The River Sutlej has its source in the holy lake of Manas Saro-vara, in Thibet’s most mountainous regions, and for several hundred miles its course leads through mighty canons, grand and rugged as the canons of the Colorado and the Gunnison.  It is on the upper reaches of the Sutlej that the celebrated swing bridges called karorus are in operation.  A karorus consists of a bagar-grass or yak-hair rope, stretched from bank to bank, across which passengers are pulled, suspended in a swinging chair or basket.  The karorus is also largely patronized by the swarms of monkeys inhabitating the foot-hill jungles of the Himalayas; nothing could well be more congenial to these festive animals than the Blondin-like performance of crossing over some deep, roaring gorge along the swaying rope of a karorus.

Like other rivers of the level Punjab plains, the Sutlej has at various times meandered from its legitimate channel; eight miles south of its present bed the large and flourishing city of Ludhiana once stood on its bank.  Ludhiana and its dak bungalow, provides refreshments and a three hours’ siesta beneath the cooling and seductive punkah, besides an interesting and instructive tete-a-tete with a Eurasian civil officer spending the day here.  Among other startling confidences, this olive-tinted gentleman declares that to him the punkah is unbearable, its pendulous, swinging motion invariably making him “sea-sick.”

Through a country of alternate sandy downs and grazing areas my road leads at length through the territory of the Rajah of Sir-hind.  Picturesque and impressive fortresses, and high, crenellated stone walls around the villages give the rajah’s little dominion here a most decided mediaeval appearance, and dark, dense patches of sugar-cane attest the marvellous richness of the sandy soil, wherever water can be applied.  Moreover, as if to complete the interesting picture of a native prince’s rule, on the road is encountered a gayly dressed party in charge of some youthful big-wig on a monster elephant.  A thick, striped mattress makes a soft platform on the elephant’s broad back, and here the young voluptuary squats as naturally as on the floor of his room.  Some of the attendants are dancing along before him, noisily knuckling tambourines and drums, while others trudge alongside or behind.  The elephant regards the bicycle with symptoms of mild apprehension, and swerves slightly to one side.

The police-officer of Kermandalah chowkee, just off the Rajah of Sirhind’s territory, voluntarily tenders me the shelter of his quarters, just as the sun is finishing his race for the day by painting the sky with fanciful tints and streaks.  The long, straight avenue which I have wheeled down, for miles hereabout runs east and west.  The sun, rotund and fiery, sets immediately in the perspective of the avenue; and at his disappearance there shoot from the same point iridescent javelins that spread, fan-like, over the whole heavens.  A sight never to be forgotten is the long white road and the ribs of the glorious celestial fan meeting together in the vista-like distance; and—­oh, for the brush and palette and genius of a Turner!—­one of the rainbow-tinted javelins spits the crescent moon and holds it to toast before the glowing sunset fires, like a piece of green cheese.