my way I turned in to see the tomb of the celebrated saint, Nizam-
ud-din Aulia, the defeater of the Transoxianian army under Tarmah
Shirin in 1303, to which pilgrimages are still made from all parts of
India.[7] It is a small building, surmounted by a white marble dome,
and kept very clean and neat.[8] By its side is that of the poet
Khusru, his contemporary and friend, who moved about where he pleased
through the palace of the Emperor Tughlak Shah the First, five
hundred years ago, and sang extempore to his lyre while the greatest
and the fairest watched his lips to catch the expressions as they
came warm from his soul. His popular songs are still the most
popular; and he is one of the favoured few who live through ages in
the every-day thoughts and feelings of many millions, while the
crowned heads that patronized them in their brief day of pomp and
power are forgotten, or remembered merely as they happened to be
connected with them. His tomb has also a dome, and the grave is
covered with rich brocade,[9] and attended with as much reverence and
devotion as that of the great saint himself, while those of the
emperors, kings, and princes that have been crowded around them are
entirely disregarded. A number of people are employed to read the
Koran over the grave of the old saint (_scil._ Nizam-ud-din), who
died A.H. 725 [A.D. 1324-5], and are paid by contributions from the
present Emperor, and the members of his family, who occasionally come
in their hour of need to entreat his intercession with the Deity in
their favour, and by the humble pilgrims who flock from all parts for
the same purpose. A great many boys are here educated by those
readers of their sacred volume. All my attendants bowed their heads
to the dust before the shrine of the saint, but they seemed
especially indifferent to those of the royal family, which are all
open to the sky. Respect shown or neglect towards them could bring
neither good nor evil, while any slight to the tomb of the _crusty
old saint_ might be of serious consequence.

In an enclosure formed by marble screens beautifully carved is the
tomb of the favourite son of the present Emperor,[10] Mirza Jahangir,
whom I knew intimately at Allahabad in 1816,[11] when he was killing
himself as fast as he could with Hoffman's cherry brandy. 'This ', he
would say to me, 'is really the only liquor that you Englishmen have
worth drinking, and its only fault is that it makes one drunk too
soon.' To