liars of the late sovereign, conferring on him besides
the title of Maharadja. At the epoch of my journey, the actual Maharadja
was Pertab-Sing, the grandchild of Goulab, whose residence is Jamoo, on
the southern slope of the Himalaya.

The celebrated "happy valley" of Kachmyr (eighty-five miles long by
twenty-five miles wide) enjoyed glory and prosperity only under the
Grand Mogul, whose court loved to taste here the sweetness of country
life, in the still existent pavilions on the little island of the lake.
Most of the Maharadjas of Hindustan used formerly to spend here the
summer months, and to take part in the magnificent festivals given by
the Grand Mogul; but times have greatly changed since, and the happy
valley is today no more than a beggar retreat. Aquatic plants and scum
have covered the clear waters of the lake; the wild juniper has
smothered all the vegetation of the islands; the palaces and pavilions
retain only the souvenir of their past grandeur; earth and grass cover
the buildings which are now falling in ruins. The surrounding mountains
and their eternally white tops seem to be absorbed in a sullen sadness,
and to nourish the hope of a better time for the disclosure of their
immortal beauties. The once spiritual, beautiful and cleanly inhabitants
have grown animalistic and stupid; they have become dirty and lazy; and
the whip now governs them, instead of the sword.

The people of Kachmyr have so often been subject to invasions and
pillages and have had so many masters, that they have now become
indifferent to every thing. They pass their time near the banks of the
rivers, gossiping about their neighbors; or are engaged in the
painstaking work of making their celebrated shawls; or in the execution
of filagree gold or silver work. The Kachmyr women are of a melancholy
temperament, and an inconceivable sadness is spread upon their features.
Everywhere reigns misery and uncleanness. The beautiful men and superb
women of Kachmyr are dirty and in rags. The costume of the two sexes
consists, winter and summer alike, of a long shirt, or gown, made of
thick material and with puffed sleeves. They wear this shirt until it is
completely worn out, and never is it washed, so that the white turban of
the men looks like dazzling snow near their dirty shirts, which are
covered all over with spittle and grease stains.

The traveller feels himself permeated with sadness at seeing the
contrast between the rich and opule