From Pole to Pole: A Book for Young PeopleHedin, Sven Anders
General
From Pole to Pole: A Book for Young People
Hedin, Sven Anders
Geography -- Juvenile literature; Voyages and travels -- Juvenile literature
Next day Alexander rowed right out to sea to convince himself that no
more land existed, and when he had advanced so far that nothing but sky
and rolling billows could be seen from the uppermost benches of the
triremes, he offered sacrifices to Poseidon, the god of the sea, to the
Nereids, and to the silver-footed sea-goddess Thetis, the mother of
Achilles, father of his race. And he besought the favour of all the gods
in the great enterprise which had brought him to the mouth of the
Indus, and their protection for his fleet on its dangerous voyage to the
Euphrates; and when his prayer was ended he cast a golden goblet into
the sea.
[Illustration: PLATE VIII. SRINAGAR AND THE JHELUM RIVER.]
Alexander died at Babylon at the age of thirty-three. His
world-embracing campaign spread Greek enlightenment over all western
Asia, and his eventful life did not pass like a meteor into the night of
time without leaving a trace behind.
KASHMIR AND LADAK
When I arrived at Rawalpindi the first thing I did was to order a
_tonga_ for the drive of 180 miles to Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir.
A _tonga_ is a two-wheeled tilted cart drawn by two horses, which are
changed every half hour, for as long as the pair are on the way they go
at full speed. The road was excellent, and we left the hot suffocating
steam of India below us as we ascended along the bank of the Jhelum
River. Sometimes we dashed at headlong speed over stretches of open road
bathed in sunlight; sometimes through dark cool tunnels where the driver
blew a sonorous signal with his brass horn; and then again through
rustling woods of pine-trees.
Srinagar is a beautiful city, intersected as it is by the rippling
Jhelum River and winding canals (Plate VIII.). The houses on their banks
rise up directly from the water, and long, narrow, graceful boats pass
to and fro, propelled at a swift pace by broad-bladed oars in the hands
of active and muscular white-clad Kashmiris.
Kashmir is one of the native states of our Indian Empire, and its
inhabitants number about three millions. Many of them are artistic and
dexterous craftsmen, who make fine boxes and caskets inlaid with ivory,
mother-of-pearl, and ebony; beautifully chased weapons; tankards, bowls,
and vases of beaten silver with panthers and elephants on the sides,
chasing one another through the jungle. The saddlery and leather work of
all kinds cannot be surpassed, but most famous of all the manufactures
are the soft, dainty Kashmir shawls, so fine that they can be drawn
through a finger ring.
Round about the Kashmir valley stand the ridges and snow-clad heights of
the Himalayas, and among them lie innumerable valleys. Up one of these
valleys toiled our caravan of thirty-six mules and a hundred horses, and
after a journey of some 250 miles to the eastward we arrived again at
the banks of the Indus and crossed it by a swaying bridge of wood. Two
days later the poplars of Leh stood in front of us.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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