or show you how my “talent” lies carefully folded up and hidden away, in order that I may have it to return to its “owner”.  “Oh! fool, fool that I am.”  Knowing better things and with a half a lifetime gone, “I find myself still plodding along the old road paved with good intentions.”  The springs of grace indeed surround me, but I am in the shallows and the water is muddy.  The very “Tree of Life” is by my side, but it is a dwarfed and stunted shrub, whose shoots wither before they put forth leaves.  When will this change?  Will my resolutions ever become deeds?  “Will grace abound:  or will faith ever give such impetus to my “Tree of Life,” that it may grow up into heaven?” I put to myself the question that was asked Ezekiel.  “Can these dry bones live,” and have no other answer than his to make.  These are some of my birthday thoughts.  Pray, forgive, excuse me if I have wearied you.

AUGUST 19th.—­Back to Atchibul, twelve miles, the road for the most part level, but there was one mile of very hard work, over the ridge I crossed yesterday.  I approached Atchibul from the hill I mentioned as standing at the head of the garden, and from the top of it a very pretty view of the place is obtained.  I found the pavilion unoccupied, and again took possession of it, set the fountains playing, and imagined myself the Great Mogul.  Just out of Vernag, I caught a small black and yellow bird, which my boatman calls a “bulbul” (though I think he is wrong in the name) and says it sings very well.  I have had a cage made for it, and it is now feeding at my side, and is apparently very happy.  I’ll try and take it to England.  I believe it is only one of the shrike family, but it is too young to identify at present.  However, it is my fancy to keep it, so why should I not.  The old gardener here is very attentive, constantly bringing me fruit.  Shall I do him injustice, by saying that he probably has expectation of a reward?  I think not indeed, is it not the same expectation or its allied motive, the desire to escape punishment, which prompts the actions of all of us?  We do good, I fear, more for the sake of the promised recompense, than for any love of the thing itself.  Light rain has fallen all day.

AUGUST 20th.—­I halt at Atchibul.  I have now completed my wanderings in Kashmir, and have seen all I intended except one portion, which I shall visit on my road home.  My next move will be to ——­, but as I do not care to spend more than seven or eight days there, I am in no hurry to get back.  My bird died in the night, and by its death has put an end to a rather violent controversy between my Bheistie and boatman.  The boatman stoutly maintained his opinion of its value and the Bheistie with a more correct appreciation, and while explaining to me that it was a jungle bird and would never sing, appeared to look upon my conduct with a mixture of compassion and disgust, and then they quarrelled over it.  Was my fancy a foolish one?  Some men will spend years in the pursuit and classification of butterflies, while others go into ecstasy over a farthing of the reign of Queen Anne.  My common jungle bird was a pretty one, and if I had got it home and put it in a gilt cage, it would surely have possessed some value for its antecedents, even if it had proved as mute as a fish, or as discordant as a Hindoo festival.