The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1879-01-15
A Day With Bsyard Taylor.

lciom hOuuOu week, Lee. ZS.
Some years ago, bright morning in the cold
season found me in palanquin, entering the
deserted streets of the palace town of Fu.tehpur
Sikri The resolution of passing day there,
suddenly formed, had left no time for driving
arrangements; and as 1 wished to be early on
the spot. with view TO certain commissariat
requirements for an expected friend, I had
come out from Agra by what was called
clearer dawk." The ruins are those of
country palace of the Emperor Akbar and its
environs, about twenty miles from Agra, on the
road to Bhurtpore. The site was probably
chosen on account of the residence there of a
celebrated Mahometan saint to whom the EN-
peror was much attached-the Shsik Selim
Chishtee; but 1t is in itself not uastriking,
though the surrounding country is far from
beautiful. In the dead. level of the Gangetic
Valley spur of sandstone hills affords pleas
ant relief, and the view from the ridge Is ex-
tensive, including on one side the heavy eastern
walls of Bhurtpore, and on the other distant
minarets indicating the structures that lie
without the gates of Agra. Our equipments
had been located in large kiosk-like building
of two stories. called Beer Bulls palace, and
breakfast was in progress of preparation, when
the sound of wheels were heard and dog-csrt
threaded its way through the fallen stonework
which encountered the road. A tall man, spare
in flesh but large in bone, with a complexion of
swarthy hue, u noticeably fine forehead and
spiritual eyes, jumped down, and cheerfully
bade good morrow. The face had little of the
American cadaverousness and was fringed on
lip and chin with hair, exhibiting almost an
Arab nggardness in growth; but the quick,
inquiring look, that lost not moment ID ad-
mlring The sandstone carving of the kiosk, and
the kindly lines of the mouth produced the i'm
preston of high intelligence and genislity
which had day or two previously, on my frs.
meeting him, drawn me TO him cordially.
This was Bayard Taylor, who was then, as
he laughingly said, on his way from the blue
Nile to join Commodore Marshall in Japan,
out tempted by the proximity of the Himalayas
to take q peep at India. BE was soon inter-
ested in breakfast, with that pleased curiosity
about trlfes and humorous treatment of
pleasant companion. The meal being effected
with some affectation of sauce-makng, turning
ous of omelettes, and SO on, Taylor, with
his instincts of a traveller, desired to gain
general idea of the scene. 81 should like
to ascend somewhere, if possible" he
cried; "the first thing to be mastered is
rd's-eye view" SO he was conducted TO the
Haran Minar, a curious tower, the lower part
of which bristles with masonry projections like
tusks, intended probably for the suspension Of
went up this, taking with him his drawing ma.
terials, and remained for an hour or more at its
summit. But when the hush of noon had
come, and the strong warm glare brought out
the outlines of the dismaptled buildings in
dark shadows on the brown soil Taylor re-
joined me. He was full of admiration of the
light The beauty of the light in India, he
said. struck him more than anything. 'I take
it in by eye-Iurs, was his enthusiastic expres-
sion. His drawing had only bsAn finished in
outline, and seemed inefficient; he intended 1t,
perhaps, merely for memento, and did not
regard IL as deliberate attempt in art And
now we set out about seeing our sights. The
exquisite marble lace-work of the Sheik's
tomb, the commanding gateway Of its court,
the Pachisee board of huge flags, where Akbar
and his courtiers would play, 1t is said, at
kind of draughts, with women dressed 10 two
distinguishing colors for counters, and the beau
tfuf council gallery of carved red stone, a fac
simils of which is now in the KeDsington Mu-
scum, and the other buildings, one the chamber
of Miriam, Christian wife of the Emperor, out
side of which the Capuchins of Agra can still
ira ,e as they fancy a fresco of the Assump-
ton, we're all duly visited. No one, let alone
poet, could pass through this scene Of faded pa
geant and dead imperial splendor-once teem-
ing with life and noisy with human speech, or
ringing with human laughter, but now abso-
lutely deserted, the lair of the wolf and the
jackal and the home of desolation and decay
without an emotion called forth by the specta-
Gle OF transient earthly glory.