Jehanara attended him and would not leave him. When grown very feeble he begged to be laid where he could see the Taj Mahal; and, the request being granted, you know how he died with his face towards the tomb of the beautiful Persian, "whose palankeen followed all his campaigns in the days when Empire was still a-winning, whose children called him father—Arjmand Banu, silent and unseen now for four-and-thirty years, the wife of his youth."
Such a passionate old story! Such a marvellous love-memorial! Shah Jehan—Mumtaz-i-Mahal—Grape Garden—Golden Pavilion—Jasmine Tower. As G. W. Steevens says, there is dizzy magic in the very names. I am no more capable of describing it than I would have been capable of building it; you must see it for yourself. It alone is worth coming to India to see.
Leaving the Taj Mahal dazed and dizzy with beauty, I was hailed by a voice that sounded familiar, and turning round I saw—an incongruous figure in that Arabian Nights garden—our old friend of the Scotia, the Rocking Horse Fly. She had another female with her, and Mr. Brand, the funny man who asked conundrums. I'm afraid my eyes had asked what he was doing in this galley,
