The Vale of Kashmir is too well known to require description. It isthe 'happy hunting-ground' of the Anglo-Indian sportsman and tourist,the resort of artists and invalids, the home of pashm shawls andexquisitely embroidered fabrics, and the land of Lalla Rookh. Itsinhabitants, chiefly Moslems, infamously governed by Hindus, are afeeble race, attracting little interest, valuable to travellers as'coolies' or porters, and repulsive to them from the mingled cunningand obsequiousness which have been fostered by ages of oppression.But even for them there is the dawn of hope, for the ChurchMissionary Society has a strong medical and educational mission atthe capital, a hospital and dispensary under the charge of a ladyM.D. have been opened for women, and a capable and upright'settlement officer,' lent by the Indian Government, is investigatingthe iniquitous land arrangements with a view to a just settlement.
I left the Panjab railroad system at Rawul Pindi, bought my campequipage, and travelled through the grand ravines which lead toKashmir or the Jhelum Valley by hill-cart, on horseback, and byhouse-boat, reaching Srinagar at the end of April, when the velvetlawns were at their greenest, and the foliage was at its freshest,and the deodar-skirted mountains which enclose this fairest gem ofthe Himalayas still wore their winter mantle of unsullied snow.Making Srinagar my headquarters, I spent two months in travelling inKashmir, half the time in a native house-boat on the Jhelum and Pohrurivers, and the other half on horseback, camping wherever the scenerywas most attractive.
By the middle of June mosquitos were rampant, the grass was tawny, abrown dust haze hung over the valley, the camp-fires of a multitudeglared through the hot nights and misty moonlight of the Munshibagh,English tents dotted the landscape, there was no mountain, valley, orplateau, however remote, free from the clatter of English voices andthe trained servility of Hindu servants, and even Sonamarg, at analtitude of 8,000 feet and rough of access, had capitulated to lawn-tennis. To a traveller this Anglo-Indian hubbub was intolerable, andI left Srinagar and many kind friends on June 20 for the upliftedplateaux of Lesser Tibet. My party consisted of myself, a thoroughlycompetent servant and passable interpreter, Hassan Khan, a Panjabi; aseis, of whom the less that is said the better; and Mando, a Kashmirilad, a common coolie, who, under Hassan Khan's training, developedinto an efficient travelling servant, and later into a smartkhitmatgar.
Gyalpo, my horse, must not be forgotten—indeed, he cannot be, for heleft the marks of his heels or teeth on every one. He was abeautiful creature, Badakshani bred, of Arab blood, a silver-grey, aslight as a greyhound and as strong as a cart-horse. He was higher inthe scale of intellect than any horse of my acquaintance. Hiscleverness at times suggested reasoning power, and hismischievousness a sense of humour. He walked five miles an hour,jumped like a deer, climbed like a yak, was strong and steady inperilous fords, tireless, hardy, hungry, frolicked along ledges ofprecipices and over crevassed glaciers, was absolutely fearless, andhis slender legs and the use he made of them were the marvel of all.He was an enigma to the end. He was quite untamable, rejected alldainties with indignation, swung his heels into people's faces whenthey went near him, ran at them with his teeth, seized unwarypassers-by by their kamar bands, and shook them as a dog shakes arat, would let no one go near him but Mando, for whom he formed atfirst sight a most singular attachment, but kicked and struck withhis forefeet, his e