covering the two hundred and twenty miles by innumerable relays of fast horses. Akbar wrote his memoirs, in worthy emulation of Baber, whose autobiography in illuminated Persian text is treasured in the Agra College library.
In the usual reverse order of all Indian sight-seeing, we first saw Akbar's tomb, and then his City of Victory. The tomb is at Secundra, a suburb of Agra. A great red sandstone gateway admits one to the flagged court, and the impressive pillared pavilion, rising story upon story, after the oldest Buddhist constructions, covers the remains of the greatest of the Moguls. A pierced marble screen walls the upper terrace, where the white sarcophagus, covered with carving, lies open to the sun and sky, the intended white dome never having been completed by Akbar's successors. The real tomb is reached by a sloping passageway, and the monarch lies in a grave scooped in the earth like the graves of his desert-chief ancestors.
Never on any sleigh-ride, nor in winter travel in the North, have I known such suffering from cold as during the twenty-two-mile ride from Agra to Fatehpur Sikri, Akbar's City of Victory. The heaviest winter clothing and all the wraps, rugs, razais, and hot-water bottles could not defy the insidious air. The sun shone, the trees were green, the road was smooth and well kept, but the keen, raw, icy wind of a Canadian March so benumbed us on our way to Akbar's Versailles that several times we ran beside the victoria in our efforts to restore circulation. We paused not for sights when once ar-
