Impressions of Travel 399 



parents but those stainless peaks and wastes of silent 

 snow we never forget ; they become part of our souls, 

 and we care for them with a love which is far removed 

 from " all passionate wind of welcome and farewell." 



The grim, dark deodars mass themselves, in imagina- 

 tion, on the mountain slopes, carpeted with Nature's 

 own pine-needle carpet, older than any Persian loom ; 

 the solid roof of grey-green fir-pins and gaunt branch 

 rafters is fitfully creaking, moaning, tossing overhead 

 <c the wind with its wants and infinite wail." 



Far above all, serene in the sunlight, can I not see 

 the dazzling, splintered crest of the White Mountain 

 rising in worlds we know not of, luring the traveller, 

 like the Lorelei of old, to climb and to find a grave 

 among its solemn crags. 



If the magical East has ever cast her spell over us 

 at all, it is not Society life in India, nor hairbreadth 

 escapes, nor the fierce excitement of the burra shikar, 

 to which a candle is lit in our memories. The wax 

 is melting at another shrine, and the Spirit of the East 

 which calls us, reigns in the mountains, lives in the 

 dusty, hot plains, fascinates in the weird, primaeval 

 jungles, and peoples the ruined cities with ghosts. 

 It is our own dear possession, this " never-ending 

 Shadow," bound up with the Unspoken and with all 

 which is truest and best in our lives ; the only im- 

 perishable legacy travel can ever give. A rolling stone 

 may gather no moss ; I do not want your moss. 



That we should regret the days of our travels is 

 perhaps a sign of the spark which occasionally troubles 



