son in captivity for six years upon a mere suspicion of disloyalty. It is true he had good reason to know the danger of a son's rebellion. His fourth son, Prince Akbar, joined the insurgent Rájputs against his father; and another, Prince A'zam, was always intriguing against the heir apparent, in a way that must have reminded Aurangzíb of his own treatment of Murád-Bakhsh. But, however well-founded in some cases, this general habit of distrust was fatal to the Emperor's popularity. Good Muslims of his own and later days have sung his praises and extolled his virtues; but the mass of his courtiers and officers lived in dread of arousing his suspicion, and, while they feared, resented his distrustful scrutiny. Aurangzíb was universally respected, but he was never loved. His father, Shah-Jahán, in his graceful, indolent, selfish old age, even more than in his vigorous prime, was pater patriae, adored of his subjects. Aurangzíb was incomparably his father's superior — a wiser man, a juster king, a more clement and benevolent ruler; his greatest calumniator, Manucci, admits that his heart was really kind; yet all his self-restraint, his sense of duty, his equity, and laborious care of his people, counted for nothing in their hearts against his cold reserve and distrust. His very asceticism and economy and simplicity of life were repugnant to a nation accustomed to the splendour of Sháh-Jahán's magnificent court. The mass of his subjects felt that if they must have an alien in race and religion for their king, at least let
