The good Tommy Moore did not know this, but, letting his warm Irish imagination run riot through a mixed bag of Eastern romancists and their works, he evolved, amid a pôt pourri of impossibilities, an impossible damsel as unlike anything to be found in these parts as the celebrated elephant evolved from his inner consciousness by the German professor!
As I traversed the main, or rolled by train,
From my Western habitation,
I frequently thought—perhaps more than I ought—
Upon many a quiet occasion
Of the elegant forms and manifold charms
Of the beautiful female Asian.
For the good Tommy Moore, in his pages of yore,
Sang as though he could never be weary
Of fair Nourmahal—an adorable “gal”—
And of Paradise and the Peri,
Until, I declare, I was wild to be where
I might gaze on the lovely Kashmiri.
Through the hot plains of Ind I fled like the wind,
Unenchanted by mistress or ayah,
The dusky Hindu, I soon saw, wouldn’t do,
So I paused not, until in the sky——Ah!—
Far upward arose the perpetual snows
And the peaks of the proud Himalaya.
But in Kashmir, alas! I found not a lass
Who answered to Tommy’s description—
For the make of such maid I am sadly afraid
The fond parents have lost the prescription,
And I murmured; “No doubt, the old breed has died out,
At least such is my honest conviction.”
In the horrible slums which form the foul homes
Of the rag-covered dames of the city,
I saw wrinkled hags, all wrapped in old rags,
Whose appearance excited but pity.
Beyond question the word which it would be absurd
To apply to these ladies is “pretty.”
In the high Gujar huts were but brats and old sluts,
These last being the plainest of women;
Then I sought on the waters the sisters and daughters
Of the Mangis—those “bold, able seamen”
(I have often been told that the Mangi is bold,
And as brave as at least two or three men).
One lady I saw—I am told her papa
In the market did forage and “gram” sell—
Decked all over with rings, necklets, bangles and things,
She appeared a desirable damsel;
And I cried “Oh, Eureka! I’ve found what I seek:
Tell me quick—Is she ‘madam’ or ‘ma’mselle’?”
It was comical, but to this question I put—
A remarkably innocent query—
I received but a sigh or evasive reply,
Or a blush from the modest Kashmiri;
And I gathered at last that the lady was “fast,”
And her name should be Phryne, not Heré.
Toddled up a small tot—her hair tied in a knot—
Who remarked, “I can hardly consider
You’ve the ghost of a chance on this wild-goosie dance
Unless you should hap on a ‘widder!’
For our maidens at ten—ay, and less now and then—
Are all booked to the wealthiest bidder.”
“My dear man, it’s no use to indulge in abuse
Of our customs, so be not enraged, sir—
No woman a maid is—we’re all married ladies.
Our charms very early are caged, sir—
I’m eleven myself,” remarked the small elf,
“And a year ago I was engaged, sir!”
Ah, well! The country is the loveliest I ever saw, and that goes far to make up for its disgusting population.
Here, indeed, it is that
“Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.”
We stopped to look at the ruins of an ancient mosque, built in the days of Akbar by the Shiahs. Its remains may be deeply interesting to the archaeologist, but to me a neighbouring ziarat, wooden, with its grassy roof one blaze of scarlet tulips, was far more attractive. Moving homeward, we floated under a lovely old bridge, whose three rose-toned arches date from the sixteenth century—the age of the Great Moguls. The extreme solidity of its piers contrasts strongly with the exceedingly sketchy (and sketchable) bridges manufactured by the Kashmiri.
In fairness, though, I must point out that, as the bridge in Kashmir usually spans a stream liable at almost any moment to overwhelming floods, it would appear to be a sound idea to build as flimsily as possible, with an eye to economical replacement.
The Kashmiri carries this plan to its logical conclusion when he fells a tree across a raging torrent, and calls it a bridge, to the unutterable discomfiture of the Western wayfarer.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LOLAB
May 1.—The pear and cherry blossom has been so lovely in and around Srinagar that we determined to go to the Lolab Valley and see the apple blossom in full flower.