“My dear man, it’s no use to indulge in abuse
    Of our customs, so be not enraged, sir—­
  No woman a maid is—­we’re all married ladies. 
    Our charms very early are caged, sir—­
  I’m eleven myself,” remarked the small elf,
    “And a year ago I was engaged, sir!”

Ah, well!  The country is the loveliest I ever saw, and that goes far to make up for its disgusting population.

Here, indeed, it is that

  “Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.”

We stopped to look at the ruins of an ancient mosque, built in the days of Akbar by the Shiahs.  Its remains may be deeply interesting to the archaeologist, but to me a neighbouring ziarat, wooden, with its grassy roof one blaze of scarlet tulips, was far more attractive.  Moving homeward, we floated under a lovely old bridge, whose three rose-toned arches date from the sixteenth century—­the age of the Great Moguls.  The extreme solidity of its piers contrasts strongly with the exceedingly sketchy (and sketchable) bridges manufactured by the Kashmiri.

In fairness, though, I must point out that, as the bridge in Kashmir usually spans a stream liable at almost any moment to overwhelming floods, it would appear to be a sound idea to build as flimsily as possible, with an eye to economical replacement.

The Kashmiri carries this plan to its logical conclusion when he fells a tree across a raging torrent, and calls it a bridge, to the unutterable discomfiture of the Western wayfarer.

[1] That lady subsequently killed a remarkably good 13-pointer bara singh
    and some bears in October.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LOLAB

May 1.—­The pear and cherry blossom has been so lovely in and around Srinagar that we determined to go to the Lolab Valley and see the apple blossom in full flower.

We started in some trepidation, for the warm weather lately has melted much snow on the hills, and Jhelum is so full that we were told that our three-decker would be unable to pass under the city bridges—­of which there are seven.  We decided to see for ourselves, so set forth about eleven, and soon came to the first bridge, the Amira Kadal, which carries the main tonga road into Srinagar, tying up just above it, amid the clamour and jabber of an idle crowd.

The Admiral solemnly measured the clear space between the top of the arch and the water with a long pole, consulted noisily with the crowd, yelled his ideas to the crew, and decided to attempt the passage.

Hen-coops, chairs, half-a-dozen flower-pots containing sickly specimens of plants, and all other movables being cleared from the upper deck, we set sail, and shot the bridge very neatly, only having a few inches of daylight between the upper deck and the wooden beams upon which the roadway rests.

  Ce nest que, le premier “pont” que coute.