ebony coffin, and deposited beneath the engraved tombstone that we still behold in the vault. The interest of travellers seems usually to have been concentrated upon the upper chamber of the mausoleum, where, after the Eastern fashion, a series of cenotaphs, corresponding to the actual sepulchres below, are disposed upon the floor. The most noteworthy of these, covered with a block of greenish-black stone, said to be nephrite or jade, is that of Timur. The slab has evidently at some time been wrenched from its place and broken in twain; though it is not certain whether the fracture is to be attributed, as the legend runs, to an attempted violation by Nadir Shah. Around the walls of the tomb chamber is a wainscoting of hexagonal slabs of stone, variously described by travellers as agate, jasper, and gypsum. The last designation is nearest the mark; for they are of that species of alabaster, somewhat transparent in texture, but with an under-colour like the sea waves, that is frequently met with in Oriental countries, and is familiar to visitors in Algeria and Egypt. The original tiles and decorations have been stripped or have fallen from the upper part of the walls; and, speaking generally, the entire fabric, which is in a sadly dilapidated and ruined condition, is disappointing to those who approach it with artistic expectations, and cannot be compared with the majestic sepulchres of the later Moguls in India, such as the mausoleum of Akbar the Great at Sikundra. Nevertheless, the place has a certain attraction not perhaps unconnected with its lamentable decay. Though I The do not pretend to understand the impulse that drives pilgrims in shoals to the graves of the departed great, yet there is something inspiring, even if it be a melancholy inspiration, in standing above the dust of one who was both a king among statesmen and a statesman among kings, whose deeds even at this distance of time alike astonish and appal, and whose monumental handiwork, still surviving around, a later and more civilised age has never attempted to equal, and has barely availed to rescue from utter ruin. We next pass to the Righistan, or centre of the town, and to its triple glory of medresses, or religious colleges, those of Ulug Beg, the grandson of Timur (1421), of Shir Dar, or the Lion-bearing (1601)—s called from its bearing in enamelled tiles on its façade the Persian lion-and of Tillah Kari, or the Goldcovered (1618)-so named because of the gilding that once adorned its face. I have hazarded the statement that the Righistan of Samarkand was originally, and is still even in its ruin, the noblest public square in the world. I know of nothing in the East approaching it in massive simplicity and grandeur; and nothing in Europe, save perhaps on a humbler scale-the Piazza di San Marco at Venice-which can even aspire to enter the competition. No European spectacle indeed can adequately be compared with it, in our inability to point to an open space in any Western city that is commanded on three of its four sides by Gothic cathedrals of the finest order. For it is clear that the medresse of Central Asian Mahometanism is both in its architectural scope and design a lineal |