ank is a series of arches, and on the side from which
the stream escapes is a bungalow for the use of visitors. Six days ago a
Hindoo was drowned here, and his body has not been recovered--so deep is
the water, it is probable that ere this the fish have removed all but
his bones, one hundred yards below the tank is another spring, which is
the finest I believe in Kashmir. It comes straight up on level ground,
and forms a mound of water eighteen inches high, and more than a foot in
diameter. The morning cloudy and very gloomy on account of the eclipse
of the sun of which I saw nothing. This is my birthday and my thoughts
have been running over my past life and speculating upon the future
before me. "But fear not dear reader!" I will not bore you with all my
musings over those twenty-nine unfruitful, if not absolutely mis-spent
evil years, 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 i