Of the Taj itself, fault has been found with its proportions by severe critics, like the party who regards the Moti Mesjid “nun” as faulty because she wears a point-lace collar; but the ordinary visitor will find room for nothing but admiration and wonder.  It is hard to believe that there is any defect, even in its proportions, for so perfect do these latter appear, that one is astonished to learn that it is a taller building than the Kootub Minar.  One would never guess it to be anywhere near so tall as 243 feet.  The building rests on a plinth of white marble, eighteen feet high and a hundred yards square.  At each corner of the plinth stands a minaret, also of white marble, and 137 feet high.  The mausoleum itself occupies the central space, measuring in depth and width 186 feet.  The entire affair is of white Jeypore marble, resting upon a lower platform of sandstone:  “A thing of perfect beauty and of absolute finish in every detail, it might pass for the work of a genii, who knew naught of the weaknesses and ills with which mankind are beset.  It 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 or his vanity.”

Another distinguished visitor, commenting on the criticisms of those who profess to have discovered defects, says:  “The Taj is like a lovely woman; abuse her as you please, but the moment you come into her presence, you submit to its fascination.”

“If to her share some female errors fall, Look in her face, and you’ll forget them all.”

Passing beneath the vaulted gateway, we find a sign-board, telling that the best place from which to view the Taj is from the roof of the gateway.  A flight of steps leads us to the designated vantage-point, when the tropic garden, the fountains, the twin mosques in the far corners, the river, the minarets, and, above all, the Taj itself lay spread out before us for our inspection.  The scene might well conjure up a vision of Paradise itself.  The glorious Taj:  “So light it seems, so airy, and so like a fabric of mist and moonbeams, with its great dome soaring up, a silvery bubble,” that it is difficult, even at a few hundred yards’ distance, to believe it a creation of human hands.  While gazing on the Taj, men let their cigars go out, and ladies drop their fans without noticing it.

Descending the steps again, we pass inside, and again pause to survey it from the end of the avenue.  An element of the ridiculous here appears in the person and the appeals of an old Hindoo fruit-vender.  This hopeful agent of Pomona squats beside a little tray, and, as we stand and feast our eyes on the sublimest object in the world of architecture, he persistently calls our attention to a dozen or two half-decayed mangoes and custard-apples that comprise his stock in trade.