world, such a mount would only have been an added
difficulty.
I was on the shady side of the hill; what it
was like on the sunny side I leave to him to describe
who has succeeded in returning from Purgatory. I
fulfilled my friends prophecy, and was very warm, and
when worn out by heat I paid little heed to my footsteps,
they skidded, and I had an amateur and unpleasant
toboggan down to a very hard and unspringy rock!
Once more I regained my narrow, stony way, and all
thought, all existence even, was concentrated firstly, on
putting my feet in the right place, and secondly, on trying
to keep them there. The first height reached brought
me on a level with the temple on the Takht, the next
gave me a fine view of the Jhelum Valley, the many
winding canals and the river flowing through the town,
the long, straight lines of magnificent poplars cutting up
the view with a Dutch primness strangely foreign to the
rest of the landscape, the plantations of giant chenaars
marking the popular camping-grounds, the Dal Lake
with its water jungle, and straight below, shaded by the
mountain-side, the pretty country houses of Gupcar,
surrounded with bright gardens. I t was pleasant resting
on the green grass, but ever above me was the peak that
seemed to frown at the dilatoriness of its visitor, so with
an effort I moved on, and though the path was still steep
it was somewhat easier than in its earlier stages.
I dawdled much on my way, finding little pleasure in
making records, so far, at least, as celerity was concerned.
From the summit far-reaching snows were to be seen
in every direction; ranges to the south showed lovely
peaks swathed below with cloud, that divided from the
lower world the glistening heights cutting the blue sky;
while on the other sides detached heights rose to
amazing altitudes, a few with unmistakable outlines—
Kolahoi, Mahadeo, Haramuk—others unknown, nameless
units in a crowd of beauty. What pleasant
breezes blew there; the hot climb, the rough stones—
they were only the short black tunnel leading to the
life-giving upper air.
I took another track for my downward path, and
slipped and fell and picked myself together many a
time searching for flowers, such treasures, too, carpets
of edelweiss, giant sedums, great purple cranesbill,
yellow berberís, and everywhere carpets of roses and
delicate ferns, which always retain for me the romance
of anonymous friends, being quite unable to make
out even distantly their families, with the exception of
maidenhair, that grew everywhere profusely. After
several rapid glissades and undignified sittings down,
I was beginning to wonder whether the ruins had not
best be left unexplored, when an unusually long slip,
only ended by a violent jerk, which landed me in a
berberís bush, revealed me such beauties that heat and
sore bones and disappointments were instantly obliterated.
An absolutely precipitous hillside descended
from the spot where I was seated in anything but stately
dignity, to the ruins, and the piece of hillside was one
vast mosaic of roses—pale, rosy pink, deepest blood-red,
and purple iris, not one rocky point was allowed to
appear, not one tall weed to intervene, thus two queens
had conquered all else, and were left alone to fight for
dominion. Only an occasional berberís—his spikes, no
doubt, securing some respect—was allowed a fractional
flowering space. A living mosaic it was, so full of life
that little broken-off pieces took fright at my unex