There
is a great row going on while I write this, the natives appear unwilling
to furnish supplies (milk, eggs, &c.,) and my boatman who has
accompanied me is applying his stick freely by way of persuasion. There
is of course a Babel of tongues and I sit within a few yards, quietly
ignoring the proceeding, though if necessary, I shall get up and add
some lusty whacks as my share of the argument. A mountain torrent--a
tributary of the Scind runs down the valley with the usual noise and
hurly burly. A travelling native carpenter is here, and all the village
are bringing their ploughs to be mended, he is very clever with his
hoe-shaped hatchet fashioning the hard walnut wood so correctly with it,
that the chisel is hardly necessary for the few finishing touches. I
have seen him make some wooden ladles very rapidly, and he has provided
me with a new set of tent pegs and mallet and a wooden roller, by means
of which I hope to avoid the digital process in the manufacture of my
chepatties.
AUGUST 2nd, Sunday.--Sitting having my feet washed by a servant
(delightful sensation) after my return from the ruin of Rajdainbul and
Nagbul. I meditate on the mutability of all things human. I have taken a
walk before breakfast this Sabbath morning to witness the overthrow of
former magnificence and the destruction of man's crafty handiwork.
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