As we were now deserted by the moon, our early start was made in comparative darkness. When the morning broke, we overlooked the valley of Jhellum. We descended for three miles, by a winding, rocky path, to the left bank of the river, and rode along its wooded bank till we arrived at Huttie. The wonderful river’s roaring voice drowns every other sound, and it insists on being listened to. On the opposite side of the Jhellum is seen the road from Abottabad. On arrival at Huttie, we found our camp pitched near the rapid Jhellum, the ground chosen by our advance-guard being the dry bed of a mountain torrent. There was at Huttie a most wonderful Tomasha Walla, who most perseveringly insisted that we should see him cross the river, a pleasure which with equal resolution we declined; but by dint of never leaving us, whether we sat outside or inside our tents, or went for a stroll, he got his own way at last, and we reluctantly climbed a cliff to obtain a good view of our tormentor. The river at this place, pent in between high cliffs, comes tearing down in great angry waves, which seem as if no living thing could for a moment contend with them. Standing on a rock some distance from us up the river, a black figure, with hardly anything on to speak of, and grasping in his arms a ‘mussack,’[1] fixed our attention. As soon as he saw we were looking at him, he threw the ‘mussack’ into the water, and followed in a trice. It was surprising to see the ease with which he battled with the waves, turning heels over head, standing almost upright, then, mounting astride of his ‘mussack,’ and guiding himself to the other side of the river. His performances seemed to give unfailing delight to the inhabitants of Huttie, who looked on as though they had not seen him go through the same feats every day of the season. Of course the Tomasha Walla’s re-appearance on the scene was followed by a demand for ‘backsheesh.’ Have not all travellers in the East written folios on the subject of backsheesh? I must add my iota to the budget. It is the most irritating of demands. Not a man in Cashmere will ever accept the payment that is offered to him, no matter that it is twice as much as the service he has done requires. He will whine and beg for more, going through a string of reasons why he should get it. At last, having either succeeded in obtaining an increase of pay, or else seeing he has no chance of prevailing, he begins a fresh clamour for backsheesh. I grieve to say that our experience of the inhabitants of Cashmere proved them to be thoroughly false, utterly ungrateful, and desperately extortionate. Honour and honesty they have none. Find them out in some lie or fraud, they grin from ear to ear, never dreaming of being ashamed of themselves.