Finally--both cities are within sight of snowy ranges; although it seems
hardly fair to place in comparison the majestic range that overhangs
Srinagar and the somewhat distant and sketchy view of the Alps as seen
from Venice.
Here, I think, all resemblance ceases. The charm of Venice lies in its
architecture, its art treasures, its historical memories, and its
interesting people.
Srinagar has no architecture in particular, being but a picturesque chaos
of tumble-down wooden shanties. It has no history worth speaking of, and
its inhabitants are--and apparently have always been--a poor lot.
Shopping in Srinagar is not pure and unadulterated joy. Down the river,
spanned by its seven bridges, amidst a network of foul-smelling alleys,
you are dragged to the emporiums of the native merchants whose
advertisements flare upon the river banks, and who, armed with cards, and
possessed of a wonderful supply of the English language, swarm around the
victim at every landing-place, and almost tear one another in pieces while
striving to obtain your custom.
Samad Shall, in a conspicuous hoarding, announces that he can--and
will--supply you with anything you may desire, including money--for he
proclaims himself to be a banker.
Ganymede, in his own opinion, is the only wood-carver worth attention.
Suffering Moses is the prince of workers in lacquer, according to his own
showing.
The nose of the boat grates up against the slimy step of the landing-place,
and you plunge forthwith into Babel.
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