SEPTEMBER 8th.—­To Meira, seven and a half miles, a toilsome hill for half the distance, and then a descent the rest of the way.  Scenery very pretty, the valleys being much larger and the mountains higher.  The Murree ridge is now visible.  From this bungalow we can see the next halting place, half way up a hill on the opposite side of an extensive valley deeply cut by ravines.  The view is really very grand—­much the finest on this road—­in some parts it slightly resembles the scenery around Darjeeling with, of course, pine trees taking the place of magnolias and rhododendrons.  The mere mention of those trees—­magnolias and rhododendrons I mean—­will only give you a misconception of the Sikin forests, because your ideas will be turned to the stunted shrubs of our northern latitudes.  The magnolias and rhododendrons I speak of, are huge towering trees, taller than the largest oaks.  How well I remember the magnificent spectacle they presented when in blossom!  I have never seen mountains or forests that could compare in grandeur with those of the eastern Himalayas.  Can you imagine Kishun-gunga twenty-nine thousand feet high?  No! it is impossible; it is a sight that produces the most intense awe, and when I first looked upon it I did not know how to contain my feelings; but enough, or I shall be giving you a chapter quite irrevelant to my journey from Kashmir.  By the side of this bungalow stands a large cypress; a very beautiful and by no means a common tree.  There is something peculiarly rich in its dark green foliage, and withal, melancholy look, but that is doubtless owing to its tomb—­stone associations.  Ince in his “Guide,” calls it a sycamore.  He could hardly have named a tree more widely different.

SEPTEMBER 9th.—­To Dunee, eight and a half miles; first half, down hill, second up:  both very steep and rough.  A bad fatiguing march.  The barahduree here has been lately white-washed and looks quite refreshing after the other dirty ones; but the rooms are ridiculously small.  This is the last halt in Kashmirian territory; to-morrow we shall be in a dak bungalow.  I had a lesson to-day.  The same lesson that the spider taught Bruce—­never to cease striving to obtain any desired object; and not despair even if frequent failures attend the attempt.  Ever since I left Baramula I have been endeavouring to catch another of the green butterflies, as beetles had eaten my first specimen.  But they are very alert on the wing, and I could not get near one.  The last two or three marches I had not seen any, having got out of their locality, but to-day a solitary one flew by me and I knocked it down, caught it, and secured it in my toper.  Success will eventually crown all constant endeavours, it is a slight peg on which to hang a moral, but let it pass.  Life is made up of trifles, and I desire my book to represent my life.  A number of people—­ladies, men, and children—­came into the bungalow at 2 o’clock, having made a double march and overtaken us; so we are very closely packed, even the verandah being occupied.