AUGUST 10th.—­Another day passed on the river.  From early dawn till dusk we continued towing against the stream, and then halted for the night at Kitheryteen (I spell the word from my boatman’s pronunciation of it) a small village on the right bank.

AUGUST 11th.—­Started again at daybreak but soon stopped at Bigbikara, where there is another bridge.  All these bridges are alike and similar to the one described at Baramula, but this one is particularly pretty from the fact of large trees having grown from the lower part of every pier.  These trees green and flourishing are high above the footway, between which and the water there is a distant vista of fine mountains.  Fished here, but only hooked one, which I judged from its run to be large, and lost it.  Above the bridge the river narrowed to about half its former width.  We are approaching a very grand range of mountains which seems to be the boundary of the valley.  Before mid-day we reached Kunbul and completed the trip of forty miles by water.  At Kunbul is the first bridge over the Jhelum, the river here diminishes to a breadth of only thirty or forty yards, and soon breaks up into a number of small streams which mostly rise from the water, then along the foot of the hills.

AUGUST 12th.—­Marched to Buroen, six miles, on arriving found the camping ground occupied by numerous “Fakirs” who had lately returned from Ummernath.  These men are horrible looking objects, most of them being painted white and nearly naked.  Ummernath is a mountain 1,600 feet high, and at the top of it is a cave sacred to the Hindoo Deity.  In July pilgrims assemble there for a great religious festival, and these are some of them on their way back.  I intended to visit this cave, but I have not time now, and I have thought that it may be a trifle too cold up there.  At Burven is a very holy spring.  Two tanks are formed where the water escapes from the ground, and these tanks swarm with tame fish, some of them of large size.  It was a great sight feeding them.  They all rushed to the place struggling and fighting for the food.  The bright green water was black with them, and a space yards wide and long, and several feet thick, was occupied by a block of fish packed as closely as if they were pickled herrings.  These fish are also very sacred, and to catch them is prohibited.  Soon after leaving Kunbul I passed through Islamabad, a large town of which I may have more to say hereafter.  There are two other men encamped here with me, but they don’t seem very sociable, and I don’t care much for the society of strangers; we have exchanged “good mornings” and that is all, and now sit staring at each other at a distance of twenty yards.  How different it would have been if we were Frenchmen instead of cold-blooded Englishmen.  After dark the fakirs had a “tomasha.”  Singing, bell ringing, tambourine-beating, and the blowing of discordant horns all at the same time, constituted a delightful music—­to them at least—­and was continued for hours, interrupted by shouting and yelling, and with this din going on I now hope to sleep.