songs.  There is much more melody in their music than in that of their brethren of Hindoostan.  Indeed some of the tunes admit of being written, and I have copied a few of the more rythmical, as they sang them.  The principal objection to them is that they are rather too short to bear repetition for half an hour as is the custom, there is another music going on—­a music that cannot be written and will be difficult to describe—­I mean the song of the “Cicada Stridulantia” in walnut trees above me.  This insect—­the balm cricket—­is in appearance a burlesque, just such a house fly as you might imagine would be introduced in a pantomime; and its cry is as loud and incessant as it is peculiar.  To describe it, fancy to begin with a number of strange chirps, and that every few seconds, one of those cogged wheels and spring toys that you buy at fairs to delude people into the belief that their coats are being torn—­is passed rapidly down the back, with occasionally momentary interruption in the middle of its course, while between each scratch you hear a mew of a distant cat—­another cat purring loudly all the time, and any number of grasshoppers chirping to conclude with a running down of the most impetuous and noisy alarum, and then silence—­a silence almost painful by contrast—­until it begins again.  Such is the song of the Cicada in the Himalayan forests.  I wonder every Sunday if they miss me at Peshawur; for I was organist to the church before I left, and I doubt if there is anybody to take my place.  I wish I had the instrument here now to peal forth to the hills and the wondering Kashmirians Handel’s sublime “Hallelujah Chorus” or “The Marvellous Works” of Haydn.  What can be more inspiring than the grand old church music we possess, bequeathed to us by composers of immortal memory.  Though much opposed to the present Ritualistic tendencies I do delight in a musical service.  It seems to elevate the mind and give a greater depth to our devotion.  Go into any of our cathedrals and hear the solemn tones of the Liturgy echoing through the vaulted roof, and your heart must needs join in the supplication, “And when the glorious burst of music calls to praise and rejoicing, will not your own soul fly heavenward with the sound and find unaccustomed fervency in its thanksgivings.”  There is perhaps one thing necessary, and that is, that you should know the music you hear, otherwise the first admiration of its beauty may eclipse all other considerations.  But if you have studied it, if it is as familiar to you as it ought to be, and is intimately connected in your mind with the words to which it is set, you will understand its spirit, and see that however beautiful it may be it is only the means whereby higher thoughts and nobler feelings are sought to be expressed.  I bought here a very fine pair of Antlers of the “Bara sing”—­a large deer found on these hills.