The river life was most fascinating—­crowds of heavy doungas lay moored along the banks—­their long, low bodies covered in by matting, and their extremities sloping up into long peaked platforms for the crew.  These—­many of them women and children—­were all clothed in neutral-tinted gowns, the only bit of colour being an occasional note of red or white in the puggaree of the men or skull-cap of the children.  The married women invariably wore whity-brown veils over the head.  The wooden houses that lined the banks were all in the general low scheme of colour, but a peculiar charm was added by the roofs covered in thick, green turf.

Srinagar has been called the “Venice of the East,” and, inasmuch as waterways form the main thoroughfares in both, there is a certain resemblance.  Shikaras (the Kashmiri canoes) are first-cousins to gondolas—­rather poor relations perhaps; both are dingy and clumsy in appearance, and both are managed with an extraordinary dexterity by their navigators.

Both cities are “smelly,” though Venice, even at its worst, stands many degrees above the incredible filth of Srinagar.

Finally—­both cities are within sight of snowy ranges; although it seems hardly fair to place in comparison the majestic range that overhangs Srinagar and the somewhat distant and sketchy view of the Alps as seen from Venice.

Here, I think, all resemblance ceases.  The charm of Venice lies in its architecture, its art treasures, its historical memories, and its interesting people.

Srinagar has no architecture in particular, being but a picturesque chaos of tumble-down wooden shanties.  It has no history worth speaking of, and its inhabitants are—­and apparently have always been—­a poor lot.

Shopping in Srinagar is not pure and unadulterated joy.  Down the river, spanned by its seven bridges, amidst a network of foul-smelling alleys, you are dragged to the emporiums of the native merchants whose advertisements flare upon the river banks, and who, armed with cards, and possessed of a wonderful supply of the English language, swarm around the victim at every landing-place, and almost tear one another in pieces while striving to obtain your custom.

Samad Shall, in a conspicuous hoarding, announces that he can—­and will—­supply you with anything you may desire, including money—­for he proclaims himself to be a banker.

Ganymede, in his own opinion, is the only wood-carver worth attention.

Suffering Moses is the prince of workers in lacquer, according to his own showing.

The nose of the boat grates up against the slimy step of the landing-place, and you plunge forthwith into Babel.

“Will you come to my shop?”

“No—­you are going somewhere else.”

“After?”

“Perhaps!”

“To-day, master?”

“No—­no time to-day.”

“To-morrow, then—­I got very naice kyriasity [curiosity]—­to-morrow, master—­what time?”