We learnt that the earthquake of this morning was far more than the ordinary affair that we had taken it to be.  The hotel showed signs of a struggle for existence.  Large cracks in the plaster, spanned by strips of paper gummed across to show if they widened, and little heaps of crumbled mortar on the floors, betrayed that the grip of mother earth had been no feeble one.

Telegrams from Lahore inquired if the rumour was true that Srinagar had been much damaged, and reported an awful destruction and loss of life at Dharmsala.  I think if we had fully known what an earthquake really meant, we should not have so calmly gone back to bed again!

The advent of Mrs. Smithson upon the scene relieved a certain anxiety which we had felt as to immediate plans.  The idea of rushing into Astor had been given up, we found—­not so much on account of our tardy arrival, permits being still obtainable, but on account of the impossibility—­at any rate for ladies—­of forcing the high passes which the late season has kept safely sealed.

Walter, having pawed the ground in feverish impatience for some days, had gone off into a region said to be full of bara singh; so we decided to possess our souls in patience for a little time, and remain quietly in Srinagar.  Accordingly, instead of unpacking our “detonating musquetoons,” we exhumed our evening clothes, and began life in Srinagar with a cheerful dinner at the Residency.

Friday, April 7th.—­We are evidently somewhat premature here as far as climate goes.  The weather since our arrival has become cold and grey, and we have seemed on the verge of another snowfall.  However, the clerk of the weather has refrained from such an insult, contenting himself with sending a breeze down upon us fresh from the “Roof of the World,” and laden with the chilly moisture of the snows.  We have consumed great quantities of wood, vainly endeavouring to warm up the den which Mr. Nedou has let to us as a sitting-room.  Fires are not the fashion in the public rooms—­probably because the only “public” besides ourselves consist of one or two enterprising sportsmen, who doubtless are acclimatising themselves to camp life amid the snows, and have implored the proprietor to save his fuel and keep the outer doors open.

Yesterday, we went on a shopping excursion down the river, our “hansom” being a long narrow sort of canoe, propelled and dexterously steered by four or five paddlers, whose mode of digging along by means of their heart-shaped blades reminded me not a little of the Kroo boys paddling a fish-canoe off Elmina on the Gold Coast.

We embarked close to the back of the hotel, at the Chenar Bagh, and went gaily enough down the strong current of what we took to be an affluent of the Jhelum.  As a matter of fact, the European quarter forms an island, low and perfectly flat, the banks of which are heaped into a high dyke or “bund,” washed on one side (the south) by the main river, and on the other by the Sunt-i-kul Canal, down which we have been paddling.