Kashmir. I intend to halt here to-morrow, so will reserve further
description until I feel fresh again. It was one or two o'clock before I
arrived, and I have worn a hole in my left heel which will, I fear,
render the next marches painful. Umjoo--the boatman--is now shampooing
my legs and feet. This process consists of violent squeezes and pinches
which make me inclined to cry out, but I am bearing it bravely without
flinching and endeavouring to look happy, and to persuade myself that it
is pleasant--now my toes are being pulled with a strength fit to tear
them off. Oh! ----. There's a cry on paper. He does not hear that, and
it is some sort of relief.


AUGUST 16th, Sunday.--The valley of Nowboog is small but very
picturesque. The surrounding hills are comparatively low, and are
covered with pasture on the open places, while the deodar and many other
trees occupy the ravines and gullies. The large amount of grass and the
grouping of the trees give it a park-like appearance, and the gentle
slopes of the verdant mountains remove all wildness from the scene. It
is a pleasant spot to halt at. A little nook which while it charms the
eye, only suggests peaceful laziness. My coolies sit at a short
distance, singing through their noses Kashmirian songs. There is much
more melody in their music than in that of their brethren of Hindoostan.
Indeed some of the tunes admit of being written, and I have copied a few
of the more rythmical, as they sang them. The principal objection to
them is that they are rather too short to bear repetition for half an
hour as is the custom, there is another music going on--a music that
cannot be written and will be difficult to describe--I mean the song of
the "Cicada Stridulantia" in walnut trees above me. This insect--the
balm cricket--is in appearance a burlesque, just such a house fly as you
might imagine would be introduced in a pantomime; and its cry is as