each bank. On these ropes runs a block of wood, which is drawn backwards and forwards by persons stationed on either side of the stream, by means of strings attached to it. There are other loops, which pass round the body of the passenger, who, thus secured, swings off from the buttress, and is dragged across. In this manner, goats and sheep are conveyed one by one; and though the jeopardy appears to be considerable, it is only occasioned by the danger of trusting to a rope which has seen too much service. If the apparatus be new, and sufficiently strong to bear the weight placed upon it, there is no sort of danger in this method of getting across the deep and rapid rivers of the Himalaya; but such circumstances are not to be depended upon, and several fatal accidents have attended the fragile state in which these jhoolas are but too often permitted to remain. It is, perhaps, necessary that the rope should break, and drown one or two passengers, in order to enlighten the people in the neighbourhood with the necessity of repairs—for they are seldom at the trouble to take the length of time in which it has served their purpose, the fragile nature of the materials, and their liability to injury from exposure to the weather, into consideration.
The existence of the river Tonse was not known to Europeans until the year 1814. Too soon losing its name in that of the Jumna, which it trebles in size previous to its junction with the more celebrated stream, it is one of the most considerable of the mountain torrents. When it issues from its bed of snow at an elevation of twelve thousand seven hundred and eighty-four feet above the level of the sea, it flows in a grand volume, thirty feet wide and three deep, maintaining its dignity of character until its confluence with the river, which should, if rivers had their just rights, have been considered its tributary. During its comparatively short career, the Tonse receives into its bosom the waters of several other beautiful streams; the Rupin is one of the most interesting. Descending in the course of our tour to its left bank, we passed through a forest of intermingled birch, cedar, and rhododendron, crossing the river by one of the numerous arches of snow, which afforded a safe bridge, and ascending some hundred feet to a high crag, thickly wooded, we obtained a view which, accustomed as we now were to mountain scenery, struck us with admiration and surprise. The precipices overhanging the torrent were grand beyond all conception; one, at least two thousand feet in height, rose perpendicularly like a wall, and above it mountain was piled upon mountain like gigantic ladders piercing into heaven: the river thundered at a fearful depth below, while the surrounding rocks were draperied with foliage, every cleft holding the roots of some luxuriant shrub or magnificent tree. A rugged path led us again to the bed of the Rupin, and our journeys always consisting of a series of ascent and descents, we afterwards mounted upwards through forests of enormous filberts, walnut, elm, ash, cedar, and fir. Here our march was diversified by crossing a sangha forty-four feet in length, flung over this tumultuous stream, which led us into softer scenery, through wood and brake, and, after passing another torrent, along a path which commanded a beautiful succession of cascades silvering the side of the opposite mountain, we arrived at our encamping ground for the night.
However varied, delightful, and exciting to the traveller a tour in the Himalaya may be, the descriptions given of each day's march must necessarily appear monotonous; there is no possibility of conveying to the mind of the reader the gratification which we have experienced in some new burst of scenery, when, emerging from the sombre labyrinths of a thick forest, we come suddenly upon one of those glorious landscapes which fill the whole soul with ecstasy. It is even more than realizing the early dreams of youth, inspired by the perusal of Shakspeare's beautiful description of the forest of
