produced. Learning flourished; large libraries were the cherished possession of the rich; the University of Sankore was thronged with students, and its teachers held intercourse with institutions of learning in other lands. Music was a joy to the people; chess-playing was a favorite pursuit. Yet all the time barbarous punishments were used without compunction, and there was much unbridled license in the large towns like Gao, Jenné and Timbuktu.
Mohammed Askia reigned for six and thirty years. In his old age he became blind; as is too common in African history, his sons brushed him aside. Like Moshesh of Basutoland, he had a sad and cheerless end. In 1528 his eldest son deposed him. At first he was left in one of his palaces in comfort and in peace. But three years later a nephew usurped the throne, and the once great Askia was banished to a comfortless island in the Niger. From thence the blind old conqueror made one more bid for life. His son Ismail came by night to visit him in secret. The story, as Lady Lugard tells it, is this:
“Ismail sat down before his father. The Askia, taking hold of his son’s arm, said: ‘Heavens! how can an arm like this allow mos-
