vision.  Sentinels—­Sepoy sentinels in huge turbans, and English sentinels in white sun-helmets—­are pacing their beats.  But not on these does the gaze of the visitor rest.  Straight ahead of him there rises, above the red sandstone walls and the bare parade ground, three marble domes, white as newly-fallen snow, and just beyond are seen the gilt pinnacles of Akbar’s palace.

We wander among the beautiful marble creations, gaze in wonder at the snowy domes supported on marble pillars, mosaiced with jasper, agate, blood-stone, lapis-lazuli, and other rare stones.  We stand on the white marble balustrades, carved so exquisitely as to resemble lace-work, and we look out upon the yellow waters of the Jumna, flowing sluggishly along seventy feet below.  Here is where the Grand Mogul, Akbar, used to sit and watch elephant fights and boat races.  There are none of these to be seen now; but that does not mean that the prospect is either tame or uninteresting.  The banks of the Jumna are alive with hundreds of dusky natives engaged in washing clothes and spreading linen out in the sun to bleach.  The prospect beyond is a revelation of vegetable luxuriance and wealth, and of historical reminiscence in the shape of ruins and tombs.

One’s eyes, however, are drawn away from the contemplation of the picturesque life below, and from the prospect of grove and garden and crumbling tombs, by the mesmerism, of the crowning glory of all Indian architectural triumphs, the famous Taj.  This matchless mausoleum rests on the right-hand bank of the Jumna, about a mile down stream.  The Taj, with its marvellous beauty and snowy whiteness, seems to cast a spell over the beholder, from the first; one can no more keep his eyes off it, when it is within one’s range of vision, than he can keep from breathing.  It draws one’s attention to itself as irresistibly as though its magnetism were a living and breathing force exerted directly to that end.  It is the subtlety of its unapproachable loveliness, commanding homage from all beholders, whether they will or no.

We turn away from it awhile, however, and find ample scope for admiration close at hand.  We tread the marble aisles of the Pearl Mosque, considered the most perfect gem of its kind in existence.  One stands in its court-yard and finds himself in the chaste and exclusive companionship of snowy marble and blue sky.  One feels almost ill at ease, as though conscious of being an imperfect thing, marring perfection by his presence.  “Quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration,” one enthusiastic visitor exclaims, in an effort to put his sentiments and impressions of the Moti Mesjid into words.  Like this adoring traveller, the average visitor will rest content to be carried away by the contemplation of its chaste beauty, without prying around for possible defects in the details of the particular school of architecture it graces.  He will have little patience with carping critics who point to the beautiful screens, of floriated marble tracery, and say:  “Nuns should not wear collars of point lace.”