nxious
to temper justice with mercy, preferred forgiveness to revenge,
though, if the necessities of the case required it, he could be stern
and could steel his heart against its generous promptings. Like all
large-hearted men he was fond of contributing to the pleasures of
others. Generosity was thus a part of his nature, and, even when the
recipient of his bounties proved unworthy, he was more anxious to
reform him than regretful of his liberality. For civil administration
he had a natural inclination, much preferring the planning of a
system which might render the edifice his arms were erecting suitable
to the yearnings of the people to the planning of a {83} campaign. On
all the questions which have affected mankind in all ages, and which
affect them still, the questions of religion, of civil polity, of the
administration of justice, he had an open mind, absolutely free from
prejudice, eager to receive impressions. Born and bred a Muhammadan,
he nevertheless consorted freely and on equal terms with the
followers of Buddha, of Brahma, of Zoroaster, and of Jesus. It has
been charged against him that in his later years he disliked learned
men, and even drove them from his court. It would be more correct to
say that he disliked the prejudice, the superstition, and the
obstinate adherence to the beliefs in which they had been educated,
of the professors who frequented his court. He disliked, that is, the
weaknesses and the foibles of the learned, and when these were
carried to excess, he dispensed with their attendance at his court.
What he was in other respects will be discovered by the reader for
himself in the last chapter of this book. Sufficient, I hope, has
been stated to give him some idea of the characteristics of the
latent capacity of the young prince, who, fourteen years old, had
under the tutelage of Bairam Khan won the battle of Panipat, and had
marched from the field directly, without a halt, upon Delhi. Few, if
any, of those about him knew then the strength of his character or
the resources of his intellect. Certainly, his Atalik, Bairam, did
not understand him, or he would neither have assassinated Tardi Beg
in his tent at Sirhind, nor have suggested to the young prince to
{84} plunge his sword into the body of the captured Hemu. But both
Bairam and the other nobles of the court and army were not long kept
in ignorance of the fact that in the son of Humayun they had, not a
boy who might be managed, but a