They appeared to have arrived at a state of almost entire
abstraction, and neither of them even raised his eyes or seemed to
be in the slightest degree aware of my presence, although I took a
sketch of one of them, and stared at both, very much as I would have
done at some new arrival of animals in the Zoological Gardens.
In the evening we went again to Saifula Baba's and visited the
workrooms, where we were much astonished by the quickness with which
the people worked the intricate shawl patterns with a simple needle,
and no copy to guide them.
The first stages of the work are not very promising, but the finished
result, when pressed and rolled and duly exhibited by that true
believer Saifula Baba, in his snowy gown and turban, was certainly
in every way worthy of its reputation.
Returning home, we visited a garden where any of the English visitors
who die in the valley are buried - the Maharajah presenting a
Cashmere shawl, in some instances, to wrap the body in. There were
about eight or ten monuments built of plaster, with small square
slabs for inscriptions. One of these was turned topsy-turvey, which
was not to be wondered at, for a native almost always holds English
characters upside-down when either trying to decipher them himself
or when holding them to be read by others.
