sense of sin and unworthiness, and his morbid creed inspired a terrible dread of death. He poured out his troubled heart to his sons in letters which show the love which all his suspicion could not uproot.
"Peace be with you and yours," he wrote to Prince A'zam, "I am grown very old and weak, and my limbs are feeble. Many were around me when I was born, but now I am going alone. I know not why I am or wherefore I came into the world. I bewail the moments which I have spent forgetful of God's worship. I have not done well by the country or its people. My years have gone by profitless. God has been in my heart, yet my darkened eyes have not recognized his light. Life is transient, and a moment lost never returns. There is no hope for me in the future. The fever is gone: but only skin and dried flesh are mine. The army is confounded and without heart or help, even as I am, apart from God, with no rest for the heart. They know not whether they have a king or not. I brought nothing into this world, but I carry away with me the burthen of my sins. I know not what punishment be in store for me to suffer. Though my trust is in the mercy and goodness of God, I deplore my sins. When I have lost hope in myself, how can I hope in others? Come what will, I have launched my bark upon the waters. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!"
To his favourite son, Kam Bakhsh, he wrote: "Soul of my soul. Now I am going alone. I grieve for your helplessness. But what is the use? Every torment I have inflicted, every sin I have committed, every wrong
