46 THE MARKHOR 



extraordinarily near, for high chains of mountains 

 here shut out all distant views. Like the wings on a 

 stage, they seem to hide the giants in the background 

 in a haze of silver ; whilst the Punch, a mighty 

 mountain torrent, hurries down the blue-green 

 slopes, rushing and whirling and hurling itself 

 against the thousand and one islands in its bed, and 

 breaking in whirlpools round black rocks of granite. 



It is not long before the traveller finds himself 

 in a tropical wilderness. Lord Weymouth pines, 

 Scotch pines, firs, cedars, wild chestnuts, elms, ash- 

 trees, and maples, with quantities of undergrowth 

 of all kinds, whisper and murmur together. But 

 the thunder of a mighty waterfall drowns all other 

 sounds, and soon we come upon the edge of the 

 gorge which the Punch has hollowed out for itself 

 between the rocks. A thick cloud of foam hides the 

 abyss from sight. 



All waterfalls are much the same, but the wild 

 magnificence and intense solitude of the scenery 

 around gives to this cataract a peculiar charm all 

 its own. 



One's nostrils are not here offended by the smell 

 of spirits, beer, or tobacco ; no visitors' books are to 

 be seen ; no picture postcards plague one on every 

 side. There are no climbing tourists here to shout 

 out their drawing-room Tyrolese songs, no Alpine 

 witches to disturb one's peace. Here we have 

 Nature alone in all her grandeur. 



