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KASHMIR

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

BURMA

By R. Talbot Kelly, R.B.A., F.R.G.S.

Containing 75 Full-page Illustrations in
colour facsimile.

INDIA

By Mortimer Menpes

Text by Flora Annie Steel

Containing 75 Full-page Illustrations in
colour facsimile.

A. AND C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.

AGENTS

WILD RHODODENDRONS

KASHMIR

DESCRIBED BY
Sir FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND, K.C.I.E.

PAINTED BY
Major E. MOLYNEUX, D.S.O.

LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
1911

First published September 1909
Reprinted August 1911

TO
HIS HIGHNESS
MAJOR-GENERAL MAHARAJA SIR PRATAP SINGH
G.C.S.I.
MAHARAJA OF JAMMU AND KASHMIR
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
IN RECOGNITION OF MUCH HOSPITALITY AND IN TOKEN OF
A FRIENDSHIP OF MANY YEARS

PREFACE

When Major Molyneux asked me to combine with him in the production of a book on Kashmir I could not resist the temptation to describe what he had so faithfully depicted, though my official duties naturally leave me insufficient time to do real justice to the theme. I have not been able to write with the completeness that I should have wished; and I am aware of many sins of omission. I can only hope that when the description fails the reader will be fortunate to have his attention irresistibly diverted to one or other of my collaborator's beautiful pictures.

The Residency, Srinagar,
September 1908.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

Scenery and Seasons

Bernier's impression of Kashmir in 1665—Comparison of Kashmir and Switzerland—The road in—First signs of spring—Srinagar in March—A start for Shikar—Shikaris—Forest-clad hill-sides—Signs of stag—View over the valley—Rosy mountains—Unrealised beauties—A duck-shoot—The view from Hokrar—Harwan in spring—Varying beauties of Kashmir—Harwan in May—Clouds on the mountains—A Kashmir village—Irises and roses—Trout-culture—A trout stream—Srinagar in April—The view from Gupkar—A spring scene—Unusual rain—The Nishat Bagh—Pandrathan—Srinagar in summer—The valley in September—The end of the monsoon—The gorgeous autumn—A Hokrar duck-shoot—The valley in winter—Shikaris—Shooting in winter [1]

CHAPTER II

Travel in Kashmir

Travel in old times—My first entrance—My old retainer—Present modes of travel—Stages from the railway—Srinagar house-boats—Srinagar shops—Expeditions from Srinagar—The descent from the Tragbal [47]

CHAPTER III

Srinagar and Neighbourhood

An old capital—The Maharaja's arrival—Procession through the city—The European quarter—The Jama Masjid—Shah Hamadan—Dr. Neve's Hospital—The Takht-i-Suliman—Pandrathan—The Dal Lake—The Nasim Bagh—The Shalimar Bagh—The Nishat Bagh—Parihasapura [63]

CHAPTER IV

The Residency Garden

The first week in March—Fruit trees in bloom—Kashmir tulips—Golden orioles—Roses in May—Strawberries—Burbank's Delphiniums—The height of summer—The garden in autumn—Autumnal colours [87]

CHAPTER V

Gulmarg

The "Meadow of Flowers"—Its numerous attractions—Views over the valley—Flowers—Nanga Parbat [98]

CHAPTER VI

The Valleys and Places of Interest

The Sind Valley—Gangabal Lake—The Lolab—The Lidar Valley—Martand—Achibal [108]

CHAPTER VII

Sport

Game Preservation—The year's bag—Duck-shooting—Fishing [118]

CHAPTER VIII

The People

Kashmir beauties—The Pundits—Mohamedans—The Quadiani sect—Kashmiri villagers—Boatmen [125]

CHAPTER IX

The History of Kashmir

Possible effect of natural beauty—Ancient ruins—Martand—Greek influence—Buddhist influence—Kanishka—Lalitaditya—Avantivarman—Short reigns—Internal struggles—Perpetual intrigue—Advent of Mohamedans—Zain-ul-ab-ul-din—Akbar—The Moghals—Afghan oppressors—Sikhs—Rise of Gulab Singh—Break-up of Sikhs—Gulab Singh and the British—Treaty of 1846—Gulab Singh acquires Kashmir—Its deplorable state—Ranbir Singh—Country still depressed—Famine of 1877—Improvements during present reign[133]

CHAPTER X

Administration

System of rule—Personal—Sources of revenue—Land revenue assessment[183]

CHAPTER XI

Products and Manufactures

Wool—Silk—Fruit—Rice—Other grains—Experimental farm—Soil—Implements—Forests—Mineral products—Shawls—Carpets—Silk—Papier-mâché—Puttoo—Boat-building—Trade[194]

CHAPTER XII

The Electrical Scheme

Water-power turned to electric power—The Jhelum River harnessed—The flume—The power-house—Difficulties encountered—The dredging scheme[222]

CHAPTER XIII

The Peaks and Mountain Ranges

The Peak K²—Errors in observation—Nanga Parbat—Rocks of great peaks—The Himalayan range[234]

CHAPTER XIV

The Story of the Mountains

Interest of study—Kashmir under the sea—100,000,000 years ago—Kashmir an archipelago—Finally upheaved—Cause of upheaval—History of life—At first no land life—Ferns—The Coal Measures—Great reptiles—Mammals—Kashmir valley a lake—Appearance of man—Reflections on the story—Need to look forward—Creating higher man[251]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

By MAJOR E. MOLYNEUX, D.S.O.

Sketch Map of Kashmir at end of Volume.

KASHMIR

CHAPTER I

SCENERY AND SEASONS

Bernier, the first European to enter Kashmir, writing in 1665, says: "In truth, the kingdom surpasses in beauty all that my warmest imagination had anticipated." This impression is not universally felt, for one of the very latest writers on Kashmir speaks of it as overrated, and calls the contour of the mountains commonplace and comparable to a second-rate Tyrolean valley. And fortunate it is that in this limited earth of ours we every one of us do not think alike. But I have seen many visitors to Kashmir, and my experience is that the bulk of them are of the same view as the above-mentioned Frenchman. They have read in books, and they have heard from friends, glowing descriptions of the country; but the reality has, with most, exceeded the expectation. Some have found the expenses of living and the discomforts of travel greater than they had expected. And some have arrived when it was raining or cloudy, and the snows were not visible; or in the middle of summer when the valley is hazy, steamy, and filled with mosquitoes. But when the clouds have rolled by, the haze lifted, and a real Kashmir spring or autumn day disclosed itself, the heart of the hardest visitor melteth and he becomes as Bernier.

The present book will deal, not with the whole Kashmir State, which includes many outlying provinces, but with Kashmir Proper, with the world-renowned valley of Kashmir, a saucer-shaped vale with a length of 84 miles, a breadth of 20 to 25 miles, and a mean height of 5600 feet above sea-level, set in the very heart of the Himalaya, and corresponding in latitude to Damascus, to Fez in Morocco, and to South Carolina.

APPROACH TO SRINAGAR

The country with which one is most apt to compare it is, naturally, Switzerland. And Switzerland, indeed, has many charms, and a combination of lake and mountain in which, I think, it excels Kashmir. But it is built on a smaller scale. There is not the same wide sweep of snow-clad mountains. There is no place where one can see a complete circle of snowy mountains surrounding a plain of anything like the length and breadth of the Kashmir valley, for the main valleys of Switzerland are like the side valleys of Kashmir. And above everything there is not behind Switzerland what there is at the back of Kashmir, and visible in glimpses from the southern side,—a region of stupendous mountains surpassing every other in the world.

By these Himalayan regions only, by the mountains of Baltistan and Hunza, and by those unequalled mountains seen from Darjiling, can Kashmir be excelled. There indeed one sees mountain majesty and sublimity at their very zenith. And with such as these Kashmir cannot compare. But it possesses a combination of quiet loveliness and mountain grandeur which has a fascination all its own. If one could imagine the smiling, peaceful Thames valley with a girdle of snowy mountains, he would have the nearest approach to a true idea of Kashmir it is possible to give. He would not expect the stern ruggedness and almost overwhelming majesty of the mighty mountains beyond Kashmir. But he would have the tranquil beauty and genial loveliness which to some are even preferable.

Of this, my collaborator's pictures will give a true and vivid impression, though every artist allows that it is impossible to give in a single picture the broad general effect of those wide-flung landscapes and of the snowy ranges stretching from one horizon to another. For that impression and for the varying effect of spring and autumn, of winter and summer, dependence must be on the pen alone.

Which is the most lovely season each must decide for himself. In the spring we think the spring the most exquisitely beautiful. In the autumn we say that nothing could exceed the charm of the brilliant autumn tints. But as it is in the spring that most visitors first arrive, and as it is the real beginning of the year, there will be some advantage in commencing in that season the delicate task of describing Kashmir.

In the first week in March I drove into Kashmir,—this last year, fortunately, in fine weather. In other years at this season I might not have been so fortunate, and the reader must take this possibility of drenching rain, of muddy roads, and dangerous landslips into account. For that purpose, however, there is no need to offer aid to his imagination, as rainy days are much the same all the world over.

THE LAND OF ROSES

The long drive from the Railway Station at Rawal Pindi, 196 miles from Srinagar, was nearly ended. We had steadily ascended the valley of the Jhelum, with the river continually dashing past us on the left, a strong impetuous stream now being turned to useful ends, firstly, in generating electric power near Rampur, and secondly, in irrigating millions of acres in the plains of the Punjab below. We had passed through the peaceful deodar forest on either side of Rampur, and the splendid limestone cliffs which rise precipitously from them. Just beyond we had passed massive ruins of the so-called Buddhist, but really Hindu temple, dating about 700 a.d. All the country had been blanketed with snow; the hill-sides forested with thousands of Christmas trees glistening in the brilliant sunshine, and the frozen road had been rattling under the ponies' feet. When gradually the narrow valley opened out. The enclosing hills widened apart. The river from a rushing torrent became as placid as the Thames, with numerous long-prowed boats gliding smoothly downward. The little town of Baramula, and the first distinctive chalet-like, but dirty, shaky habitations of Kashmir; a graceful Hindu temple; fine specimens of the famous chenar trees; and a typical log bridge, came into view; and then, as the hill-sides finally parted asunder, the glorious valley itself—a valley on so extensive a scale as really to be a plain amidst the mountains—was disclosed; and faintly mingling with the cloudless azure of the sky, on the far side stretched the great range of snowy mountains which bound Kashmir on the north, with the Haramokh peak, 16,900 feet high, standing boldly out 35 miles distant immediately in front; and from just beyond Baramula even Nanga Parbat itself, 26,600 feet, and 70 miles distant, towering nobly over the lower ranges, the solitary representative of the many mountain giants which lay behind.

Then as we emerged into the open valley the snow disappeared and the first faint signs of spring were visible. All the trees were indeed still bare. Neither on the massive chenar nor on the long lines of poplars which bordered the road continuously from Baramula to Srinagar was there a vestige of a leaf; and all the grass was absolutely brown. But in the willows there was just the suspicion of yellow-green. The little leaf-buds were just preparing to burst. On the ground were frequent masses of yellow crocuses and familiar bluebells. Here and there were clumps of violets. Occasionally a tortoise-shell or cabbage-white butterfly would flutter by. Above all, the glorious brilliant sunshine, the open, clear blue sky, and the soft touch and gentle feel which at noonday replaced the crisp, frosty nip of the morning air gave certain promise of the approach of spring.

MOUTH OF THE SIND VALLEY

Again, when at length Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, was reached, and I was back in my much-loved garden, still other signs of spring's arrival were evident. Violets, pansies, wallflowers, narcissus, crocuses, and daisies were out. A few green blades were showing through the brown grass. Rose leaf-buds were bursting. In one garden near a few apricot blossoms had actually bloomed. And the whole garden was filled with the spring song of the birds lightly turning to thoughts of love—thrushes, minas, sparrows, blue-tits, hoopoes, starlings; bold, familiar crows, and, most delightful of them all, the charming little bulbuls with their coquettish top-knots—the friendly little beings who come confidingly in at the windows and perch on the curtain rails or chairs, and even on the table to peck sugar from the basin.

And so for many days the weather continued, the temperature a degree or two below freezing-point at night, and rising to a maximum of 55° in the shade and 105° in the sun in the day-time. Day after day cloudlessly clear. The snowy ranges standing out sharp and distinct. The nearer mountains still covered with snow to within a thousand or two feet of the valley level. In the early morning all the valley-bottom glistening silvery-white with hoar frost. Then towards noon a curious struggle between summer and winter. The aspect of the country outside the garden entirely winter—leafless trees and frost-withered grass; but in the still air the sun's rays, with daily increasing power, having all the warmth of an early summer day in England; and under the noonday sun the mountains fading in a dreamy haze.

Then, of a sudden, came one of those complete and rapid changes which so enhance the charm of Kashmir. Dark ominous clouds settled on the near mountain-tops; here and there sweeping along their summits whirling snowstorms were driven along; the distant snows showed up with that steel-grey definition which in storm-ridden days replaces the dreamy indistinctness of more sunny times; now and then a glinting sun-ray breaking through the driving clouds would brighten up some solitary peak; and in the valley bottom periods of threatening stillness would alternate with gusty bursts of wind.

SUNSET ON THE WULAR LAKE

Such signs are usually the presage of unpleasant weather. But in the present case rain did not fall; and this was fortunate, for I had gone into camp to shoot a bara-singh, the famous Kashmir stag. Rising at four on the following morning, and, as soon as I had had a hurried breakfast, mounting a shaggy, naughty little pony captured in the fighting in Tibet, I followed the shadowy form of a shikari bestriding a still more diminutive country pony. Most of the clouds of the previous day had disappeared. The wind had died down, and the stars were shining out with that clear brilliance only seen amidst the mountains and in the desert. There was a sharp, bracing feeling in the air—not the same stinging cold I had felt when riding along this road at night in January, but strong and invigorating. We stumbled along on our ponies across fields and by paths which only a native could detect. At each village dogs howled dismally at us, but not a soul was astir. We gradually approached the dark outlines of the mountains, and near their base, while it was still pitch dark, we were joined by other shikaris who, like stage conspirators and with bated breath, explained where a stag had been seen on the previous day. I had then to dismount and walk; steadily and silently we ascended the mountain-side, and by sunrise were 3000 feet above the valley. The shikaris were now visible, and like their class hard and keen-looking, clearly used to living on mountain-sides in cold and heat, and to be ever peering into distances. The head shikari was a grey, grizzled, old-looking man, though I daresay he was really not over fifty; hard and tough, and very grave and earnest—for to him all else in the world is play, and shikar is man's real work in life. Residents, no doubt, have some employments to amuse themselves with in ordinary times; but when the real business of life has to be done they come to him, and he takes them gently in hand like little children, and shows them the haunts of the Kashmir stag, his habits, where he wanders, and how to pursue him.

DAWN IN THE NULLA

So now I put myself humbly in charge of the shikaris, for I make no pretence to be a sportsman. They thereupon proceed to whisper together with profound earnestness and dramatic action. They point out the exact spot where, on the previous afternoon, a stag was seen. They pick up little tufts of his hair brushed off, as they say, in fighting. They show his footsteps in the soft soil and on patches of snow. And they are full of marvellous conjectures as to where he can have gone. But gone he has, and that was the main fact which no amount of whispering could get over.

So on we went along the mountain-side, and now through deep snow, for we were on a northward-facing slope of an outlying spur—and all slopes which face northward are wooded, while southward-facing slopes are bare. The explanation was evident. For on the latter slopes the sun's rays fell directly and almost at right angles, and in consequence fallen snow quickly disappears: while on the northern slopes the sun's rays only slant across the surface; the snow remains much longer; the moisture in the soil is retained; vegetation flourishes; trees grow up; they in their turn still further shade the snow, and with their roots retain the moisture. And so as a net result one side of a mountain is clothed in dense forest, and on the other there may not be a single tree. Thus it is that on the southern side of Kashmir, that is, on the northward-facing slopes of the Pir Panjal range, there is, as at Gulmarg, dense and continuous forest, while on the northern side of the valley, on the slope of the hill that consequently faces southward, there is no forest except on the slopes of those subsidiary spurs which face northward.

We followed the tracks of the stag through this patch of forest, mostly of hazels, the shikaris pointing out where the stag had nibbled off the young leaf-buds and bark which seem to form the staple food of the deer at this time of year. At last we came to another shikari who said he had seen the stag that very morning. But I suspect this was merely a form of politeness to reinspire my lagging hope, for though I went down and up and along the mountain-side, and spent the whole day there, I saw no stag. Once we heard a rustling among the leaves, and hope revived, but it was merely a troop of monkeys. A little later a boar shuffled out; and again, on a distant spur, disporting himself in the sunshine, we saw a bear; but no stag.

KOTWAL FROM THE FOREST ABOVE KANGAN, SIND VALLEY

Still, in spite of the exertion and in spite of the disappointment, a day like this on the mountain-side is felt as one of the days in which one lives. The air was fresh and bracing. There was something both soothing and inspiring in the quiet of the mountains and the immense distances before me. Far away to the south majestic clouds and snowstorms were sweeping along the snowy range of the Pir Panjal. Beneath was the placid river wending its tortuous way through the peaceful valley. On one hand would be seen angry storm-clouds rolling threateningly across with numerous sun-rays piercing through and lighting up the serpentine course of the river. On the other, emerging from the black masses, would appear the sunlit snowy range, not hard, defined, and clear, and rooted on earth, but to all appearances hung from the heavens like an ethereal transparency.

Hour after hour I alternately feasted on the changing scenes displayed across the valley, and with my field-glasses searched the mountain-side for bara-singh. When evening closed in I returned to camp, where business kept me on the following day, but on the day after I again rode out while it was yet dark. As the first faint signs of dawn appeared I began the ascent of the mountain with the shikaris. The heavens were clear and cloudless. The bluey-black of the sky imperceptibly faded into grey. The mountain slowly turned from grey to brown as we steadily worked upward. The reposeful stillness which is the characteristic charm of the mountains was only broken by the cheerful chuckle of the chikor, or the occasional twitter of a bird calling to its mate. Then as we reached the summit of a ridge, and I looked out through the greys and browns, a sudden thrill struck through me as, all unexpectedly, my eye lit on the long flush of rosy pink which the yet unrisen sun had thrown upon the distant mountains, and which was the more pronounced and striking because their skyey background and their base was still the grey of night. Not often does one see a range of rosy mountains. And even now the effect lasted for a short time only. For rapidly a faint blue drowned the grey. The sky grew bluer and bluer. The valley became filled with light. But, alas! the rosy pink that had flushed the snowy summits faded imperceptibly away to barren whiteness. The whole long range of mountains showed themselves out with admirable clearness, but distinctly rooted in the unromantic brown of the valley.

ABOVE THE CAMPING-GROUND, SONAMARG, SIND VALLEY

By seven we were at the summit of the mountain with the sun now shining full upon us, the air crisp and frosty-the very ideal of young and vigorous day. We marched steadily along the ridge searching the hollows on either side for stag, but all we saw was a boar breaking the ice in a pool on the ridge to get a morning drink. At length we halted for refreshment and rest still on the summit of the ridge with the most beautiful valley on earth spread out in all its loveliness 3000 feet below, and the heavenly snowy range bounding the horizon from end to end before us. Just faintly the sounds from some village below would be wafted to us through the clear still air. But otherwise we seemed serenely apart from the noisy turmoil of humanity; and bathed in the warm noonday sunlight I was able to drink in all the spirit of the loveliness around me.

And there came upon me this thought, which doubtless has occurred to many another besides myself—why the scene should so influence me and yet make no impression on the men about me. Here were men with far keener eyesight than my own, and around me were animals with eyesight keener still. Their eyes looked on the same scene as mine did, and could distinguish each detail with even greater accuracy. Yet while I lay entranced with its exquisite beauty the keen-eyed shikaris, the animals, and the soaring eagle above me, might have been stone blind for all the impression of beauty it left upon them. Clearly it is not the eye, but the soul that sees. But then comes the still further reflection—what may there not be staring me straight in the face which I am as blind to as the Kashmir stags are to the beauties amidst which they spend their entire lives? The whole panorama may be vibrating with beauties man has not yet the soul to see. Some already living, no doubt, see beauties that we ordinary men cannot appreciate. It is only a century ago that mountains were looked upon as hideous. And in the long centuries to come may we not develop a soul for beauties unthought of now? Undoubtedly we must. And often in reverie on the mountains I have tried to imagine what still further loveliness they may yet possess for men.

From clambering over the high mountains in search of a solitary stag to sitting in a boat in the middle of a lake with thousands of ducks incessantly swishing round, is only one other example of the variety of scene and interest which Kashmir affords. There was just time before the end of the season for a final duck shoot, and eight of us rode or drove out six miles from Srinagar to the famous Hokrar Ghat, "jheel," which the Maharaja had so kindly placed at the disposal of the Resident for the season.

THE KAJNAG FROM SOPUR, EARLY SPRING

We meet at the edge of the lake and draw lots for the numbered butts. The shikaris, boatmen, and boats are awaiting us, and as soon as we have decided where each is to go, and have fixed a time to cease shooting as an interval for lunch, and to give the ducks time to settle again for the further shooting in the afternoon, we embark each on a light shallow skiff with our guns, cartridges, and tiffin, and glide out through a narrow channel in the reeds to the open water beyond.

Hokrar is right in the centre of the valley, and from the lake a complete elliptical ring of snowy mountains can be seen. The nearest and most conspicuous peak is Haramokh, 16,903 feet, and 24 miles distant. From this the eye ranges from peak to peak to the Khagan range 70 miles distant in the extreme west of the valley; then along over the Kaj Nag mountains separated by the gorge of the Jhelum River valley from the Pir Panjal range, which forms the southern boundary of the valley with Gulmarg, 24 miles distant, on its southern slopes. Then traversing the whole length of the Pir Panjal range from the highest point, Tatakute, 15,524 feet, the eye falls to the depression over which lies the Banihal Pass, and rising again meets the Kishtwar range 65 miles distant, closing in the valley on the east, from whence the eye wanders on snowy ranges till Haramokh in the north again is met.

The day was another of glorious sunshine, and in the noonday sun the southern range was bathed in dazzling light, the northern showed up sharp and clear with the sun's rays beating straight upon it, while the distant ranges right and left faded away in haze and dreamland. Soft woolly clouds floated along the mountain-sides. A sharp, crisp air freshened one up and broke the water into dancing glittering ripples on which innumerable duck were bobbing up and down.

Here we shot for a couple of hours before tiffin, and afterwards till evening closed in. It was not one of the great shoots like we have in the autumn, and which I will describe later, but was none the less enjoyable, and being the last of the season each made the most of it.

KOTWAL FROM NEAR THE DAL DARWAZA

At the end of March I visited Harwan, a very favourite spot, once the abode of a famous Buddhist saint, and now best known as the site of the reservoir for the water-supply of Srinagar and of the tanks for trout-breeding. Rain had fallen in the night, and heavy clouds hung overhead with only occasional glimpses of intensely clear blue sky between them. But spring was now clearly advancing. The great chenar trees, two and three centuries old, were still bare, but the willows were showing fresh young leaves; the apricot trees were covered with clouds of blossom, pink and white. The mountain-sides were dotted with white wild cherry and pear and apple in full bloom; the ground was often white like snow with the fallen petals; the young hazel-nut leaves gave freshness to the mountain-side; and near at hand were violets, anemones, and cuckoo flowers. The air was rich with the scent of the fruit trees. Swarms of bees were humming around them; butterflies—tortoise-shell, clouded yellow, and cabbage-white—fluttered in the sunshine; and the lively twittering of birds—bulbuls, goldfinches, wagtails, and tits—gave yet one further evidence of the awakening spring.

Each spot in Kashmir one is inclined to think the most beautiful of all—perhaps because each in some particular excels the rest. Certainly Harwan has many fascinations of its own. Rising sheer behind was a mountain crowned with dark precipices overhung by heavy clouds through which pierced the snowy summit. Clear crystal streams rushed along the valley with a cheery rustling sound. In the middle distance lay the placid Dal Lake—on the far side overshadowed by the Hari Parbat fort. The main valley was interspersed with village clumps of fresh willow, clouds of fruit blossom, and majestic chenars. In the far distance lay the snowy ranges of the Pir Panjal, the Kaj Nag, and Khagan; and facing round again to the north rose the striking Mahadeo peak—rocky, bold and precipitous, and pine-clad to near the summit.

And one of the further attractions of Kashmir is not only that each spot is so different from the other, but that each spot has a different aspect every day. Bright days are the more numerous, but dull days also have no less striking attractions. The day after our arrival at Harwan was still and heavy; the whole sky was overhung with clouds, though they were high above the mountains, and even the most distant ranges showed up with unusual clearness white and distinct against the grey monotone sky. The stillness and the heavy cloud evidently portended a storm, and in the afternoon the distant horizon grew darker and darker. The snowy mountains were gradually obscured from view. Then the middle distance became black and threatening. At the same time on the mountain craigs behind heavy clouds imperceptibly settled down, and the great cliff grew darker and darker. Blackness seemed to grow all round, and the mountain summits with the angry clouds upon them looked more and more sombre and threatening. Meanwhile all was still and noiseless. Then suddenly out of the stillness came a rush of air. The poplar trees bent like whips. The long shoots of the willow trees lashed backwards and forwards. Great drops of rain came spitting down. A bright, quick flash darted out from the mountain. Then crash came the thunder—clap after clap—and torrents of rain. Few things in Nature are more impressive than a thunderstorm among the mountains.

THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM, DAL LAKE

When next I visited Harwan in the middle of May spring had given way to early summer. The mountain-sides were dotted over with clumps of yellow barberry and wild pink roses; clematis was in bloom, and honeysuckle was trailing from the trees. On the ground were large wild geraniums, the big purple iris, white dead nettle, yellow potentillas, strawberry blossom, tom-thumbs, clover, ferns, speedwell, and primulas. The rocks by the stream were often covered with ivy and overhung by sprays of pink roses. While on the mountain-sides, on the northward-facing slopes, the wild apricot, cherry, and wych hazel, and in the valley bottom willow, mulberry, and walnut were in full leaf. And among the birds were now golden orioles, wagtails (white and yellow), kingfishers, herons, water-robins, buntings, grey tits, wren warblers, paradise fly-catchers, bulbuls, thrushes, redstarts, pigeons, doves, and shrikes.

The morning was cloudy and misty, but again with special beauties of its own. Long streaks of mist were drifting along the mountain-sides, all at precisely the same level. Mahadeo, 15,000 feet, was at first quite clear and lighted by the sun. Then a mist drifted towards it, and rapidly, but by almost imperceptible increase, the cloud enveloped it. Light misty clouds swirled about the mountain as currents and counter-currents seized them. Anon the mist in great part cleared away, and Mahadeo was seen peering through the clouds, bold and supernaturally high. Then the peak and all the mountain-sides were enveloped in dark heavy clouds, rain fell, and there seemed every prospect of a wet and gloomy day. But all unexpectedly rifts again appeared, and Mahadeo was once more seen rising composedly above the clouds, the young green foliage standing out distinct and bright, and each rock sharp and well defined. And so, hour after hour, the struggle between cloud and sunshine, between good and evil continued, it being impossible to tell at any moment which was more likely to prevail. The clouds seemed settling down, then a glint of sunshine was seen high on some upland lighting the fresh green grass and some stray shepherd hut. Finally wet prevailed, and the mist settled lower and lower on the valley, the rain poured down and a seemingly regular rainy day set in. But there was fascination yet in watching the mists floating along the mountains, forming and dispersing, enshrouding and revealing the mountain peaks; and the green of the little valley showed up greener than ever. The mountain-sides, usually so brown, were seen to be tinged with a delicate shade of green. The poplars, mulberries, and chenars at the mouth of the valley had each their own especial tint. The rice-fields showed up in brilliant emerald.

ABOVE LIDARWAT, LIDAR VALLEY

Yet after it had appeared to settle down for a whole day's rain the mists suddenly cleared away from the mountain. The sun broke through the clouds and showed up the rounded higher spurs with the soft, downy brown of an Oriental carpet, and the higher peaks stood out sharp and clear. An hour later long level lines of mist appeared and swiftly grew thicker, the whole mountain from one level upward was once more enveloped in cloud which thus gained the final victory.

Harwan village itself at this time of year was strikingly picturesque. It was enshrouded in massive clumps of chenar foliage, below which were the lighter shades of the willow, mulberry, and walnut, and the straight, graceful, white-trunked poplars piercing through. Here and there a horse-chestnut in full flower lit up the foliage, and most beautiful of all were the patches of tall irises—dark purple, mauve, and white—which now surrounded the village. Numerous water-courses rushing through the village lands gave brightness, cheeriness, and a sense of coolness; while the crowing of cocks, the twittering of the birds, the lowing of cattle, and the neighing of the ponies grazing on the rich green grass in the valley bottom, and the distant calls of the shepherd boy to the flocks of sheep and goats on the mountain, gave further animation to the scene. And whether it was more entrancing now, or three weeks later when the irises were over, but when it was wreathed in white roses, it would be difficult to say. Irises and roses are the two especial beauties of Kashmir villages and Kashmir lanes and hedgerows. And I would not like to positively state which was the more beautiful—the rich clumps of mauve and purple irises surrounding the village with warmth and colour in the spring, or the clustering wreaths of roses, white and pink, brightening the village lands and hedgerows in the summer.

SUNSET ON THE JHELUM, ABOVE SRINAGAR

Only one desire we must feel in regard to these villages—that all this natural beauty could not be further enhanced by the trim little cottages of rural England or the picturesque chalets of Switzerland. Every time one sees a Kashmir village and succumbs to the charm of all that Nature has done for it, one longs to see the squalor, untidiness, and dirt of house and man and clothing removed, and justice done by man to what Nature has done for him.

Harwan is not only noted for its natural beauty, and as having been the abode of a celebrated Buddhist saint: it is also now remarkable as possessing a hatchery of English trout, the ordinary brown trout, and of Danube trout or huchon; and here can be seen English trout of all sizes up to 11 lbs.

These trout were first placed in the Dachigam stream which runs through the valley opening out at Harwan; and now all up this valley ideal trout-fishing is given by H.H. the Maharaja to his guests. And what more perfect spot for the purpose could be found? Kept as a close preserve for two purposes; firstly, for stag-shooting; and, secondly, to insure the freshness of the water which furnishes the water-supply of the whole city of Srinagar, it is absolutely quiet and peaceful. There are no inhabitants, and no life but wild life; and, except for the superior grandeur of the mountains on either side, it exactly resembles a Highland valley. We see the same clear rushing river, here dashing over boulders in a series of rapids, and there lying in cool, peaceful pools alongside a grassy bank or beneath some overshadowing trees. On a cloudy day, when the high mountains are shrouded in mist and a gentle rain is falling, you might be in Scotland itself. On a fine day, with Mahadeo towering 10,000 feet immediately above you, and with glimpses of snowy ranges in the distance, you have Scotland and something more.

SPRING IN KASHMIR

This is the valley especially reserved for the sport of Viceroys, and here it was that in the autumn of 1906 the Maharaja entertained Lord Minto. And well do I remember the intense relief of the Viceroy as he turned into the valley and left all ceremonials and State business behind, and felt that here at least he was in a haven of rest and natural enjoyment. The air was clear and bracing, the sky cloudless, and the evening sun throwing long soothing shadows up the valley. Who could feel a care while he fished or hunted stag in a valley with more than the beauty and with all the freshness of his native land?

I have said so much about Harwan and the Dachigam valley as they are typical of the prettiest parts of rural Kashmir and the side-valleys, but I must now return to the description of Srinagar and the main valley itself and go back to where we left it in the spring. On April 1st, the chief glory of the Kashmir spring, peach trees were in full blossom, and forming in the landscape little clouds of the purest and most delicate pink, and giving it an exquisite touch of light and colour. The taller and larger pear trees were snow-white masses. The pink-tinged apple blossoms, the chenar, and walnut leaves were just appearing, and the poplar and mulberry leaves showed faint symptoms of bursting. We were in the first, most delicate flush of early youthful spring.

A mile from Srinagar, on the way to Gupkar and the Dal Lake, the road passes over a gap between the Takht-i-Suliman and the range to the north. This spot is well known as "The Gap"; and as it is perhaps a hundred feet above the valley level an extensive view is obtained, on the one hand, over the great vale of Kashmir to the snowy Pir Panjal range in the background on the south, and on the other hand to the Dal Lake, Haramokh, and the mountain range, close by on the north. There were very few days when either in the morning or evening I did not visit this spot, and hardly ever did I see the same view. Every day there seemed some fresh beauty; and which day in spring, and whether the days in spring were more beautiful than the days in autumn, I could never satisfy myself. On April 1st, looking southward, there was first on the sloping foreground an almond orchard with a sprinkling of trees in white and pink blossom and the remainder in young leaf. Then in the valley bottom were clumps of willows in the freshest yellowy green; light green wheat-fields; bunches of chenar trees not yet in leaf; broad reaches of the placid river glistening in the sunshine, with numerous boats gliding gracefully on its surface; and away over the valley were little clusters of villages, with the land gradually rising to that range of snowy mountains which forms the culminating touch of beauty in every Kashmir scene.

ON THE DAL LAKE IN SPRING

Looking in the opposite direction from the Gap towards the Dal Lake was a less extensive, but scarcely less attractive scene. On the foreground of the gentle slopes towards the lake were tall pear trees in fresh white bloom dotted prettily among the fields of new green wheat. Away to the left was an orchard of peach in the purest and lightest of pink. Little hamlets nestled among the fruit trees; and immediately beyond them stretched the still, clear lake reflecting in its mirror surface the graceful willows and chenar trees by its edge, and the mountain ranges by which it was encircled. As it seemed floating in its midst lay the famous Isle of Chenars mirrored again in its glassy surface. By its shore stretched the renowned Moghal gardens—the Nishat Bagh and the Shalimar Bagh—with their grand avenues of chenars sloping to the water's edge. Above the far border rose a mountain ridge still clothed in snow; above that again the lofty Haramokh; and away in the extreme distance lay the fairy Khagan snows, while on the whole scene there swam a purple-bluey haze, growing more purple and more blue the more distant it fell, and giving to all a softening sense of peace and ease. For tenderness of restful beauty this scene is not excelled.

So far the weather had been exceptionally fine and warm for the season, and the rainfall to date from the commencement of the year had been three inches below the normal; but now a wet spell set in such as one has to expect in the spring in Kashmir, which is always very uncertain. On April 12th there were 2¾ inches of rain. The total for the year now exceeded the normal by four inches. The river rapidly rose ten feet, flooded all the low-lying fields, and seriously threatened the European quarter; and, finally, snow fell in Srinagar itself. The maximum temperature in the shade rose to only 50° while the minimum at night fell to 33°. It is always the exceptional which happens—in weather at any rate. So this must not be expected every year. But something else exceptional will occur whatever year we choose, and there is little use in describing a normal year, for no such year ever comes in real life.

On the road into Kashmir very serious breaks were made by the rain and by the melting snow and the mud floods which it brought down. Whole stretches of road were completely carried away and wiped out of existence. Bridges were broken; and so dangerous were the falling boulders, that one European was knocked straight into the Jhelum River and drowned, and several natives were badly injured. The dak bungalows were crammed with travellers rolling up from behind, and we subsequently heard of the misery they suffered from overcrowded rooms, from the never-ending rolling of the thunder, and the incessant pelting of the rain. The beauties of Kashmir cannot be attained without suffering, and the suffering on the road up is often considerable.

A hard-worked member of the Government of India came from Calcutta to spend a ten-days' holiday with us in the middle of this deluge, and as day after day of his holiday went by with nothing but rain, our pride in the glories of Kashmir sank lower and lower, and we feared he would go back to give the country but an evil reputation. But the final day of his stay redeemed all, and for that single day he was good enough to say he would have come the whole way from Calcutta. We drove out along the shores of the Dal Lake to the Nishat Bagh, and anything more exquisitely lovely than the combination of the freshness of the young spring green, with the whiteness of the snow now low down on the mountain-sides with the blue sky, the brilliant sunshine, the dreamy purply haze, the mirror lake, the yellow mustard fields, and the clouds of pink and white fruit blossom now in its perfection, this earth can surely nowhere show.

The lake was full from the recent rain, and lapped up to the edge of the garden. On either side of the gateway were masses of Kashmir lilac. Stretching up the mountain-side, on either side of the line of fountains and waterfalls which flowed down from the upper end of the garden, was a long avenue of massive chenar trees just freshly tinted with budding foliage, and at the sides and by the entrance were peach, and pear, and cherry in brilliant bloom. Slowly we ascended the avenue, and then from the top looked down between the great chenar trees, over the cascades falling to the lake, over the smooth green turf, over the clumps of purple iris, over the white cherry blossom and the mauve lilac; to the still waters of the lake; to the willows and poplars along its edge; to the fort of Hari Parbat; and then on to the radiant snows now glistening more brightly, and looking more ethereal and lovely than ever before. Spring is beautiful everywhere. Spring is more beautiful in Kashmir than anywhere else, and in a Kashmir spring this was the most beautiful day of all.

ENTRANCE TO THE MAR CANAL

Yet another attractive spot near Srinagar is the site of the original city founded by Asoka at Pandrathan, three miles distant on the Islamabad road. Here at the end of a spur running down from the mountains and jutting out to meet a bend in the river, stands the remains of an immense monolith lingam on the levelled edge of the spur, eighty feet or so above the river. Immediately beneath is a majestic bend of the river, and one April evening when I visited the sight I looked out from the raised plateau up two glistening reaches, bordered by fresh green grass and overhung by graceful willows and poplars in their newest foliage. The wheat-fields on the opposite bank were a brilliant emerald, and the fields of glowing yellow mustard and young linseed interspersed with scarlet poppies gave a relieving touch of colour. All the valley was dotted over with picturesque hamlets half-hidden in clumps of willow and over-towering chenar trees. The recent floods gave a lake-like appearance to the middle distance. On the right the temple on the Takht-i-Suliman formed a graceful feature in the scene; and from there completely round the semicircle to the distant left stretched the dreamy snowy mountains, hazy immediately under the sun, but white and distinct when the evening sun struck full upon them. A more fitting site for worship could hardly be found.

In full summer the Kashmir valley is, perhaps, in its least interesting condition. The snow has nearly melted from the mountains. They are often hidden by heat-haze or dust. The fruit blossoms are all over. The yellow mustard and the blue linseed in the fields have gone to seed. The green of the trees has lost its freshness; and the prevailing tones are heavy greens and browns. The weather too is sultry. The thermometer rises to 95° or 97° in the shade. A heavy, lethargic feeling oppresses one. Mosquitoes appear in swarms. And by the end of June every one who can flees to Gulmarg, to Pahlgam in the Lidar valley, to Sonamarg in the Sind, to Gurais and to the numerous other cool mountain resorts.

THE TEMPLE, CHENAR BAGH

But early in September the valley renews its charms and visitors return. The atmosphere has been freshened and cooled by the rains which, though they fall lightly in the valley itself, are often heavy on the surrounding mountains. The ripe rice-fields show an expanse of green and yellow often two or three miles in extent. The villages, dirty and untidy at close quarters, it is true, but nestling among the chenars, willows, poplars, walnuts, and mulberries, show as entrancing islands amidst the sea of rice. Ponies browse among the marshes up to their knees in water; and groups of cattle graze along the grassy edge of the streams and water-ducts.

The sun is still powerful in the daytime, and the sky usually bright and clear. But the monsoon will often make a few final efforts. One such day I note when voluminous masses of cloud rolled up from behind the Pir Panjal to a height of twenty-five or thirty thousand feet, their westward edges aglow from the setting sun, and showing clear and distinct against the background of pinky light blue sky, while the great main volume remained dark, heavy, and sombre, with now and then a spit of lightning flashing out, and on the far side, away from the setting sun, threatening tentacles stretched out across the valley in unavailing effort to reach the mountains on the northern side. Under these mighty monsoon masses even the great mountains looked dwarfed and puny. It was a great and final effort of that stupendous natural phenomenon which bears the waters of the Indian Ocean to beat upon the Himalaya; and as an omen that the monsoon was now over, the sky behind the storm-clouds was intensely clear and tranquil, and the moon slowly ascended in undisturbed serenity.

And the rainy season being finished there now commenced almost the most charming time of all, not, indeed, with the freshness of spring, but with more certainty of continual brightness and light, and more vigour and strength in the air, and above all, with that warmth and richness of colour in the foliage which makes an autumn in Kashmir unique. Towards the end of October the green of the immense masses of chenar slowly turns to purple, red, and yellow, and every intervening shade. The poplars, mulberries, and apricots add each their quota of autumnal beauty. The valley and the river edge are resplendent in the gorgeous colouring. And beautiful as is the spring, I was tempted to think that even more exquisitely lovely still was the bright autumnal day when we drifted down the river in our house-boat, when all the chenars along the river bank were loaded with the richest and most varied colouring, when the first fresh fall of snow on the mountains was glistening in the radiant sunshine, and there ran through the air that restful sense of certainty that this was no hurried pleasure snatched from a stormy season, but that for day after day and week after week one might count on the same brilliant sunshine, the same clear, blue sky, and daily increasing crispness, freshness, and vigour in the air.

RUINS OF LALLA ROOKH'S GARDENS, LAKE MANASBAL

The great broad reaches in the river, glistening in the sunlight and fringed with the rich autumnal foliage, were superlatively beautiful. Shadipur, at the junction of the Sind River, where there is a little temple on an island and hoary old chenars drooping over it to the water's surface, was a dream of all that is most lovely. And the Manasbal Lake, so fresh and deep and clear, set like a jewel among the mountains, with clumps and avenues of these same red and purple foliaged trees upon its edge, and reflecting in its surface the white snowy range of the distant Pir Panjal, was the supreme gem of all Kashmir. All these are beauties which one cannot describe, for whatever one may say, the reality must ever remain more beautiful than the picture. But perhaps by the unison of pen and brush some faint impression of the loveliness of a Kashmir autumn may yet have been conveyed.

This season to the sportsman also is the most enjoyable. For now come in the duck and geese from far-away Siberia, halting here for a time in the lakes and marshes on their way to India. I have already described a duck-shoot in spring. In the autumn there is still finer shooting, for the duck have come in fresh and are in greater numbers than on their return journey. As I have already said, the Maharaja most hospitably places at the disposal of the Resident the shooting on the Hokrar Lake and marsh, which affords some of the best duck-shooting in the world, and it was here that Lord Minto and party shot over 1500 duck in one day in 1906.

Last year we had our first shoot on October 4th. We rode for six miles in the fresh morning air and brilliant sunshine to the edge of the lake, where the shikaris and boatmen were awaiting us. Over the reeds and over the open expanse of water beyond there was that glorious view of the distantly encircling mountains which I have before described. The lower slopes were at this season a reddish pink which merged into the rich purply blue of the higher and more distant portion of the range. Soft fleecy clouds and a hazy blue in the sky gave a dreamy tone to the scene. Many kinds of waterfowl were lazily disporting themselves on the water and among the reeds. The surface was often covered with numerous flat, round leaves and pure white waxy water-lilies with rich yellow centres.

Through these we were paddled swiftly to the butts, which were skilfully hidden among the reeds, and here amid clouds of mosquitoes, dragon-flies, and gnats, we awaited the first shot to be fired by the occupant of the farthest butt. The sun beat powerfully down. All was still, and drowsy, and silent, save for the drone of the flies and the occasional "quack, quack!" of the ducks paddling unsuspiciously on the lake.

At last a distant shot was heard, and then a suppressed roar, as of breakers on a far-off shore. Then from the direction of the shot a black cloud arose and advanced rapidly upon us. The roar increased, and in a few seconds the whole sky was covered with a whirling, swishing, whizzing flight of ducks. Thousands and thousands of them: flashing past from right to left, from left to right, backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards, in bewildering multitudes. For the moment one's breath was absolutely taken away. There was such a swish and swirr it was impossible to aim. Then as the first wild rush was over it became easier to be deliberate, and duck after duck fell to my companions' guns.

After a quarter of an hour or so a lull occurred. In the distance, flights of duck were seen circling high in the air, but none came near. A lazy interval ensued. The sun beat down with unexpected force. Perspiration poured down head and neck. Dragon-flies, blue and red, large and small, with gauze-like wings and brilliant bodies, floated swiftly but noiselessly among the reeds. The purring of the crickets, the occasional twitter of birds, the swishing of high flights of duck far out of reach, the call of a goose and the bang of a distant gun at intervals broke the silence; but otherwise all was wrapped in dreamy noonday stillness. Then, of a sudden, another succession of flights of duck came whizzing past, and as fast as we could fire the gun was put to the shoulder. Another lull followed, only to be succeeded by more flights, and so on through the day. At 1.30, by previous arrangement, we stopped for lunch and to give the duck an opportunity of settling, then renewed the shooting till nightfall. At the end of the day Colonel Edwards, the Residency Surgeon, had himself shot 203, and others had shot well over the hundred.

From this time onward, on three or four days in each month, the duck-shooting on this famous lake continues. The weather now gets gradually colder, till by December there are sixteen degrees of frost. All the leaves have now left the trees. The grass is quite brown. But the days are nearly always fine and clear; and though there will be thick ice and long icicles in the early morning, by ten or eleven all the ice not in the shade has disappeared, the air is pleasantly warm, and there is seldom any wind.

Christmas brings a round of festivities, dances, dinners, and children's parties, for even in the winter as many as seventy or eighty will assemble at a dance, and occasional outside travellers or sportsmen drop in all through the winter. After Christmas a change in weather sets in. Clouds bank up and snow or rain falls. January and February are the worst months in the year.

But just before leaving the valley this last year I had one further attempt to shoot a Kashmir stag. Six miles out from Srinagar, up the valley, we had a little camp on the edge of the river—a lovely spot in summer when the rich foliage overhangs the water, and when the grassy banks are green and fresh, and the river is full up to the lip; but now when the trees were bare, the banks brown and bleak, and the water at its lowest, an uninviting-looking spot. Moreover, the sky was overcast and threatening. Women who came to draw water from the river were pale and shivering. Our servants were huddled up with the cold. A raw wind whistled down the valley, and snow threatened on the higher mountain.

This latter was precisely what I wanted, for it would drive the stag down to the lower ridges when I would be stalking next day. At four in the morning, therefore, I rose, and after a solid early breakfast mounted my faithful but naughty Tibetan pony, and, accompanied by a guide, rode for seven miles through the darkness and frosty but invigorating air to the foot of the hills, where the two shikaris awaited me.

Like their class, they were hard, keen-looking men, accustomed to live on the mountain-side, to weather hardship and exposure, and live with Nature and wild animals—an altogether different type from the crafty townsman or indolent dwellers on boats. Rahem Sheikh, the chief, was a grizzled old man, with keen, far-seeing eyes, tough physique, and a grave, earnest demeanour as if the business of his life was of the most serious. This, indeed, as I have already said, is a special trait of head shikaris all India over; and during viceregal visits to Native States I have never been able to decide which takes himself most seriously—the head shikari or the European caterer. Both look upon the Viceroy, the Chief, and the Resident, in the way of children who are to be indulged. They have to be amused and fed. They no doubt have unimportant business of their own. But the really serious business in this life is—to the shikari to find game, and to the caterer to provide food. Things would rub along somehow or other without a Viceroy; but how would life be without the head shikari to show the stag, or the caterer to produce meat and drink?

Knowing the point of view of head shikaris I placed myself, therefore, with child-like but misplaced confidence in his hand. But, alas! snow had not fallen on the higher mountains. The clouds had cleared away, and the stags must have remained on the distant peaks—many miles away and thousands of feet higher. Two days of hard climbing and careful search produced no result.

On the third day, rising early and looking out of my tent, I saw a perfectly clear sky and the ground covered thick with hoar frost; a sharp crisp nip was in the air, the thermometer registered 16° Fahr., and away across the glistening reach in the river appeared a rose-pink range of mountains showing up sharply against the clear blue sky. Let the reader imagine a frosty morning in the Thames valley. Let him imagine, what we never have in England, a really clear blue sky. And then, filling up the distant end of one of its most beautiful reaches, let him imagine a lofty range of rose-coloured mountains; and he will then have a picture of the view from my camp at sunrise on the January morning.

Mounting my pony, I rode off in the now radiant sunshine to another hill-side nine miles distant. The frosty morning air at first nipped my ears and fingers, but the hard galloping soon sent the blood tingling through my veins, and in little over an hour I again joined the shikaris. With bated breath and significant glances at the mountain-side, they informed me that they had seen seven hinds and two stags, though the latter were both small.

I dismounted, and left the wicked little Tibetan with his head well buried in a bundle of grass; and then with a coolie to carry my tiffin, overcoat, and rifle, started up the hill-side. One quickly becomes fit in such a climate. This was my third day out, and now I climbed the mountain almost as easily as the shikaris themselves. What on the first day was a decided effort was now a scarcely perceptible strain. Perhaps, too, the greater expectation of finding a stag had something to do with the increased elasticity with which I ascended the mountain. Anyhow, taking off my coat, as with the exertion of climbing and in the brilliant sunshine it was now really hot, I was on the summit of the ridge 3000 feet above the valley, almost without noticing the climb.

At our feet on the opposite side lay a cosy little side-valley with villages nestling among the chenar and mulberry trees. Behind us lay the broad main valley with the great river gliding through it; and away in the distance the rugged Pir Panjal mountains were glistening in the noonday sun.

The scenery was perfect. But again no stags were seen. Till dark we scoured the mountain-side, but all we saw were the tracks of stags—or may be hinds—leading away to the higher mountains.

Then I had to hurry back to camp, and the next day to Srinagar, to prepare for a long journey down to Calcutta for the very dull object of giving evidence to a Royal Commission on Decentralisation.

The cycle of the seasons has been completed; and the aspect of the valley under the varying conditions of spring and summer, autumn and winter, has been depicted. In another chapter I will describe the means and methods of travel.

CHAPTER II

TRAVEL IN KASHMIR

I have known Kashmir for twenty-one years, and ever since I have known it people have said it is getting spoilt. "It is not now what it used to be" is so often said. When the cart-road was being built every one said it would be spoilt. And now, when the construction of a railway is in contemplation, exactly the same remark is made. The impression conveyed is that the pleasures of travel in Kashmir are surely and steadily deteriorating. And this, no doubt, is true in certain aspects. Supplies are dearer. Coolies demand higher wages. The visitor disposed to solitude more frequently encounters his fellow Britisher. These are decided drawbacks, and the visitor who telegraphs to Danjhibhoy for a tonga, to Nedou's for a room in the hotel, and to Cockburn's for a house-boat, and has simply to pay his fare and his hotel bill, no doubt pines for the virgin time of Kashmir travel before the rattle of the tongas or the tooting of the motor car was heard in the valley.

Yet I doubt if all was bliss in those "good old days." Certainly Moorcroft, the first Englishman to visit Kashmir, had no very comfortable time, and must often in his turn have pined for a good hotel, a clean room, and a decent dinner—and, who knows, for a game of golf? Moorcroft visited Kashmir in 1823, and first had enormous difficulty in obtaining from Ranjit Singh, the ruler of the Punjab, to whom Kashmir was then subject, leave to come to Kashmir at all. He arrived there from the north in the autumn, and had fresh difficulty in obtaining permission to remain there for the winter. At the quarters he occupied he was "beset by crowds of people who not only filled the garden, but also came in boats." He was pursued wherever he went by inquisitive crowds, by importunate beggars, and by suspicious officials. When he wished to make short excursions from Srinagar objections were at once raised. When he was at length allowed to leave for the Lolab, officials were appointed to accompany him "to watch his proceedings and check inquisitiveness." And when he finally left Kashmir for the Punjab by the Jhelum valley he was stopped by a small semi-independent chief near Uri, who demanded Rs. 15,000 as customs duty on his caravan, and as Moorcroft refused to pay more than Rs. 500 he was compelled to return to Srinagar and reach the Punjab by another route.

These certainly were not the halcyon days of Kashmir travel. But I suppose there must have been an intermediate time between then and now when travelling in Kashmir was perfection to those who had time enough at their disposal to "march" in. In those delightful times the traveller pitched his little camp wherever he wished. Grain was ridiculously cheap. Fowls were considered dear at twopence each. Coolies were thankful enough to get any payment at all. There were no game laws or game licences, so that the sportsman could shoot to his heart's content. The number of visitors for the year was restricted to 100, so that each had 700 or 800 square miles to himself, and there was no need of dress clothes, white shirts, or Ascot dresses.

When I first visited Kashmir in the autumn of 1887 its glory had already begun to depart, though as regards simplicity of travelling my methods were of the simplest. I had no other clothes but what I stood in, and only the under portion of these were of European origin. All my outer clothes, including my boots, were worn out long before I reached Kashmir, and I was accordingly clothed in a long Central Asian robe and high native boots, for I was at the end of a journey of nearly four thousand miles from Peking. I had crossed—and was the first European to accomplish the feat—the Mustagh Pass, 19,000 feet high, into Baltistan; and the "Pass" being nothing else than a hard ice slope and a rocky precipice, down which I and my five servants and coolies had to let ourselves by means of turbans and waist-clothes tied together, I had been able to carry with me little even of the scanty baggage I had brought up to the other side of the Pass. I had indeed only a roll of bedding, which was thrown down the precipice, and a big kettle. I had no tent and no money! I had slept in the open from one side of the Himalayas to the other, and my funds were entirely exhausted, so that when I landed in Kashmir territory I had to borrow money from the Governor of Baltistan, Pandit Rada Kishen Kol, a very popular and respected official who is still in the Maharaja's service, and is now Chief Judge.

Simplicity of travel was, then, at least possible twenty years ago, and I managed, after crossing the Pass, to get along with only one servant who cooked, performed every function of the numerous servants we employ in India, and carried a load himself in emergency. But he was the most faithful, and my favourite of all the servants I have ever had. His name was Shukar Ali, and I must ask my reader's indulgence for a digression to describe him. I picked him up in Yarkand, in Chinese Turkestan, but he was a native of Ladak. He was the most cheery, happy-go-lucky, easy-going man, who ever proved a good servant in spite of his carelessness. Always laughing, always chaffing with the pony-men or coolies, always losing something vitally necessary, but always ready to do the hardest and most dangerous piece of work when the crucial moment arrived, he was the only Ladaki who dared to cross the Mustagh Pass with me, and but for one incident I would have a most grateful recollection of his services then. That incident I have often since reminded him of. After crossing the Pass we had to cross a very full and rapid stream flowing straight out of a glacier. Immense blocks of ice were breaking off the glacier and floating down the stream. The bottom was also partly ice and partly boulder. Shukar Ali, with his usual readiness, volunteered to carry me across this stream on his back. But in mid-stream he slipped. I was precipitated into the icy water, while Shukar Ali, in his frantic efforts to regain his own footing, unknowingly kept pressing me under water. We both eventually gained the opposite bank all right. But I had no change of clothes, and every stitch I had on was wringing wet with ice-cold water.

When, two years later, Government sent me to explore all the northern frontier of Kashmir from Ladak and the Karakoram Pass to the Pamirs and Hunza, I again sought out Shukar Ali; and yet a third time, when I was sent on a political mission to Chinese Turkestan and the Pamirs in 1890-91. On each of these occasions he rendered unfailing service, and once both he and I were nearly drowned in an avalanche. We had been hewing our way up the steep slopes of an ice pass in a snowstorm, when suddenly out of the snow-clouds above us we heard a roar like thunder approaching nearer and nearer. We could not run if we would, for we were on an ice slope. We could only await our doom, for we knew it was an avalanche. But with a mighty rush it crashed past a few paces in front of us, and we were safe.

A LADAKI IN SUMMER COSTUME

After 1891 I did not see Shukar Ali for seventeen years, for my travels never took me to that frontier again. But I heard of him from Dr. Sven Hedin who employed him in Tibet, and who told me of the wonderful tales which the imaginative Shukar Ali related of the journeys we had made together. And last summer the dear old man suddenly appeared at the Residency. He had heard that I was now Resident, and had walked 240 miles across the mountains to see me, and he presented himself wearing the identical coat I had given him seventeen years ago. He kept jumping up and down, first kissing my feet, then touching my coat, then salaaming, and all the time ejaculating an unceasing flow of speech, calling me by every affectionate term. Then from under numerous folds of his clothing he produced a wooden bowl, a bag full of sweets, a pair of goat horns for my wife and myself, and a marvellous collection of showy-looking stones which he had picked up in Tibet for my little girl.

He remained with me for a few weeks. I gave him something to keep him comfortable at home, but which I am sure in his good nature he will let his relations squeeze out of him, and then I sent him off back to Ladak. But before he left I asked the Maharaja to give him an order exempting him from service in his village. His Highness, with his usual kindness, readily acceded. An order was made out with the Maharaja's own signature attached, and at a garden-party at the Residency Shukar Ali was had up and presented with the order. His Highness addressed him in a most kindly manner, and on the following day presented him in Durbar with a shawl of honour.

Poor Shukar Ali left with many tearful farewell expressions, and a few weeks later I received from him the following letter:—

Sir—I reached very well home, with very felt happy and found all my poor family very well and showed the all kindly of your they got very glad, and we all family thankfully to you to remember us so much, to little people and my all friends got very glad too, they said thank you, and hope you would not be angry with this English written, please you pardon for this, and could not write myself and could not get other munshi write you, because and found Rassul, he was my old friend and let him write this letter. please give my salaam to Mem Sahib and Baby Baby Sahib.—Your obedient servant Shukar Ali

from poor Rassul plenty salaam,

the mark of Shukar Ali O.

All this, however, is a digression, and I have to describe the normal modes of travel of the present day. Srinagar is 196 miles distant from the railway at Rawal Pindi, and is connected with it by a good cart-road—good, that is in its normal condition, but excessively bad after heavy rain, when at places the whole mountain-side slides down with the road into the river. The usual mode of conveyance is a tonga, a very common form of vehicle in the Indian "hills." It has two wheels, is drawn by a pair of ponies, has four seats back to back, and carries a mountain of luggage piled up on the splash-boards and on the roof. The ponies, when the season is not crowded and the road is good, gallop at full speed, and are changed every five or six miles. In the full part of the season, which generally coincides with the heaviest fall of rain, with much beating, pulling, and shouting they can scarcely be induced to reach a trot, and may think themselves lucky if they find a change at the end of their stage.

Other means of conveyance for which extra charge is made are landaus and victorias. These, though more comfortable, are heavier for the ponies, and are more difficult to manipulate over bad places in the rainy season.

Spare baggage and servants can be brought up in the ordinary Indian ckka which, with one pony without changes, takes six to eight days to reach Srinagar; or in bullock carts which take fourteen days.

Tongas will take two, three, four or more days according to the length of the day, the nature of the road, and the disposition of the traveller. The tonga carrying the English mail, travelling almost continuously, covers the distance in thirty-six hours. In the long summer days travellers, starting early, can accomplish the journey in two days.

Every fourteen miles or so is a dak bungalow, where for the payment of one rupee a furnished room is provided, and on further payment meals may be obtained at any time, but "bedding" must always be taken, as nothing but the bare bed is provided.

The stages from Rawal Pindi (1790 feet) at which these bungalows may be found, are:—

The road is usually open all the year round except in January, February, and part of March, when it is liable to be blocked by snow over the Murree hill and between Rampur and Baramula. In such emergencies the alternative route by Abbotabad may be used, and the traveller must make up his mind to walk the few miles of bad road near Rampur.

Instead of going all the way by road, boat may be taken at Baramula for Srinagar. This, though longer, is much more comfortable and enjoyable. The time occupied is from two to three days.

At Srinagar there is no dak bungalow, but an hotel—Nedou's—which is open the whole year round. Srinagar is the central starting-point for all expeditions. Here house-boats, dunga-boats, camp equipage, and all the paraphernalia of Kashmir travel may be obtained, and shikaris and servants engaged. House-boats are not indigenous to Kashmir. They were introduced by Mr. M. T. Kennard some twenty years ago, but now they may be numbered by hundreds. Some are permanently occupied by Europeans, who live in them nearly the whole year round for years together, but most are let out at from Rs. 70 to Rs. 100 per mensem for the season. In midsummer they are hot abodes, but they form a most convenient and luxurious mode of travel. Each would contain, probably, a couple of sitting-rooms with fireplaces, bedrooms, and bath-rooms, and with a cook-boat attached for cooking and servants, the traveller launches forth complete, and either drifts lazily down the river to the many attractive spots along its banks, and to the Wular Lake, or else is towed upwards to Islamabad. The house-boat likewise forms a very convenient base from which short expeditions into the mountains can be made.

Dungas and dunga house-boats are not so luxurious and commodious as the fully developed house-boat; but they are lighter, they travel quicker, and they go up shallow tributaries where the larger boat would stick. They are also less expensive. The former have only loose matting for walls; the walls of the latter are wooden.

For getting about the river in Srinagar itself the still lighter shikara or ordinary paddle-boat is used, paddled by two to eight men according to the size. House-boats and dunga house-boats require a crew of six to twelve men. Dungas carry a family in the stern who work the boat. Paddles, poling, and hauling are the means of progression.

Quite good shops for European stores and articles are now springing up in Srinagar. Cox & Co. and the Punjab Banking Co. have branches there, and Cockburn's Agency do every kind of agency work, engage boats and servants, and let out tents, camp furniture, etc. There are also many respectable native firms who do the same—of whom, perhaps, the best is Mohamed Jan, because he does not pester and importune the visitor in the way that most others do, and really render life in Srinagar intolerable.

There is a large choice of expeditions from Srinagar to points of interest, which will be described in detail in a later chapter. First in the immediate vicinity there are picnics to be made to the Dal Lake, to the two Moghal gardens,—the Nishat Bagh and the Shalimar Bagh,—and to the beautiful camping ground of the Nasim Bagh. These are expeditions which can be made in a single afternoon if necessary.

Of more remote tours the favourites are:—up the river to Islamabad and the beautiful Achibal spring and garden; to the clear crystal springs of Vernag, one of the many sources of the Jhelum; to the famous ruins of Martand which occupy the grandest site for a temple of any in the world; to the Lidar valley, Pahlgam, the Kolahoi glacier, and the caves of Amar Nath. Islamabad is the starting-point for both the Lidar valley and Martand, and here the house-boat may be left. Islamabad, thirty-four miles distant, may also be reached by a road which, though unmetalled, is in dry weather quite good. I have left Srinagar in a motor car at 8.45, have spent over an hour going round Islamabad, have eaten lunch under the glorious chenar trees at Bijbehara, and have been home again at Srinagar by 3.15 the same afternoon.

Down the river are equally delightful tours to be made. At Shadipur, at the junction of the Sind River with the Jhelum River, there is a charming grassy camping-ground under chenar trees. Ganderbal is a few miles higher up the Sind River, and forms the base for expeditions to (1) the Wangat ruins and the Gangarbal Lake, an exquisite torquoise-coloured sheet of water reposing immediately beneath the great cliff and glaciers of the Haramokh mountain; and (2) the beautiful Sind valley with its grand mountain scenery, and the charming camping-ground of Sonamarg (the golden meadow) also under towering mountain masses and close to glaciers. Up this valley also lies the road to the Zoji-La Pass on the far side of which branch off roads to Baltistan, on the one hand, with its fine ibex-shooting ground, immense glacier region, and K², the second highest mountain in the world; and on the other to Ladak with its Buddhist monasteries perched on any inaccessible rocky pinnacle that can be found, and Leh, the meeting-place of caravans from Lhasa and from Central Asia—a most quaint and picturesque little town embedded among bare, sun-baked mountains which has been the starting-point of two journeys I have made across the dreary, lofty Karakoram Pass (18,500 feet) to Turkestan and to the Pamirs.

From Shadipur, at the junction of the Sind with the Jhelum, the next expedition to be made is to the Wular Lake and Bandipur, from whence ascends immediately the long and numerous zigzags to Tragbal, a favourite camping-ground amid the pines, and to the Tragbal Pass (12,600 feet), from whence a magnificent view of Nanga Parbat (26,600 feet) may be seen, though I am bound to say that I have never seen it myself in spite of having crossed the Pass six times on the way to, or returning from, Gilgit and the Hunza frontier which lies in this direction. It is by this route, too, that sportsmen proceeding to shoot markhor in Astor, or ibex and bear in Tilail and Gurais, make their way, as also the few who obtain permission to shoot Ovis Poli on the Pamirs. For myself the Tragbal and Bandipur have many welcome associations, for it is here that I have finished two great exploring expeditions, and on a third occasion returned there after a stay of two and a half years hard service on the Hunza and Chitral frontier. It is impossible to convey the delicious sense of relief the traveller feels in descending from the Pass, in leaving behind all the rigors of severe mountain travel and intense cold, and with each easy step downward feeling the air growing warmer and warmer, and at length reaching the lake throwing himself into an armchair in a comfortable house-boat, and then gliding smoothly over the placid lake with the evening sunlight flooding the beautiful valley, and a soothing sense suffusing him at difficulties surmounted, at hardships past, and at present relaxation of body, mind, and purpose.

THE VALLEY OF GURAIS

CHAPTER III

SRINAGAR AND NEIGHBOURHOOD

Entering now into greater detail, first among the places of interest to be described must be Srinagar, the City of the Sun, the capital of the country, and the dwelling-place of 120,000 inhabitants. From both the sanitary and the æsthetic point of view I am always disappointed that Srinagar was not placed either on the plateau of Pariansipura in the centre of the valley, or on the plateau just above Pampur on the west. The former was chosen by the great king Lalataditya for the site of his capital, of which the ruins remain to this day. It is a karewa just opposite the junction of the Sind River with the Jhelum, high and dry above all floods and marshes. And it stands well away from the mountain ranges on either hand, right out in the centre of the valley, so that all the higher peaks and the complete circle of snowy mountains may be seen. A nobler site could not be found. The Pampur plateau has the like advantage of being high and dry and healthy, and of being sufficiently raised above the ordinary level of the valley to command views right over the fields and marshes and wooded hamlets; and it also immediately overhangs the river, and commands a view of the most picturesque reaches in its course.

Either of these sites would have been preferable to the present low-lying situation amid the swamps, so muggy in summer and so chill in winter. Yet this site has attractions of its own, and built as it is on either side of the river, with canals and waterways everywhere intersecting it, and with the snowy ranges filling the background of every vista, the city of Srinagar must be ranked among the most beautiful in the East, and in its peculiar style unique.

The distinguishing feature is the combination of picturesque but rickety wooden houses, of mosques and Hindu temples, of balconied shops, of merchants' houses and the royal palaces with the broad sweeping river and the white mountain background.

MARKET BOATS ON THE MAR CANAL, SRINAGAR

Perhaps Srinagar never looks more beautiful than in the fulness of spring towards the end of April, when the Maharaja arrives from Jammu and enters his summer capital by boat. On such occasions the Resident and his staff, all the State officials, and many of the Europeans resident in Srinagar, go by boat to meet His Highness some distance below the city. The Maharaja arrived this year on the most perfect day in spring. Before the time of his arrival the river was alive with craft of every description, from the Resident's state barge of enormous length, and manned by about fifty rowers dressed in scarlet, to light shikaras, and even two motor boats. As we emerged from the town the banks on either side were covered with fresh green grass. The poplars and some magnificent chenar trees overhanging the river were in their freshest foliage. And coming up a long reach of the broad glistening river was the Maharaja's flotilla, with their long lines of red and of blue oarsmen giving colour to the scene.

The two flotillas joined and slowly made their way through the city. On either side were piled up masses of wooden houses, some low, some high, some leaning to one side, some to the other,—none straight and no two alike. All were crowded with people craning at the windows to see the procession. From many hung shawls, the distinctive decoration of the city for state occasions. And most striking and most beautiful feature of all, and only to be seen at this time of year and in Kashmir, the earth-covered roofs were now covered with fresh green grass, with delicate mauve irises, and in some few cases with the gorgeous scarlet Kashmir tulip. A more beautiful object than that of a little mosque on the edge of the river with its chalet-like roof covered with this blaze of scarlet, its graceful spire tapering skywards, its tassel-like bells of brass suspended from the corners all set in a group of overshadowing chenar trees, with the snowy ranges in the far distance, the clear blue sky above and the spring sunshine bathing all in warmth and light, it would be hard indeed to find outside Kashmir.

Beyond the seventh bridge is the Yarkand serai, filled with the Tartar-featured Yarkandis from Central Asia, in whose garb I myself arrived in Srinagar twenty-one years ago, and fully as dark as they from many months' exposure to the sun and snow.

Above this is the first neat, well-constructed buildings—the Zenana hospital built and supported by the State, and now lined by the medical and nursing establishment come out to welcome the Maharaja.

ABOVE THE FIFTH BRIDGE, SRINAGAR

The sixth and most of the other bridges of Srinagar are built up on piers of crossed horizontal logs of wood. They occupy much of the river way, but are very distinctive, and harmonise most picturesquely with the wooden houses of the city. They were all crowded with people. And on the banks near one were assembled many hundreds of school-boys carrying small flags, which they waved as the Maharaja passed, and shouted "Eep, eep, ra! Eep, eep, ra!" continuously for many minutes in imitation of the British cheer. Mottoes of welcome were stretched across the houses in places, some invoking long life for the King-Emperor, and others expressing loyal wishes for the Maharaja. Between the third and fourth bridges are the shops of most of the chief bankers and merchants, big, handsome, picturesque buildings of small bricks and woodwork, with semicircular balconies jutting out over the river and pretty carved and lattice-work windows. Near the third bridge is the fine Shah Hamadan mosque of an almost Norwegian type of architecture, built of wood with a tall taper spire and handsome hanging ornaments from the eaves. Beyond the third bridge is the chief Hindu temple, of quite a different order of architecture, built of stone—and, as along the whole embankment of the river, with the great stone blocks from the temples and cities of ancient Hindu times.

And so the procession up the river continues, through the avenue of houses, mosques, and temples; past rows of grain barges and house-boats tethered to the shores; past the curious wooden bathing-boxes, under the old-style wooden bridge; past flights of steps leading to the water's edge and crowded with people mostly, it is sad to say, in dull brown or the dirtiest white, but sometimes in gay orange-green or purple; past the old residence of the Governors and the new villa of Sir Amar Singh till the Maharaja's palace is reached, where the procession finally halts while all the hundreds of little boats which had followed in rear swarm round the palace steps. The Resident then takes leave, the Maharaja ascends into his palace, and the Resident and the European community proceed still farther up the river to the European settlement in the area known as the Munshi Bagh.

The palace, though large, is disappointing. It is not what one would have expected on such a site. Even the native portion is not handsome, and on to this has been tacked an ugly European edifice. A great chance has been thrown away, and one can only hope that time will either tone down the present ungainliness or remove it altogether, and erect a building more worthy of the rulers and of the beautiful country which they rule.

SHAWL MERCHANTS' SHOPS, THIRD BRIDGE, SRINAGAR

On either side are two handsome villas of brick and wood such as are seen on the banks of the Thames; the one belongs to the Maharaja's brother Raja Sir Amar Singh, and the other is allotted by His Highness to his chief spiritual adviser. Beyond is the great flight of steps, at which Lord Minto landed on his arrival in 1906, leading to the main land entrance of the palace on the one hand, and on the other to a new, well-built, fairly clean and extremely picturesque bazaar.

Then the last, or rather, as it is commonly known, the first bridge is passed, over which lies the main road from Rawal Pindi and Baramula to Srinagar and the Munshi Bagh; and beyond this are passed more villas, then the State Hospital and the Museum on the right and various State buildings on the left, including the old Guest House in which were entertained Sir Henry Lawrence and John Nicholson. Beyond is clear of the town, and along the "Bund" or embankment, which forms a lovely walk by the water-edge, has now arisen a series of smart European buildings—the missionaries' quarters, the Punjab Bank, Parsi shops, the Post Office, the Residency clerks' quarter and office, and then the Residency itself, a regular English country-house; and beyond it a tidy little Club, the second Assistant Resident's quarters, the Parsonage, the Church, and a line of houses each in its own snug and pretty little garden, the residences of British officials in the employ of the Kashmir State. The whole Bund is overshadowed by great chenar trees and willows, and both sides of the river are lined with house-boats. A thousand feet immediately behind rises the Takht-i-Suliman with the graceful Hindu temple on its summit, and behind this again the great ranges with snow still lying low upon them.

Behind the Bund lie many other modern houses, including Nedou's hotel, and on the slopes of the Takht and towards Gupkar many English villas are springing up—all in much the same style, built of brick and cross-beams of wood with gable roofs. There are also tennis courts and a croquet and badminton grounds round the Club, and on the open plain golf links, a polo ground, and a cricket ground. Srinagar is indeed a gay place for the summer months, with games going on every day, dances nearly every week, dinners, garden parties, and picnics.

MOSQUE OF SHAH HAMADAN, SRINAGAR

The Jama Masjid

The largest and most striking, though not the most beautiful, of the Mohamedan buildings in Srinagar is the Jama Masjid, which was built by the Emperor Shah Jehan. It is constructed of wood throughout, and is in the form of a square enclosing a courtyard. The main building, of course, faces Mecca. Here there is a forest of pillars all of single deodar trees, and remarkable for their height and grace. A staircase leads on to the roof, from which a good view over the sea of mud-roofed houses of Srinagar may be obtained.

Taken as a whole the building is not very remarkable. The graceful steeples, of the style characteristic of Kashmir, in the centre of each face are worthy of note. But all is in disrepair and neglected, and is hardly worthy of a city of over a hundred thousand Mohamedans.

Shah Hamadan Masjid

A more beautiful building than the Jama Masjid is the graceful Mosque of Shah Hamadan, situated close upon the river, and a very favourite object for artists and photographers. It also is built of wood with pointed steeple, beautifully carved eaves and hanging bells, like most of the Mohamedan structures in Kashmir.

Other Buildings

Scattered throughout the city are other mosques of much the same style of architecture. There are also several Hindu temples of the usual type, and not especially characteristic of Kashmir.

Dr. Neve's Hospital

Conspicuous above the European quarter stand the group of buildings known all over Kashmir as Dr. Neve's Hospital, a mission hospital which, with Mr. Biscoe's School, is the most sincerely appreciated of all the efforts which Europeans have made for the welfare of the Kashmir people. Last year no less than 22,735 new out-patients were treated, and the total number of visits amounted to 56,280. 1764 in-patients, of whom 476 were females, were also treated; and 5038 surgical operations were performed. Sometimes over 200 out-patients, and on a few days over 300 out-patients, were treated in a single day. These figures speak for themselves. They show the confidence the people now have in the wonderful institution and the steady practical good it is doing. The heads of the hospital are the brothers Drs. Arthur and Ernest Neve; and they are assisted by Dr. Rawlence, Miss Neve, Miss Robinson, Mr. S. Wilson, and 54 native assistants and servants.

A HINDU TEMPLE, SRINAGAR

The hospital was founded in 1865 by Dr. Elsmie, who for many years had uphill work in starting the institution, but at length gained the confidence of the people and of the late Maharaja. Dr. Downes succeeded Dr. Elsmie, and carried the work forward. In 1881 Dr. Neve took it up. In that year 10,800 new patients were treated; there were 23,393 visits, and 1418 operations were performed. Year by year since then the good work has progressed. The original mud-buildings have gradually been replaced by the present solid masonry structures. And the steady growth of the number of in-patients, and the readiness with which even upper-class women remain in the hospital, testify to the confidence with which the institution is now regarded. It is now renowned through all the north of India, and is a splendid testimony to the steady, thorough, and persevering work of two self-sacrificing men.

The Takht-i-Suliman

The most conspicuous object in the neighbourhood of Srinagar is the Takht-i-Suliman, a hill exactly a thousand feet above the valley plain, and surmounted by an ancient Hindu temple. Both for the sake of the view over the valley, up the reaches of the Jhelum, and down on to the Dal Lake and the city of Srinagar immediately at the foot, and also to see the older temple even now frequented by pilgrims from all over India, a climb to the summit is well repaid.

The temple is believed to have been dedicated to Jyesthesvara, a form of the god Siva. It was at one time thought that it was built 220 b.c., but it is now believed by the best authorities that while the massive basement and stairs are remains of an ancient building (possibly Gopaditya's, as Dr. Stein thinks), the present superstructure may be of later date. The roof is certainly modern, but the temple as a whole probably belongs to the same period as the other temples in Kashmir.

It is of the typical Hindu plan of a square with recessed corners, and is built like all the ancient Kashmir temples of massive blocks of stones.

IN THE MAR CANAL, SRINAGAR

Pandrathan

Three miles up the river from Srinagar is the site of what is very probably the original city of Srinagar founded by Asoka. The name of Pandrathan now given to the village is identified with the Puranadhisthana, or "ancient capital" of the records, and this has been presumed to be the same as Srinagar founded by Asoka, the Buddhist king. But of this city nothing now remains, and the picturesque temple there is of later date. It was built by the minister Meruvad-dhana in the beginning of the tenth century, and dedicated to Vishnu.

The Dal Lake

The Dal Lake, with the canal leading into it, and the various gardens on its shores, is one of the chief attractions of the neighbourhood of Srinagar. It is always lovely, but perhaps at no season more beautiful than early in May. Passing through the lock known as the Dal Darwaza, we glide through channels of still, transparent water hedged in by reeds and willows. On the right rises the Takht-i-Suliman immediately out of the lake. In front are the snowy ranges bordering the Sind valley. Numerous side-channels branch off and intersect. The shores are covered with market gardens. Country boats laden with their produce continually pass, usually propelled by some old man or woman squatting at the extreme prow, and balancing him or herself there with extraordinary confidence and skill. Numerous kingfishers of brilliant sky-blue plumage flash across the water; and gorgeous yellow-golden orioles dart from tree to tree. Clumps of noble chenar trees with the Kashmir chalet houses are grouped along the banks, and often overhang the mirror waters. Orchards of quince trees with their delicate pink and white blossom and fields of brilliant yellow mustard line the shores. Cows and their calves, sheep and their little lambs, graze on the fresh green grass; and pretty but dirty little children, geese and goslings, ducks and ducklings, dabble in the water, and all tell of the rich abundant life now bursting into being.

Rounding a turn in the canal a graceful Hindu temple is seen forming the end of a reach, and on its steps leading to the edge of the water and reflected in it are picturesque groups of women, most of them indeed in the dull brown which they wear with lamentable frequency, but some of them also in bright greens and yellows which furnish the needed touch of colour to the scene.

GUGGRIBAL POINTE ON THE DAL LAKE

Some hundreds of yards farther on we pass under an old bridge with a pointed arch of quaint artistic design of Moghal times. Numerous grain boats of enormous size are congregated here; and half a mile farther the channel gradually opens out, and at length we emerge on to the open lake itself.

The water is so still and so clear that the reflections of the surrounding mountains are seen as in the most polished mirror. The reflected mountain is as sharp and distinct as the mountain itself. The luxuriant plant growth from the bottom and the numerous fishes are seen as in clear air. On the far shores of the lake the stately avenues of the Nishat and Shalimar Baghs approach the water's edge. Above them rise high mountain cliffs. Graceful boats glide smoothly over the glassy surface of the lake—some the bearers of market produce, some occupied by fishermen, and a few filled with holiday-makers enjoying thoroughly the beauty of the scene, and giving expression to the enjoyment in songs and music.