s into his especial keeping.

A very small golf-course has been laid out, and the familiar form of the
enthusiast could be seen, blind to everything but the flight of time and
his Haskell, hurrying round to save the last of the daylight.

Beneath a tree was laid out a tea equipage, and a few ladies indolently
putting showed that, after all, the game was not taken too seriously.

I have no intention of trying to describe the Taj Mahal. The attempt has
already been made a thousand times. I may merely remark that the
detestable Indian miniatures, and little ivory or marble models that are,
alas! so common, are incapable of giving an idea, otherwise than
misleading, of this wonderful building, which is not--as they would vainly
show it--glaring, staring, and hard, nor does its formality seem other
than just what it should be.

As we saw it first--opalescent in the soft, clear light of sunset--the
chief impression it made upon us was that of size; for this we were quite
unprepared.

As we approached it from the great red entrance arch, along a smooth path
bordering the central stretch of still, translucent water, the lovely dome
rose fairy-like from the masses of trees that, in their turn, formed a
background of solemn green for gorgeous patches of colour, in bloom and
leaf, which glowed on either side as we advanced.

Ascending a flight of steps to the wide terrace, all of whitest marble,
upon which the Taj is raised, we realised that the detail of carving and
of inlay was as perfect as the general effect of the whole.

High as my expectations had been raised, I was not disappointed in the Taj,
and that is saying much, for one's pre-formed ideas are apt to soar beyond
bounds and to suffer the fate of Icarus. At the same time, I cannot agree
with Fergusson that the Taj Mahal is the most beautiful building in the
world. I do not admit that it is possible to compare structures of such
widely divergent types as the Parthenon, the Cathedral of Chartres, the
Campanile of Giotto, and the Taj Mahal, and pronounce in favour of any one
of them. It is as vain as to contend that the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
is a finer poem than Keats' "Eve of St. Agnes," or that the "Erl Konig" is
better music than "The Moonlight Sonata."

Perhaps it is not too much to say that it is the loveliest tomb in the
world, and the finest specimen of Mohammedan architecture in existence. If
I dared to criticise what would appear to be faultless, I