CHINA***


This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.

                  [Picture: Tartar and Chinese customes]

                          [Picture: Title page]





                                 TRAVELS
                                    IN
                       TARTARY, THIBET, AND CHINA,
                        DURING THE YEARS 1844–5–6.


                                BY M. HUC.

                TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY W. HAZLITT.

                                 VOL. I.

                                * * * * *

                ILLUSTRATED WITH FIFTY ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
               OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY,
                               227 STRAND.

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                                 LONDON:
              VIZETELLY AND COMPANY, PRINTERS AND ENGRAVERS,
                    PETERBOROUGH COURT, FLEET STREET.




PREFACE.


The Pope having, about the year 1844, been pleased to establish an
Apostolic Vicariat of Mongolia, it was considered expedient, with a view
to further operations, to ascertain the nature and extent of the diocese
thus created, and MM. Gabet and Huc, two Lazarists attached to the petty
mission of Si-Wang, were accordingly deputed to collect the necessary
information. They made their way through difficulties which nothing but
religious enthusiasm in combination with French elasticity could have
overcome, to Lha-Ssa, the capital of Thibet, and in this seat of Lamanism
were becoming comfortably settled, with lively hopes and expectations of
converting the Talé-Lama into a branch-Pope, when the Chinese Minister,
the noted Ke-Shen, interposed on political grounds, and had them deported
to China.  M. Gabet was directed by his superiors to proceed to France,
and lay a complaint before his Government, of the arbitrary treatment
which he and his fellow Missionary had experienced.  In the steamer which
conveyed him from Hong Kong to Ceylon, he found Mr. Alexander Johnstone,
secretary to Her Majesty’s Plenipotentiary in China; and this gentleman
perceived so much, not merely of entertainment, but of important
information in the conversations he had with M. Gabet, that he committed
to paper the leading features of the Reverend Missionary’s statements,
and on his return to his official post, gave his manuscripts to Sir John
Davis, who, in his turn, considered their contents so interesting, that
he embodied a copy of them in a dispatch to Lord Palmerston.
Subsequently the two volumes, here translated, were prepared by M. Huc,
and published in Paris.  Thus it is, that to Papal aggression in the
East, the Western World is indebted for a work exhibiting, for the first
time, a complete representation of countries previously almost unknown to
Europeans, and indeed considered practically inaccessible; and of a
religion which, followed by no fewer than 170,000,000 persons, presents
the most singular analogies in its leading features with the Catholicism
of Rome.




CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

                                                                  PAGE
PREFACE
CONTENTS                                                           iii
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS                                              vii
                              CHAPTER I.
French Mission of Peking—Glance at the Kingdom of                    9
Ouniot—Preparations for Departure—Tartar-Chinese
Inn—Change of Costume—Portrait and Character of
Samdadchiemba—Sain-Oula (the Good Mountain)—The Frosts on
Sain-Oula, and its Robbers—First Encampment in the
Desert—Great Imperial Forest—Buddhist Monuments on the
summit of the Mountains—Topography of the Kingdom of
Gechekten—Character of its Inhabitants—Tragical working of
a Mine—Two Mongols desire to have their horoscope
taken—Adventure of Samdadchiemba—Environs of the town of
Tolon-Noor
                             CHAPTER II.
Inn at Tolon-Noor—Aspect of the City—Great Foundries of             33
Bells and Idols—Conversation with the Lamas of
Tolon-Noor—Encampment—Tea Bricks—Meeting with Queen
Mourguevan—Taste of the Mongols for Pilgrimages—Violent
Storm—Account from a Mongol Chief of the War of the
English against China—Topography of the Eight Banners of
the Tchakar—The Imperial Herds—Form and Interior of the
Tents—Tartar Manners and Customs—Encampment at the Three
Lakes—Nocturnal Apparitions—Samdadchiemba relates the
Adventures of his Youth—Grey Squirrels of Tartary—Arrival
at Chaborté
                             CHAPTER III.
Festival of the Loaves of the Moon—Entertainment in a               61
Mongol Tent—Toolholos, or Rhapsodists of
Tartary—Invocation to Timour—Tartar Education—Industry of
the Women—Mongols in quest of missing Animals—Remains of
an abandoned City—Road from Peking to Kiaktha—Commerce
between China and Russia—Russian Convent at Peking—A
Tartar solicits us to cure his Mother from a dangerous
Illness—Tartar Physicians—The Intermittent Fever
Devil—Various forms of Sepulture in use among the
Mongols—Lamasery of the Five Towers—Obsequies of the
Tartar Kings—Origin of the kingdom of Efe—Gymnastic
Exercises of the Tartars—Encounter with three
Wolves—Mongol Carts
                             CHAPTER IV.
Young Lama converted to Christianity—Lamasery of                    85
Tchortchi—Alms for the Construction of Religious
Houses—Aspect of the Buddhist Temples—Recitation of Lama
Prayers—Decorations, Paintings, and Sculptures of the
Buddhist Temples—Topography of the Great Kouren in the
country of the Khalkhas—Journey of the Guison-Tamba to
Peking—The Kouren of the Thousand Lamas—Suit between the
Lama-King and his Ministers—Purchase of a Kid—Eagles of
Tartary—Western Toumet—Agricultural Tartars—Arrival at the
Blue Town—Glance at the Mantchou Nation—Mantchou
Literature—State of Christianity in Mantchouria—Topography
and productions of Eastern Tartary—Skill of the Mantchous
with the Bow
                              CHAPTER V.
The Old Blue Town—Quarter of the Tanners—Knavery of the            109
Chinese Traders—Hotel of the Three Perfections—Spoliation
of the Tartars by the Chinese—Money Changer’s
Office—Tartar Coiner—Purchase of two Sheep-skin
Robes—Camel Market—Customs of the Cameleers—Assassination
of a Grand Lama of the Blue Town—Insurrection of the
Lamaseries—Negociation between the Court of Peking and
that of Lha-Ssa—Domestic Lamas—Wandering Lamas—Lamas in
Community—Policy of the Mantchou Dynasty with reference to
the Lamaseries—Interview with a Thibetian Lama—Departure
from the Blue Town
                             CHAPTER VI.
A Tartar-eater—Loss of Arsalan—Great Caravan of                    128
Camels—Night Arrival at Tchagan-Kouren—We are refused
Admission into the Inns—We take up our abode with a
Shepherd—Overflow of the Yellow River-Aspect of
Tchagan-Kouren—Departure across the Marshes—Hiring a
Bark—Arrival on the Banks of the Yellow River—Encampment
under the Portico of a Pagoda—Embarkation of the
Camels—Passage of the Yellow River—Laborious Journey
across the Inundated Country—Encampment on the Banks of
the River
                             CHAPTER VII.
Mercurial Preparation for the Destruction of                       147
Lice—Dirtiness of the Mongols—Lama Notions about the
Metempsychosis—Washing—Regulations of Nomadic Life—Aquatic
and Passage Birds—The Yuen-Yang—The Dragon’s
Foot—Fishermen of the Paga-Gol—Fishing Party—Fisherman Bit
by a Dog—Kou-Kouo, or St. Ignatius’s Bean—Preparations for
Departure—Passage of the Paga-Gol—Dangers of the
Voyage—Devotion of Samdadchiemba—The Prime Minister of the
King of the Ortous—Encampment
                            CHAPTER VIII.
Glance at the Country of the Ortous—Cultivated                     165
Lands—Sterile, sandy steppes of the Ortous—Form of the
Tartar-Mongol Government—Nobility—Slavery—A small
Lamasery—Election and Enthronization of a Living
Buddha—Discipline of the Lamaseries—Lama Studies—Violent
Storm—Shelter in some Artificial Grottoes—Tartar concealed
in a Cavern—Tartaro-Chinese Anecdote—Ceremonies of Tartar
Marriages—Polygamy—Divorce—Character and Costume of the
Mongol Women
                             CHAPTER IX.
Departure of the Caravan—Encampment in a fertile                   188
Valley—Intensity of the Cold—Meeting with numerous
Pilgrims—Barbarous and Diabolical Ceremonies of
Lamanism—Project for the Lamasery of
Rache-Tchurin—Dispersion and rallying of the little
Caravan—Anger of Samdadchiemba—Aspect of the Lamasery of
Rache-Tchurin—Different Kinds of Pilgrimages around the
Lamaseries—Turning Prayers—Quarrel between two
Lamas—Similarity of the Soil—Description of the
Tabsoun-Noor or Salt Sea—Remarks on the Camels of Tartary
                              CHAPTER X.
Purchase of a Sheep—A Mongol Butcher—Great Feast _à la             210
Tartare_—Tartar Veterinary Surgeons—Strange Cure of a
Cow—Depth of the Wells of the Ortous—Manner of Watering
the Animals—Encampment at the Hundred Wells—Meeting with
the King of the Alechan—Annual Embassies of the Tartar
Sovereigns to Peking—Grand Ceremony in the Temple of the
Ancestors—The Emperor gives Counterfeit Money to the
Mongol Kings—Inspection of our Geographical Map—The Devils
Cistern—Purification of the Water—A Lame Dog—Curious
Aspect of the Mountains—Passage of the Yellow River
                             CHAPTER XI.
Sketch of the Tartar Nations                                       237
                             CHAPTER XII.
Hotel of Justice and Mercy—Province of                             262
Kan-Sou—Agriculture—Great Works for the Irrigation of the
Fields—Manner of Living in Inns—Great Confusion in a Town
caused by our Camels—Chinese Lifeguard—Mandarin Inspector
of the Public Works—Ning-Hia—Historical and Topographical
Details—Inn of the Five Felicities—Contest with a
Mandarin, Tchong-Wei—Immense Mountains of Sand—Road to
Ili—Unfavourable aspect of Kao-Tan-Dze—Glance at the Great
Wall—Inquiry after the Passports—Tartars travelling in
China—Dreadful Hurricane—Origin and Manners of the
Inhabitants of Kan-Sou—The Dchiahours—Interview with a
Living Buddha—Hotel of the Temperate Climates—Family of
Samdadchiemba—Mountain of Ping-Keou—Fight between an
Innkeeper and his
Wife—Water-mills—Knitting—Sí-Ning-Fou—House of
Rest—Arrival at Tang-Keou-Eul

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                       PAGE
Frontispiece, Chinese and Tartar Costumes
Title-page, Portraits of MM. Gabet and Huc
View of the City of Peking                                9
The Travellers setting out on their Journey              15
Kang of a Tartar-Chinese Inn                             17
The Missionaries in their Lamanesque Costumes            19
Portrait of Samdadchiemba                                20
Mountain of Sain-Oula                                    21
First Encampment                                         23
Buddhist Monuments                                       25
Military Mandarin                                        28
Chinese Idol                                             32
View of the City of Tolon-Noor                           33
Bell and Idol Foundry                                    36
The Queen of Mourguevan                                  40
The Emperor Tao-Kouang                                   44
Tartar Encampment                                        48
Interior of a Tartar Tent                                50
Russian Convent at Peking                                61
Lamasery of the Five Towers                              79
Lamasery of Tchortchi                                    85
Buddhist Temple                                          87
Interior of Buddhist Temple                              89
Tartar Agriculturist                                     98
Chinese Soldier                                         100
Chinese Money-changers                                  109
The Camel Market                                        121
Vagabond Lamas                                          124
View of Tchagan-Kouren                                  128
Caravan crossing the Desert                             132
Navigation of the Yellow River                          139
Camel of Tartary                                        146
Water-fowl and Birds of Passage                         147
A Fishing Party                                         155
Election of a Living Buddha                             165
The Steppes of Ortous                                   168
Caves of the Ortous                                     180
Barbarous Lamanesque Ceremony                           188
Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin                               201
Turning Prayers                                         203
Mongol Butcher                                          210
Encampment at the Hundred Wells                         222
Grand Ceremony at the Ancestral Temple                  227
Chinese Idol                                            236
Chinese and Tartar Arms                                 237
Chinese Princess                                        253
Chinese Caricature                                      261
Irrigation of the Fields                                262
Root of the Jin-Seng                                    293

                            [Picture: Peking]




CHAPTER I.


French Mission of Peking—Glance at the Kingdom of _Ouniot_—Preparations
for Departure—Tartar-Chinese Inn—Change of Costume—Portrait and Character
of Samdadchiemba—_Sain-Oula_ (the Good Mountain)—The Frosts on Sain-Oula,
and its Robbers—First Encampment in the Desert—Great Imperial
Forest—Buddhist monuments on the summit of the mountains—Topography of
the Kingdom of _Gechekten_—Character of its Inhabitants—Tragical working
of a Mine—Two Mongols desire to have their horoscope taken—Adventure of
Samdadchiemba—Environs of the town of _Tolon-Noor_.

[Picture: Missionaries at Peking] The French mission of Peking, once so
flourishing under the early emperors of the Tartar-Mantchou dynasty, was
almost extirpated by the constant persecutions of Kia-King, the fifth
monarch of that dynasty, who ascended the throne in 1799.  The
missionaries were dispersed or put to death, and at that time Europe was
herself too deeply agitated to enable her to send succour to this distant
Christendom, which remained for a time abandoned.  Accordingly, when the
French Lazarists re-appeared at Peking, they found there scarce a vestige
of the true faith.  A great number of Christians, to avoid the
persecutions of the Chinese authorities, had passed the Great Wall, and
sought peace and liberty in the deserts of Tartary, where they lived
dispersed upon small patches of land which the Mongols permitted them to
cultivate.  By dint of perseverance the missionaries collected together
these dispersed Christians, placed themselves at their head, and hence
superintended the mission of Peking, the immediate administration of
which was in the hands of a few Chinese Lazarists.  The French
missionaries could not, with any prudence, have resumed their former
position in the capital of the empire.  Their presence would have
compromised the prospects of the scarcely reviving mission.

In visiting the Chinese Christians of Mongolia, we more than once had
occasion to make excursions into the Land of Grass, (_Isao-Ti_), as the
uncultivated portions of Tartary are designated, and to take up our
temporary abode beneath the tents of the Mongols.  We were no sooner
acquainted with this nomadic people, than we loved them, and our hearts
were filled with a passionate desire to announce the gospel to them.  Our
whole leisure was therefore devoted to acquiring the Tartar dialects, and
in 1842, the Holy See at length fulfilled our desires, by erecting
Mongolia into an Apostolical Vicariat.

Towards the commencement of the year 1844, couriers arrived at Si-wang, a
small Christian community, where the vicar apostolic of Mongolia had
fixed his episcopal residence.  Si-wang itself is a village, north of the
Great Wall, one day’s journey from Suen-hoa-Fou.  The prelate sent us
instructions for an extended voyage we were to undertake for the purpose
of studying the character and manners of the Tartars, and of ascertaining
as nearly as possible the extent and limits of the Vicariat.  This
journey, then, which we had so long meditated, was now determined upon;
and we sent a young Lama convert in search of some camels which we had
put to pasture in the kingdom of Naiman.  Pending his absence, we
hastened the completion of several Mongol works, the translation of which
had occupied us for a considerable time.  Our little books of prayer and
doctrine were ready, still our young Lama had not returned; but thinking
he could not delay much longer, we quitted the valley of Black Waters
(_Hé-Chuy_), and proceeded on to await his arrival at the Contiguous
Defiles (_Pié-lié-Keou_) which seemed more favourable for the completion
of our preparations.  The days passed away in futile expectation; the
coolness of the autumn was becoming somewhat biting, and we feared that
we should have to begin our journey across the deserts of Tartary during
the frosts of winter.  We determined, therefore, to dispatch some one in
quest of our camels and our Lama.  A friendly catechist, a good walker
and a man of expedition, proceeded on this mission.  On the day fixed for
that purpose he returned; his researches had been wholly without result.
All he had ascertained at the place which he had visited was, that our
Lama had started several days before with our camels.  The surprise of
our courier was extreme when he found that the Lama had not reached us
before himself.  “What!” exclaimed he, “are my legs quicker than a
camel’s!  They left Naiman before me, and here I am arrived before them!
My spiritual fathers, have patience for another day.  I’ll answer that
both Lama and camels will be here in that time.”  Several days, however,
passed away, and we were still in the same position.  We once more
dispatched the courier in search of the Lama, enjoining him to proceed to
the very place where the camels had been put to pasture, to examine
things with his own eyes, and not to trust to any statement that other
people might make.

During this interval of painful suspense, we continued to inhabit the
Contiguous Defiles, a Tartar district dependent on the kingdom of Ouniot.
{11}  These regions appear to have been affected by great revolutions.
The present inhabitants state that, in the olden time, the country was
occupied by Corean tribes, who, expelled thence in the course of various
wars, took refuge in the peninsula which they still possess, between the
Yellow Sea and the sea of Japan.  You often, in these parts of Tartary,
meet with the remains of great towns, and the ruins of fortresses, very
nearly resembling those of the middle ages in Europe, and, upon turning
up the soil in these places, it is not unusual to find lances, arrows,
portions of farming implements, and urns filled with Corean money.

Towards the middle of the 17th century, the Chinese began to penetrate
into this district.  At that period, the whole landscape was still one of
rude grandeur; the mountains were covered with fine forests, and the
Mongol tents whitened the valleys, amid rich pasturages.  For a very
moderate sum the Chinese obtained permission to cultivate the desert, and
as cultivation advanced, the Mongols were obliged to retreat, conducting
their flocks and herds elsewhere.

From that time forth, the aspect of the country became entirely changed.
All the trees were grubbed up, the forests disappeared from the hills,
the prairies were cleared by means of fire, and the new cultivators set
busily to work in exhausting the fecundity of the soil.  Almost the
entire region is now in the hands of the Chinese, and it is probably to
their system of devastation that we must attribute the extreme
irregularity of the seasons which now desolate this unhappy land.
Droughts are of almost annual occurrence; the spring winds setting in,
dry up the soil; the heavens assume a sinister aspect, and the
unfortunate population await, in utter terror, the manifestation of some
terrible calamity; the winds by degrees redouble their violence, and
sometimes continue to blow far into the summer months.  Then the dust
rises in clouds, the atmosphere becomes thick and dark; and often, at
mid-day, you are environed with the terrors of night, or rather, with an
intense and almost palpable blackness, a thousand times more fearful than
the most sombre night.  Next after these hurricanes comes the rain: but
so comes, that instead of being an object of desire, it is an object of
dread, for it pours down in furious raging torrents.  Sometimes the
heavens suddenly opening, pour forth in, as it were, an immense cascade,
all the water with which they are charged in that quarter; and
immediately the fields and their crops disappear under a sea of mud,
whose enormous waves follow the course of the valleys, and carry
everything before them.  The torrent rushes on, and in a few hours the
earth reappears; but the crops are gone, and worse even than that, the
arable soil also has gone with them.  Nothing remains but a ramification
of deep ruts, filled with gravel, and thenceforth incapable of being
ploughed.

Hail is of frequent occurrence in these unhappy districts, and the
dimensions of the hailstones are generally enormous.  We have ourselves
seen some that weighed twelve pounds.  One moment sometimes suffices to
exterminate whole flocks.  In 1843, during one of these storms, there was
heard in the air a sound as of a rushing wind, and therewith fell, in a
field near a house, a mass of ice larger than an ordinary millstone.  It
was broken to pieces with hatchets, yet, though the sun burned fiercely,
three days elapsed before these pieces entirely melted.

The droughts and the inundations together, sometimes occasion famines
which well nigh exterminate the inhabitants.  That of 1832, in the
twelfth year of the reign of _Tao-Kouang_, {12} is the most terrible of
these on record.  The Chinese report that it was everywhere announced by
a general presentiment, the exact nature of which no one could explain or
comprehend.  During the winter of 1831, a dark rumour grew into
circulation.  _Next year_, it was said, _there will be neither rich nor
poor_; _blood will cover the mountains_; _bones will fill the valleys_
(Ou fou, ou kioung; hue man chan, kou man tchouan.)  These words were in
every one’s mouth; the children repeated them in their sports; all were
under the domination of these sinister apprehensions when the year 1832
commenced.  Spring and summer passed away without rain, and the frosts of
autumn set in while the crops were yet green; these crops of course
perished, and there was absolutely no harvest.  The population was soon
reduced to the most entire destitution.  Houses, fields, cattle,
everything was exchanged for grain, the price of which attained its
weight in gold.  When the grass on the mountain sides was devoured by the
starving creatures, the depths of the earth were dug into for roots.  The
fearful prognostic, that had been so often repeated, became accomplished.
Thousands died upon the hills, whither they had crawled in search of
grass; dead bodies filled the roads and houses; whole villages were
depopulated to the last man.  There was, indeed, _neither rich nor poor_;
pitiless famine had levelled all alike.

It was in this dismal region that we awaited with impatience the courier,
whom, for a second time, we had dispatched into the kingdom of Naiman.
The day fixed for his return came and passed, and several others
followed, but brought no camels, nor Lama, nor courier, which seemed to
us most astonishing of all.  We became desperate; we could not longer
endure this painful and futile suspense.  We devised other means of
proceeding, since those we had arranged appeared to be frustrated.  The
day of our departure was fixed; it was settled, further, that one of our
Christians should convey us in his car to _Tolon-Noor_, distant from the
Contiguous Defiles about fifty leagues.  At _Tolon-Noor_ we were to
dismiss our temporary conveyance, proceed alone into the desert, and thus
start on our pilgrimage as well as we could.  This project absolutely
stupified our Christian friends; they could not comprehend how two
Europeans should undertake by themselves a long journey through an
unknown and inimical country: but we had reasons for abiding by our
resolution.  We did not desire that any Chinese should accompany us.  It
appeared to us absolutely necessary to throw aside the fetters with which
the authorities had hitherto contrived to shackle missionaries in China.
The excessive caution, or rather the imbecile pusillanimity of a Chinese
catechist, was calculated rather to impede than to facilitate our
progress in Tartary.

On the Sunday, the day preceding our arranged departure, every thing was
ready; our small trunks were packed and padlocked, and the Christians had
assembled to bid us adieu.  On this very evening, to the infinite
surprise of all of us, our courier arrived.  As he advanced his mournful
countenance told us before he spoke, that his intelligence was
unfavourable.  “My spiritual fathers,” said he, “all is lost; you have
nothing to hope; in the kingdom of Naiman there no longer exists any
camels of the Holy Church.  The Lama doubtless has been killed; and I
have no doubt the devil has had a direct hand in the matter.”

Doubts and fears are often harder to bear than the certainty of evil.
The intelligence thus received, though lamentable in itself, relieved us
from our perplexity as to the past, without in any way altering our plan
for the future.  After having received the condolences of our Christians,
we retired to rest, convinced that this night would certainly be that
preceding our nomadic life.

The night was far advanced, when suddenly numerous voices were heard
outside our abode, and the door was shaken with loud and repeated knocks.
We rose at once; the Lama, the camels, all had arrived; there was quite a
little revolution.  The order of the day was instantly changed.  We
resolved to depart, not on the Monday, but on the Tuesday; not in a car,
but on camels, in true Tartar fashion.  We returned to our beds perfectly
delighted; but we could not sleep, each of us occupying the remainder of
the night with plans for effecting the equipment of the caravan in the
most expeditious manner possible.

Next day, while we were making our preparations for departure, our Lama
explained his extraordinary delay.  First, he had undergone a long
illness; then he had been occupied a considerable time in pursuing a
camel which had escaped into the desert; and finally, he had to go before
some tribunal, in order to procure the restitution of a mule which had
been stolen from him.  A law-suit, an illness, and a camel hunt were
amply sufficient reasons for excusing the delay which had occurred.  Our
courier was the only person who did not participate in the general joy;
he saw it must be evident to every one that he had not fulfilled his
mission with any sort of skill.

All Monday was occupied in the equipment of our caravan.  Every person
gave his assistance to this object.  Some repaired our travelling-house,
that is to say, mended or patched a great blue linen tent; others cut for
us a supply of wooden tent pins; others mended the holes in our copper
kettle, and renovated the broken leg of a joint stool; others prepared
cords, and put together the thousand and one pieces of a camel’s pack.
Tailors, carpenters, braziers, rope-makers, saddle-makers, people of all
trades assembled in active co-operation in the court-yard of our humble
abode.  For all, great and small, among our Christians, were resolved
that their spiritual fathers should proceed on their journey as
comfortably as possible.

On Tuesday morning, there remained nothing to be done but to perforate
the nostrils of the camels, and to insert in the aperture a wooden peg,
to use as a sort of bit.  The arrangement of this was left to our Lama.
The wild piercing cries of the poor animals pending the painful
operation, soon collected together all the Christians of the village.  At
this moment, our Lama became exclusively the hero of the expedition.  The
crowd ranged themselves in a circle around him; every one was curious to
see how, by gently pulling the cord attached to the peg in its nose, our
Lama could make the animal obey him, and kneel at his pleasure.  Then,
again, it was an interesting thing for the Chinese to watch our Lama
packing on the camels’ backs the baggage of the two missionary
travellers.  When the arrangements were completed, we drank a cup of tea,
and proceeded to the chapel; the Christians recited prayers for our safe
journey; we received their farewell, interrupted with tears, and
proceeded on our way.  Samdadchiemba, our Lama cameleer, gravely mounted
on a black, stunted, meagre mule, opened the march, leading two camels
laden with our baggage; then came the two missionaries, MM. Gabet and
Huc, the former mounted on a tall camel, the latter on a white horse.

[Picture: The Travellers setting out on their journey] Upon our departure
we were resolved to lay aside our accustomed usages, and to become
regular Tartars.  Yet we did not at the outset, and all at once, become
exempt from the Chinese system.  Besides that, for the first mile or two
of our journey, we were escorted by our Chinese Christians, some on foot,
and some on horseback; our first stage was to be an inn kept by the Grand
Catechist of the Contiguous Defiles.

The progress of our little caravan was not at first wholly successful.
We were quite novices in the art of saddling and girdling camels, so that
every five minutes we had to halt, either to rearrange some cord or piece
of wood that hurt and irritated the camels, or to consolidate upon their
backs, as well as we could, the ill-packed baggage that threatened, ever
and anon, to fall to the ground.  We advanced, indeed, despite all these
delays, but still very slowly.  After journeying about thirty-five lis,
{16} we quitted the cultivated district and entered upon the Land of
Grass.  There we got on much better; the camels were more at their ease
in the desert, and their pace became more rapid.

We ascended a high mountain, where the camels evinced a decided tendency
to compensate themselves for their trouble, by browzing, on either side,
upon the tender stems of the elder tree or the green leaves of the wild
rose.  The shouts we were obliged to keep up, in order to urge forward
the indolent beasts, alarmed infinite foxes, who issued from their holes
and rushed off in all directions.  On attaining the summit of the rugged
hill we saw in the hollow beneath the Christian inn of _Yan-Pa-Eul_.  We
proceeded towards it, our road constantly crossed by fresh and limpid
streams, which, issuing from the sides of the mountain, reunite at its
foot and form a rivulet which encircles the inn.  We were received by the
landlord, or, as the Chinese call him, the Comptroller of the Chest.

Inns of this description occur at intervals in the deserts of Tartary,
along the confines of China.  They consist almost universally of a large
square enclosure, formed by high poles interlaced with brushwood.  In the
centre of this enclosure is a mud house, never more than ten feet high.
With the exception of a few wretched rooms at each extremity, the entire
structure consists of one large apartment, serving at once for cooking,
eating, and sleeping; thoroughly dirty, and full of smoke and intolerable
stench.  Into this pleasant place all travellers, without distinction,
are ushered, the portion of space applied to their accommodation being a
long, wide _Kang_, as it is called, a sort of furnace, occupying more
than three-fourths of the apartment, about four feet high, and the flat,
smooth surface of which is covered with a reed mat, which the richer
guests cover again with a travelling carpet of felt, or with furs.  In
front of it, three immense coppers, set in glazed earth, serve for the
preparation of the traveller’s milk-broth.  The apertures by which these
monster boilers are heated communicate with the interior of the _Kang_,
so that its temperature is constantly maintained at a high elevation,
even in the terrible cold of winter.

                 [Picture: Kang of a Tartar-Chinese Inn]

Upon the arrival of guests, the Comptroller of the Chest invites them to
ascend the _Kang_, where they seat themselves, their legs crossed
tailor-fashion, round a large table, not more than six inches high.  The
lower part of the room is reserved for the people of the inn, who there
busy themselves in keeping up the fire under the cauldrons, boiling tea,
and pounding oats and buckwheat into flour for the repast of the
travellers.  The _Kang_ of these Tartar-Chinese inns is, till evening, a
stage full of animation, where the guests eat, drink, smoke, gamble,
dispute, and fight: with night-fall, the refectory, tavern, and
gambling-house of the day is suddenly converted into a dormitory.  The
travellers who have any bed-clothes unroll and arrange them; those who
have none, settle themselves as best they may in their personal attire,
and lie down, side by side, round the table.  When the guests are very
numerous they arrange themselves in two circles, feet to feet.  Thus
reclined, those so disposed, sleep; others, awaiting sleep, smoke, drink
tea, and gossip.  The effect of the scene, dimly exhibited by an
imperfect wick floating amid thick, dirty, stinking oil, whose receptacle
is ordinarily a broken tea-cup, is fantastic, and to the stranger,
fearful.

The Comptroller of the Chest had prepared his own room for our
accommodation.  We washed, but would not sleep there; being now Tartar
travellers, and in possession of a good tent, we determined to try our
apprentice hand at setting it up.  This resolution offended no one, it
was quite understood we adopted this course, not out of contempt towards
the inn, but out of love for a patriarchal life.  When we had set up our
tent, and unrolled on the ground our goat-skin beds, we lighted a pile of
brushwood, for the nights were already growing cold.  Just as we were
closing our eyes, the Inspector of Darkness startled us with beating the
official night alarum, upon his brazen _tam-tam_, the sonorous sound of
which, reverberating through the adjacent valleys struck with terror the
tigers and wolves frequenting them, and drove them off.

We were on foot before daylight.  Previous to our departure we had to
perform an operation of considerable importance—no other than an entire
change of costume, a complete metamorphosis.  The missionaries who reside
in China, all, without exception, wear the secular dress of the people,
and are in no way distinguishable from them; they bear no outward sign of
their religious character.  It is a great pity that they should be thus
obliged to wear the secular costume, for it is an obstacle in the way of
their preaching the gospel.  Among the Tartars, a _black man_—so they
discriminate the laity, as wearing their hair, from the clergy, who have
their heads close shaved—who should talk about religion would be laughed
at, as impertinently meddling with things, the special province of the
Lamas, and in no way concerning him.  The reasons which appear to have
introduced and maintained the custom of wearing the secular habit on the
part of the missionaries in China, no longer applying to us, we resolved
at length to appear in an ecclesiastical exterior becoming our sacred
mission.  The views of our vicar apostolic on the subject, as explained
in his written instructions, being conformable with our wish, we did not
hesitate.  We resolved to adopt the secular dress of the Thibetian Lamas;
that is to say, the dress which they wear when not actually performing
their idolatrous ministry in the Pagodas.  The costume of the Thibetian
Lamas suggested itself to our preference as being in unison with that
worn by our young neophyte, Samdadchiemba.

We announced to the Christians of the inn that we were resolved no longer
to look like Chinese merchants; that we were about to cut off our long
tails, and to shave our heads.  This intimation created great agitation:
some of our disciples even wept; all sought by their eloquence to divert
us from a resolution which seemed to them fraught with danger; but their
pathetic remonstrances were of no avail; one touch of a razor, in the
hands of Samdadchiemba sufficed to sever the long tail of hair, which, to
accommodate Chinese fashions, we had so carefully cultivated ever since
our departure from France.  We put on a long yellow robe, fastened at the
right side with five gilt buttons, and round the waist by a long red
sash; over this was a red jacket, with a collar of purple velvet; a
yellow cap, surmounted by a red tuft, completed our new costume.
Breakfast followed this decisive operation, but it was silent and sad.
When the Comptroller of the Chest brought in some glasses and an urn,
wherein smoked the hot wine drunk by the Chinese, we told him that having
changed our habit of dress, we should change also our habit of living.
“Take away,” said we, “that wine and that chafing dish; henceforth we
renounce drinking and smoking.  You know,” added we, laughing, “that good
Lamas abstain from wine and tobacco.”  The Chinese Christians who
surrounded us did not join in the laugh; they looked at us without
speaking and with deep commiseration, fully persuaded that we should
inevitably perish of privation and misery in the deserts of Tartary.
Breakfast finished, while the people of the inn were packing up our tent,
saddling the camels, and preparing for our departure, we took a couple of
rolls, baked in the steam of the furnace, and walked out to complete our
meal with some wild currants growing on the bank of the adjacent rivulet.
It was soon announced to us that everything was ready—so, mounting our
respective animals, we proceeded on the road to Tolon-Noor, accompanied
by Samdadchiemba.

[Picture: Missionaries in Lamanesque Costume] We were now launched, alone
and without a guide, amid a new world.  We had no longer before us paths
traced out by the old missionaries, for we were in a country where none
before us had preached Gospel truth.  We should no longer have by our
side those earnest Christian converts, so zealous to serve us; so
anxious, by their friendly care, to create around us as it were an
atmosphere of home.  We were abandoned to ourselves, in a hostile land,
without a friend to advise or to aid us, save Him by whose strength we
were supported, and whose name we were seeking to make known to all the
nations of the earth.

[Picture: Samdadchiemba] As we have just observed, Samdadchiemba was our
only travelling companion.  This young man was neither Chinese, nor
Tartar, nor Thibetian.  Yet, at the first glance, it was easy to
recognise in him the features characterizing that which naturalists call
the Mongol race.  A great flat nose, insolently turned up; a large mouth,
slit in a perfectly straight line, thick, projecting lips, a deep bronze
complexion, every feature contributed to give to his physiognomy a wild
and scornful aspect.  When his little eyes seemed starting out of his
head from under their lids, wholly destitute of eyelash, and he looked at
you wrinkling his brow, he inspired you at once with feelings of dread
and yet of confidence.  The face was without any decisive character: it
exhibited neither the mischievous knavery of the Chinese, nor the frank
good-nature of the Tartar, nor the courageous energy of the Thibetian;
but was made up of a mixture of all three.  Samdadchiemba was a
_Dchiahour_.  We shall hereafter have occasion to speak more in detail of
the native country of our young cameleer.

At the age of eleven, Samdadchiemba had escaped from his Lamasery, in
order to avoid the too frequent and too severe corrections of the master
under whom he was more immediately placed.  He afterwards passed the
greater portion of his vagabond youth, sometimes in the Chinese towns,
sometimes in the deserts of Tartary.  It is easy to comprehend that this
independent course of life had not tended to modify the natural asperity
of his character; his intellect was entirely uncultivated; but, on the
other hand, his muscular power was enormous, and he was not a little vain
of this quality, which he took great pleasure in parading.  After having
been instructed and baptized by M. Gabet, he had attached himself to the
service of the missionaries.  The journey we were now undertaking was
perfectly in harmony with his erratic and adventurous taste.  He was,
however, of no mortal service to us as a guide across the deserts of
Tartary, for he knew no more of the country than we knew ourselves.  Our
only informants were a compass, and the excellent map of the Chinese
empire by Andriveau-Goujon.

The first portion of our journey, after leaving Yan-Pa-Eul, was
accomplished without interruption, sundry anathemas excepted, which were
hurled against us as we ascended a mountain, by a party of Chinese
merchants, whose mules, upon sight of our camels and our own yellow
attire, became frightened, and took to their heels at full speed,
dragging after them, and in one or two instances, overturning the waggons
to which they were harnessed.

                     [Picture: Mountain of Sain-Oula]

The mountain in question is called _Sain-Oula_ (Good Mountain), doubtless
_ut lucus a non lucendo_, since it is notorious for the dismal accidents
and tragical adventures of which it is the theatre.  The ascent is by a
rough, steep path, half-choked up with fallen rocks.  Mid-way up is a
small temple, dedicated to the divinity of the mountain, _Sain-Nai_, (the
good old Woman;) the occupant is a priest, whose business it is, from
time to time, to fill up the cavities in the road, occasioned by the
previous rains, in consideration of which service he receives from each
passenger a small gratuity, constituting his revenue.  After a toilsome
journey of nearly three hours we found ourselves at the summit of the
mountain, upon an immense plateau, extending from east to west a long
day’s journey, and from north to south still more widely.  From this
summit you discern, afar off in the plains of Tartary, the tents of the
Mongols, ranged semi-circularly on the slopes of the hills, and looking
in the distance like so many bee-hives.  Several rivers derive their
source from the sides of this mountain.  Chief among these is the
_Chara-Mouren_ (Yellow River—distinct, of course, from the great Yellow
River of China, the _Hoang-Ho_)—the capricious, course of which the eye
can follow on through the kingdom of _Gechekten_, after traversing which,
and then the district of _Naiman_, it passes the stake-boundary into
Mantchouria, and flowing from north to south, falls into the sea,
approaching which it assumes the name _Léao-Ho_.

The _Good Mountain_ is noted for its intense frosts.  There is not a
winter passes in which the cold there does not kill many travellers.
Frequently whole caravans, not arriving at their destination on the other
side of the mountain, are sought and found on its bleak road, man and
beast frozen to death.  Nor is the danger less from the robbers and the
wild beasts with whom the mountain is a favourite haunt, or rather a
permanent station.  Assailed by the brigands, the unlucky traveller is
stripped, not merely of horse and money, and baggage, but absolutely of
the clothes he wears, and then left to perish from cold and hunger.

Not but that the brigands of these parts are extremely polite all the
while; they do not rudely clap a pistol to your ear, and bawl at you:
“Your money or your life!”  No; they mildly advance with a courteous
salutation: “Venerable elder brother, I am on foot; pray lend me your
horse—I’ve got no money, be good enough to lend me your purse—It’s quite
cold to-day, oblige me with the loan of your coat.”  If the venerable
elder brother charitably complies, the matter ends with, “Thanks,
brother;” but otherwise, the request is forthwith emphasized with the
arguments of a cudgel; and if these do not convince, recourse is had to
the sabre.

                       [Picture: First Encampment]

The sun declining ere we had traversed this platform, we resolved to
encamp for the night.  Our first business was to seek a position
combining the three essentials of fuel, water, and pasturage; and, having
due regard to the ill reputation of the _Good Mountain_, privacy from
observation as complete as could be effected.  Being novices in
travelling, the idea of robbers haunted us incessantly, and we took
everybody we saw to be a suspicious character, against whom we must be on
our guard.  A grassy nook, surrounded by tall trees, appertaining to the
Imperial Forest, fulfilled our requisites.  Unlading our dromedaries, we
raised, with no slight labour, our tent beneath the foliage, and at its
entrance installed our faithful porter, Arsalan, a dog whose size,
strength, and courage well entitled him to his appellation, which, in the
Tartar-Mongol dialect, means “Lion.”  Collecting some _argols_ {23} and
dry branches of trees, our kettle was soon in agitation, and we threw
into the boiling water some Kouamien, prepared paste, something like
Vermicelli, which, seasoned with some parings of bacon, given us by our
friends at Yan-Pa-Eul, we hoped would furnish satisfaction for the hunger
that began to gnaw us.  No sooner was the repast ready, than each of us,
drawing forth from his girdle his wooden cup, filled it with Kouamien,
and raised it to his lips.  The preparation was detestable—uneatable.
The manufacturers of Kouamien always salt it for its longer preservation;
but this paste of ours had been salted beyond all endurance.  Even
Arsalan would not eat the composition.  Soaking it for a while in cold
water, we once more boiled it up, but in vain; the dish remained nearly
as salt as ever: so, abandoning it to Arsalan and to Samdadchiemba, whose
stomach by long use was capable of anything, we were fain to content
ourselves with the _dry-cold_, as the Chinese say; and, taking with us a
couple of small loaves, walked into the Imperial Forest, in order at
least to season our repast with an agreeable walk.  Our first nomade
supper, however, turned out better than we had expected, Providence
placing in our path numerous _Ngao-la-Eul_ and _Chan-ly-Houng_ trees, the
former, a shrub about five inches high, which bears a pleasant wild
cherry; the other, also a low but very bushy shrub, producing a small
scarlet apple, of a sharp agreeable flavour, of which a very succulent
jelly is made.

The Imperial Forest extends more than a hundred leagues from north to
south, and nearly eighty from east to west.  The Emperor Khang-Hi, in one
of his expeditions into Mongolia, adopted it as a hunting ground.  He
repaired thither every year, and his successors regularly followed his
example, down to _Kia-King_, who, upon a hunting excursion, was killed by
lightning at _Ge-ho-Eul_.  There has been no imperial hunting there since
that time—now twenty-seven years ago.  _Tao-Kouang_, son and successor of
_Kia-King_, being persuaded that a fatality impends over the exercise of
the chase, since his accession to the throne has never set foot in
_Ge-ho-Eul_, which may be regarded as the Versailles of the Chinese
potentates.  The forest, however, and the animals which inhabit it, have
been no gainers by the circumstance.  Despite the penalty of perpetual
exile decreed against all who shall be found, with arms in their hands,
in the forest, it is always half full of poachers and woodcutters.
Gamekeepers, indeed, are stationed at intervals throughout the forest;
but they seem there merely for the purpose of enjoying a monopoly of the
sale of game and wood.  They let any one steal either, provided they
themselves get the larger share of the booty.  The poachers are in
especial force from the fourth to the seventh moon.  At this period, the
antlers of the stags send forth new shoots, which contain a sort of
half-coagulated blood, called _Lou-joung_, which plays a distinguished
part in the Chinese _Materia Medica_, for its supposed chemical
qualities, and fetches accordingly an exorbitant price.  A _Lou-joung_
sometimes sells for as much as a hundred and fifty ounces of silver.

Deer of all kinds abound in the forest; and tigers, bears, wild boars,
panthers, and wolves are scarcely less numerous.  Woe to the hunters and
wood-cutters who venture otherwise than in large parties into the
recesses of the forest; they disappear, leaving no vestige behind.

The fear of encountering one of these wild beasts kept us from prolonging
our walk.  Besides, night was setting in, and we hastened back to our
tent.  Our first slumber in the desert was peaceful, and next morning
early, after a breakfast of oatmeal steeped in tea, we resumed our march
along the great _Plateau_.  We soon reached the great _Obo_, whither the
Tartars resort to worship the Spirit of the Mountain.  The monument is
simply an enormous pile of stones, heaped up without any order, and
surmounted with dried branches of trees, from which hang bones and strips
of cloth, on which are inscribed verses in the Thibet and Mongol
languages.

                      [Picture: Buddhist Monuments]

At its base is a large granite urn in which the devotees burn incense.
They offer, besides, pieces of money, which the next Chinese passenger,
after sundry ceremonious genuflexions before the Obo, carefully collects
and pockets for his own particular benefit.

These Obos, which occur so frequently throughout Tartary, and which are
the objects of constant pilgrimages on the part of the Mongols, remind
one of the _loca excelsa_ denounced by the Jewish prophets.

It was near noon before the ground, beginning to slope, intimated that we
approached the termination of the plateau.  We then descended rapidly
into a deep valley, where we found a small Mongolian encampment, which we
passed without pausing, and set up our tent for the night on the margin
of a pool further on.  We were now in the kingdom of Gechekten, an
undulating country, well watered, with abundance of fuel and pasturage,
but desolated by bands of robbers.  The Chinese, who have long since
taken possession of it, have rendered it a sort of general refuge for
malefactors; so that “man of Gechekten” has become a synonyme for a
person without fear of God or man, who will commit any murder, and shrink
from no crime.  It would seem as though, in this country, nature resented
the encroachments of man upon her rights.  Wherever the plough has
passed, the soil has become poor, arid, and sandy, producing nothing but
oats, which constitute the food of the people.  In the whole district
there is but one trading town, which the Mongols call _Altan-Somé_,
(Temple of Gold).  This was at first a great Lamasery, containing nearly
2000 Lamas.  By degrees Chinese have settled there, in order to traffic
with the Tartars.  In 1843, when we had occasion to visit this place, it
had already acquired the importance of a town.  A highway, commencing at
_Altan-Somé_, proceeds towards the north, and after traversing the
country of the _Khalkhas_, the river _Keroulan_, and the _Khinggan_
mountains, reaches Nertechink, a town of Siberia.

The sun had just set, and we were occupied inside the tent boiling our
tea, when Arsalan warned us, by his barking, of the approach of some
stranger.  We soon heard the trot of a horse, and presently a mounted
Tartar appeared at the door.  “_Mendou_,” he exclaimed, by way of
respectful salutation to the supposed Lamas, raising his joined hands at
the same time to his forehead.  When we invited him to drink a cup of tea
with us, he fastened his horse to one of the tent-pegs, and seated
himself by the hearth.  “Sirs Lamas,” said he, “under what quarter of the
heavens were you born?”  “We are from the western heaven; and you, whence
come you?”  “My poor abode is towards the north, at the end of the valley
you see there on our right.”  “Your country is a fine country.”  The
Mongol shook his head sadly, and made no reply.  “Brother,” we proceeded,
after a moment’s silence, “the Land of Grass is still very extensive in
the kingdom of Gechekten.  Would it not be better to cultivate your
plains?  What good are these bare lands to you?  Would not fine crops of
corn be preferable to mere grass?”  He replied, with a tone of deep and
settled conviction, “We Mongols are formed for living in tents, and
pasturing cattle.  So long as we kept to that in the kingdom of
Gechekten, we were rich and happy.  Now, ever since the Mongols have set
themselves to cultivating the land, and building houses, they have become
poor.  The _Kitats_ (Chinese) have taken possession of the country;
flocks, herds, lands, houses, all have passed into their hands.  There
remain to us only a few prairies, on which still live, under their tents,
such of the Mongols as have not been forced by utter destitution to
emigrate to other lands.”  “But if the Chinese are so baneful to you, why
did you let them penetrate into your country?”  “Your words are the words
of truth, Sirs Lamas; but you are aware that the Mongols are men of
simple hearts.  We took pity on these wicked _Kitats_, who came to us
weeping, to solicit our charity.  We allowed them, through pure
compassion, to cultivate a few patches of land.  The Mongols insensibly
followed their example, and abandoned the nomadic life.  They drank the
wine of the Kitats, and smoked their tobacco, on credit; they bought
their manufactures on credit at double the real value.  When the day of
payment came there was no money ready, and the Mongols had to yield, to
the violence of their creditors, houses, lands, flocks, everything.”
“But could you not seek justice from the tribunals?”  “Justice from the
tribunals!  Oh, that is out of the question.  The Kitats are skilful to
talk and to lie.  It is impossible for a Mongol to gain a suit against a
Kitat.  Sirs Lamas, the kingdom of Gechekten is undone!”  So saying, the
poor Mongol rose, bowed, mounted his horse, and rapidly disappeared in
the desert.

We travelled two more days through this kingdom, and everywhere witnessed
the poverty and wretchedness of its scattered inhabitants.  Yet the
country is naturally endowed with astonishing wealth, especially in gold
and silver mines, which of themselves have occasioned many of its worst
calamities.  Notwithstanding the rigorous prohibition to work these
mines, it sometimes happens that large bands of Chinese outlaws assemble
together, and march, sword in hand, to dig into them.  These are men
professing to be endowed with a peculiar capacity for discovering the
precious metals, guided, according to their own account, by the
conformation of mountains, and the sorts of plants they produce.  One
single man, possessed of this fatal gift, will suffice to spread
desolation over a whole district.  He speedily finds himself at the head
of thousands and thousands of outcasts, who overspread the country, and
render it the theatre of every crime.  While some are occupied in working
the mines others pillage the surrounding districts, sparing neither
persons nor property, and committing excesses which the imagination could
not conceive, and which continue until some mandarin, powerful and
courageous enough to suppress them, is brought within their operation,
and takes measures against them accordingly.

Calamities of this nature have frequently desolated the kingdom of
Gechekten; but none of them are comparable with what happened in the
kingdom of Ouniot, in 1841.  A Chinese _mine discoverer_, having
ascertained the presence of gold in a particular mountain, announced the
discovery, and robbers and vagabonds at once congregated around him, from
far and near, to the number of 12,000.  This hideous mob put the whole
country under subjection, and exercised for two years its fearful sway.
Almost the entire mountain passed through the crucible, and such enormous
quantities of metal were produced, that the price of gold fell in China
fifty per cent.  The inhabitants complained incessantly to the Chinese
mandarins, but in vain; for these worthies only interfere where they can
do so with some benefit to themselves.  The King of Ouniot himself feared
to measure his strength with such an army of desperadoes.

                       [Picture: Military Mandarin]

One day, however, the Queen of Ouniot, repairing on a pilgrimage to the
tomb of her ancestors, had to pass the valley in which the army of miners
was assembled.  Her car was surrounded; she was rudely compelled to
alight, and it was only upon the sacrifice of her jewels that she was
permitted to proceed.  Upon her return home, she reproached the King
bitterly for his cowardice.  At length, stung by her words, he assembled
the troops of his two banners, and marched against the miners.  The
engagement which ensued was for a while doubtful; but at length the
miners were driven in by the Tartar cavalry, who massacred them without
mercy.  The bulk of the survivors took refuge in the mine.  The Mongols
blocked up the apertures with huge stones.  The cries of the despairing
wretches within were heard for a few days, and then ceased for ever.
Those of the miners who were taken alive had their eyes put out, and were
then dismissed.

We had just quitted the kingdom of Gechekten, and entered that of Thakar,
when we came to a military encampment, where were stationed a party of
Chinese soldiers charged with the preservation of the public safety.  The
hour of repose had arrived; but these soldiers, instead of giving us
confidence by their presence, increased, on the contrary, our fears; for
we knew that they were themselves the most daring robbers in the whole
district.  We turned aside, therefore, and ensconced ourselves between
two rocks, where we found just space enough for our tent.  We had
scarcely set up our temporary abode, when we observed, in the distance,
on the slope of the mountains, a numerous body of horsemen at full
gallop.  Their rapid but irregular evolutions seemed to indicate that
they were pursuing something which constantly evaded them.  By-and-by,
two of the horsemen, perceiving us, dashed up to our tent, dismounted,
and threw themselves on the ground at the door.  They were
Tartar-Mongols.  “Men of prayer,” said they, with voices full of emotion,
“we come to ask you to draw our horoscope.  We have this day had two
horses stolen from us.  We have fruitlessly sought traces of the robbers,
and we therefore come to you, men whose power and learning is beyond all
limit, to tell us where we shall find our property.”  “Brothers,” said
we, “we are not Lamas of Buddha; we do not believe in horoscopes.  For a
man to say that he can, by any such means, discover that which is stolen,
is for them to put forth the words of falsehood and deception.”  The poor
Tartars redoubled their solicitations; but when they found that we were
inflexible in our resolution, they remounted their horses, in order to
return to the mountains.

Samdadchiemba, meanwhile, had been silent, apparently paying no attention
to the incident, but fixed at the fire-place, with his bowl of tea to his
lips.  All of a sudden he knitted his brows, rose, and came to the door.
The horsemen were at some distance; but the Dchiahour, by an exertion of
his strong lungs, induced them to turn round in their saddles.  He
motioned to them, and they, supposing we had relented, and were willing
to draw the desired horoscope, galloped once more towards us.  When they
had come within speaking distance:—“My Mongol brothers,” cried
Samdadchiemba, “in future be more careful; watch your herds well, and you
won’t be robbed.  Retain these words of mine on your memory: they are
worth all the horoscopes in the world.”  After this friendly address, he
gravely re-entered the tent, and seating himself at the hearth, resumed
his tea.

We were at first somewhat disconcerted by this singular proceeding; but
as the horsemen themselves did not take the matter in ill part, but
quietly rode off, we burst into a laugh.  “Stupid Mongols!” grumbled
Samdadchiemba; “they don’t give themselves the trouble to watch their
animals, and then, when they are stolen from them, they run about wanting
people to draw horoscopes for them.  After all, perhaps, it’s no wonder,
for nobody but ourselves tells them the truth.  The Lamas encourage them
in their credulity; for they turn it into a source of income.  It is
difficult to deal with such people.  If you tell them you can’t draw a
horoscope, they don’t believe you, and merely suppose you don’t choose to
oblige them.  To get rid of them, the best way is to give them an answer
haphazard.”  And here Samdadchiemba laughed with such expansion, that his
little eyes were completely buried.  “Did you ever draw a horoscope?”
asked we.  “Yes,” replied he still laughing.  “I was very young at the
time, not more than fifteen.  I was travelling through the Red Banner of
Thakar, when I was addressed by some Mongols who led me into their tent.
There they entreated me to tell them, by means of divination, where a
bull had strayed, which had been missing three days.  It was to no
purpose that I protested to them I could not perform divination, that I
could not even read.  ‘You deceive us,’ said they; ‘you are a
_Dchiahour_, and we know that the Western Lamas can all divine more or
less.’  As the only way of extricating myself from the dilemma, I
resolved to imitate what I had seen the Lamas do in their divinations.  I
directed one person to collect eleven sheep’s droppings, the dryest he
could find.  They were immediately brought.  I then seated myself very
gravely; I counted the droppings over and over; I arranged them in rows,
and then counted them again; I rolled them up and down in threes; and
then appeared to meditate.  At last I said to the Mongols, who were
impatiently awaiting the result of the horoscope: ‘If you would find your
bull, go seek him towards the north.’  Before the words were well out of
my mouth, four men were on horseback, galloping off towards the north.
By the most curious chance in the world, they had not proceeded far,
before the missing animal made its appearance, quietly browzing.  I at
once got the character of a diviner of the first class, was entertained
in the most liberal manner for a week, and when I departed had a stock of
butter and tea given me enough for another week.  Now that I belong to
Holy Church, I know that these things are wicked and prohibited;
otherwise I would have given these horsemen a word or two of horoscope,
which perhaps would have procured for us, in return, a good cup of tea
with butter.”

The stolen horses confirmed in our minds the ill reputation of the
country in which we were now encamped; and we felt ourselves necessitated
to take additional precaution.  Before night-fall we brought in the horse
and the mule, and fastened them by cords to pins at the door of our tent,
and made the camels kneel by their side, so as to close up the entrance.
By this arrangement no one could get near us without our having full
warning given us by the camels, which, at the least noise, always make an
outcry loud enough to awaken the deepest sleeper.  Finally, having
suspended from one of the tent-poles our travelling lantern, which we
kept burning all the night, we endeavoured to obtain a little repose, but
in vain; the night passed away, without our getting a wink of sleep.  As
to the _Dchiahour_, whom nothing ever troubled, we heard him snoring with
all the might of his lungs until daybreak.

We made our preparations for departure very early, for we were eager to
quit this ill-famed place, and to reach _Tolon-Noor_, which was now
distant only a few leagues.

On our way thither, a horseman stopped his galloping steed, and, after
looking at us for a moment, addressed us: “You are the chiefs of the
Christians of the Contiguous Defiles?”  Upon our replying in the
affirmative, he dashed off again; but turned his head once or twice, to
have another look at us.  He was a Mongol, who had charge of some herds
at the Contiguous Defiles.  He had often seen us there; but the novelty
of our present costume at first prevented his recognising us.  We met
also the Tartars who, the day before, had asked us to draw a horoscope
for them.  They had repaired by daybreak, to the horse-fair at
_Tolon-Noor_, in the hope of finding their stolen animals; but their
search had been unsuccessful.

The increasing number of travellers, Tartars and Chinese, whom we now
met, indicated the approach to the great town of _Tolon-Noor_.  We
already saw in the distance, glittering under the sun’s rays, the gilt
roofs of two magnificent Lamaseries that stand in the northern suburbs of
the town.  We journeyed for some time through a succession of cemeteries;
for here, as elsewhere, the present generation is surrounded by the
ornamental sepulchres of past generations.  As we observed the numerous
population of that large town, environed as it were by a vast circle of
bones and monumental stones, it seemed as though death was continuously
engaged in the blockade of life.  Here and there, in the vast cemetery
which completely encircles the city, we remarked little gardens, where,
by dint of extreme labour, a few miserable vegetables were extracted from
the earth: leeks, spinach, hard bitter lettuces, and cabbages, which,
introduced some years since from Russia, have adapted themselves
exceedingly well to the climate of Northern China.

With the exception of these few esculents, the environs of _Tolon-Noor_
produce absolutely nothing whatever.  The soil is dry and sandy, and
water terribly scarce.  It is only here and there that a few limited
springs are found, and these are dried up in the hot season.

                         [Picture: Chinese Idol]

                      [Picture: City of Tolon-Noor]




CHAPTER II.


Inn at Tolon-Noor—Aspect of the City—Great Foundries of Bells and
Idols—Conversation with the Lamas of _Tolon-Noor_—Encampment—Tea
Bricks—Meeting with Queen _Mourguevan_—Taste of the Mongols for
Pilgrimages—Violent Storm—Account from a Mongol Chief of the War of the
English against China—Topography of the Eight Banners of the
_Tchakar_—The Imperial herds—Form and Interior of the Tents—Tartar
Manners and Customs—Encampment at the Three Lakes—Nocturnal
Apparitions—Samdadchiemba relates the Adventures of his Youth—Grey
Squirrels of Tartary—Arrival at _Chaborté_.

Our entrance into the city of Tolon-Noor was fatiguing and full of
perplexity; for we knew not where to take up our abode.  We wandered
about for a long time in a labyrinth of narrow, tortuous streets,
encumbered with men and animals and goods.  At last we found an inn.  We
unloaded our dromedaries, deposited the baggage in small room, foddered
the animals, and then, having affixed to the door of our room the padlock
which, as is the custom, our landlord gave us for that purpose, we
sallied forth in quest of dinner.  A triangular flag floating before a
house in the next street, indicated to our joyful hearts an eating-house.
A long passage led us into a spacious apartment, in which were
symmetrically set forth a number of little tables.  Seating ourselves at
one of these, a tea-pot, the inevitable prelude in these countries to
every meal, was set before each of us.  You must swallow infinite tea,
and that boiling hot, before they will consent to bring you anything
else.  At last, when they see you thus occupied, the Comptroller of the
Table pays you his official visit, a personage of immensely elegant
manners, and ceaseless volubility of tongue, who, after entertaining you
with his views upon the affairs of the world in general, and each country
in particular, concludes by announcing what there is to eat, and
requesting your judgment thereupon.  As you mention the dishes you
desire, he repeats their names in a measured chant, for the information
of the Governor of the Pot.  Your dinner is served up with admirable
promptitude; but before you commence the meal, etiquette requires that
you rise from your seat, and invite all the other company present to
partake.  “Come,” you say, with an engaging gesture, “come my friends,
come and drink a glass of wine with me; come and eat a plate of rice;”
and so on.  “No, thank you,” replies every body; “do you rather come and
seat yourself at my table.  It is I who invite you;” and so the matter
ends.  By this ceremony you have “manifested your honour,” as the phrase
runs, and you may now sit down and eat it in comfort, your character as a
gentleman perfectly established.

When you rise to depart, the Comptroller of the Table again appears.  As
you cross the apartment with him, he chants over again the names of the
dishes you have had, this time appending the prices, and terminating with
the sum total, announced with especial emphasis, which, proceeding to the
counter, you then deposit in the money-box.  In general, the Chinese
restaurateurs are quite as skilful as those of France in exciting the
vanity of the guests, and promoting the consumption of their commodities.

Two motives had induced us to direct our steps, in the first instance, to
Tolon-Noor: we desired to make more purchases there to complete our
travelling equipment, and, secondly, it appeared to us necessary to place
ourselves in communication with the Lamas of the country, in order to
obtain information from them as to the more important localities of
Tartary.  The purchases we needed to make gave us occasion to visit the
different quarters of the town.  Tolon-Noor (Seven Lakes) is called by
the Chinese _Lama-Miao_ (Convent of Lamas).  The Mantchous designate it
_Nadan-Omo_, and the Thibetians, _Tsot-Dun_, both translations of
Tolon-Noor, and, equally with it, meaning “Seven Lakes.”  On the map
published by M. Andriveau-Goujon, {35} this town is called
_Djo-Naiman-Soumé_, which in Mongol means, “The Hundred and Eight
Convents.”  This name is perfectly unknown in the country itself.

Tolon-Noor is not a walled city, but a vast agglomeration of hideous
houses, which seem to have been thrown together with a pitchfork.  The
carriage portion of the streets is a marsh of mud and putrid filth, deep
enough to stifle and bury the smaller beasts of burden that not
unfrequently fall within it, and whose carcases remain to aggravate the
general stench; while their loads become the prey of the innumerable
thieves who are ever on the alert.  The foot-path is a narrow, rugged,
slippery line on either side, just wide enough to admit the passage of
one person.

Yet, despite the nastiness of the town itself, the sterility of the
environs, the excessive cold of its winter, and the intolerable heat of
its summer, its population is immense, and its commerce enormous.
Russian merchandise is brought hither in large quantities by the way of
Kiakta.  The Tartars bring incessant herds of camels, oxen, and horses,
and carry back in exchange tobacco, linen, and tea.  This constant
arrival and departure of strangers communicates to the city an animated
and varied aspect.  All sorts of hawkers are at every corner offering
their petty wares; the regular traders, from behind their counters,
invite, with honeyed words and tempting offers, the passers-by to come in
and buy.  The Lamas, in their red and yellow robes, gallop up and down,
seeking admiration for their equestrianism, and the skilful management of
their fiery steeds.

The trade of Tolon-Noor is mostly in the hands of men from the province
of _Chan-Si_, who seldom establish themselves permanently in the town;
but after a few years, when their money-chest is filled, return to their
own country.  In this vast emporium, the Chinese invariably make
fortunes, and the Tartars invariably are ruined.  Tolon-Noor, in fact, is
a sort of great pneumatic pump, constantly at work in emptying the
pockets of the unlucky Mongols.

The magnificent statues, in bronze and brass, which issue from the great
foundries of Tolon-Noor, are celebrated not only throughout Tartary, but
in the remotest districts of Thibet.  Its immense workshops supply all
the countries subject to the worship of Buddha with idols, bells, and
vases employed in that idolatry.  While we were in the town, a monster
statue of Buddha, a present from a friend of Oudchou-Mourdchin to the
Talè-Lama, was packed for Thibet, on the backs of six camels.  The larger
statues are cast in detail, the component parts being afterwards soldered
together.

                     [Picture: Bell and Idol foundry]

We availed ourselves of our stay at Tolon-Noor to have a figure of Christ
constructed on the model of a bronze original which we had brought with
us from France.  The workmen so marvellously excelled, that it was
difficult to distinguish the copy from the original.  The Chinese work
more rapidly and cheaply, and their complaisance contrasts most
favourably with the tenacious self-opinion of their brethren in Europe.

During our stay at Tolon-Noor, we had frequent occasion to visit the
Lamaseries, or Lama monasteries, and to converse with the idolatrous
priests of Buddhism.  The Lamas appeared to us persons of very limited
information; and as to their symbolism, in general, it is little more
refined or purer than the creed of the vulgar.  Their doctrine is still
undecided, fluctuating amidst a vast fanaticism of which they can give no
intelligible account.  When we asked them for some distinct, clear,
positive idea what they meant, they were always thrown into utter
embarrassment, and stared at one another.  The disciples told us that
their masters knew all about it; the masters referred us to the
omniscience of the Grand Lamas; the Grand Lamas confessed themselves
ignorant, but talked of some wonderful saint, in some Lamasery at the
other end of the country: _he_ could explain the whole affair.  However,
all of them, disciples and masters, great Lamas and small, agreed in
this, that their doctrine came from the West.  “The nearer you approach
the West,” said they unanimously, “the purer and more luminous will the
doctrine manifest itself.”  When we expounded to them the truths of
Christianity, they never discussed the matter; they contented themselves
with calmly saying, “Well, we don’t suppose that our prayers are the only
prayers in the world.  The Lamas of the West will explain everything to
you.  We believe in the traditions that have come from the West.”

In point of fact there is no Lamasery of any importance in Tartary, the
Grand Lama or superior of which is not a man from Thibet.  Any Tartar
Lama who has visited _Lha-Ssa_ [Land of Spirits], or _Monhe-Dhot_
[Eternal Sanctuary], as it is called in the Mongol dialect, is received,
on his return, as a man to whom the mysteries of the past and of the
future have been unveiled.

After maturely weighing the information we had obtained from the Lamas,
it was decided that we should direct our steps towards the West.  On
October 1st we quitted Tolon-Noor; and it was not without infinite
trouble that we managed to traverse the filthy town with our camels.  The
poor animals could only get through the quagmire streets by fits and
starts; it was first a stumble, then a convulsive jump, then another
stumble and another jump, and so on.  Their loads shook on their backs,
and at every step we expected to see the camel and camel-load prostrate
in the mud.  We considered ourselves lucky when, at distant intervals, we
came to a comparatively dry spot, where the camels could travel, and we
were thus enabled to re-adjust and tighten the baggage.  Samdadchiemba
got into a desperate ill temper; he went on, and slipped, and went on
again, without uttering a single word, restricting the visible
manifestation of his wrath to a continuous biting of the lips.

Upon attaining at length the western extremity of the town, we got clear
of the filth indeed, but found ourselves involved in another evil.
Before us there was no road marked out, not the slightest trace of even a
path.  There was nothing but an apparently interminable chain of small
hills, composed of fine, moving sand, over which it was impossible to
advance at more than a snail’s pace, and this only with extreme labour.
Among these sand-hills, moreover, we were oppressed with an absolutely
stifling heat.  Our animals were covered with perspiration, ourselves
devoured with a burning thirst; but it was in vain that we looked round
in all directions, as we proceeded, for water; not a spring, not a pool,
not a drop presented itself.

It was already late, and we began to fear we should find no spot
favourable for the erection of our tent.  The ground, however, grew by
degrees firmer, and we at last discerned some signs of vegetation.
By-and-by, the sand almost disappeared, and our eyes were rejoiced with
the sight of continuous verdure.  On our left, at no great distance, we
saw the opening of a defile.  M. Gabet urged on his camel, and went to
examine the spot.  He soon made his appearance at the summit of a hill,
and with voice and hand directed us to follow him.  We hastened on, and
found that Providence had led us to a favourable position.  A small pool,
the waters of which were half concealed by thick reeds and other marshy
vegetation, some brushwood, a plot of grass: what could we under the
circumstances desire more?  Hungry, thirsty, weary as we were, the place
seemed a perfect Eden.

The camels were no sooner squatted, than we all three, with one accord,
and without a word said, seized, each man his wooden cup, and rushed to
the pond to satisfy his thirst.  The water was fresh enough; but it
affected the nose violently with its strong muriatic odour.  I remembered
to have drunk water just like it in the Pyrenees, at the good town of Ax,
and to have seen it for sale in the chemists’ shops elsewhere in France:
and I remembered, further, that by reason of its being particularly
stinking and particularly nasty, it was sold there at fifteen sous per
bottle.

After having quenched our thirst, our strength by degrees returned, and
we were then able to fix our tent, and each man to set about his especial
task.  M. Gabet proceeded to cut some bundles of horn-beam wood;
Samdadchiemba collected argols in the flap of his jacket; and M. Huc,
seated at the entrance of the tent, tried his hand at drawing a fowl, a
process which Arsalan, stretched at his side, watched with greedy eye,
having immediate reference to the entrails in course of removal.  We were
resolved, for once and away, to have a little festival in the desert; and
to take the opportunity to indulge our patriotism by initiating our
_Dchiahour_ in the luxury of a dish prepared according to the rules of
the _cuisinier Français_.  The fowl, artistically dismembered, was placed
at the bottom of our great pot.  A few roots of synapia, prepared in salt
water, some onions, a clove of garlic, and some allspice, constituted the
seasoning.  The preparation was soon boiling, for we were that day rich
in fuel.  Samdadchiemba, by-and-by, plunged his hand into the pot, drew
out a limb of the fowl, and, after carefully inspecting it, pronounced
supper to be ready.  The pot was taken from the trivet, and placed upon
the grass.  We all three seated ourselves around it, so that our knees
almost touched it, and each, armed with two chopsticks, fished out the
pieces he desired from the abundant broth before him.

When the meal was completed, and we had thanked God for the repast he had
thus provided us with in the desert, Samdadchiemba went and washed the
cauldron in the pond.  That done, he brewed us some tea.  The tea used by
the Tartars is not prepared in the same way as that consumed by the
Chinese.  The latter, it is known, merely employ the smaller and tenderer
leaves of the plant, which they simply infuse in boiling water, so as to
give it a golden tint; the coarser leaves, with which are mixed up the
smaller tendrils, are pressed together in a mould, in the form and of the
size of the ordinary house brick.  Thus prepared, it becomes an article
of considerable commerce, under the designation of Tartar-tea, the
Tartars being its exclusive consumers, with the exception of the
Russians, who drink great quantities of it.  When required for use, a
piece of the brick is broken off, pulverised, and boiled in the kettle,
until the water assumes a reddish hue.  Some salt is then thrown in, and
effervescence commences.  When the liquid has become almost black, milk
is added, and the beverage, the grand luxury of the Tartars, is then
transferred to the tea-pot.  Samdadchiemba was a perfect enthusiast of
this tea.  For our parts, we drank it in default of something better.

Next morning, after rolling up our tent, we quitted this asylum without
regret indeed, for we had selected and occupied it altogether without
preference.  However, before departing, we set up, as an _ex-voto_ of our
gratitude for its reception of us for a night, a small wooden cross, on
the site of our fire-place, and this precedent we afterwards followed, at
all our encamping places.  Could missionaries leave a more appropriate
memorial of their journey through the desert!

We had not advanced an hour’s journey on our way, when we heard behind us
the trampling of many horses, and the confused sound of many voices.  We
looked back, and saw hastening in our direction a numerous caravan.
Three horsemen soon overtook us, one of whom, whose costume bespoke him a
Tartar mandarin, addressed us with a loud voice, “Sirs, where is your
country?”  “We come from the west.”  “Through what districts has your
beneficial shadow passed?”  “We have last come from Tolon-Noor.”  “Has
peace accompanied your progress?”  “Hitherto we have journeyed in all
tranquillity.  And you: are you at peace?  And what is your country?”
“We are Khalkhas, of the kingdom of Mourguevan.”  “Have the rains been
abundant?  Are your flocks and herds flourishing?”  “All goes well in our
pasture-grounds.”  “Whither proceeds your caravan?”  “We go to incline
our foreheads before the Five Towers.”  The rest of the caravan had
joined us in the course of this abrupt and hurried conversation.  We were
on the banks of a small stream, bordered with brushwood.  The chief of
the caravan ordered a halt, and the camels formed, as each came up, a
circle, in the centre of which was drawn up a close carriage upon four
wheels.  ‘Sok! sok!’ cried the camel drivers, and at the word, and as
with one motion, the entire circle of intelligent animals knelt.  While
numerous tents, taken from their backs, were set up, as it were, by
enchantment, two mandarins, decorated with the blue button, approached
the carriages, opened the door, and handed out a Tartar lady, covered
with a long silk robe.  She was the Queen of the Khalkhas repairing in
pilgrimage to the famous Lamasery of the Five Towers, in the province of
_Chan-Si_.  When she saw us, she saluted us with the ordinary form of
raising both her hands: “Sirs Lamas,” she said, “is this place auspicious
for an encampment?”  “Royal Pilgrim of Mourguevan,” we replied, “you may
light your fires here in all security.  For ourselves, we must proceed on
our way, for the sun was already high when we folded our tent.”  And so
saying, we took our leave of the Tartars of Mourguevan.

[Picture: Queen of Mourguevan] Our minds were deeply excited upon
beholding this queen and her numerous suite performing this long
pilgrimage through the desert: no danger, no distance, no expense, no
privation deters the Mongols from their prosecution.  The Mongols are,
indeed, an essentially religious people; with them the future life is
everything; the things of this world nothing.  They live in the world as
though they were not of it; they cultivate no lands, they build no
houses; they regard themselves as foreigners travelling through life; and
this feeling, deep and universal, developes itself in the practical form
of incessant journeys.

The taste for pilgrimages which, at all periods of the world’s history,
has manifested itself in religious people, is a thing worthy of earnest
attention.  The worship of the true God led the Jews, several times a
year, to Jerusalem.  In profane antiquity, those who took any heed to
religious belief at all repaired to Egypt, in order to be initiated in
the mysteries of Osiris, and to seek lessons of wisdom from his priests.
It was to travellers that the mysterious sphynx of Mount Phicæus proposed
the profound enigma of which Œdipus discovered the solution.  In the
middle ages, the spirit of pilgrimage held predominant sway in Europe,
and the Christians of that epoch were full of fervour for this species of
devotion.  The Turks, while they were yet believers, repaired to Mecca in
great caravans; and in our travels in Central Asia, we constantly met
numerous pilgrims going to or fro, all of them profoundly filled with and
earnestly impelled by a sincere sentiment of religion.  It is to be
remarked that pilgrimages have diminished in Europe, in proportion as
faith has become rationalist, and as people have taken to discuss the
truths of religion.  Wherever faith remains earnest, simple,
unquestioning, in the breasts of men, these pilgrimages are in vigour.
The reason is, that the intensity of simple faith creates a peculiarly
profound and energetic feeling of the condition of man, as a wayfarer
upon the earth; and it is natural that this feeling should manifest
itself in pious wayfarings.  Indeed, the Catholic Church, which is the
depository of all truth, has introduced processions into the liturgy, as
a memorial of pilgrimages, and to remind men that this earth is a desert,
wherein we commence, with our birth, the awful journey of eternity.

We had left far behind us the pilgrims of Mourguevan, and began to regret
that we had not encamped in their company upon the banks of the pleasant
stream, and amid the fat pastures which it fed.  Sensations of fear grew
upon us, as we saw great clouds arise in the horizon, spread, and
gradually obscure the sky.  We looked anxiously around, in all
directions, for a place in which we could commodiously halt for the
night, but we saw no indication whatever of water.  While we were deep in
this perplexity, some large drops of rain told us that we had no time to
lose.  “Let us make haste, and set up the tent,” cried Samdadchiemba
vehemently.  “You need not trouble yourselves any more in looking for
water; you will have water enough presently.  Let us get under shelter
before the sky falls on our heads.”  “That is all very well,” said we,
“but we must have some water for the animals and ourselves to drink.  You
alone require a bucket of water for your tea every evening.  Where shall
we find some water?”  “My fathers, you will very speedily have more water
than you like.  Let us encamp, that’s the first thing to be done.  As to
thirst, no one will need to die of that this evening: dig but a few holes
about the tent, and they’ll soon overflow with rain-water.  But we need
not even dig holes,” added Samdadchiemba, extending his right hand; “do
you see that shepherd there and his flock?  You may be sure water is not
far off.”  Following with our eyes the direction of his finger, we
perceived in a lateral valley a man driving a large flock of sheep.  We
immediately turned aside, and hastened after the man.  The rain which now
began to fall in torrents redoubled our celerity.  To aggravate our
distress, the lading of one of the camels just at this moment became
loose, and slipped right round towards the ground, and we had to wait
while the camel knelt, and Samdadchiemba readjusted the baggage on its
back.  We were, consequently, thoroughly wet through before we reached a
small lake, now agitated and swollen by the falling torrent.  There was
no occasion for deliberating that evening as to the particular site on
which we should set up our tent; selection was out of the question, when
the ground all about was deeply saturated with the rain.

The violence of the rain itself mitigated; but the wind absolutely raged.
We had infinite trouble to unroll our miserable tents, heavy and
impracticable with wet, like a large sheet just taken from the
washing-tub.  The difficulty seemed insuperable when we attempted to
stretch it upon its poles, and we should never have succeeded at all, but
for the extraordinary muscular power with which Samdadchiemba was
endowed.  At length we effected a shelter from the wind, and from a small
cold rain with which it was accompanied.  When our lodging was
established, Samdadchiemba addressed us in these consolatory words:—“My
spiritual fathers, I told you we should not die to-day of thirst; but I
am not at all sure that we don’t run some risk of dying of hunger.”  In
point of fact, there seemed no possibility of making a fire.  There was
not a tree, not a shrub, not a root to be seen.  As to argols, they were
out of the question; the rain had long since reduced that combustible of
the desert to a liquid pulp.

We had formed our resolution, and were on the point of making a supper of
meal steeped in a little cold water, when we saw approaching us two
Tartars, leading a small camel.  After the usual salutations, one of them
said: “Sirs Lamas, this day the heavens have fallen; you, doubtless, have
been unable to make a fire.”  “Alas! how should we make a fire, when we
have no argols?”  “Men are all brothers, and belong each to the other.
But laymen should honour and serve the holy ones; therefore it is that we
have come to make a fire for you.”  The worthy Tartars had seen us
setting up our tent, and conceiving our embarrassment, had hastened to
relieve it by a present of two bundles of argols.  We thanked Providence
for this unexpected succour, and the _Dchiahour_ immediately made a fire,
and set about the preparation of an oatmeal supper.  The quantity was on
this occasion augmented in favour of the two friends who had so
opportunely presented themselves.

During our modest repast, we noticed that one of these Tartars was the
object of especial attention on the part of his comrade.  We asked him
what military grade he occupied in the Blue Banner.  “When the banners of
Tchakar marched two years ago against the Rebels of the South, {43} I
held the rank of Tchouanda.”  “What! were you in that famous war of the
South?  But how is it that you, shepherds of the plains, have also the
courage of soldiers?  Accustomed to a life of peace, one would imagine
that you would never be reconciled to the terrible trade of a soldier,
which consists in killing others or being killed yourselves.”  “Yes, yes,
we are shepherds, it is true; but we never forget that we are soldiers
also, and that the Eight Banners compose the army of reserve of the Grand
Master (the Emperor).  You know the rule of the Empire; when the enemy
appears, they send against them, first—the _Kitat_ soldiers; next, the
banners of the _Solon_ country are set in motion.  If the war is not
finished then, all they have to do is to give the signal to the banners
of the _Tchakar_, the mere sound of whose march always suffices to reduce
the rebels to subjection.”

“Were all the banners of Tchakar called together for this southern war?”
“Yes, all; at first it was thought a small matter, and every one said
that it would never affect the Tchakar.  The troops of Kitat went first,
but they did nothing; the banners of Solon also marched; but they could
not bear the heat of the South;—then the Emperor sent us his sacred
order.  Each man selected his best horse, removed the dust from his bow
and quiver, and scraped the rust from his lance.  In every tent a sheep
was killed for the feast of departure.  Women and children wept, but we
addressed to them the words of reason.  ‘Here,’ said we, ‘for six
generations have we received the benefits of the Sacred Master, and he
has asked from us nothing in return.  Now that he has need of us can we
hold back?  He has given to us the fine region of Tchakar to be a
pasture-land for our cattle, and at the same time a barrier for him
against the Khalkhas.  But now, since it is from the South the rebels
came, we must march to the South.’  Was not reason in our mouths, Sirs
Lamas?  Yes, we resolved to march.  The Sacred Ordinance reached us at
sun-rise, and already by noon the _Bochehous_ at the head of their men,
stood by the _Tchouanda_; next to these were the _Nourou-Tchayn_, and
then the _Ougourda_.  The same day we marched to Peking; from Peking they
led us to Tien-Tsin-Vei, where we remained for three months.”  “Did you
fight,” asked Samdadchiemba; “did you see the enemy?”  “No, they did not
dare to appear.  The Kitat told us everywhere that we were marching upon
certain and unavailing death.  ‘What can you do,’ asked they, ‘against
sea-monsters?  They live in the water like fish.  When you least expect
them, they appear on the surface, and hurl their fire-bombs at you; the
instant your bow is bent to shoot them, down they dive like frogs.’  Then
they essayed to frighten us; but we soldiers of the Eight Banners know
not fear.  Before our departure the great Lamas had opened the Book of
Celestial Secrets, and had thence learned that the matter would end well
for us.  The Emperor had attached to each Tchouanda a Lama, learned in
medicine, and skilled in all the sacred auguries, who was to cure all the
soldiers under him of the diseases of the climate, and to protect us from
the magic of the sea monsters.  What then had we to fear?  The rebels,
hearing that the invincible troops of Tchakar were approaching, were
seized with fear, and sought peace.  The Sacred Master, of his immense
mercy, granted it, and we returned to the care of our flocks.”

[Picture: The Emperor Tao-Kouang] The narrative of this _Illustrious
Sword_ was to us full of intense interest.  We forgot for a moment the
misery of our position amid the desert.  We were eager to collect further
details of the expedition of the English against China; but night
falling, the two Tartars took their way homeward.

Thus left once more alone, our thoughts became exceedingly sad and
sombre.  We shuddered at the idea so recalled to us of the long night
just commencing.  How were we to get any sleep?  The interior of the tent
was little better than a mud heap; the great fire we had been keeping up
had not half dried our clothes; it had merely resolved a portion of the
water into a thick vapour that steamed about us.  The furs, which we used
at night by way of mattress, were in a deplorable condition, not a whit
better for the purpose than the skin of a drowned cat.  In this doleful
condition of things, a reflection, full of gentle melancholy, came into
our minds, and consoled us; we remembered that we were the disciples of
Him who said, “The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests;
but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.”

We became so fatigued, after remaining awake the greater part of the
night, that sleep conquering us, we fell into a restless doze, seated
over the embers of the fire, our arms crossed, and our heads bent
forward, in the most uncomfortable position possible.

It was with extreme delight that we hailed the termination of that long
and dreary night.  At daybreak, the blue, cloudless sky, presaged
compensation for the wretchedness of the preceding evening.  By-and-by,
the sun rising clear and brilliant, inspired us with the hope that our
still wet clothes would soon get dry as we proceeded on our way.  We
speedily made all preparations for departure, and the caravan set forth.
The weather was magnificent.  By degrees, the large grass of the prairie
raised its broad head, which had been depressed by the heavy rain; the
ground became firmer, and we experienced, with delight, the gentle heat
of the sun’s ascending rays.  At last, to complete our satisfaction, we
entered upon the plains of the Red Banner, the most picturesque of the
whole Tchakar.

_Tchakar_ signifies, in the Mongol tongue, _Border Land_.  This country
is limited, on the east by the kingdom of _Gechekten_, on the west by
_Western Toumet_, on the north by the _Souniot_, on the south by the
Great Wall.  Its extent is 150 leagues long, by 100 broad.  The
inhabitants of the _Tchakar_ are all paid soldiers of the Emperor.  The
foot soldiers receive twelve ounces of silver per annum, and the cavalry
twenty-four.

The _Tchakar_ is divided into eight banners—in Chinese
_Pa-Ki_—distinguished by the name of eight colours: white, blue, red,
yellow, French white, light blue, pink, and light yellow.  Each banner
has its separate territory, and a tribunal, named _Nourou-Tchayn_, having
jurisdiction over all the matters that may occur in the Banner.  Besides
this tribunal, there is, in each of the Eight Banners, a chief called
_Ou-Gourdha_.  Of the eight _Ou-Gourdhas_ one is selected to fill at the
same time, the post of governor-general of the Eight Banners.  All these
dignitaries are nominated and paid by the Emperor of China.  In fact, the
Tchakar is nothing more nor less than a vast camp, occupied by an army of
reserve.  In order, no doubt, that this army may be at all times ready to
march at the first signal, the Tartars are severely prohibited to
cultivate the land.  They must live upon their pay, and upon the produce
of their flocks and herds.  The entire soil of the Eight Banners is
inalienable.  It sometimes happens that an individual sells his portion
to some Chinese; but the sale is always declared null and void if it
comes in any shape before the tribunals.

It is in these pasturages of the Tchakar that are found the numerous and
magnificent herds and flocks of the Emperor, consisting of camels,
horses, cattle, and sheep.  There are 360 herds of horses alone, each
numbering 1200 horses.  It is easy from this one detail, to imagine the
enormous extent of animals possessed here by the Emperor.  A Tartar,
decorated with the white button, has charge of each herd.  At certain
intervals, inspectors-general visit the herds, and if any deficiency in
the number is discovered, the chief herdsman has to make it good at his
own cost.  Notwithstanding this impending penalty, the Tartars do not
fail to convert to their own use the wealth of the Sacred Master, by
means of a fraudulent exchange.  Whenever a Chinese has a broken-winded
horse, or a lame ox, he takes it to the imperial herdsman, who, for a
trifling consideration, allows him to select what animal he pleases in
exchange, from among the imperial herds.  Being thus always provided with
the actual number of animals, they can benefit by their fraud in perfect
security.

Never in more splendid weather had we traversed a more splendid country.
The desert is at times horrible, hideous; but it has also its
charms—charms all the more intensely appreciated, because they are rare
in themselves, and because they would in vain be sought in populated
countries.  Tartary has an aspect altogether peculiar to itself: there is
nothing in the world that at all resembles a Tartar landscape.  In
civilised countries you find, at every step, populous towns, a rich and
varied cultivation, the thousand and one productions of arts and
industry, the incessant movements of commerce.  You are constantly
impelled onwards, carried away, as it were, by some vast whirlwind.  On
the other hand, in countries where civilisation has not as yet made its
way into the light, you ordinarily find nothing but primeval forests in
all the pomp of their exuberant and gigantic vegetation.  The soul seems
crushed beneath a nature all powerful and majestic.  There is nothing of
the kind in Tartary.  There are no towns, no edifices, no arts, no
industry, no cultivation, no forests; everywhere it is prairie, sometimes
interrupted by immense lakes, by majestic rivers, by rugged and imposing
mountains; sometimes spreading out into vast limitless plains.  There, in
these verdant solitudes, the bounds of which seem lost in the remote
horizon, you might imagine yourself gently rocking on the calm waves of
some broad ocean.  The aspect of the prairies of Mongolia excites neither
joy nor sorrow, but rather a mixture of the two, a sentiment of gentle,
religious melancholy, which gradually elevates the soul, without wholly
excluding from its contemplation the things of this world; a sentiment
which belongs rather to Heaven than to earth, and which seems in
admirable conformity with the nature of intellect served by organs.

You sometimes in Tartary come upon plains more animated than those you
have just traversed; they are those, whither the greater supply of water
and the choicest pastures have attracted for a time a number of nomadic
families.  There you see rising in all directions tents of various
dimensions, looking like balloons newly inflated, and just about to take
their flight into the air.  Children, with a sort of hod at their backs,
run about collecting argols, which they pile up in heaps around their
respective tents.  The matrons look after the calves, make tea in the
open air, or prepare milk in various ways; the men, mounted on fiery
horses, and armed with a long pole, gallop about, guiding to the best
pastures the great herds of cattle which undulate, in the distance all
around, like waves of the sea.

All of a sudden these pictures, so full of animation, disappear, and you
see nothing of that which of late was so full of life.  Men, tents,
herds, all have vanished in the twinkling of an eye.  You merely see in
the desert heaps of embers, half-extinguished fires, and a few bones, of
which birds of prey are disputing the possession.  Such are the sole
vestiges which announce that a Mongol tribe has just passed that way.  If
you ask the reason of these abrupt migrations, it is simply this:—the
animals having devoured all the grass that grew in the vicinity, the
chief had given the signal for departure; and all the shepherds, folding
their tents, had driven their herds before them, and proceeded, no matter
whither, in search of fresh fields and pastures new.

                       [Picture: Tartar Encampment]

After having journeyed the entire day through the delicious prairies of
the Red Banner, we halted to encamp for the night in a valley that seemed
full of people.  We had scarcely alighted, when a number of Tartars
approached, and offered their services.  After having assisted us to
unload our camels, and set up our house of blue linen, they invited us to
come and take tea in their tents.  As it was late, however, we stayed at
home, promising to pay them a visit next morning; for the hospitable
invitation of our new neighbours determined us to remain for a day
amongst them.  We were, moreover, very well pleased to profit by the
beauty of the weather, and of the locality, to recover from the fatigues
we had undergone the day before.

Next morning, the time not appropriated to our little household cares,
and the recitation of our Breviary, was devoted to visiting the Mongol
tents, Samdadchiemba being left at home in charge of the tent.

We had to take especial care to the safety of our legs, menaced by a
whole host of watchdogs.  A small stick sufficed for the purpose; but
Tartar etiquette required us to leave these weapons at the threshold of
our host’s abode.  To enter a man’s tent with a whip or a stick in your
hand is as great an insult as you can offer to the family; and quite
tantamount to saying, “You are all dogs.”

Visiting amongst the Tartars is a frank, simple affair, altogether exempt
from the endless formalities of Chinese gentility.  On entering, you give
the word of peace _amor_ or _mendou_, to the company generally.  You then
seat yourself on the right of the head of the family, whom you find
squatting on the floor, opposite the entrance.  Next, everybody takes
from a purse suspended at his girdle a little snuff-bottle, and mutual
pinches accompany such phrases as these: “Is the pasturage with you rich
and abundant?”  “Are your herds in fine condition?”  “Are your mares
productive?”  “Did you travel in peace?”  “Does tranquillity prevail?”
and so on.  These questions and their answers being interchanged always
with intense gravity on both sides, the mistress of the tent, without
saying a word, holds out her hand to the visitor.  He as silently takes
from his breast-pocket the small wooden bowl, the indispensable
vade-mecum of all Tartars, and presents it to his hostess, who fills it
with tea and milk, and returns it.  In the richer, more easily
circumstanced families, visitors have a small table placed before them,
on which is butter, oatmeal, grated millet, and bits of cheese,
separately contained in little boxes of polished wood.  These Tartar
delicacies the visitors take mixed with their tea.  Such as propose to
treat their guests in a style of perfect magnificence make them partakers
of a bottle of Mongol wine, warmed in the ashes.  This wine is nothing
more than skimmed milk, subjected for awhile to vinous fermentation, and
distilled through a rude apparatus that does the office of an alembic.
One must be a thorough Tartar to relish or even endure this beverage, the
flavour and odour of which are alike insipid.

The Mongol tent, for about three feet from the ground, is cylindrical in
form.  It then becomes conical, like a pointed hat.  The woodwork of the
tent is composed below of a trellis-work of crossed bars, which fold up
and expand at pleasure.  Above these, a circle of poles, fixed in the
trellis-work, meets at the top, like the sticks of an umbrella.  Over the
woodwork is stretched, once or twice, a thick covering of coarse linen,
and thus the tent is composed.  The door, which is always a folding door,
is low and narrow.  A beam crosses it at the bottom by way of threshold,
so that on entering you have at once to raise your feet and lower your
head.  Besides the door there is another opening at the top of the tent
to let out the smoke.  This opening can at any time be closed with a
piece of felt fastened above it in the tent, and which can be pulled over
it by means of a string, the end of which hangs by the door.

                   [Picture: Interior of a Tartar Tent]

The interior is divided into two compartments; that on the left, as you
enter, is reserved for the men, and thither the visitors proceed.  Any
man who should enter on the right side would be considered excessively
rude.  The right compartment is occupied by the women, and there you find
the culinary utensils: large earthen vessels of glazed earth, wherein to
keep the store of water; trunks of trees, of different sizes, hollowed
into the shape of pails, and destined to contain the preparations of
milk, in the various forms which they make it undergo.  In the centre of
the tent is a large trivet, planted in the earth, and always ready to
receive the large iron bell-shaped cauldron that stands by, ready for
use.

Behind the hearth, and facing the door, is a kind of sofa, the most
singular piece of furniture that we met with among the Tartars.  At the
two ends are two pillows, having at their extremity plates of copper,
gilt, and skilfully engraved.  There is probably not a single tent where
you do not find this little couch, which seems to be an essential article
of furniture; but, strange to say, during our long journey we never saw
one of them which seemed to have been recently made.  We had occasion to
visit Mongol families, where everything bore the mark of easy
circumstances, even of affluence, but everywhere alike this singular
couch was shabby, and of ancient fabric.  But yet it seems made to last
for ever, and is regularly transmitted from generation to generation.

In the towns where Tartar commerce is carried on, you may hunt through
every furniture shop, every brokers, every pawnbroker’s, but you meet
with not one of these pieces of furniture, new or old.

At the side of the couch, towards the men’s quarter, there is ordinarily
a small square press, which contains the various odds and ends that serve
to set off the costume of this simple people.  This chest serves likewise
as an altar for a small image of Buddha.  The divinity, in wood or
copper, is usually in a sitting posture, the legs crossed, and enveloped
up to the neck in a scarf of old yellow silk.  Nine copper vases, of the
size and form of our liqueur glasses, are symmetrically arranged before
Buddha.  It is in these small chalices that the Tartars daily make to
their idol offerings of water, milk, butter, and meal.  A few Thibetian
books, wrapped in yellow silk, perfect the decoration of the little
pagoda.  Those whose heads are shaved, and who observe celibacy, have
alone the privilege of touching these prayer-books.  A layman, who should
venture to take them into his impure and profane hands, would commit a
sacrilege.

A number of goats’ horns, fixed in the woodwork of the tent, complete the
furniture of the Mongol habitation.  On these hang the joints of beef or
mutton destined for the family’s use, vessels filled with butter, bows,
arrows, and matchlocks; for there is scarcely a Tartar family which does
not possess at least one firearm.  We were, therefore, surprised to find
M. Timkouski, in his Journey to Peking, {51} making this strange
statement: “The sound of our fire-arms attracted the attention of the
Mongols, who are acquainted only with bows and arrows.”  The Russian
writer should have known that fire-arms are not so foreign to the Tartars
as he imagined; since it is proved that already, as early as the
commencement of the 13th century, _Tcheng-Kis-Khan_ had artillery in his
armies.

The odour pervading the interior of the Mongol tents, is, to those not
accustomed to it, disgusting and almost insupportable.  This smell, so
potent sometimes that it seems to make one’s heart rise to one’s throat,
is occasioned by the mutton grease and butter with which everything on or
about a Tartar is impregnated.  It is on account of this habitual filth,
that they are called _Tsao-Ta-Dze_, (Stinking Tartars), by the Chinese,
themselves not altogether inodorous, or by any means particular about
cleanliness.

Among the Tartars, household and family cares rest entirely upon the
woman; it is she who milks the cows, and prepares the butter, cheese,
etc.; who goes, no matter how far, to draw water; who collects the argol
fuel, dries it, and piles it around the tent.  The making of clothes, the
tanning of skins, the fulling of cloth, all appertains to her; the sole
assistance she obtains, in these various labours, being that of her sons,
and then only while they are quite young.

The occupations of the men are of very limited range; they consist wholly
in conducting the flocks and herds to pasture.  This for men accustomed
from their infancy to horseback is rather an amusement than a labour.  In
point of fact, the nearest approach to fatigue they ever incur, is when
some of their cattle escape; they then dash off at full gallop, in
pursuit, up hill and down dale, until they have found the missing
animals, and brought them back to the herd.  The Tartars sometimes hunt;
but it is rather with a view to what they can catch than from any
amusement they derive from the exercise; the only occasions on which they
go out with their bows and matchlocks are when they desire to shoot
roebucks, deer, or pheasants, as presents for their chiefs.  Foxes they
always course.  To shoot them, or take them in traps, would, they
consider, injure the skin, which is held in high estimation among them.
They ridicule the Chinese immensely on account of their trapping these
animals at night.  “We,” said a famous hunter of the Red Banner to us,
“set about the thing in an honest straightforward way.  When we see a
fox, we jump on horseback, and gallop after him till we have run him
down.”

With the exception of their equestrian exercises, the Mongol Tartars pass
their time in an absolute _far niente_, sleeping all night, and squatting
all day in their tents, dosing, drinking tea, or smoking.  At intervals,
however, the Tartar conceives a fancy to take a lounge abroad; and his
lounge is somewhat different from that of the Parisian idler; he needs
neither cane nor quizzing glass; but when the fancy occurs, he takes down
his whip from its place above the door, mounts his horse, always ready
saddled outside the door, and dashes off into the desert, no matter
whither.  When he sees another horseman in the distance, he rides up to
him; when he sees the smoke of a tent, he rides up to that; the only
object in either case being to have a chat with some new person.

The two days we passed in these fine plains of the _Tchakar_, were not
without good use.  We were able at leisure to dry and repair our clothes
and our baggage; but, above all, it gave us an opportunity to study the
Tartars close at hand, and to initiate ourselves in the habits of the
nomad peoples.  As we were making preparations for departure, these
temporary neighbours aided us to fold our tent and to load our camels.
“Sirs Lamas,” said they, “you had better encamp to-night at the Three
Lakes; the pasturage there is good and abundant.  If you make haste you
will reach the place before sunset.  On this side, and on the other side
of the Three Lakes, there is no water for a considerable distance.  Sirs
Lamas, a good journey to you!”  “Peace be with you, and fare well!”
responded we, and with that proceeded once more on our way, Samdadchiemba
heading the caravan, mounted on his little black mule.  We quitted this
encampment without regret, just as we had quitted preceding encampments;
except indeed, that here we left, on the spot where our tent had stood, a
greater heap of ashes, and that the grass around it was more trodden than
was usual with us.

During the morning the weather was magnificent, though somewhat cold.
But in the afternoon the north wind rose, and began to blow with extreme
violence.  It soon became so cutting, that we regretted we had not with
us our great fur caps, to operate as a protector for the face.  We
hurried on, in order the sooner to reach the Three Lakes, and to have the
shelter there of our dear tent.  In the hope of discovering these lakes,
that had been promised us by our late friends, we were constantly looking
right and left, but in vain.  It grew late, and, according to the
information of the Tartars, we began to fear we must have passed the only
encampment we were likely to find that day.  By dint of straining our
eyes, we at length got sight of a horseman, slowly riding along the
bottom of a lateral valley.  He was at some distance from us; but it was
essential that we should obtain information from him.  M. Gabet
accordingly hastened after him, at the utmost speed of his tall camel’s
long legs.  The horseman heard the cries of the camel, looked back, and
seeing that some one was approaching him, turned his horse round, and
galloped towards M. Gabet.  As soon as he got within ear-shot: “Holy
personage,” cried he, “has your eye perceived the yellow goats?  I have
lost all traces of them.”  “I have not seen the yellow goats; I seek
water, and cannot find it.  Is it far hence?”  “Whence came you?  Whither
go you?”  “I belong to the little caravan you see yonder.  We have been
told that we should this evening on our way, find lakes, upon the banks
of which we could commodiously encamp; but hitherto we have seen nothing
of the kind.”  “How could that be?  ’Tis but a few minutes ago you passed
within a few yards of the water.  Sir Lama, permit me to attend your
shadow; I will guide you to the Three Lakes.”  And so saying, he gave his
horse three swinging lashes with his whip, in order to put it into a pace
commensurate with that of the camel.  In a minute he had joined us.  “Men
of prayer,” said the hunter, “you have come somewhat too far; you must
turn back.  Look” (pointing with his bow) “yonder; you see those storks
hovering over some reeds: there you will find the Three Lakes.”  “Thanks,
brother,” said we; “we regret that we cannot show you your yellow goats
as clearly as you have shown us the Three Lakes.”  The Mongol hunter
saluted us, with his clasped hands raised to his forehead, and we
proceeded with entire confidence towards the spot he had pointed out.  We
had advanced but a few paces before we found indications of the near
presence of some peculiar waters.  The grass was less continuous and less
green, and cracked under our animals’ hoofs like dried leaves; the white
efflorescence of saltpetre manifested itself more and more thickly.  At
last we found ourselves on the bank of one lake, near which were two
others.  We immediately alighted, and set about erecting our tent; but
the wind was so violent that it was only after long labour and much
patience that we completed the task.

While Samdadchiemba was boiling our tea, we amused ourselves with
watching the camels as they luxuriously licked up the saltpetre with
which the ground was powdered.  Next they bent over the edge of the lake,
and inhaled long, insatiable draughts of the brackish water, which we
could see ascending their long necks as up some flexible pump.

We had been for some time occupied in this not unpicturesque recreation,
when, all of a sudden, we heard behind us a confused, tumultuous noise,
resembling the vehement flapping of sails, beaten about by contrary and
violent winds.  Soon we distinguished, amid the uproar, loud cries
proceeding from Samdadchiemba.  We hastened towards him, and were just in
time to prevent, by our co-operation, the typhoon from uprooting and
carrying off our linen _louvre_.  Since our arrival, the wind, augmenting
in violence, had also changed its direction; so that it now blew exactly
from the quarter facing which we had placed the opening of our tent.  We
had especial occasion to fear that the tent would be set on fire by the
lighted argols that were driven about by the wind.  Our first business
therefore was to tack about; and after a while we succeeded in making our
tent secure, and so got off with our fear and a little fatigue.  The
misadventure, however, put Samdadchiemba into a desperately bad humour
throughout the evening; for the wind, by extinguishing the fire, delayed
the preparation of his darling tea.

The wind fell as the night advanced, and by degrees the weather became
magnificent; the sky was clear, the moon full and bright, and the stars
glittered like diamonds.  Alone, in this vast solitude, we distinguished
in the distance only the fantastic and indistinct outline of the
mountains which loomed in the horizon like gigantic phantoms, while the
only sound we heard was the cries of the thousand aquatic birds, as, on
the surface of the lakes, they contended for the ends of the reeds and
the broad leaves of the water-lily.  Samdadchiemba was by no means a
person to appreciate the charms of this tranquil scene.  He had succeeded
in again lighting the fire, and was absorbed in the preparation of his
tea.  We accordingly left him squatted before the kettle, and went to
recite the service, walking round the larger lake, which was nearly half
a league in circuit.  We had proceeded about half round it, praying
alternately, when insensibly our voices fell, and our steps were stayed.
We both stopped spontaneously, and listened intently, without venturing
to interchange a word, and even endeavouring to suppress our respiration.
At last we expressed to each other the cause of our mutual terror, but it
was in tones low and full of emotion: “Did you not hear, just now, and
quite close to us, what seemed the voices of men?”  “Yes, a number of
voices, speaking as though in secret consultation.”  “Yet we are alone
here:—’tis very surprising.  Hist! let us listen again.”  “I hear
nothing; doubtless we were under some illusion.”  We resumed our walk,
and the recitation of our prayers.  But we had not advanced ten steps,
before we again stopped; for we heard, and very distinctly, the noise
which had before alarmed us, and which seemed the confused vague murmur
of several voices discussing some point in under tones.  Yet nothing was
visible.  We got upon a hillock, and thence, by the moon’s light, saw, at
a short distance, some human forms moving in the long grass.  We could
hear their voices too, but not distinctly enough to know whether they
spoke Chinese or Tartar.  We retraced our steps to our tent, as rapidly
as was consistent with the maintenance of silence; for we took these
people to be robbers, who, having perceived our tent, were deliberating
as to the best means of pillaging us.

“We are not in safety here,” said we to Samdadchiemba; “we have
discovered, quite close to us, a number of men, and we have heard their
voices.  Go and collect the animals, and bring them to the tent.”  “But,”
asked Samdadchiemba, knitting his brows, “if the robbers come, what shall
we do?  May we fight them?  May we kill them?  Will Holy Church permit
that?”  “First go and collect the animals; afterwards we will tell you
what we must do.”  The animals being brought together, and fastened
outside the tent, we directed our intrepid Samdadchiemba to finish his
tea, and we returned on tip-toe to the spot where we had seen and heard
our mysterious visitors.  We looked around in every direction, with eye
and ear intent; but we could neither see nor hear any one.  A
well-trodden pathway, however, which we discovered among the reeds of
tall grass on the margin of the greater lake, indicated to us that those
whom we had taken to be robbers were inoffensive passengers, whose route
lay in that direction.  We returned joyfully to our tent, where we found
our valorous Samdadchiemba actively employed in sharpening, upon the top
of his leather boots, a great Russian cutlass, which he had purchased at
_Tolon-Noor_.  “Well,” exclaimed he, fiercely, trying with his thumb the
edge of his sword, “where are the robbers?”  “There are no robbers;
unroll the goat-skins, that we may go to sleep.”  “’Tis a pity there are
no robbers; for here is something that would have cut into them
famously!”  “Ay, ay, Samdadchiemba, you are wonderfully brave now,
because you know there are no robbers.”  “Oh, my spiritual fathers, it is
not so; one should always speak the words of candour.  I admit that my
memory is very bad, and that I have never been able to learn many
prayers; but as to courage, I may boast of having as much of it as
another.”  We laughed at this singularly expressed sally.  “You laugh, my
spiritual fathers,” said Samdadchiemba.  “Oh, you do not know the
Dchiahours.  In the west, the land of _San-Tchouan_ (Three Valleys)
enjoys much renown.  My countrymen hold life in little value; they have
always a sabre by their side, and a long matchlock on their shoulder.
For a word, for a look, they fight and kill one another.  A Dchiahour,
who has never killed any one, is considered to have no right to hold his
head up among his countrymen.  He cannot pretend to the character of a
brave man.”  “Very fine!  Well, you are a brave man, you say: tell us how
many men did you kill when you were in the Three Valleys?”  Samdadchiemba
seemed somewhat disconcerted by this question; he looked away, and broke
out into a forced laugh.  At last, by way of diverting the subject, he
plunged his cup into the kettle, and drew it out full of tea.  “Come,”
said we, “drink your tea, and then tell us about your exploits.”

Samdadchiemba wiped his cup with the skirt of his jacket, and having
replaced it in his bosom, addressed us gravely, thus: “My spiritual
fathers, since you desire I should speak to you about myself, I will do
so; it was a great sin I committed, but I think Jehovah pardoned me when
I entered the holy Church.

“I was quite a child, not more at the utmost, than seven years old.  I
was in the fields about my father’s house, tending an old she-donkey, the
only animal we possessed.  One of my companions, a boy about my own age,
came to play with me.  We began quarrelling, and from words fell to
blows.  I struck him on the head with a great root of a tree that I had
in my hand, and the blow was so heavy that he fell motionless at my feet.
When I saw my companion stretched on the earth, I stood for a moment as
it were paralysed, not knowing what to think or to do.  Then an awful
fear came over me, that I should be seized and killed.  I looked all
about me in search of a hole wherein I might conceal my companion, but I
saw nothing of the kind.  I then thought of hiding myself.  At a short
distance from our house there was a great pile of brushwood, collected
for fuel.  I directed my steps thither, and with great labour made a
hole, into which, after desperately scratching myself, I managed to creep
up to my neck, resolved never to come out of it.

“When night fell, I found they were seeking me.  My mother was calling me
in all directions; but I took good care not to answer.  I was even
anxious not to move the brushwood, lest the sound should lead to my
discovery, and, as I anticipated, to my being killed.  I was terribly
frightened when I heard a number of people crying out, and disputing, I
concluded, about me.  The night passed away; in the morning I felt
devouringly hungry.  I began to cry; but I could not even cry at my ease,
for I feared to be discovered by the people whom I heard moving about,
and I was resolved never to quit the brushwood.”—“But were you not afraid
you should die of hunger?”—“The idea never occurred to me; I felt hungry
indeed, but that was all.  The reason I had for concealing myself was
that I might not die; for I thought that if they did not find me, of
course they could not kill me.”—“Well, and how long did you remain in the
brushwood?”—“Well, I have often heard people say that you can’t remain
long without eating; but those who say so, never tried the experiment.  I
can answer for it, that a boy of seven years old can live, at all events,
three days and four nights, without eating anything whatever.

“After the fourth night, early in the morning, they found me in my hole.
When I felt they were taking me out, I struggled as well as I could, and
endeavoured to get away.  My father took me by the arm.  I cried and
sobbed, ‘Do not kill me, do not kill me,’ cried I; ‘it was not I who
killed _Nasamboyan_.’  They carried me to the house, for I would not
walk.  While I wept, in utter despair, the people about me laughed.  At
last they told me not to be afraid, for that Nasamboyan was not dead, and
soon afterwards Nasamboyan came into the room as well as ever, only that
he had a great bruise on his face.  The blow I had struck him had merely
knocked him down, and stunned him.”

When the Dchiahour had finished this narrative, he looked at us in turns,
laughing and repeating, again and again, “Who will say people cannot live
without eating?”  “Well,” said we, “this is a very good beginning,
Samdadchiemba; but you have not told us yet how many men you have
killed.”  “I never killed any one; but that was merely because I did not
stay long enough in my native Three Valleys; for at the age of ten they
put me into a great Lamasery.  I had for my especial master a very rough,
cross man, who gave me the strap every day, because I could not repeat
the prayers he taught me.  But it was to no purpose he beat me; I could
learn nothing: so he left off teaching me, and sent me out to fetch water
and collect fuel.  But he continued to thrash me as hard as over, until
the life I led became quite insupportable, and at last I ran off with
some provisions, and made my way towards Tartary.  After walking several
days, haphazard, and perfectly ignorant where I was, I encountered the
train of a Grand Lama who was repairing to Peking.  I joined the caravan,
and was employed to take charge of a flock of sheep that accompanied the
party, and served for its food.  There was no room for me in any of the
tents, so I had to sleep in the open air.  One evening I took up my
quarters behind a rock, which sheltered me from the wind.  In the
morning, waking somewhat later than usual, I found the encampment struck,
and the people all gone.  I was left alone in the desert.  At this time I
knew nothing about east, west, north, or south; I had consequently no
resource but to wander on at random, until I should find some Tartar
station.  I lived in this way for three years—now here, now there,
exchanging such slight services as I could render for my food and
tent-room.  At last I reached Peking, and presented myself at the gate of
the Great Lamasery of _Hoang-Sse_, which is entirely composed of
Dchiahour and Thibetian Lamas.  I was at once admitted, and my countrymen
having clubbed together to buy me a red scarf and a yellow cap, I was
enabled to join the chorus in the recitation of prayers, and, of
consequence, to claim my share in the distribution of alms.”—We
interrupted Samdadchiemba at this point, in order to learn from him how
he could take part in the recitation of prayers, without having learned
either to read or pray.—“Oh,” said he, “the thing was easy enough.  They
gave me an old book; I held it on my knees, and mumbling out some
gibberish between my lips, endeavoured to catch the tone of my
neighbours.  When they turned over a leaf, I turned over a leaf; so that,
altogether, there was no reason why the leader of the chorus should take
any notice of my manœuvre.

“One day, however, a circumstance occurred that very nearly occasioned my
expulsion from the Lamasery.  An ill-natured Lama, who had remarked my
method of reciting the prayers, used to amuse himself with mocking me,
and creating a laugh at my expense.  When the Emperor’s mother died, we
were all invited to the _Yellow Palace_ to recite prayers.  Before the
ceremony commenced, I was sitting quietly in my place, with my book on my
knees, when this roguish fellow came gently behind me, and looking over
my shoulder mumbled out something or other in imitation of my manner.
Losing all self-possession, I gave him so hard a blow upon the face, that
he fell on his back.  The incident excited great confusion in the _Yellow
Palace_.  The superiors were informed of the matter, and by the severe
rules of Thibetian discipline, I was liable to be flogged for three days
with the black whip, and then, my hands and feet in irons, to be
imprisoned for a year in the tower of the Lamasery.  One of the
principals, however, who had taken notice of me before, interposed in my
favour.  He went to the Lamas who constituted the council of discipline,
and represented to them the fact that the disciple who had been struck
was a person notorious for annoying his companions, and that I had
received extreme provocation from him.  He spoke so warmly in my favour
that I was pardoned on the mere condition of making an apology.  I
accordingly placed myself in the way of the Lama whom I had offended:
‘Brother,’ said I, ‘shall we go and drink a cup of tea together?’
‘Certainly,’ replied he; ‘there is no reason why I should not drink a cup
of tea with you.’  We went out, and entered the first tea-house that
presented itself.  Seating ourselves at one of the tables in the
tea-room, I offered my snuff bottle to my companion, saying: ‘Elder
brother, the other day we had a little disagreement; that was not well.
You must confess that you were not altogether free from blame.  I, on my
part, admit that I dealt too heavy a blow.  But the matter has grown old;
we will think no more about it.’  We then drank our tea, interchanged
various civilities, and so the thing ended.”

These and similar anecdotes of our Dchiahour had carried us far into the
night.  The camels, indeed, were already up and browsing their breakfast
on the banks of the lake.  We had but brief time before us for repose.
“For my part,” said Samdadchiemba, “I will not lie down at all, but look
after the camels.  Day will soon break.  Meantime I’ll make a good fire,
and prepare the _pan-tan_.”

It was not long before Samdadchiemba roused us with the intimation that
the sun was up, and the _pan-tan_ ready.  We at once rose, and after
eating a cup of _pan-tan_, or, in other words, of oatmeal diluted with
boiling water, we planted our little cross upon a hillock, and proceeded
upon our pilgrimage.

It was past noon when we came to a place where three wells had been dug,
at short distances, the one from the other.  Although it was early in the
day, we still thought we had better encamp here.  A vast plain, on which
we could discern no sort of habitation, stretched out before us to the
distant horizon; and we might fairly conclude it destitute of water,
since the Tartars had taken the trouble to dig these wells.  We therefore
set up our tent.  We soon found, however, that we had selected a
detestable encampment.  With excessive nastiness of very brackish and
very fetid water was combined extreme scarcity of fuel.  We looked about
for argols, but in vain.  At last Samdadchiemba, whose eyes were better
than ours, discerned in the distance a sort of enclosure, in which he
concluded that cattle had been folded.  He took a camel with him to the
place in the hope of finding plenty of argols there, and he certainly
returned with an ample supply of the article; but unfortunately the
precious manure-fuel was not quite dry; it absolutely refused to burn.
The Dchiahour essayed an experiment.  He hollowed out a sort of furnace
in the ground, surmounting it with a turf chimney.  The structure was
extremely picturesque, but it laboured under the enormous disadvantage of
being wholly useless.  Samdadchiemba arranged and re-arranged his fuel,
and puffed, and puffed, with the full force of his potent lungs.  It was
all lost labour.  There was smoke enough, and to spare; we were enveloped
in smoke, but not a spark of fire: and the water in the kettle remained
relentlessly passive.  It was obvious that to boil our tea or heat
oatmeal was out of the question.  Yet we were anxious, at all events, to
take the chill off the water, so as to disguise, by the warmth, its
brackish flavour and its disagreeable smell.  We adopted this expedient.

You meet in the plains of Mongolia with a sort of grey squirrel, living
in holes like rats.  These animals construct, over the opening of their
little dens, a sort of miniature dome, composed of grass, artistically
twisted, and designed as a shelter from wind and rain.  These little
heaps of dry grass are of the form and size of molehills.  The place
where we had now set up our tent abounded with these grey squirrels.
Thirst made us cruel, and we proceeded to level the house-domes of these
poor little animals, which retreated into their holes below as we
approached them.  By means of this vandalism we managed to collect a
sackful of efficient fuel, and so warmed the water of the well, which was
our only aliment during the day.

Our provisions had materially diminished, notwithstanding the economy to
which the want of fire on this and other occasions had reduced us.  There
remained very little meal or millet in our store bags, when we learned,
from a Tartar whom we met on the way, that we were at no great distance
from a trading station called _Chaborté_ (Slough.)  It lay, indeed,
somewhat out of the route we were pursuing; but there was no other place
at which we could supply ourselves with provisions, until we came to
Blue-Town, from which we were distant a hundred leagues.  We turned
therefore obliquely to the left, and soon reached Chaborté.

                   [Picture: Russian Convent at Peking]




CHAPTER III.


Festival of the Loaves of the Moon—Entertainment in a Mongol
tent—_Toolholos_, or Rhapsodists of Tartary—Invocation to Timour—Tartar
Education—Industry of the Women—Mongols in quest of missing
animals—Remains of an abandoned City—Road from Peking to Kiaktha—Commerce
between China and Russia—Russian Convent at Peking—A Tartar solicits us
to cure his Mother from a dangerous Illness—Tartar Physicians—The
intermittent Fever Devil—Various forms of Sepulture in use among the
Mongols—Lamasery of the Five Towers—Obsequies of the Tartar Kings—Origin
of the kingdom of Efe—Gymnastic Exercises of the Tartars—Encounter with
three Wolves—Mongol Carts.

We arrived at Chaborté on the fifteenth day of the eighth moon, the
anniversary of great rejoicings among the Chinese.  This festival, known
as the _Yué-Ping_ (Loaves of the Moon), dates from the remotest
antiquity.  Its original purpose was to honour the moon with
superstitious rites.  On this solemn day, all labour is suspended; the
workmen receive from their employers a present of money; every person
puts on his best clothes; and there is merrymaking in every family.
Relations and friends interchange cakes of various sizes, on which is
stamped the image of the moon; that is to say, a hare crouching amid a
small group of trees.

Since the fourteenth century, this festival has borne a political
character, little understood, apparently, by the Mongols; but the
tradition of which is carefully preserved by the Chinese.  About the year
1368, the Chinese were desirous of shaking off the yoke of Tartar
dynasty, founded by Tcheng-Kis-Khan, and which had then swayed the empire
for nearly a hundred years.  A vast conspiracy was formed throughout all
the provinces, which was simultaneously to develop itself, on the 15th
day of the eighth moon, by the massacre of the Mongol soldiers, who were
billeted upon each Chinese family, for the double purpose of maintaining
themselves and their conquest.  The signal was given by a letter
concealed in the cakes which, as we have stated, are on that day,
mutually interchanged throughout the country.  The massacre was effected,
and the Tartar army dispersed in the houses of the Chinese, utterly
annihilated.  This catastrophe put an end to the Mongol domination; and
ever since, the Chinese, in celebrating the festival of _Yué-Ping_, have
been less intent upon the superstitious worship of the moon, than upon
the tragic event to which they owed the recovery of their national
independence.

The Mongols seem to have entirely lost all memory of the sanguinary
revolution; for every year they take their full part in the festival of
the Loaves of the Moon, and thus celebrate, without apparently knowing
it, the triumph which their enemies heretofore gained over their
ancestors.

At a gun-shot from the place where we were encamped, we perceived several
Mongol tents, the size and character of which indicated easiness of
circumstances in the proprietors.  This indication was confirmed by the
large herds of cattle, sheep, and horses, which were pasturing around.
While we were reciting the Breviary in our tent, Samdadchiemba went to
pay a visit to these Mongols.  Soon afterwards, we saw approaching an old
man with a long white beard, and whose features bespoke him a personage
of distinction.  He was accompanied by a young Lama, and by a little boy
who held his hand.  “Sirs Lamas,” said the old man, “all men are
brothers; but they who dwell in tents are united one with another as
flesh with bone.  Sirs Lamas, will you come and seat yourselves, for a
while, in my poor abode?  The fifteenth of this moon is a solemn epoch;
you are strangers and travellers, and therefore cannot this evening
occupy your places at the hearth of your own noble family.  Come and
repose for a few days with us; your presence will bring us peace and
happiness.”  We told the good old man that we could not wholly accept his
offer, but that, in the evening, after prayers, we would come and take
tea with him, and converse for a while about the Mongol nation.  The
venerable Tartar hereupon took his leave; but he had not been gone long,
before the young Lama who had accompanied him returned, and told us that
his people were awaiting our presence.  We felt that we could not refuse
at once to comply with an invitation so full of frank cordiality, and
accordingly, having directed our Dchiahour to take good care of the tent,
we followed the young Lama who had come in quest of us.

Upon entering the Mongol tent, we were struck and astonished at finding a
cleanliness one is little accustomed to see in Tartary.  There was not
the ordinary coarse fire-place in the centre, and the eye was not
offended with the rude dirty kitchen utensils which generally encumber
Tartar habitations.  It was obvious, besides, that every thing had been
prepared for a festival.  We seated ourselves upon a large red carpet;
and there was almost immediately brought to us, from the adjacent tent,
which served as a kitchen, some tea with milk, some small loaves fried in
butter; cheese, raisins, and jujubs.

After having been introduced to the numerous Mongols by whom we found
ourselves surrounded, the conversation insensibly turned upon the
festival of the Loaves of the Moon.  “In our Western Land,” said we,
“this festival is unknown; men there adore only Jehovah, the Creator of
the heavens, and of the earth, of the sun, of the moon, and of all that
exists.”—“Oh, what a holy doctrine!” exclaimed the old man, raising his
clasped hands to his forehead; “the Tartars themselves, for that matter,
do not worship the moon; but seeing that the Chinese celebrate this
festival, they follow the custom without very well knowing why.”—“You say
truly; you do not, indeed, know why you celebrate this festival.  That is
what we heard in the land of the _Kitat_ (Chinese).  But do you know why
the Kitat celebrate it?” and thereupon we related to these Mongols what
we knew of the terrible massacre of their ancestors.  Upon the completion
of our narrative, we saw the faces of all our audience full of
astonishment.  The young men whispered to one another; the old man
preserved a mournful silence; his head bent down, and big tears flowing
from his eyes.  “Brother rich in years,” said we, “this story does not
seem to surprise you as it does your young men, but it fills your heart
with emotion.”  “Holy personages,” replied the elder, raising his head,
and wiping away the tears with the back of his hand, “the terrible event
which occasions such consternation in the minds of my young men was not
unknown to me, but I would I had never heard of it, and I always struggle
against its recollection, for it brings the hot blood into the forehead
of every Tartar, whose heart is not sold to the Kitat.  A day known to
our great Lamas will come, when the blood of our fathers, so shamefully
assassinated, will at length be avenged.  When the holy man who is to
lead us to vengeance shall appear, every one of us will rise and follow
in his train; then we shall march, in the face of day, and require from
the Kitat an account of the Tartar blood which they shed in the silence
and dark secrecy of their houses.  The Mongols celebrate every year this
festival, most of them seeing in it merely an indifferent ceremony; but
the Loaves of the Moon-day ever recalls, in the hearts of a few amongst
us, the memory of the treachery to which our fathers fell victims, and
the hope of just vengeance.”

After a brief silence, the old man went on: “Holy personages, whatever
may be the associations of this day, in other respects it is truly a
festival for us, since you have deigned to enter our poor habitation.
Let us not further occupy our breasts with sad thoughts.  Child,” said he
to a young man seated on the threshold of the tent, “if the mutton is
boiled enough, clear away these things.”  This command having been
executed, the eldest son of the family entered, bearing in both hands a
small oblong table, on which was a boiled sheep, cut into four quarters,
heaped one on the other.  The family being assembled round the table, the
chief drew a knife from his girdle, severed the sheep’s tail, and divided
it into two equal pieces, which he placed before us.

With the Tartars, the tail is considered the most delicious portion of
their sheep, and accordingly the most honourable.  These tails of the
Tartarian sheep are of immense size and weight, the fat upon them alone
weighing from six to eight pounds.

The fat and juicy tail having thus been offered a homage to the two
stranger guests, the rest of the company, knife in hand, attacked the
four quarters of the animal, and had speedily, each man, a huge piece
before him.  Plate or fork there was none, the knees supplied the absence
of the one, the hands of the other, the flowing grease being wiped off,
from time to time, upon the front of the jacket.  Our own embarrassment
was extreme.  That great white mass of fat had been given to us with the
best intentions, but, not quite clear of European prejudices, we could
not make up our stomachs to venture, without bread or salt, upon the
lumps of tallow that quivered in our hands.  We briefly consulted, in our
native tongue, as to what on earth was to be done under these distressing
circumstances.  Furtively, to replace the horrible masses upon the table
would be imprudent; openly to express to our Amphytrion our repugnance to
this _par excellence_ Tartarian delicacy, was impossible, as wholly
opposed to Tartar etiquette.  We devised this plan: we cut the villainous
tail into numerous pieces, and insisted, in that day of general
rejoicing, upon the company’s partaking with us of this precious dish.
There was infinite reluctance to deprive us of the treat; but we
persisted, and by degrees got entirely clear of the abominable mess,
ourselves rejoicing, instead, in a cut from the leg, the savour of which
was more agreeable to our early training.  The Homeric repast completed,
a heap of polished bones alone remaining to recall it, a boy, taking from
the goat’s-horn on which it hung a rude three-stringed violin, presented
it to the chief, who, in his turn, handed it to a young man of modest
mien, whose eyes lighted up as he received the instrument.  “Noble and
holy travellers,” said the chief, “I have invited a Toolholos to
embellish this entertainment with some recitations.”  The minstrel was
already preluding with his fingers upon the strings of his instrument.
Presently he began to sing, in a strong, emphatic voice, at times
interweaving with his verses recitations full of fire and animation.  It
was interesting to see all those Tartar faces bent towards the Minstrel,
and accompanying the meaning of his words with the movements of their
features.  The _Toolholos_ selected, for his subjects, national
traditions, which warmly excited the feelings of his audience.  As to
ourselves, very slightly acquainted with the history of Tartary, we took
small interest in all those illustrious unknown, whom the Mongol
rhapsodist marshalled over the scene.

When he had sung for some time, the old man presented to him a large cup
of milk-wine.  The minstrel placed his instrument upon his knees, and
with evident relish proceeded to moisten his throat, parched with the
infinitude of marvels he had been relating.  While, having finished his
draught, he was licking the brim of his cup: “_Toolholos_,” said we, “the
songs you have sung were all excellent.  But you have as yet said nothing
about the Immortal Tamerlane: the ‘Invocation to Timour,’ we have heard,
is a famous song, dear to the Mongols.”  “Yes, yes,” exclaimed several
voices at once, “sing us the ‘Invocation to Timour.’”  There was a
moment’s silence, and then the Toolholos, having refreshed his memory,
sang, in a vigorous and warlike tone, the following strophes:—

    “When the divine Timour dwelt within our tents, the Mongol nation was
    redoubtable and warlike; its least movements made the earth bend; its
    mere look froze with fear the ten thousand peoples upon whom the sun
    shines.

    “O divine Timour, will thy great soul soon revive?
    Return! return! we await thee, O Timour!

    “We live in our vast plains, tranquil and peaceful as sheep; yet our
    hearts are fervent and full of life.  The memory of the glorious age
    of Timour is ever present to our minds.  Where is the chief who is to
    place himself at our head, and render us once more great warriors?

    “O divine Timour, will thy great soul soon revive?
    Return! return! we await thee, O Timour!

    “The young Mongol has arms wherewith to quell the wild horse, eyes
    wherewith he sees afar off in the desert the traces of the lost
    camel.  Alas! his arms can no longer bend the bow of his ancestors;
    his eye cannot see the wiles of the enemy.

    “O divine Timour, will thy great soul soon revive?
    Return! return! we await thee, O Timour!

    “We have burned the sweet smelling wood at the feet of the divine
    Timour, our foreheads bent to the earth; we have offered to him the
    green leaf of tea and the milk of our herds.  We are ready; the
    Mongols are on foot, O Timour!  And do thou, O Lama, send down good
    fortune upon our arrows and our lances.

    “O divine Timour, will thy great soul soon revive?
    Return! return! we await thee, O Timour!”

When the Tartar Troubadour had completed this national song, he rose,
made a low bow to the company, and, having suspended his instrument upon
a wooden pin, took his leave.  “Our neighbours,” said the old man, “are
also keeping the festival, and expect the Toolholos: but, since you seem
to listen with interest to Tartar songs, we will offer some other
melodies to your notice.  We have in our own family a brother who has in
his memory a great number of airs, cherished by the Mongols; but he
cannot play; he is not a Toolholos.  Come, brother Nymbo, sing; you have
not got Lamas of the West to listen to you every day.”

A Mongol, whom, seated as he was in a corner, we had not before noticed,
at once rose, and took the place of the departed _Toolholos_.  The
appearance of this personage was truly remarkable; his neck was
completely buried in his enormous shoulders; his great dull staring eyes
contrasted strangely with his dark face, half-calcined as it were by the
sun; his hair, or rather a coarse uncombed mane, straggling down his
back, completed the savageness of his aspect.  He began to sing: but his
singing was a mere counterfeit, an absurd parody.  His grand quality was
extreme long-windedness, which enabled him to execute roulades,
complicated and continuous enough to throw any rational audience into
fits.  We soon became desperately tired of his noise, and watched with
impatience a moment’s cessation, that might give us an opportunity of
retiring.  But this was no easy matter; the villain divined our thoughts,
and was resolved to spite us.  No sooner had he finished one air than he
dovetailed another into it, and so started afresh.  In this way he went
on, until it was really quite late in the night.  At length he paused for
a moment to drink a cup of tea; he threw the beverage down his throat,
and was just clearing his throat to commence anew, when we started up,
offered to the head of the family a pinch of snuff, and, having saluted
the rest of the company, withdrew.

You often meet in Tartary these Toolholos, or wandering singers, who go
about from tent to tent, celebrating in their melodies national events
and personages.  They are generally very poor; a violin and a flute,
suspended from the girdle, are their only property; but they are always
received by the Mongol families with kindness and honour; they often
remain in one tent for several days, and on their departure are supplied
with cheese, wine, tea, and so on, to support them on their way.  These
poet-singers, who remind us of the minstrels and rhapsodists of Greece,
are also very numerous in China; but they are, probably, no where so
numerous or so popular as in Thibet.

The day after the festival, the sun had scarcely risen, when a little boy
presented himself at the entrance of our tent, carrying in one hand a
wooden vessel full of milk, and in the other hand a rude rush basket, in
which were some new cheese and some butter.  He was followed soon after
by an old Lama, attended by a Tartar who had on his shoulder a large bag
of fuel.  We invited them all to be seated.  “Brothers of the West,” said
the Lama, “accept these trifling presents from my master.”  We bowed in
token of thanks, and Samdadchiemba hastened to prepare some tea, which we
pressed the Lama to stay and partake of.  “I will come and see you this
evening,” said he; “but I cannot remain at present; for I have not set my
pupil the prayer he has to learn this morning.”  The pupil in question
was the little boy who had brought the milk.  The old man then took his
pupil by the hand, and they returned together to their tent.

The old Lama was the preceptor of the family, and his function consisted
in directing the little boy in the study of the Thibetian prayers.  The
education of the Tartars is very limited.  They who shave the head, the
Lamas, are, as a general rule, the only persons who learn to read and
pray.  There is no such thing throughout the country as a public school.
With the exception of a few rich Mongols, who have their children taught
at home, all the young Lamas are obliged to resort to the Lamaseries,
wherein is concentrated all that exists in Tartary, of arts, or sciences,
or intellectual industry.  The Lama is not merely a priest; he is the
painter, poet, sculptor, architect, physician; the head, heart, and
oracle of the laity.  The training of the young Mongols, who do not
resort to the Lamaseries, is limited, with the men, to perfecting the use
of the bow and arrow and matchlock, and to their obtaining a thorough
mastery of equestrianism.  When a mere infant the Mongol is weaned, and
as soon as he is strong enough he is stuck upon a horse’s back behind a
man, the animal is put to a gallop, and the juvenile rider, in order not
to fall off, has to cling with both hands to his teacher’s jacket.  The
Tartars thus become accustomed, from a very early age, to the movements
of the horse, and by degrees and the force of habit, they identify
themselves, as it were, with the animal.

There is, perhaps, no spectacle more exciting than that of Mongol riders
in chase of a wild horse.  They are armed with a long, heavy pole, at the
end of which is a running knot.  They gallop, they fly after the horse
they are pursuing down rugged ravines, and up precipitous hills, in and
out, twisting and twining in their rapid course, until they come up with
their game.  They then take the bridle of their own horses in their
teeth, seize with both hands their heavy pole, and bending forward throw,
by a powerful effort, the running knot round the wild horse’s neck.  In
this exercise the greatest vigour must be combined with the greatest
dexterity, in order to enable them to stop short the powerful untamed
animals with which they have to deal.  It sometimes happens that pole and
cord are broken; but as to a horseman being thrown, it is an occurrence
we never saw or heard of.

The Mongol is so accustomed to horseback that he is altogether like a
fish out of water when he sets foot on the ground.  His step is heavy and
awkward and his bowed legs, his chest bent forward, his constant looking
around him, all indicate a person who spends the greater portion of his
time on the back of a horse or a camel.

When night overtakes the travelling Tartar, it often happens that he will
not even take the trouble to alight for the purpose of repose.  Ask
people whom you meet in the desert where they slept last night, and you
will as frequently as not have for answer, in a melancholy tone, “_Temen
dero_,” (on the camel).  It is a singular spectacle to see caravans
halting at noon, when they come to a rich pasturage.  The camels disperse
in all directions, browsing upon the high grass of the prairie, while the
Tartars, astride between the two humps of the animal, sleep as profoundly
as though they were sheltered in a good bed.

This incessant activity, this constant travelling, contributes to render
the Tartars very vigorous, and capable of supporting the most terrible
cold, without appearing to be in the least affected by it.  In the
deserts of Tartary, and especially in the country of the Khalkhas, the
cold is so intense, that for a considerable portion of the winter the
thermometer will not act, on account of the congelation of the mercury.
The whole district is often covered with snow; and if at these times the
south-west wind blows, the plain wears the aspect of a raging sea.  The
wind raises the snow in immense waves, and impels the gigantic avalanches
vehemently before it.  Then the Tartars hurry courageously to the aid of
their herds and flocks, and you see them dashing in all directions,
exciting the animals by their cries, and driving them to the shelter of
some rock or mountain.  Sometimes these intrepid shepherds stop short
amid the tempest, and stand erect for a time, as if defying the cold and
the fury of the elements.

The training of the Tartar women is not more refined than that of the
men.  They are not, indeed, taught the use of the bow and the matchlock;
but in equitation they are as expert and as fearless as the men.  Yet it
is only on occasions that they mount on horseback; such, for example, as
travelling, or when there is no man at home to go in search of a stray
animal.  As a general rule, they have nothing to do with the care of the
herds and flocks.

Their chief occupation is to prepare the family meals, and to make the
family clothes.  They are perfect mistresses of the needle; it is they
who fabricate the hats, boots, coats, and other portions of the Mongol
attire.  The leather boots, for example, which they make are not indeed
very elegant in form, but, on the other hand, their solidity is
astonishing.

It was quite unintelligible to us how, with implements so rude and coarse
as theirs, they could manufacture articles almost indestructible in their
quality.  It is true they take their time about them; and get on very
slowly with their work.  The Tartar women excel in embroidery, which, for
taste and variety of pattern and for excellence of manipulation, excited
our astonishment.  We think we may venture to say, that no where in
France would you meet with embroidery more beautiful and more perfect in
fabric than that we have seen in Tartary.

The Tartars do not use the needle in the same way as the Chinese.  In
China they impel the needle perpendicularly down and up; whereas the
Tartars impel it perpendicularly up and down.  In France the manner is
different from both; if we recollect right, the French women impel the
needle horizontally from right to left.  We will not attempt to pronounce
as to the respective merit of the three methods; we will leave the point
to the decision of the respectable fraternity of tailors.

On the 17th of the moon, we proceeded very early in the morning to the
Chinese station of _Chaborté_, for the purpose of laying in a store of
meal.  _Chaborté_, as its Mongol name intimates, is built upon a slough.
The houses are all made of mud, and surrounded each by an enclosure of
high walls.  The streets are irregular, tortuous, and narrow; the aspect
of the whole town is sombre and sinister, and the Chinese who inhabit it
have, if possible, a more knavish look than their countrymen anywhere
else.  The trade of the town comprehends all the articles in ordinary use
with the Mongols—oatmeal and millet, cotton manufactures, and brick tea,
which the Tartars receive in exchange for the products of the desert,
salt, mushrooms, and furs.  Upon our return, we hastened to prepare for
our departure.  While we were packing up our baggage in the tent,
Samdadchiemba went in search of the animals which had been put to pasture
in the vicinity.  A moment afterwards he returned with the three camels.
“There are the camels,” said we, with gloomy anticipation, “but where are
the horse and the mule; they were both at hand just now, for we tied
their legs to prevent their straying.”  “They are stolen, in all
probability.  It never does to encamp too near the Chinese, whom every
body knows to be arrant horse stealers.”  These words came upon us like a
clap of thunder.  However, it was not a moment for sterile lamentation;
it was necessary to go in search of the thieves.  We each mounted a
camel, and made a circuit in search of the animals, leaving our tent
under the charge of Arsalan.  Our search being futile, we resolved to
proceed to the Mongol encampment, and inform them that the animals had
been lost near their habitation.

By a law among the Tartars, when animals are lost from a caravan, the
persons occupying the nearest encampment are bound either to find them or
to replace them.  It seems, no doubt, very strange to European views,
that because, without their consent or even knowledge, without being in
the smallest degree known to them, you have chosen to pitch your tent
near those of a Mongol party, you and your animals, and your baggage, are
to be under their responsibility; but so it is.  If a thing disappears,
the law supposes that your next neighbour is the thief; or at all events
an accomplice.  This it is which has contributed to render the Mongols so
skilful in tracking animals.  A mere glance at the slight traces left by
an animal upon the grass, suffices to inform the Mongol pursuer how long
since it passed, and whether or not it bore a rider; and the track once
found, they follow it throughout all its meanderings, however
complicated.

We had no sooner explained our loss to the Mongol chief, than he said to
us cheerfully: “Sirs Lamas, do not permit sorrow to invade your hearts.
Your animals cannot be lost; in these plains there are neither robbers
nor associates of robbers.  I will send in quest of your horses.  If we
do not find them, you may select what others you please in their place,
from our herd.  We would have you leave this place as happy as you came
to it.”  While he was speaking eight of his people mounted on horseback,
and dashed off in as many directions, upon the quest, each man trailing
after him his lasso, attached to the long, flexible pole we have
described.  After a while they all collected in one body, and galloped
away, as hard as they could, towards the town.  “They are on the track
now, holy sirs,” said the chief, who was watching their movements by our
sides, “and you will have your horses back very soon.  Meanwhile come
within my tent, and drink some tea.”

In about two hours, a boy appeared at the entrance of the tent, and
announced the return of the horsemen.  We hastened outside, and in the
track which we had pursued saw something amid a cloud of dust which
seemed horsemen galloping like the wind.  We presently discovered the
eight Tartars, dashing along, like so many mad centaurs, our stray
animals, each held by a lasso, in the midst of them.  On their arrival,
they alighted, and with an air of satisfaction said: “We told you nothing
was ever lost in our country.”  We thanked the generous Mongols for the
great service they had rendered us; and, bidding adieu to them, saddled
our horses, and departed on our way to the Blue City.

On the third day we came, in the solitude, upon an imposing and majestic
monument of antiquity,—a large city utterly abandoned.  Its turreted
ramparts, its watch towers, its four great gates, facing the four
cardinal points, were all there perfect, in preservation, except that,
besides being three-fourths buried in the soil, they were covered with a
thick coating of turf.  Arrived opposite the southern gate, we directed
Samdadchiemba to proceed quietly with the animals, while we paid a visit
to the Old Town, as the Tartars designate it.  Our impression, as we
entered the vast enclosure, was one of mingled awe and sadness.  There
were no ruins of any sort to be seen, but only the outline of a large and
fine town, becoming absorbed below by gradual accumulations of wind-borne
soil, and above by a winding-sheet of turf.  The arrangement of the
streets and the position of the principal edifices, were indicated by the
inequalities of ground.  The only living things we found here were a
young Mongol shepherd, silently smoking his pipe, and the flock of goats
he tended.  We questioned the former as to when the city was built, by
whom, when abandoned, and why?  We might as well have interrogated his
goats; he knew no more than that the place was called the Old Town.

Such remains of ancient cities are of no unfrequent occurrence in the
deserts of Mongolia; but everything connected with their origin and
history is buried in darkness.  Oh, with what sadness does such a
spectacle fill the soul!  The ruins of Greece, the superb remains of
Egypt,—all these, it is true, tell of death; all belong to the past; yet
when you gaze upon them, you know what they are; you can retrace, in
memory, the revolutions which have occasioned the ruins and the decay of
the country around them.  Descend into the tomb, wherein was buried alive
the city of Herculaneum,—you find there, it is true, a gigantic skeleton,
but you have within you historical associations wherewith to galvanize
it.  But of these old abandoned cities of Tartary, not a tradition
remains; they are tombs without an epitaph, amid solitude and silence,
uninterrupted except when the wandering Tartars halt, for a while, within
the ruined enclosures, because there the pastures are richer and more
abundant.

Although, however, nothing positive can be stated respecting these
remains, the probabilities are, that they date no earlier back than the
13th century, the period when the Mongols rendered themselves masters of
the Chinese empire, of which they retained possession for more than 100
years.  During their domination, say the Chinese annals, they erected in
Northern Tartary many large and powerful cities.  Towards the middle of
the 14th century the Mongol dynasty was expelled from China; the Emperor
_Young-Lo_, who desired to exterminate the Tartars, invaded their
country, and burned their towns, making no fewer than three expeditions
against them into the desert, 200 leagues north of the Great Wall.

After leaving behind us the Old Town, we came to a broad road crossing
N.S. that along which we were travelling E.W.  This road, the ordinary
route of the Russian embassies to Peking, is called by the Tartars
_Koutcheou-Dcham_ (Road of the Emperor’s Daughter), because it was
constructed for the passage of a princess, whom one of the Celestial
Emperors bestowed upon a King of the Khalkhas.  After traversing the
_Tchakar_ and _Western Souniot_, it enters the country of the _Khalkhas_
by the kingdom of _Mourguevan_; thence crossing N.S. the great desert of
Gobi, it traverses the river _Toula_, near the _Great Couren_, and
terminates with the Russian factories at _Kiaktha_.

This town, under a treaty of peace in 1688 between the Emperor
_Khang-Hi_, and the _White Khan of the Oros_, i.e. the Czar of Russia,
was established as the entrepôt of the trade between the two countries.
Its northern portion is occupied by the Russian factories, its southern
by the Tartaro-Chinese.  The intermediate space is a neutral ground,
devoted to the purposes of commerce.  The Russians are not permitted to
enter the Chinese quarter, nor the Chinese the Russian.  The commerce of
the town is considerable, and apparently very beneficial to both parties.
The Russians bring linen goods, cloths, velvets, soaps, and hardware; the
Chinese tea in bricks, of which the Russians use large quantities; and
these Chinese tea-bricks being taken in payment of the Russian goods at
an easy rate, linen goods are sold in China at a lower rate than even in
Europe itself.  It is owing to their ignorance of this commerce of Russia
with China that speculators at Canton so frequently find no market for
their commodities.

Under another treaty of peace between the two powers, signed 14th of
June, 1728, by Count Vladislavitch, Ambassador Extraordinary of Russia,
on the one part, and by the Minister of the Court of Peking on the other,
the Russian government maintains, in the capital of the celestial empire,
a monastery, to which is attached a school, wherein a certain number of
young Russians qualify themselves as Chinese and Tartar-Mantchou
interpreters.  Every ten years, the pupils, having completed their
studies, return with their spiritual pastors of the monastery to St.
Petersburg, and are relieved by a new settlement.  The little caravan is
commanded by a Russian officer, who has it in charge to conduct the new
disciples to Peking, and bring back the students and the members who have
completed their period.  From Kiaktha to Peking the Russians travel at
the expense of the Chinese government, and are escorted from station to
station by Tartar troops.

M. Timkouski, who in 1820 had charge of the Russian caravan to Peking,
tells us, in his account of the journey, that he could never make out why
the Chinese guides led him by a different route from that which the
preceding ambassadors had pursued.  The Tartars explained the matter to
us.  They said it was a political precaution of the Chinese government,
who conceived that, being taken by all sorts of roundabout paths and
no-paths, the Russians might be kept from a knowledge of the regular
route;—an immensely imbecile precaution, since the Autocrat of all the
Russians would not have the slightest difficulty in leading his armies to
Peking, should he ever take a fancy to go and beard the Son of Heaven in
his celestial seat.

This road to Kiaktha, which we thus came upon unexpectedly amid the
deserts of Tartary, created a deep emotion in our hearts: “Here,” said we
to each other, “here is a road which leads to Europe!”  Our native land
presented itself before our imagination, and we spontaneously entered
upon the road, which connected us with our beloved France.  The
conversation that rose to our lips from our hearts was so pleasing, that
we insensibly advanced.  The sight of some Mongol tents, on an adjacent
eminence, recalled us to a sense of our position, and at the same moment
a loud cry came from a Tartar whom we saw gesticulating in front of the
tents.  Not understanding the cry to be addressed to us, we turned, and
were proceeding on our route, whet the Tartar, jumping on his horse,
galloped after us; upon reaching us, he alighted and knelt before us:
“Holy sirs,” said he, raising his hands before Heaven, “have pity upon
me, and save my mother from death.  I know your power is infinite: come
and preserve my mother by your prayers.”  The parable of the good
Samaritan came before us, and we felt that charity forbade us to pass on
without doing all we could in the matter.  We therefore turned once more,
in order to encamp near the Tartars.

While Samdadchiemba arranged our tent, we went, without loss of time, to
tend the sick woman, whom we found in a very deplorable state.
“Inhabitants of the desert,” said we to her friends, “we know not the use
of simples, we are unacquainted with the secrets of life, but we will
pray to Jehovah for this sick person.  You have not heard of this
Almighty God—your Lamas know him not; but, be assured, Jehovah is the
master of life and of death.”  Circumstances did not permit us to dwell
on the theme to these poor people, who, absorbed in grief and anxiety,
could pay little attention to our words.  We returned to our tent to
pray, the Tartar accompanying us.  When he saw our Breviary: “Are these,”
asked he, “the all-powerful prayers to Jehovah, of which you spoke?”
“Yes,” said we; “these are the only true prayers; the only prayers that
can save.”  Thereupon he prostrated himself successively before each of
us, touching the ground with his forehead; then he took the Breviary, and
raised it to his head in token of respect.  During our recitation of the
prayers for the sick, the Tartar remained seated at the entrance of the
tent, preserving a profound and religious silence.  When we had finished,
“Holy men,” said he, again prostrating himself, “how can I make
acknowledgments for your great benefits?  I am poor; I can offer you
neither horse nor sheep.”  “Mongol brother,” we replied, “the priests of
Jehovah may not offer up prayers for the sake of enriching themselves;
since thou art not rich, accept from us this trifling gift;” and we
presented to him a fragment of a tea-brick.  The Tartar was profoundly
moved with this proceeding; he could not say a word, his only answer to
us was tears of gratitude.

We heard next morning with pleasure that the Tartar woman was much
better.  We would fain have remained a few days in the place, in order to
cultivate the germ of the true faith thus planted in the bosom of this
family; but we were compelled to proceed.  Some of the Tartars escorted
us a short distance on our way.

Medicine in Tartary, as we have already observed, is exclusively
practised by the Lamas.  When illness attacks any one, his friends run to
the nearest monastery for a Lama, whose first proceeding, upon visiting
the patient, is to run his fingers over the pulse of both wrists
simultaneously, as the fingers of a musician run over the strings of an
instrument.  The Chinese physicians feel both pulses also, but in
succession.  After due deliberation, the Lama pronounces his opinion as
to the particular nature of the malady.  According to the religious
belief of the Tartars, all illness is owing to the visitation of a
_Tchutgour_ or demon; but the expulsion of the demon is first a matter of
medicine.  The Lama physician next proceeds, as Lama apothecary, to give
the specific befitting the case; the Tartar pharmacopœia rejecting all
mineral chemistry, the Lama remedies consist entirely of vegetables
pulverised, and either infused in water or made up into pills.  If the
Lama doctor happens not to have any medicine with him, he is by no means
disconcerted; he writes the names of the remedies upon little scraps of
paper, moistens the papers with his saliva, and rolls them up into pills,
which the patient tosses down with the same perfect confidence as though
they were genuine medicaments.  To swallow the name of a remedy, or the
remedy itself, say the Tartars, comes to precisely the same thing.

The medical assault of the usurping demon being applied, the Lama next
proceeds to spiritual artillery, in the form of prayers, adapted to the
quality of the demon who has to be dislodged.  If the patient is poor,
the _Tchutgour_ visiting him can evidently be only an inferior
_Tchutgour_, requiring merely a brief, off-hand prayer, sometimes merely
an interjectional exorcism.  If the patient is very poor, the Lama
troubles himself with neither prayer nor pill, but goes away,
recommending the friends to wait with patience until the sick person gets
better or dies, according to the decree of _Hormoustha_.  But where the
patient is rich, the possessor of large flocks, the proceedings are
altogether different.  First, it is obvious that a devil who presumes to
visit so eminent a personage must be a potent devil, one of the chiefs of
the lower world; and it would not be decent for a great _Tchutgour_ to
travel like a mere sprite; the family, accordingly, are directed to
prepare for him a handsome suit of clothes, a pair of rich boots, a fine
horse, ready saddled and bridled, otherwise the devil will never think of
going, physic or exorcise him how you may.  It is even possible, indeed,
that one horse will not suffice, for the demon, in very rich cases, may
turn out, upon inquiry, to be so high and mighty a prince, that he has
with him a number of courtiers and attendants, all of whom have to be
provided with horses.

Everything being arranged, the ceremony commences.  The Lama and numerous
co-physicians called in from his own and other adjacent monasteries,
offer up prayers in the rich man’s tents for a week or a fortnight, until
they perceive that the devil is gone—that is to say, until they have
exhausted all the disposable tea and sheep.  If the patient recovers, it
is a clear proof that the prayers have been efficaciously recited; if he
dies, it is a still greater proof of the efficaciousness of the prayers,
for not only is the devil gone, but the patient has transmigrated to a
state far better than that he has quitted.

The prayers recited by the Lamas for the recovery of the sick are
sometimes accompanied with very dismal and alarming rites.  The aunt of
Tokoura, chief of an encampment in the Valley of Dark Waters, visited by
M. Huc, was seized one evening with an intermittent fever.  “I would
invite the attendance of the doctor Lama,” said Tokoura, “but if he finds
that there is a very big _Tchutgour_ present, the expenses will ruin me.”
He waited for some days; but as his aunt grew worse and worse, he at last
sent for a Lama; his anticipations were confirmed.  The Lama pronounced
that a demon of considerable rank was present, and that no time must be
lost in expelling him.  Eight other Lamas were forthwith called in, who
at once set about the construction, in dried herbs, of a great puppet,
which they entitled the _Demon of Intermittent Fevers_, and which, when
completed, they placed on its legs by means of a stick, in the patient’s
tent.

The ceremony began at eleven o’clock at night; the Lamas ranged
themselves in a semicircle round the upper portion of the tent, with
cymbals, sea-shells, bells, tambourines, and other instruments of the
noisy Tartar music.  The remainder of the circle was completed by the
members of the family, squatting on the ground close to one another, the
patient kneeling, or rather crouched on her heels, opposite the _Demon of
Intermittent Fevers_.  The Lama doctor-in-chief had before him a large
copper basin filled with millet, and some little images made of paste.
The dung-fuel threw, amid much smoke, a fantastic and quivering light
over the strange scene.

Upon a given signal, the clerical orchestra executed an overture harsh
enough to frighten Satan himself, the lay congregation beating time with
their hands to the charivari of clanging instruments and ear-splitting
voices.  The diabolical concert over, the Grand Lama opened the Book of
Exorcisms, which he rested on his knees.  As he chanted one of the forms,
he took from the basin, from time to time, a handful of millet, which he
threw east, west, north, and south, according to the Rubric.  The tones
of his voice, as he prayed, were sometimes mournful and suppressed,
sometimes vehemently loud and energetic.  All of a sudden, he would quit
the regular cadence of prayer, and have an outburst of apparently
indomitable rage, abusing the herb puppet with fierce invectives and
furious gestures.  The exorcism terminated, he gave a signal by
stretching out his arms, right and left, and the other Lamas struck up a
tremendously noisy chorus, in hurried, dashing tones; all the instruments
were set to work, and meantime the lay congregation, having started up
with one accord, ran out of the tent, one after the other, and tearing
round it like mad people, beat it at their hardest with sticks, yelling
all the while at the pitch of their voices in a manner to make ordinary
hair stand on end.  Having thrice performed this demoniac round, they
re-entered the tent as precipitately as they had quitted it, and resumed
their seats.  Then, all the others covering their faces with their hands,
the Grand Lama rose and set fire to the herb figure.  As soon as the
flames rose, he uttered a loud cry, which was repeated with interest by
the rest of the company.  The laity immediately rose, seized the burning
figure, carried it into the plain, away from the tents, and there, as it
consumed, anathematized it with all sorts of imprecations; the Lamas
meantime squatted in the tent, tranquilly chanting their prayers in a
grave, solemn tone.

Upon the return of the family from their valorous expedition, the praying
was exchanged for joyous felicitations.  By-and-by, each person provided
with a lighted torch, the whole party rushed simultaneously from the
tent, and formed into a procession, the laymen first, then the patient,
supported on either side by a member of the family, and lastly, the nine
Lamas, making night hideous with their music.  In this style the patient
was conducted to another tent, pursuant to the orders of the Lama, who
had declared that she must absent herself from her own habitation for an
entire month.

After this strange treatment, the malady did not return.  The probability
is, that the Lamas, having ascertained the precise moment at which the
fever-fit would recur, met it at the exact point of time by this
tremendous counter-excitement, and overcame it.

Though the majority of the Lamas seek to foster the ignorant credulity of
the Tartars, in order to turn it to their own profit, we have met some of
them who frankly avowed that duplicity and imposture played considerable
part in all their ceremonies.  The superior of a Lamasery said to us one
day: “When a person is ill, the recitation of prayers is proper, for
Buddha is the master of life and death; it is he who rules the
transmigration of beings.  To take remedies is also fitting, for the
great virtue of medicinal herbs also comes to us from Buddha.  That the
Evil One may possess a rich person is credible, but that, in order to
repel the Evil One, the way is to give him dress, and a horse, and what
not, this is a fiction invented by ignorant and deceiving Lamas, who
desire to accumulate wealth at the expense of their brothers.”

The manner of interring the dead among the Tartars is not uniform.  The
Lamas are only called in to assist at extremely grand funerals.  Towards
the Great Wall, where the Mongols are mixed up with the Chinese, the
custom of the latter in this particular, as in others, has insensibly
prevailed.  There the corpse is placed, after the Chinese fashion, in a
coffin, and the coffin in a grave.  In the desert, among the true nomadic
tribes, the entire ceremony consists in conveying the dead to the tops of
hills or the bottoms of ravines, there to be devoured by the birds and
beasts of prey.  It is really horrible to travellers through the deserts
of Tartary to see, as they constantly do, human remains, for which the
eagles and the wolves are contending.

The richer Tartars sometimes burn their dead with great solemnity.  A
large furnace of earth is constructed in a pyramidical form.  Just before
it is completed, the body is placed inside, standing, surrounded with
combustibles.  The edifice is then completely covered in, with the
exception of a small hole at the bottom to admit fire, and another at the
top, to give egress to the smoke, and keep up a current of air.  During
the combustion, the Lamas stir round the tomb and recite prayers.  The
corpse being burnt, they demolish the furnace and remove the bones, which
they carry to the Grand Lama; he reduces them to a very fine powder, and
having added to them an equal quantity of meal, he kneads the whole with
care, and constructs, with his own hands, cakes of different sizes, which
he places one upon the other, in the form of a pyramid.  When the bones
have been thus prepared by the Grand Lama, they are transported with
great pomp to a little tower built beforehand, in a place indicated by
the diviner.

They almost always give to the ashes of the Lamas a sepulture of this
description.  You meet with a great number of these monumental towers on
the summits of the mountains, and in the neighbourhood of the Lamaseries;
and you may find them in countries whence the Mongols have been driven by
the Chinese.  In other respects these countries scarcely retain any trace
of the Tartars: the Lamaseries, the pasturages, the shepherds, with their
tents and flocks, all have disappeared, to make room for new people, new
monuments, new customs.  A few small towers raised over graves alone
remain there, as if to assert the rights of the ancient possessors of
these lands, and to protest against the invasion of the Kitat.

The most celebrated seat of Mongol burials is in the province of Chan-Si,
at the famous Lamasery of Five Towers (_Ou-Tay_).  According to the
Tartars, the Lamasery of the Five Towers is the best place you can be
buried in.  The ground in it is so holy, that those who are so fortunate
as to be interred there are certain of a happy transmigration thence.
The marvellous sanctity of this place is attributed to the presence of
Buddha, who for some centuries past has taken up his abode there in the
interior of a mountain.  In 1842 the noble Tokoura, of whom we have
already had occasion to speak, conveying the bones of his father and
mother to the Five Towers, had the infinite happiness to behold there the
venerable Buddha.  “Behind the great monastery,” he told us, “there is a
very lofty mountain, which you must climb by creeping on your hands and
feet.  Just towards the summit you come to a portico cut in the rock; you
lie down on the earth, and look through a small aperture not larger than
the bowl of a pipe.  It is some time before you can distinguish anything,
but by degrees your eye gets used to the place, and you have the
happiness of beholding, at length, in the depths of the mountain, the
face of the ancient Buddha.  He is seated cross-legged, doing nothing.
There are around him Lamas of all countries, who are continually paying
homage to him.”

                  [Picture: Lamasery of the Five Towers]

Whatever you may think of Tokoura’s narrative, it is certain that the
Tartars and the Thibetians have given themselves up to an inconceivable
degree of fanaticism, in reference to the Lamasery of the Five Towers.
You frequently meet, in the deserts of Tartary, Mongols, carrying on
their shoulders the bones of their parents, to the Five Towers, to
purchase, almost at its weight in gold, a few feet of earth, whereon they
may raise a small mausoleum.  Even the Mongols of Torgot perform journeys
occupying a whole year, and attended with immense difficulty, to visit
for this purpose the province of Chan-Si.

The Tartar kings sometimes make use of a sepulture which is the height of
extravagance and barbarism.  The royal corpse is conveyed to a vast
edifice, constructed of bricks, and adorned with numerous statues
representing men, lions, elephants, tigers, and various subjects of
Buddhic mythology.  With the illustrious defunct, they bury in a large
cavern, constructed in the centre of the building, large sums of gold and
silver, royal robes, precious stones, in short, every thing which he may
need in another life.  These monstrous interments sometimes cost the
lives of a great number of slaves.  They take children of both sexes,
remarkable for their beauty, and make them swallow mercury till they are
suffocated; in this way they preserve, they say, the freshness and
ruddiness of their countenance, so as to make them appear still alive.
These unfortunate victims are placed upright, round the corpse of their
master, continuing, in this fashion, to serve him as during life.  They
hold in their hands the pipe, fan, the small phial of snuff, and the
numerous other nick-nacks of the Tartar kings.

To protect these buried treasures, they place in the cavern a kind of
bow, capable of discharging a number of arrows, one after the other.
This bow, or rather these several bows joined together, are all bent, and
the arrows ready to fly.  They place this infernal machine in such a
manner that, on opening the door of the cavern, the movement causes the
discharge of the first arrow at the man who enters; the discharge of the
first arrow causes the discharge of the second, and so on to the last—so
that the unlucky person, whom covetousness or curiosity should induce to
open the door, would fall, pierced with many arrows, in the tomb he
sought to profane.  They sell these murderous machines ready prepared by
the bow-makers.  The Chinese sometimes purchase them, to guard their
houses in their absence.

After a march of two days, we entered the district called the Kingdom of
Efe; it is a portion of the territory of the Eight Banners, which the
Emperor Kien-Long dismembered in favour of a prince of the Khalkhas.
_Sun-Tché_, founder of the Mantchou dynasty, laid down this maxim: “In
the south, establish no kings; in the north, interrupt no alliances.”
This policy has ever since been exactly pursued by the court of Peking.
The Emperor Kien-Long, in order to attach to his dynasty the prince in
question, gave him his daughter in marriage, hoping by this means to fix
him at Peking, and thus to weaken the still dreaded power of the Khalkha
sovereigns.  He built for him, within the circuit of the Yellow Town
itself, a large and magnificent palace, but the Mongol prince could not
adapt or reconcile himself to the stiff arbitrary etiquette of a court.
Amid the pomp and luxury accumulated for his entertainment, he was
incessantly absorbed with the thought of his tents and his herds: even
the snows and frosts of his country were matters of regret.  The
attentions of the court being altogether inadequate to the dissipation of
his ennui, he began to talk about returning to his prairies in the
Khalkhas.  On the other hand, his young wife, accustomed to the
refinements of the court of Peking, could not bear the idea of spending
the rest of her days in the desert, amongst milkmaids and shepherds.  The
Emperor resorted to a compromise which sufficiently met the wishes of his
son-in-law, without too violently disconcerting the feelings of his
daughter.  He dismembered a portion of the _Tchakar_, and assigned it to
the Mongol prince; he built for him, amid these solitudes, a small but
handsome city, and presented to him a hundred families of slaves skilled
in the arts and manufactures of China.  In this manner, while the young
Mantchou princess was enabled to dwell in a city and to have a court, the
Mongol prince, on his part, was in a position to enjoy the tranquillity
of the Land of Grass, and to resume at will the pleasures of nomadic
life, in which he had passed his boyhood.

The King of Efe brought with him into his petty dominions a great number
of Mongol Khalkhas, who inhabit, under the tent, the country bestowed
upon their prince.  These Tartars fully maintain the reputation for
strength and active vigour which is generally attributed to the men of
their nation.  They are considered the most powerful wrestlers in
southern Mongolia.  From their infancy, they are trained to gymnastic
exercises, and at the public wrestling matches, celebrated every year at
Peking, a great number of these men attend to compete for the prizes, and
to sustain the reputation of their country.  Yet, though far superior in
strength to the Chinese, they are sometimes thrown by the latter,
generally more active, and especially more tricky.

In the great match of 1843, a wrestler of the kingdom of Efe had
overthrown all competitors, Tartars and Chinese.  His body, of gigantic
proportions, was fixed upon legs which seemed immovable columns; his
hands, like great grappling irons, seized his antagonists, raised them,
and then hurled them to the ground, almost without effort.  No person had
been at all able to stand before his prodigious strength, and they were
about to assign him the prize, when a Chinese stepped into the ring.  He
was short, small, meagre, and appeared calculated for no other purpose
than to augment the number of the Efeian’s victims.  He advanced,
however, with an air of firm confidence; the Goliath of Efe stretched out
his brawny arms to grasp him, when the Chinese, who had his mouth full of
water, suddenly discharged the liquid in the giant’s face.  The Tartar
mechanically raised his hands to wipe his eyes, and at the instant, the
cunning Chinese rushed in, caught him round the waist, threw him off his
balance, and down he went, amid the convulsive laughter of the
spectators.

This anecdote was told to us by a Tartar horseman who travelled with us a
part of our way through the kingdom of Efe.  From time to time he showed
us children engaged in wrestling.  “This,” said he, “is the favourite
exercise with all the inhabitants of our kingdom of Efe.  We esteem in a
man but two things,—his being a good horseman and his being a good
wrestler.”  There was one group of youthful wrestlers whom, exercising as
they were on the side of our road, we were enabled to watch closely and
at leisure; their ardour redoubled when they saw we were looking at them.
The tallest of the party, who did not seem more than eight or nine years
old, took in his arms one of his companions, nearly his own height, and
very fat, and amused himself with tossing him above his head, and
catching him again, as you would a ball.  He repeated this feat seven or
eight times, and at every repetition we trembled for the life of the boy;
but the rest of the children only gambolled about, applauding the success
of the performers.

On the 22nd day of the eighth moon, on quitting the petty kingdom of Efe,
we ascended a mountain, on the sides of which grew thickets of fir and
birch.  The sight of these at first gave us great pleasure.  The deserts
of Tartary are in general so monotonously bare, that you cannot fail to
experience a pleasurable sensation when you come upon some occasional
trees on your way.  Our first feelings of joy were, however, soon
demolished by a sentiment of a very different nature; we were as though
frozen with horror, on perceiving at a turn of the mountain, three
enormous wolves, that seemed awaiting us with calm intrepidity.  At sight
of these villainous beasts we stopped suddenly and as it were
instinctively.  After a moment of general stupor, Samdadchiemba descended
from his mule, and wrung the noses of our camels.  The expedient
succeeded marvellously; the poor beasts sent forth such piercing and
terrible cries, that the scared wolves dashed off with all speed.
Arsalan, who saw them flee, thinking undoubtedly that it was himself they
were afraid of, pursued them at the utmost speed of his legs; soon the
wolves turned round, and our tent-porter would have been infallibly
devoured had not M. Gabet rushed to his aid, uttering loud cries, and
wringing the nose of his camel; the wolves having taken flight a second
time, disappeared without our again thinking of pursuing them.

Although the want of population might seem to abandon the interminable
deserts of Tartary to wild beasts, wolves are rarely met with.  This
arises, no doubt, from the incessant and vindictive warfare which the
Mongols wage against them.  They pursue them, everywhere, to the death,
regarding them as their capital enemy, on account of the great damage
they may inflict upon their flocks.  The announcement that a wolf has
made its appearance in a neighbourhood, is for every one a signal to
mount his horse.  As there are always near each tent horses ready
saddled, in an instant the plain is covered with numerous cavalry, all
armed with their long lasso-pole.  The wolf in vain flees in every
direction: it meets everywhere horsemen who rush upon it.  There is no
mountain so rugged or arduous, up which the Tartar horses, agile as
goats, cannot pursue it.  The horseman who is at length successful in
passing round its neck the running knot, gallops off at full speed,
dragging the wolf after him to the nearest tent; there they strongly bind
its muzzle, so that they may torture it securely; and then, by way of
finale, skin it alive, and turn it off.  In summer, the wretched brute
lives in this condition several days; but in winter, exposed without a
skin to the rigours of the season, it dies forthwith, frozen with cold.

Some short time after we had lost sight of our three wolves, we had a
singular encounter enough.  We saw advancing towards us, on the same
road, two chariots each drawn by three oxen.  To each chariot were
fastened, with great iron chains, twelve dogs of a terrible and ferocious
aspect, four on each side, and four behind.  These carriages were laden
with square boxes, painted red; the drivers sat on the boxes.  We could
not conjecture what was the nature of the load, on account of which they
thought it essential to have this horrible escort of Cerberuses.  In
accordance with the customs of the country, we could not question them on
this point.  The slightest indiscretion would have made us pass in their
eyes for people actuated by evil intentions.  We contented ourselves with
asking if we were still very far from the monastery of Tchortchi, where
we hoped to arrive that day; but the baying of the dogs, and the clanking
of their chains, prevented us from hearing the answer.

As we were going through the hollow of a valley, we remarked on the
summit of an elevated mountain before us a long line of objects without
motion, and of an indefinite form.  By-and-by these objects seemed to
resemble a formidable battery of cannons, ranged in line, and the nearer
we advanced, the more were we confirmed in this impression.  We felt sure
that we saw distinctly the wheels of the carriages, the sponge-rods, the
mouths of the cannons pointed towards the plain.  But how could we bring
ourselves to think that an army, with all its train of artillery could be
there in the desert, amidst this profound solitude?  Giving way to a
thousand extravagant conjectures, we hastened our progress, impatient to
examine this strange apparition closely.  Our illusion was only
completely dissipated when we arrived quite at the top of the mountain.
What we had taken for a battery of cannons was a long caravan of little
Mongol chariots.  We laughed at our mistake, but the illusion was not an
unnatural one.  These small two-wheeled chariots were all standing still
on their frames, each laden with a sack of salt, covered with a mat, the
ends of which extended beyond the extremities of the sacks, so as to
resemble exactly the mouths of cannon; the Mongol waggoners were boiling
their tea in the open air, whilst their oxen were feeding on the sides of
the mountain.  The transport of merchandise, across the deserts of
Tartary, is ordinarily effected, in default of camels, by these small
two-wheeled chariots.  A few bars of rough wood are the only materials
that enter into their construction, and they are so light that a child
may lift them with ease.  The oxen that draw them, have all a little iron
ring passed through their nostrils; to this ring is a cord, which
attaches the animal to the preceding chariot; thus all the carriages,
from the first to the last, are connected together, and form a long
uninterrupted line.  The Mongol waggoners are generally seated on the
oxen, very rarely on the carriage, and scarcely ever on foot.  On all the
chief roads you meet with these long lines of carriages, and long before
you see them, you hear the lugubrious and monotonous sound of the great
iron bells, which the oxen carry suspended from their neck.

After drinking a cup of tea with the Mongols whom we had met in the
mountain, we proceeded on our way; the sun was on the point of setting,
when we set up our tent on the margin of a stream about a hundred yards
from the Lamasery of Tchortchi.

                       [Picture: Chapter tailpiece]

                     [Picture: Lamasery of Tchortchi]




CHAPTER IV.


Young Lama converted to Christianity—Lamasery of Tchortchi—Alms for the
Construction of Religious Houses—Aspect of the Buddhist
Temples—Recitation of Lama Prayers—Decorations, Paintings, and Sculptures
of the Buddhist Temples—Topography of the _Great Kouren_ in the country
of the Khalkhas—Journey of the _Guison-Tamba_ to Peking—The _Kouren_ Of
the Thousand Lamas—Suit between the Lama-King and his Ministers—Purchase
of a Kid—Eagles of Tartary—Western Toumet—Agricultural Tartars—Arrival at
the Blue Town—Glance at the Mantchou Nation—Mantchou Literature—State of
Christianity in Mantchouria—Topography and productions of Eastern
Tartary—Skill of the Mantchous with the Bow.

Although we had never visited the Lamasery of Tchortchi, we,
nevertheless, knew a good deal about it from the information that had
been given us.  It was here that the young Lama was educated who came to
teach M. Gabet the Mongol language, and whose conversion to Christianity
gave such great hopes for the propagation of the gospel among the Tartar
tribes.  He was twenty-five years of age when he quitted his Lamasery, in
1837; there he had passed fourteen years in the study of Lama books, and
had become well acquainted with Mongol and Mantchou literature.  He had
as yet but a very superficial knowledge of the Thibetian language.  His
tutor, an old Lama, well-educated and much respected, not merely in the
Lamasery, but throughout the whole extent of the Yellowish Banner, had
cherished great hopes of his disciple; it was, therefore, very
reluctantly that he had consented to a temporary separation, which he
limited to a month.  Before his departure the pupil prostrated himself,
according to custom, at the feet of his master, and begged him to consult
for him the Book of Oracles.  After having turned over some leaves of a
Thibetian book, the old Lama addressed to him these words: “For fourteen
years thou hast remained by thy master’s side like a faithful Chabi
(disciple).  Now, for the first time, thou art about to go from me.  The
future fills me with anxiety; be careful then to return at the appointed
time.  If thy absence is prolonged beyond one moon thy destiny condemns
thee never more to set foot in our holy Lamasery.”  The youthful pupil
departed, resolved to obey to the letter the instructions of his tutor.

When he arrived at our mission of Si-Wan, M. Gabet chose, as the subject
of his Mongol studies, an historical summary of the Christian religion.
The oral and written conferences lasted nearly a month.  The young Lama,
subdued by the force of truth, publicly abjured Buddhism, received the
name of Paul, and was ultimately baptized, after a long course of study.
The prediction of the old Lama had its perfect accomplishment; Paul,
since his conversion, has never again set foot in the Lamasery which he
quitted.

About 2,000 Lamas inhabit the Lamasery of Tchortchi, which, it is said,
is the favourite Lamasery of the Emperor, who has loaded it with
donations and privileges.  The Lamas in charge of it all receive a
pension from the court of Peking.  Those who absent themselves from it by
permission, and for reasons approved by the superiors, continue to share
in the distributions of money and the provisions that are made during
their absence; on their return they duly receive the full amount of their
share.  Doubtless that air of ease pervading the Lamasery of Tchortchi is
to be attributed to the imperial favours.  The houses in it are neat,
sometimes even elegant; and you never see there, as in other places,
Lamas covered with dirty rags.  The study of the Mantchou language is
much cultivated there, an incontestable proof of the great devotion of
the Lamasery to the reigning dynasty.

With some rare exceptions the imperial benefactions go very little way
towards the construction of the Lamaseries.  Those grand and sumptuous
monuments, so often met with in the desert, are due to the free and
spontaneous zeal of the Mongols.  So simple and economical in their dress
and manner of living, these people are generous, we might say,
astonishingly prodigal in all that concerns religious worship and
expenditure.  When it is resolved to construct a Buddhist temple,
surrounded by its Lamasery, Lama collectors go on their way forthwith,
provided with passports, attesting the authenticity of their mission.
They disperse themselves throughout the kingdom of Tartary, beg alms from
tent to tent in the name of the Old Buddha.  Upon entering a tent and
explaining the object of their journey, by showing the sacred basin in
which the offerings are placed, they are received with joyful enthusiasm.
There is no one but gives something.  The rich place in the “badir”
ingots of gold and silver; those who do not possess the precious metals,
offer oxen, horses, or camels.  The poorest contribute according to the
extent of their means; they give lumps of butter, furs, ropes made of the
hair of camels and horses.  Thus, in a short time, are collected immense
sums.  Then, in these deserts, apparently so poor, you see rise up, as if
by enchantment, edifices whose grandeur and wealth would defy the
resources of the richest potentates.  It was, doubtless, in the same
manner, by the zealous co-operation of the faithful, that were
constructed in Europe those magnificent cathedrals whose stupendous
beauty is an abiding reproach to modern selfishness and indifference.

                        [Picture: Buddhist temple]

The Lamaseries you see in Tartary are all constructed of brick and stone.
Only the poorest Lamas build for themselves habitations of earth, and
these are always so well whitewashed that they closely resemble the rest.
The temples are generally built with considerable elegance, and with
great solidity; but these monuments always seem crushed, being too low in
proportion to their dimensions.  Around the Lamasery rise, numerous and
without order, towers or pyramids, slender and tapering, resting
generally on huge bases, little in harmony with the tenuity of the
constructions they support.  It would be difficult to say to what order
of architecture the Buddhic temples of Tartary belong.  They are always
fantastical constructions of monstrous colonnades, peristyles with
twisted columns, and endless ascents.  Opposite the great gate is a kind
of altar of wood or stone, usually in the form of a cone reversed; on
this the idols are placed, mostly seated cross-legged.  These idols are
of colossal stature, but their faces are fine and regular, except in the
preposterous length of the ears; they belong to the Caucasian type, and
are wholly distinct from the monstrous, diabolical physiognomies of the
Chinese Pou Ssa.

Before the great idol, and on the same level with it, is a gilt seat
where the living Fô, the Grand Lama of the Lamasery is seated.  All
around the temple are long tables almost level with the ground, a sort of
ottomans covered with carpet; and between each row there is a vacant
space, so that the Lamas may move about freely.

When the hour for prayer is come, a Lama, whose office it is to summon
the guests of the convent, proceeds to the great gate of the temple, and
blows, as loud as he can, a sea-conch, successively towards the four
cardinal points.  Upon hearing this powerful instrument, audible for a
league round, the Lamas put on the mantle and cap of ceremony and
assemble in the great inner court.  When the time is come the sea-conch
sounds again, the great gate is opened, and the living Fô enters the
temple.  As soon as he is seated upon the altar all the Lamas lay their
red boots at the vestibule, and advance barefoot and in silence.  As they
pass him they worship the living Fô by three prostrations, and then place
themselves upon the divan, each according to his dignity.  They sit
cross-legged; always in a circle.

As soon as the master of the ceremonies has given the signal, by tinkling
a little bell, each murmurs in a low voice a preliminary prayer, whilst
he unrolls, upon his knees, the prayers directed by the rubric.  After
this short recitation, follows a moment of profound silence; the bell is
again rung, and then commences a psalm in double chorus, grave and
melodious.  The Thibetian prayers, ordinarily in verse, and written in a
metrical and well-cadenced style, are marvellously adapted for harmony.
At certain pauses, indicated by the rubric, the Lama musicians execute a
piece of music, little in concert with the melodious gravity of the
psalmody.  It is a confused and deafening noise of bells, cymbals,
tambourines, sea-conchs’, trumpets, pipes, etc., each musician playing on
his instrument with a kind of ecstatic fury, trying with his brethren who
shall make the greatest noise.

                  [Picture: Interior of Buddhist Temple]

The interior of the temple is usually filled with ornaments, statues, and
pictures, illustrating the life of Buddha, and the various
transmigrations of the more illustrious Lamas.  Vases in copper, shining
like gold, of the size and form of teacups, are placed in great numbers
on a succession of steps, in the form of an amphitheatre, before the
idols.  It is in these vases that the people deposit their offerings of
milk, butter, Mongol wine, and meal.  The extremities of each step
consist of censers, in which are ever burning aromatic plants, gathered
on the sacred mountains of Thibet.  Rich silk stuffs, covered with tinsel
and gold embroidery, form, on the heads of the idols, canopies from which
hang pennants and lanterns of painted paper or transparent horn.

The Lamas are the only artists who contribute to the ornament and
decoration of the temples.  The paintings are quite distinct from the
taste and the principles of art as understood in Europe.  The fantastical
and the grotesque predominate inside and out, both in carvings and
statuary, and the personages represented, with the exception of Buddha,
have generally a monstrous and satanic aspect.  The clothes seem never to
have been made for the persons upon whom they are placed.  The idea given
is that of broken limbs concealed beneath awkward garments.

Amongst these Lama paintings, however, you sometimes come across
specimens by no means destitute of beauty.  One day, during a visit in
the kingdom of Gechekten to the great temple called _Alton-Somné_ (Temple
of Gold), we saw a picture which struck us with astonishment.  It was a
large piece representing, in the centre, Buddha seated on a rich carpet.
Around this figure, which was of life size, there was a sort of glory,
composed of miniatures, allegorically expressing the Thousand Virtues of
Buddha.  We could scarcely withdraw ourselves from this picture,
remarkable as it was, not only for the purity and grace of the design,
but also for the expression of the faces and the splendour of the
colouring.  All the personages seemed full of life.  We asked an old
Lama, who was attending us over the place, what he knew about this
admirable work.  “Sirs,” said he, raising his joined hands to his
forehead in token of respect, “this picture is a treasure of the remotest
antiquity; it comprehends within its surface the whole doctrine of
Buddha.  It is not a Mongol painting; it came from Thibet, and was
executed by a saint of the _Eternal Sanctuary_.”

The artists here are, in general, more successful in the landscapes than
in the epic subjects.  Flowers, birds, trees, mythological animals, are
represented with great truth and with infinitely pleasing effect.  The
colouring is wonderfully full of life and freshness.  It is only a pity
that the painters of these landscapes have so very indifferent a notion
as to perspective and chiaro-oscuro.

The Lamas are far better sculptors than painters, and they are
accordingly very lavish of carvings in their Buddhist temples.
Everywhere in and about these edifices you see works of this class of
art, in quantity bespeaking the fecundity of the artist’s chisel, but of
a quality which says little for his taste.  First, outside the temples
are an infinite number of tigers, lions, and elephants crouching upon
blocks of granite; then the stone balustrades of the steps leading to the
great gates are covered with fantastic sculptures representing birds,
reptiles, and beasts, of all kinds, real and imaginary.  Inside, the
walls are decorated with relievos in wood or stone, executed with great
spirit and truth.

Though the Mongol Lamaseries cannot be compared, in point either of
extent or wealth, with those of Thibet, there are some of them which are
highly celebrated and greatly venerated among the adorers of Buddha.

The most famous of all is that of the Great Kouren (enclosure), in the
country of the Khalkhas.  As we had an opportunity of visiting this
edifice in one of our journeys into Northern Tartary, we will here give
some details respecting it.  It stands on the bank of the river Toula, at
the entrance to an immense forest, which extends thence northwards, six
or seven days’ journey to the confines of Russia, and eastward, nearly
five hundred miles to the land of the Solons, in Mantchouria.  On your
way to the Great Kouren, over the desert of Gobi, you have to traverse,
for a whole month, an ocean of sand, the mournful monotony of which is
not relieved by a single stream or a single shrub; but on reaching the
Kougour mountains, the western boundary of the states of the
Guison-Tamba, or King-Lama, the scene changes to picturesque and fertile
valleys, and verdant pasture-hills, crowned with forests that seem as old
as the world itself.  Through the largest valley flows the river Toula,
which, rising in the Barka mountains, runs from east to west through the
pastures of the Lamasery, and then entering Siberia, falls into Lake
Baikal.

The Lamasery stands on the northern bank of the river, on the slope of a
mountain.  The various temples inhabited by the Guison-Tamba, and other
Grand Lamas, are distinguishable from the rest of the structure by their
elevation and their gilded roofs.  Thirty thousand Lamas dwell in the
Lamasery itself, or in smaller Lamaseries erected about it.  The plain
adjoining it is always covered with the tents of the pilgrims who resort
hither from all parts to worship Buddha.  Here you find the U-Pi-Ta-Dze,
or “Fish-skin Tartars,” encamped beside the Torgot Tartars from the
summits of the sacred mountains (Bokte-Oula), the Thibetians and the
Péboum of the Himalaya, with their long-haired oxen, mingling with the
Mantchous from the banks of the Songari and Amor.  There is an incessant
movement of tents set up and taken down, and of pilgrims coming and going
on horses, camels, oxen, mules, or waggons, and on foot.

Viewed from the distance, the white cells of the Lamas, built in
horizontal lines one above the other on the sides of the mountain, seem
the steps of a grand altar, of which the tabernacle is the temple of the
Guison-Tamba.  In the depths of that sanctuary, all resplendent with gold
and bright colouring, the Lama-King, The Holy, as he is called, _par
excellence_, receives the homage of the faithful, ever prostrate, in
succession, before him.  There is not a Khalkha Tartar who does not glory
in the title of the _Holy One’s Disciple_.  Wherever you meet a man from
the district of the Great Kouren, and ask him who he is, his proud reply
is always this: _Koure Bokte-Ain Chabi_, (I am a disciple of the Holy
Kouren.)

Half-a-league front the Lamasery, on the banks of the Toula, is a
commercial station of Chinese.  Their wooden or mud huts are fortified by
a circle of high palisades to keep out the pilgrims, who, despite their
devotion, are extremely given to thieving when ever the opportunity
occurs.  A watch and some ingots of silver, stolen during the night from
M. Gabet, left us no doubt as to the want of probity in the Holy One’s
disciples.

A good deal of trade is carried on here, Chinese and Russian goods
changing hands to a very large extent.  The payments of the former are
invariably made in tea-bricks.  Whether the article sold be a house, a
horse, a camel, or a bale of goods, the price is settled for in bricks of
tea.  Five of these represent, in value, an ounce of silver; the monetary
system, therefore, which Franklin so much disliked, is not in use by
these Northern Tartars.

The Court of Peking entertains several Mandarins at the Great Kouren,
ostensibly for the purpose of preserving order among the Chinese traders,
but in reality to keep a watch upon the Guison-Tamba, always an object of
suspicion to the Chinese Emperors, who bear in mind that the famous
Tching-Kis-Khan was a Khalkha, and that the memory of his conquests has
not passed away from the hearts of this warlike people.  The slightest
movement at the Great Kouren excites alarm at Peking.

In 1839 the Guison-Tamba announced his intention of paying a visit to the
Emperor Tao-Kouan.  The Court of Peking became horribly alarmed, and
negotiators were dispatched to divert, if possible, the Guison-Tamba from
his journey; but all they could effect was, that he should be attended by
only 3,000 Lamas, and that three other Khalkha sovereigns who were to
have accompanied him should be left behind.

Immediately upon the Guison-Tamba’s departure on his progress, all the
tribes of Tartary put themselves in motion, and took up positions on the
road he was to travel, in vast multitudes, each tribe bringing for his
acceptance offerings of horses, oxen, sheep, gold and silver bullion, and
precious stones.  Wells were dug for him at intervals throughout the
length of the great desert of Gobi, and at each of these were placed for
his use, by the chieftain of the particular locality, a store of
provisions of all sorts.  The Lama King was in a yellow palanquin,
carried by four horses, each led by a dignitary of the Lamasery.  The
escort of 3,000 Lamas were before, behind, and on each side of the
palanquin, jovially dashing about on horses and camels.  The road almost
throughout was lined with spectators, or rather with worshippers, eagerly
awaiting the arrival of the Holy, and upon his approach, falling, first
on their knees, and then on their faces, before him, their hands crossed
over the head.  It seemed the progress of a divinity come upon earth to
bless its people.  On reaching the Great Wall, the Guison-Tamba, ceasing
to be a divinity, became only the chief of some nomad tribes, scorned by
the people of China, but feared by the Court of China, more alive to
political contingencies.  Only one half of the 3,000 Lamas were permitted
to attend their chief further, the rest remaining encamped north of the
Great Wall.

The Guison-Tamba sojourned at Peking for three months, receiving an
occasional visit from the Emperor; and from the Grand Dignitaries.  He
then relieved the celestial city from his troublesome presence, and after
paying visits to the Lamaseries of the Five Towers, and of the Blue Town,
set out on his return to his own states, when he died, the victim, it was
asserted, of a slow poison that had been administered to him by order of
the Emperor.  The Khalkhas, however, were more irritated than intimidated
by his death, for they are persuaded that their Guison-Tamba never
actually dies.  All he does, when he appears to die, is to transmigrate
to some other country, whence he returns to them younger, more vigorous,
more active than ever.  In 1844, accordingly, they were told that their
living Buddha was incarnate in Thibet, and they went thither, in solemn
procession, to fetch the child of five years old who was indicated to
them, and to place him on his imperishable throne.  While we were
encamped at Kou-Kou-Noor, on the banks of the Blue Sea, we saw pass by us
the great caravan of Khalkhas, who were on their way to Lha-Ssa to bring
home the Lama-King of the Great Kouren.

The Kouren of the Thousand Lamas—_Mingan Lamané Kouré_—also a celebrated
Lamasery, which dates from the invasion of China by the Mantchous.  When
Tchun-Tche, {93} founder of the dynasty now reigning in China, descended
from the forests of Mantchouria to march upon Peking, he met on his way a
Lama of Thibet, whom he consulted as to the issue of his enterprise.  The
Lama promised him complete success, whereupon Tchun-Tche ordered him to
come and see him when he should be installed at Peking.  After the
Mantchous had rendered themselves masters of the capital of the empire,
the Lama did not fail to keep his appointment.  The Emperor at once
recognised the person who had favoured him with such an auspicious
horoscope; and, in token of his gratitude, allotted to him a large extent
of land whereon to construct a Lamasery, and revenues sufficient for the
support of a thousand Lamas.  From the time of its erection, however, the
Lamasery of the Thousand Lamas has grown and grown, so that at present it
contains more than four thousand Lamas, though its original designation
still remains.  By degrees, traders have established themselves around
it, and have built a considerable town, jointly occupied by Chinese and
by Tartars.  The principal commerce of the place is in beasts.

The Grand Lama of the Lamasery is, at the same time, sovereign of the
district.  It is he who makes laws, who administers justice, and who
appoints magistrates.  When he dies, his subjects go and seek for him in
Thibet, where he is always understood to metempsychosise himself.

At the time of our visit to the Kouren of the Thousand Lamas, everything
was in utter confusion, by reason of a suit between the Lama King and his
four ministers, who are called, in the Mongol language, Dchassak.  The
latter had taken upon themselves to marry, and to build houses for
themselves apart from the Lamasery, things altogether subversive of Lama
discipline.  The Grand Lama essayed to bring them to order; the four
Dchassak, instead of submitting, had collected a whole heap of
grievances, upon which they framed an accusation against their chief
before the Tou-Toun, the high Mantchou Mandarin, who acts as
Secretary-of-State for the Tartar department.

The suit had been under prosecution two months when we visited the
Lamasery, and we soon saw how the establishment was suffering from the
absence of its principals.  Study or prayer there was none; the great
outer gate was open, and seemed not to have been closed at all for some
time past.  We entered the interior; all we found there was silence and
solitude.  The grass was growing in the courts, and upon the walls.  The
doors of the temples were padlocked, but through the gratings we could
see that the seats, the altars, the paintings, the statues, were all
covered with dust; everything manifested that the Lamasery had been for
some time in a state of utter neglect.  The absence of the superiors, and
the uncertainty as to the result of the suit, had unloosened all the
bonds of discipline.  The Lamas had dispersed, and people began to regard
the very existence of the Lamasery as extremely compromised.  We have
since heard that, thanks to enormous bribery, the suit terminated in
favour of the Lama King, and that the four Dchassak were compelled to
conform themselves in all respects to the orders of their sovereign.

We may add to the enumeration of the many celebrated Lamaseries, those of
Blue Town, of Tolon-Noor, of Gé-Ho-Eul; and within the Great Wall, that
of Peking, and that of the Five Towers in Chan-Si.

After quitting the Lamasery of Tchortchi, just as we were entering upon
the Red Banner, we met a Mongol hunter, who was carrying behind him, on
his horse, a fine roebuck he had just killed.  We had been so long
reduced to our insipid oatmeal, seasoned with a few bits of mutton fat,
that the sight of the venison inspired us with a somewhat decided desire
to vary our entertainment; we felt, moreover, that our stomachs, weakened
by our daily privations, imperiously demanded a more substantial
alimentation.  After saluting the hunter, therefore, we asked him if he
was disposed to sell his venison.  “Sirs Lamas,” replied he, “when I
placed myself in ambush to await the deer, I had no thought of trading in
my head.  The Chinese carmen, stationed up yonder beyond Tchortchi,
wanted to buy my game for four hundred sapeks, but I said No!  But to
you, Sirs Lamas, I speak not as to Kitat; there is my roebuck: give me
what you please for it.”  We told Samdadchiemba to pay the hunter five
hundred sapeks and hanging the venison over the neck of one of the
camels, we proceeded on our way.

Five hundred sapeks are equivalent to about 2s. ld., and this is the
ordinary price of a roebuck in Tartary; the price of a sheep is thrice
that amount.  Venison is little esteemed by the Tartars, and still less
by the Chinese; black meat, say they, is never so good as white.  Yet in
the larger cities of China, and especially at Peking, black meat has
honourable place on the tables of the rich and of the mandarins; a
circumstance, however, to be attributed to the scarcity of the article,
and a desire for variety.  The Mantchous, indeed, do not come within the
preceding observation; for, great lovers of hunting, they are also great
lovers of its produce, and especially of bears, stags, and pheasants.

It was just past noon when we came to a spot marvellously beautiful.
After passing through a narrow opening between two rocks, whose summits
seemed lost in the clouds, we found ourselves in a large enclosure,
surrounded by lofty hills, on which grew a number of scattered pines.  An
abundant fountain supplied a small stream, whose banks were covered with
angelica and wild mint.  The rivulet, after making the circuit of the
enclosure, amid rich grass, had its issue thence by an opening similar to
that by which we had entered the place.  No sooner had a glance
comprehended the attractions of the spot, than Samdadchiemba moved that
we should at once set up our tent there.  “Let us go no further to-day,”
said he; “let us encamp here.  We have not gone far this morning, it is
true, and the sun is still very high; but we have got the venison to
prepare, and should therefore encamp earlier than usual.”  No one
opposing the honourable gentleman’s motion, it was put and carried
unanimously, and we proceeded to set up our tent by the side of the
spring.

Samdadchiemba had often talked of his great dexterity in the dissection
of animals, and he was delighted with this opportunity of displaying his
excellence in this respect.  Having suspended the roebuck from a
pine-branch, sharpened his knife upon a tent-pin, and turned up his
sleeves to the elbow, he asked whether we would have the animal
dismembered _à la Chinoise_, _à la Turque_, or _à la Tartare_.
Unprovided with any reason for preferring any one of these modes to the
other two, we left it to Samdadchiemba to obey the impulse of his genius
in the matter.  In a minute he had skinned and gutted the animal, and he
then cut away the flesh from the bones, in one piece, without separating
the limbs, so as to leave suspended from the tree merely the skeleton of
the deer.  This, it appeared, was the Turkish fashion, in use upon long
journeys, in order to relieve travellers from the useless burden of
bones.

This operation completed, Samdadchiemba cut some slices of venison and
proceeded to fry them in mutton fat, a manner of preparing venison not
perhaps in strict accordance with the rules of the culinary art; but the
difficulty of the circumstances did not allow us to do better.  Our
banquet was soon ready, but, contrary to our expectations, we were not
the first to taste it; we had seated ourselves triangularly on the grass,
having in the midst the lid of the pot, which served us as a dish, when
all of a sudden we heard, as it were, the rushing of a storm over our
heads: a great eagle dashed, like a lightning stroke, upon our
entertainment, and immediately rose with equal rapidity, bearing off in
each claw a large slice of venison.  Upon recovering from our fright at
this sudden incident, we ourselves were fain to laugh at the ludicrous
aspect of the matter, but Samdadchiemba did not laugh by any means; be
was in a paroxysm of fury, not indeed at the loss of the venison, but
because the eagle, in its flight, had insolently dealt him a sound box on
the ear with the extremity of its great wings.

This event served to render us more cautious on the following venison
days.  During our previous journeyings we had, indeed, on several
occasions observed eagles hovering over our heads at meal-times, but no
accident of this kind had occurred; probably the royal birds had scorned
our mere oatmeal repasts.

You see the eagle almost everywhere throughout the deserts of Tartary;
sometimes hovering and making large circles in the air, sometimes perched
upon a rising ground, motionless as the hillock itself.  No one in these
countries hunts the eagle or molests it in any way; it may make its nest
where it pleases, and there bring up its eaglets, and itself grow old,
without being in the smallest degree interfered with by man.  You often
see before you an eagle resting on the plain, and looking there larger
than a sheep; as you approach, before rising, it leisurely moves along
the ground, beating its wings, and then, by degrees ascending, it attains
the altitude where it can fly in all its grandeur and power.

After several days journey we quitted the country of the Eight Banners
and entered Western Toumet.  At the time of the conquest of China by the
Mantchous, the king of Toumet, having distinguished himself in the
expedition as an auxiliary of the invaders, the conqueror, in order to
evince his gratitude for the services which the prince had rendered him,
gave him the fine districts situated north of Peking, beyond the Great
Wall.  From that period they have borne the name of Eastern Toumet, and
Old Toumet took that of Western Toumet; the two Toumets are separated
from each other by the Tchakar River.

The Mongol Tartars of Western Toumet do not lead the pastoral and nomadic
life; they cultivate their lands and apply themselves to the arts of
civilized nations.  We had been for nearly a month traversing the desert,
setting-up our tent for the night in the first convenient place we found,
and accustomed to see nothing but, above us the sky, and below and around
us interminable prairies.  We had long, as it were, broken with the
world, for all we had seen of mankind had been a few Tartar horsemen
dashing across the Land of Grass, like so many birds of passage.  Without
suspecting it, our tastes had insensibly become modified, and the desert
of Mongolia had created in us a temperament friendly to the tranquillity
of solitude.  When, therefore, we found ourselves amid the cultivation,
the movement, the bustle, the confusion of civilized existence, we felt,
as it were, oppressed, suffocated; we seemed gasping for breath, and as
though every moment we were going to be stifled.  This impression,
however, was evanescent; and we soon got to think that, after all, it was
more comfortable and more agreeable, after a day’s march, to take up our
abode in a warm, well-stored inn, than to have to set up a tent, to
collect fuel, and to prepare our own very meagre repast, before we could
take our rest.

                      [Picture: Tartar Agriculture]

The inhabitants of Western Toumet, as may well be imagined, have
completely lost the stamp of their original Mongol character; they have
all become, more or less, Chinese; many of them do not even know a word
of the Mongol language.  Some, indeed, do not scruple to express contempt
for their brothers of the desert, who refuse to subject their prairies to
the ploughshare; they say, how ridiculous is it for men to be always
vagabondizing about, and to have merely wretched tents wherein to shelter
their heads, when they might so easily build houses, and obtain wealth
and comforts of all kinds from the land beneath their feet.  And, indeed,
the Western Toumetians are perfectly right in preferring the occupation
of agriculturist to that of shepherd, for they have magnificent plains,
well watered, fertile, and favourable to the production of all kinds of
grain crops.  When we passed through the country, harvest was over; but
the great stacks of corn that we saw in all directions told us that the
produce had been abundant and fine.  Everything throughout Western Toumet
bears the impress of affluence; nowhere, go in what direction you may, do
you see the wretched tumble-down houses that disfigure the highways and
by-ways of China; nowhere do you see the miserable, half-starved,
half-clothed creatures that pain the hearts of travellers in every other
country: all the peasants here are well fed, well lodged, and well
clothed.  All the villages and roads are beautified with groups and
avenues of fine trees; whereas, in the other Tartar regions, cultivated
by the Chinese, no trees are to be seen; trees are not even planted, for
everybody knows they would be pulled up next day by some miserable pauper
or other, for fuel.

We had made three days’ journey through the cultivated lands of the
Toumet, when we entered _Kou-Kou-Hote_ (Blue Town), called in Chinese
_Koni-Hoa-Tchen_.  There are two towns of the same name, five _lis_
distant from one another.  The people distinguish them by calling the one
“Old Town,” and the other “New Town,” or “Commercial Town,” and “Military
Town.”  We first entered the latter, which was built by the Emperor
Khang-Hi, to defend the empire against its northern enemies.  The town
has a beautiful, noble appearance, which might be admired in Europe
itself.  We refer, however, only to its circuit of embattled walls, made
of brick; for inside, the low houses, built in the Chinese style, are
little in unison with the lofty, huge ramparts that surround them.  The
interior of the town offers nothing remarkable but its regularity, and a
large and beautiful street, which runs through it from east to west.  A
Kiang-Kian, or military commandant, resides here with 10,000 soldiers,
who are drilled every day; so that the town may be regarded as a garrison
town.

The soldiers of the New Town of Koukou Khoton are Mantchou Tartars; but
if you did not previously know the fact, you would scarcely suspect it
from hearing them speak.  Amongst them there is perhaps not a single man
who understands the language of his own country.  Already two ages have
passed away since the Mantchous made themselves masters of the vast
empire of China, and you would say that during these two centuries they
have been unceasingly working out their own annihilation.  Their manners,
their language, their very country—all has become Chinese.  It may now be
affirmed that Mantchou nationality has become irremediably annihilated.
In order to account for this strange counter-revolution, and to
understand how the Chinese have been able to fuse their conquerors with
themselves, and to get possession of Mantchouria, we must look some way
back, and enter somewhat into detail.

In the time of the Ming dynasty, which flourished in China from 1368 to
1644, the Mantchous, or Eastern Tartars, after a long series of internal
wars, concurred in the selection of a chief, who united all the tribes
into one, and established a kingdom.  From that time this ferocious and
barbarian people insensibly acquired an importance which gave great
umbrage to the Court of Peking; and in 1618 its power was so well
established, that its king did not fear to transmit to the Emperor of
China the statement of seven grievances which, he said, he had to avenge.
The daring manifesto finished with these words: “_And in order to avenge
these seven injuries_, _I will reduce and subjugate the dynasty of the
Ming_.”  Shortly afterwards the empire was convulsed with revolts in all
directions; the rebel chief besieged Peking, and took it.  There-upon the
Emperor, despairing of his fortune, hanged himself from a tree in the
Imperial garden, leaving near him these words, written in his own blood:
“_Since the empire is falling_, _the Emperor_, _too_, _must fall_.”
Ou-San-Koueï, the Imperial general, called in the Mantchous to aid him in
reducing the rebels.  The latter were put to flight, and while the
Chinese general was pursuing them southward, the Tartar chief returned to
Peking, and finding the throne vacant, assumed it.

                        [Picture: Chinese Soldier]

Previous to this event, the Great Wall, carefully maintained by the Ming
dynasty, had kept the Mantchous from entering China, while, reciprocally,
the Chinese were forbidden to enter Mantchouria.  After the Mantchou
conquest of the empire, however, there was no longer any frontier
separating the two nations.  The Great Wall was freely passed, and the
communication between the two countries once thrown open, the Chinese
populations of Pe-Tchi-Li and Chan-Toung, hitherto confined within their
narrow provinces, burst like torrents upon Mantchouria.  The Tartar chief
had been considered the sole master, the sole possessor of the lands of
his kingdom; but, established as Emperor of China, he distributed his
vast possessions among the Mantchous, upon the condition that they should
pay him heavy rents for them every year.  By means of usury and cunning,
and persevering machinations, the Chinese have since rendered themselves
masters of all the lands of their conquerors, leaving to them merely
their empty titles, their onerous statutory labour, and the payment of
oppressive rents.  The quality of Mantchou has thus by degrees become a
very costly affair, and many, of consequence, seek altogether to abnegate
it.  According to the law, there is, every third year, a census made of
the population of each banner, and all persons who do not cause their
names to be inscribed on the roll, are deemed no longer to belong to the
Mantchou nation; those, therefore, of the Mantchous whose indigence
induces them to desire exemption from statute labour and military
service, do not present themselves to the census enumerators, and by that
omission enter the ranks of the Chinese people.  Thus, while, on the one
hand, constant migration has carried beyond the Great Wall a great number
of Chinese, on the other, a great number of Mantchous have voluntarily
abdicated their nationality.

The decline, or rather the extinction of the Mantchou nation, is now
progressing more rapidly than ever.  Up to the reign of Tao-Kouan, the
regions watered by the Songari were exclusively inhabited by Mantchous:
entrance into those vast districts was prohibited to the Chinese, and no
man was permitted to cultivate the soil within their range.  At the
commencement of the present reign, these districts were put up for public
sale, in order to supply the deficiency in the Imperial treasury.  The
Chinese rushed upon them like birds of prey, and a few years sufficed to
remove every thing that could in any way recall the memory of their
ancient possessors.  It would be vain for anyone now to seek in
Mantchouria a single town, a single village, that is not composed
entirely of Chinese.

Yet, amid the general transformation, there are still a few tribes, such
as the Si-Po and the Solon, which faithfully retain the Mantchou type.
Up to the present day their territories have been invaded neither by the
Chinese nor by cultivation; they continue to dwell in tents and to
furnish soldiers to the Imperial armies.  It has been remarked, however,
that their frequent appearance at Peking, and their long periods of
service in the provincial garrisons, are beginning to make terrible
inroads upon their habits and tastes.

When the Mantchous conquered China, they imposed upon the conquered
people a portion of their dress and many of their usages.  Tobacco
smoking, for example, and the manner of dressing the hair, now in use by
the Chinese, came to them from the Mantchou Tartars.  But the Chinese, in
their turn, did far more than this; they managed to make their conquerors
adopt their manners and their language.  You may now traverse Mantchouria
to the river Amour, without being at all aware that you are not
travelling in a province of China.  The local colouring has become
totally effaced.  With the exception of a few nomadic tribes no one
speaks Mantchou: and there would, perhaps, remain no trace of this fine
language, had not the Emperors Khang-Hi and Kien-Loung erected, in its
honour, monuments imperishable in themselves, and which will ever attract
the attention of European orientalists.

At one time the Mantchous had no writing of their own; it was not until
1624, that Tai-Tsou-Kao-Hoang-Ti, chief of the Eastern Tartars, directed
several learned persons of his nation to design a system of letters for
the Mantchous, upon the model of those of the Mongols.  Subsequently, in
1641, a man of great genius, named Tahai, perfected the work, and gave to
the Mantchou system of letters the elegance, clearness, and refinement
which now characterize it.

Chun-Tche had the finest productions of Chinese literature translated
into Mantchou.  Khang-Hi established an academy of learned persons,
equally versed in the Chinese and Tartar languages, whom he employed upon
the translation of classical and historical works, and in the compilation
of several dictionaries.  In order to express novel objects and the
various conceptions previously unknown to the Mantchous, it was necessary
to invent terms, borrowed, for the most part, from the Chinese, and
adapted, by slight alterations, as closely as possible, to the Tartar
idiom.  This process, however, tending to destroy, by imperceptible
degrees, the originality of the Mantchou language, the Emperor
Kien-Loung, to avert the danger, had a Mantchou dictionary compiled, from
which all Chinese words were excluded.  The compilers went about
questioning old men and other Mantchous deemed most conversant with their
mother-tongue, and rewards were given to such as brought forward an
obsolescent word or expression which was deemed worthy of revival and
perpetuation in the dictionary.

Thanks to the solicitude and enlightened zeal of the first sovereigns of
the present dynasty, there is now no good Chinese book which has not been
translated into Mantchou; and all these translations are invested with
the greatest possible authenticity, as having been executed by learned
academies, by order and under the immediate auspices of several emperors:
and as having, moreover, been subsequently revised and corrected by other
academies, equally learned, and whose members were versed alike in the
Chinese language and in the Mantchou idiom.

The Mantchou language has attained, by means of all these learned
labours, a solid basis; it may, indeed, become no longer spoken, but it
will ever remain a classic tongue, and ever be of most important aid to
philologers applying their studies to the Asiatic tongues.  Besides
numerous and faithful translations of the best Chinese books, the
Mantchou language possesses versions of the principal productions in the
Lamanesque, Thibetian, and Mantchou literature.  A few years labour will
thus suffice to place the diligent student of Mantchou in full possession
of all the most precious monuments of Eastern Asiatic literature.

The Mantchou language is sonorous, harmonious, and, above all, singularly
clear.  Its study is now rendered easy and agreeable by H. Conon de la
Gabelentz’s “Elemens de la Grammaire Mantchou,” published at Altemburg,
in Saxony, and which develops, with happy lucidity, the mechanism and
rules of the language.  The excellent work of this learned orientalist
cannot fail to be of great assistance to all who desire to apply
themselves to the study of a language menaced with extinction in the very
country which gave it birth, but which France, at least, will preserve
for the use of the world of letters.  M. Conon de la Gabelentz says, in
the preface to his grammar: “I have selected the French language in the
preparation of my work, because France is, as yet, the only European
country in which Mantchou has been cultivated, so that it seems to me
indispensable that all who desire to study this idiom should first know
French, as being the tongue in which are composed the only European works
which relate to Mantchou literature.”

While the French missionaries were enriching their country with the
literary treasures which they found in these remote regions, they were,
at the same time, ardently engaged in diffusing the light of Christianity
amid these idolatrous nations, whose religion is merely a monstrous
medley of doctrines and practices borrowed at once from Lao-Tseu,
Confucius, and Buddha.

It is well known that in the earlier years of the present dynasty, these
missionaries had, by their talents, acquired great influence at court;
they always accompanied the Emperors in the long and frequent journeys
which at that period they were accustomed to make into the regions of
their ancient rule.  These zealous preachers of the gospel never failed
on all such occasions to avail themselves of the protection and influence
they enjoyed, as a means for sowing, wherever they went, the seeds of the
true faith.  Such was the first origin of the introduction of
Christianity into Mantchouria.  They reckoned at first but few neophytes;
but the number of these was insensibly augmented afterwards by the
migrations of the Chinese, in which were always to be found several
Christian families.  These missions formed part of the diocese of Peking
until within a few years past; then the Bishop of Nanking, administrator
of the diocese of Peking, finding himself nigh the close of his career,
and fearing that the political commotions of which Portugal, his native
country, was at that time the theatre, would preclude the Portuguese
church from sending an adequate number of labourers to cultivate the vast
field which had been confided to him, communicated his apprehensions to
the Sacred College de Propagandâ Fide, and earnestly entreated its
members to take under their especial attention a harvest, already ripe,
but which was under peril of destruction, for want of husbandmen to
gather it in.  The sacred congregation, touched with the anxiety of this
venerable and zealous old man, among its other arrangements for meeting
the requirements of these unfortunate missions, dismembered Mantchouria
from the diocese of Peking, and erected it into an Apostolic Vicariat,
which was confided to the charge of the Foreign Missionary Society.  M.
Verolles, Bishop of Colombia, was made the new Vicar Apostolic.  Nothing
less than the patience, the devotion, the every virtue of an apostle, was
essential for the due administration of this Christendom.  The prejudices
of the neophytes, not as yet brought within the rules of ecclesiastical
discipline, were, for M. Verolles, obstacles more difficult to overcome
than even the ruggedness of heart of the pagans; but his experience and
his wisdom soon triumphed over all impediments.  The mission has assumed
a new form; the number of Christians is annually augmenting; and there is
now every hope that the Apostolic Vicariat of Mantchouria will become one
of the most flourishing missions in Asia.

Mantchouria is bounded on the north by Siberia, on the south by the Gulf
Phou-Hai and Corea, on the east by the sea of Japan, and on the west by
Russian Dauria and Mongolia.

Moukden, in Chinese Chen-Yan, is the chief town of Mantchouria, and may
be considered the second capital of the Chinese empire.  The Emperor has
a palace and courts of justice there on the model of those at Peking.
Moukden is a large and fine city, surrounded by thick and lofty ramparts;
the streets are broad and regular, and less dirty and tumultuous than
those of Peking.  One entire quarter is appropriated to the princes of
the Yellow Girdle; that is, to the members of the Imperial family.  They
are all under the direction of a grand Mandarin, who is entrusted with
the inspection of their conduct, and empowered summarily to punish any
offences they may commit.

After Moukden, the most remarkable towns are Ghirin, surrounded by high
wooden palisades, and Ningouta, the native place of the reigning Imperial
family.  Lao-yan, Kai-Tcheou, and Kin-Tcheou, are remarkable for the
extensive commerce their maritime position brings them.

Mantchouria, watered by a great number of streams and rivers, is a
country naturally fertile.  Since the cultivation has been in the hands
of the Chinese, the soil has been enriched by a large number of the
products of the interior.  In the southern part, they cultivate
successfully the dry rice, or that which has no need of watering, and the
Imperial rice, discovered by the Emperor Khang-Hi.  These two sorts of
rice would certainly succeed in France.  They have also abundant harvests
of millet, of Kao-Léang or Indian corn (_Holcus Sorghum_), from which
they distil excellent brandy; sesamum, linseed, hemp, and tobacco, the
best in the whole Chinese empire.

The Mantchourians pay especial attention to the cultivation of the
herbaceous-stemmed cotton plant, which produces cotton in extraordinary
abundance.  A Meou of these plants, a space of about fifteen square feet,
ordinarily produces 2,000 lbs. of cotton.  The fruit of the cotton-tree
grows in the form of a cod or shell, and attains the size of a hazel-nut.
As it ripens, the cod opens, divides into three parts, and develops three
or four small tufts of cotton which contain the seeds.  In order to
separate the seed, they make use of a sort of little bow, firmly strung,
the cord of which vibrating over the cotton tufts removes the seeds, of
which a portion is retained for next year’s sowing, and the rest is made
into oil, resembling linseed oil.  The upper portion of Mantchouria, too
cold to grow cotton, has immense harvests of corn.

Besides these productions, common to China, Mantchouria possesses three
treasures {105} peculiar to itself: jin-seng, sable fur, and the grass
Oula.

The first of these productions has been long known in Europe, though our
learned Academy there ventured some years ago to doubt its existence.
Jin-seng is perhaps the most considerable article of Mantchourian
commerce.  Throughout China there is no chemist’s shop unprovided with
more or less of it.

The root of jin-seng is straight, spindle-shaped, and very knotty; seldom
so large as one’s little finger, and in length from two to three inches.
When it has undergone its fitting preparation, its colour is a
transparent white, with sometimes a slight red or yellow tinge.  Its
appearance, then, is that of a branch of stalactite.

The Chinese report marvels of the jin-seng, and no doubt it is, for
Chinese organization, a tonic of very great effect for old and weak
persons; but its nature is too heating, the Chinese physicians admit, for
the European temperament, already, in their opinion, too hot.  The price
is enormous, and doubtless its dearness contributes, with a people like
the Chinese, to raise its celebrity so high.  The rich and the Mandarins
probably use it only because it is above the reach of other people, and
out of pure ostentation.

The jin-seng, grown in Corea, and there called Kao-li-seng, is of very
inferior quality to that of Mantchouria.

The second special treasure of Eastern Tartary is the fur of the sable,
which, obtained by the hunters with immense labour and danger, is of such
excessive price that only the princes and great dignitaries of the empire
can purchase it.  The grass called Oula, the third specialty of
Mantchouria, is, on the contrary, of the commonest occurrence; its
peculiar property is, that if put into your shoes, it communicates to the
feet a soothing warmth, even in the depth of winter.

As we have said above, the Mantchou Tartars have almost wholly abdicated
their own manners, and adopted instead those of the Chinese; yet, amid
this transformation of their primitive characters, they have still
retained their old passion for hunting, for horse exercise, and for
archery.  At all periods of their history, they have attached an
astonishing importance to these various exercises; any one may convince
himself of this by merely running his eye over a Mantchou dictionary.
Every thing, every incident, every attribute relating to these exercises,
has its special expression, so as to need no circumlocution to convey it.
There are different names, not only for the different colours of the
horse, for example, for its age and qualities, but for all its movements;
and it is just the same with reference to hunting and archery.

The Mantchous are excellent archers, and among them the tribe Solon are
particularly eminent in this respect.  At all the military stations,
trials of skill with the bow take place on certain periodical occasions,
in presence of the Mandarins and of the assembled people.  Three straw
men, of the size of life, are placed in a straight line, at from twenty
to thirty paces distance from one another; the archer is on a line with
them, about fifteen feet off from the first figure, his bow bent, and his
finger on the string.  The signal being given, he puts his horse to a
gallop, and discharges his arrow at the first figure; without checking
his horse’s speed, he takes a second arrow from his quiver, places it in
the bow, and discharges it against the second figure, and so with the
third; all this while the horse is dashing at full speed along the line
of the figures, so that the rider has to keep himself firm in the
stirrups while he manœuvres with the promptitude necessary to avoid the
getting beyond his mark.  From the first figure to the second, the archer
has bare time for drawing his arrow, fixing, and discharging it, so that
when he shoots, he has generally to turn somewhat on his saddle; and as
to the third shot, he has to discharge it altogether in the old Parthian
fashion.  Yet for a competitor to be deemed a good archer, it is
essential that he should fire an arrow into every one of the three
figures.  “To know how to shoot an arrow,” writes a Mantchou author, “is
the first and most important knowledge for a Tartar to acquire.  Though
success therein seems an easy matter, success is of rare occurrence.  How
many are there who practise day and night?  How many are there who sleep
with the bow in their arms? and yet how few are there who have rendered
themselves famous.  How few are there whose names are proclaimed at the
matches!  Keep your frame straight and firm; avoid vicious postures; let
your shoulders be immovable.  Fire every arrow into its mark, and you may
be satisfied with your skill.”

The day after our arrival at the military town of Koukou-Khoton, we
repaired on a visit to the mercantile district.  Our hearts were
painfully affected at finding ourselves in a Mantchou town, and hearing
any language spoken there but the Mantchou.  We could not reconcile to
our minds the idea of a nation renegade of its nationality, of a
conquering people, in nothing distinguishable from the conquered, except,
perhaps, that they have a little less industry and a little more conceit.
When the Thibetian Lama promised to the Tartar chief the conquest of
China, and predicted to him that he should soon be seated on the throne
at Peking, he would have told him more of truth, had he told him that his
whole nation, its manners, its language, its country, was about to be
engulfed for ever in the Chinese empire.  Let any revolution remove the
present dynasty, and the Mantchou will be compelled to complete fusion
with the empire.  Admission to their own country, occupied entirely by
Chinese, will be forbidden to them.  In reference to a map of
Mantchouria, compiled by the Fathers Jesuits, upon the order of the
Emperor Khang-Hi, Father Duhalde says that they abstained from giving the
Chinese names of places in the map; and he assigns for this the following
reason: “Of what use would it be to a traveller through Mantchouria to be
told, for example, that the river Sakhalien-Oula is called by the Chinese
Hé-Loung-Kiang, since it is not with Chinese he has there to do; and the
Tartars, whose aid he requires, have never heard the Chinese name.”  This
observation might be just enough in the time of Khang-Hi, but now the
precise converse would hold good; for in traversing Mantchouria it is
always with Chinese you have to deal, and it is always of the
Hé-Loung-Kiang that you hear, and never of the Sakhalien-Oula.

                       [Picture: Chapter Tailpiece]

                    [Picture: Chinese Money Changers]




CHAPTER V.


The Old Blue Town—Quarter of the Tanners—Knavery of the Chinese
Traders—Hotel of the Three Perfections—Spoliation of the Tartars by the
Chinese—Money Changer’s Office—Tartar Coiner—Purchase of two Sheep-skin
Robes—Camel Market—Customs of the Cameleers—Assassination of a Grand Lama
of the Blue Town—Insurrection of the Lamaseries—Negociation between the
Court of Peking and that of Lha-Ssa—Domestic Lamas—Wandering Lamas—Lamas
in Community—Policy of the Mantchou Dynasty with reference to the
Lamaseries—Interview with a Thibetian Lama—Departure from the Blue Town.

From the Mantchou town to the Old Blue Town is not more than half an
hour’s walk, along a broad road, constructed through the large market,
which narrowed the town.  With the exception of the Lamaseries, which
rise above the other buildings, you see before you merely an immense mass
of houses and shops huddled confusedly together, without any order or
arrangement whatever.  The ramparts of the old town still exist in all
their integrity; but the increase of the population has compelled the
people by degrees to pass this barrier.  Houses have risen outside the
walls one after another until large suburbs have been formed, and now the
extra-mural city is larger than the intra-mural.

We entered the city by a broad street, which exhibited nothing remarkable
except the large Lamasery, called, in common with the more celebrated
establishment in the province of Chan-Si, the Lamasery of the Five
Towers.  It derives this appellation from a handsome square tower with
five turrets, one, very lofty, in the centre and one at each angle.

Just beyond this the broad street terminated, and there was no exit but a
narrow lane running right and left.  We turned down what seemed the least
dirty of these, but soon found ourselves in a liquid slough of mud and
filth, black, and of suffocating stench—we had got into the Street of the
Tanners.  We advanced slowly and shudderingly, for beneath the mire lay
hid, now a great stone, over which we stumbled, now a hole, into which we
sank.  To complete our misfortune, we all at once heard before us
deafening cries and shouts, indicating that along the tortuosities of the
lane in which we were horsemen and carts were about to meet us.  To draw
back, or to stand aside, were equally impossible, so that our only
resource was to bawl on our own account, and, advancing, take our chance.
At the next turning we met the cavalcade, and something extremely
disagreeable seemed threatening us, when, upon sight of our camels, the
horses of the other party took fright, and, turning right round, galloped
off in utter confusion, leaving the way clear before us.  Thus, thanks to
our beasts of burden, we were enabled to continue our journey without
giving the way to any one, and we at last arrived, without any serious
accident, in a spacious street, adorned on each side with fine shops.

We looked about for an inn, but fruitlessly; we saw several inns, indeed,
but these were not of the kind we sought.  In the great towns of Northern
China and Tartary each inn is devoted to a particular class of
travellers, and will receive no other.  “The Corndealers’ Arms” inn, for
example, will not admit a horse dealer, and so on.  The inns which devote
themselves to the entertainment of mere travellers are called the taverns
of the Transitory Guests.  We were pausing, anxiously looking about for
one of these, when a young man, hastening from an adjacent shop, came up
to us: “You seek an inn, gentlemen travellers,” said he; “suffer me to
guide you to one; yet I scarcely know one in the Blue City worthy of you.
Men are innumerable here, my Lords Lamas; a few good, but, alas! most
bad.  I speak it from my heart.  In the Blue City you would with
difficulty find one man who is guided by his conscience; yet conscience
is a treasure!  You Tartars, you, indeed, know well what conscience is.
Ah! I know the Tartars well! excellent people, right-hearted souls!  We
Chinese are altogether different—rascals, rogues.  Not one Chinaman in
ten thousand heeds conscience.  Here, in this Blue City, everybody, with
the merest exceptions, makes it his business to cheat the worthy Tartars,
and rob them of their goods.  Oh! it’s shameful!”

And the excellent creature threw up his eyes as he denounced the knavery
of his townsmen.  We saw very clearly, however, that the direction taken
by the eyes thus thrown up was the camel’s back, whereon were two large
cases, which our disinterested adviser no doubt took to contain precious
merchandise.  However, we let him lead us on and chatter as he pleased.
When we had been wandering about under his escort for a full hour, and
yet had reached no inn, we said to him: “We cannot think of troubling you
further, since you yourself seem not to know where we may find that which
we need.”  “Be perfectly easy, my lords,” replied he; “I am guiding you
to an excellent, a superexcellent hotel.  Don’t mention a word as to
troubling me; you pain me by the idea.  What! are we not all brothers?
Away with the distinction between Tartar and Chinese!  True, the language
is not the same, nor the dress; but men have but one heart, one
conscience, one invariable rule of justice.  Just wait one moment for me,
my lords; I will be with you again before you can look round,” and so
saying he dived into a shop on the left.  He was soon back with us,
making a thousand apologies for having detained us.  “You must be very
tired, my lords; one cannot be otherwise when one is travelling.  ’Tis
quite different from being with one’s own family.”  As he spoke, we were
accosted by another Chinese, a ludicrous contrast with our first friend,
whose round shining smiling face was perfectly intense in its aspect of
benevolence.  The other fellow was meagre and lanky, with thin, pinched
lips and little black eyes, half buried in the head, that gave to the
whole physiognomy a character of the most thorough knavery.  “My Lords
Lamas,” said he, “I see you have just arrived!  Excellent! And you have
journeyed safely.  Well, well!  Your camels are magnificent; ’tis no
wonder you travel fast and securely upon such animals.  Well, you have
arrived: that’s a great happiness.  Se-Eul,” he continued, addressing the
Chinese who had first got hold of us, “you are guiding these noble
Tartars to an hotel.  ’Tis well!  Take care that the hotel is a good one,
worthy of the distinguished strangers.  What think you of the ‘Tavern of
Eternal Equity?’”  “The very hotel whither I was leading the Lords
Lamas.”  “There is none better in the empire.  By the way, the host is an
acquaintance of mine.  I cannot do better than accompany you and
recommend these noble Tartars to his best care.  In fact, if I were not
to go with you, I should have a weight upon my heart.  When we are
fortunate enough to meet brothers who need our aid, how can we do too
much for them, for we are all brothers!  My lords, you see this young man
and myself; well, we two are clerks in the same establishment, and we
make it our pride to serve our brothers the Tartars; for, alas! in this
dreadful city there is but too little virtue.”

Any one, hearing their professions of devoted zeal, would have imagined
these two personages to have been the friends of our childhood; but we
were sufficiently acquainted with Chinese manners to perceive at once
that we were the mark of a couple of swindlers.  Accordingly, when we saw
inscribed on a door, “Hotel of the Three Perfections; transitory guests
on horse and camel entertained, and their affairs transacted with
infallible success,” we at once directed our course up the gateway,
despite the vehement remonstrances of our worthy guides, and rode down a
long avenue to the great square court of the hotel.  The little blue cap
worn by the attendants indicated that we were in a Turkish establishment.

This proceeding of ours was not at all what the two Chinese desired; but
they still followed us, and, without appearing disconcerted, continued to
act their parts.  “Where are the people of the hotel,” cried they, with
an immense air; “let them prepare a large apartment, a fine, clean
apartment?  Their Excellencies have arrived, and must be suitably
accommodated.”  One of the principal waiters presented himself, holding
by his teeth a key, in one hand a broom, and in the other a watering-pot.
Our two protectors immediately took possession of these articles.  “Leave
everything to us,” said they; “it is we who claim the honour of
personally waiting upon our illustrious friends; you, attendants of the
hotel, you only do things by halves, actuated as you are merely by
mercenary considerations.”  And thereupon they set to work sprinkling,
sweeping, and cleaning the room to which the waiter guided us.  When this
operation was concluded, we seated ourselves on the khang; the two
Chinese “knew themselves better than to sit by the side of our Eminent
Distinctions,” and they accordingly squatted on the floor.  As tea was
being served, a young man, well attired and of exceedingly elegant
address, came into the room, carrying by the four corners a silk
handkerchief.  “Gentlemen Lamas,” said the elder of our previous
companions, “this young man is the son of our principal, and doubtless
has been sent by his father to inquire after your health, and whether you
have so far journeyed in peace.”  The young man placed his handkerchief
upon the table that stood before us.  “Here are some cakes my father has
sent to be eaten with your tea.  When you have finished that meal, he
entreats you will come and partake of an humble repast in our poor
dwelling.”  “But why wear your hearts out thus for us mere strangers?”
“Oh!” exclaimed all three in chorus, “the words you utter cover us with
blushes!  What! can we do anything in excess for brothers who have thus
honoured us with their presence in our poor city!”  “Poor Tartars!” said
I in French to my colleague, “how thoroughly eaten up they must be when
they fall into such hands as these!”  These words, in an unknown tongue,
excited considerable surprise in our worthy friends.  “In which of the
illustrious kingdoms of Tartary dwell your Excellencies?” asked one of
them.  “We are not Tartars at all,” was the reply.  “Ah! we saw that at
once; the Tartars have no such majesty of aspect as yours; their mien has
no grandeur about it!  May we ask what is the noble country whence you
come?”  “We are from the West; our native land is far hence.”  “Quite
so,” replied the eldest of the three knaves.  “I knew it, and I said so
to these young men, but they are ignorant; they know nothing about
physiognomy.  Ah! you are from the West.  I know your country well; I
have been there more than once.”  “We are delighted to hear this:
doubtless, then, you are acquainted with our language?”  “Why, I cannot
say I know it thoroughly; but there are some few words I understand.  I
can’t speak them, indeed; but that does not matter.  You western people
are so clever, you know everything, the Chinese language, the Tartarian,
the western—you can speak them all.  I have always been closely mixed up
with your countrymen, and have invariably been selected to manage their
affairs for them whenever they come to the Blue Town.  It is always I who
make their purchases for them.”

We had by this time finished our tea; our three friends rose, and with a
simultaneous bow, invited us to accompany them.  “My lords, the repast is
by this time prepared, and our chief awaits you.”  “Listen,” said we,
gravely, “while we utter words full of reason.  You have taken the
trouble to guide us to an inn, which shows you to be men of warm hearts;
you have here swept for us and prepared our room; again, in proof of your
excellent dispositions, your master has sent us pastry, which manifests
in him a benevolence incapable of exhaustion towards the wayfaring
stranger.  You now invite us to go and dine with you: we cannot possibly
trespass so grossly upon your kindness.  No, dear friends, you must
excuse us; if we desire to make some purchases in your establishment, you
may rely upon us.  For the present we will not detain you.  We are going
to dine at the Turkish Eating House.”  So saying, we rose and ushered our
excellent friends to the door.

The commercial intercourse between the Tartars and the Chinese is
revoltingly iniquitous on the part of the latter.  So soon as Mongols,
simple, ingenuous men, if such there be at all in the world, arrive in a
trading town, they are snapped up by some Chinese, who carry them off, as
it were, by main force, to their houses, give them tea for themselves and
forage for their animals, and cajole them in every conceivable way.  The
Mongols, themselves without guile and incapable of conceiving guile in
others, take all they hear to be perfectly genuine, and congratulate
themselves, conscious as they are of their inaptitude for business, upon
their good fortune in thus meeting with brothers, _Ahatou_, as they say,
in whom they can place full confidence, and who will undertake to manage
their whole business for them.  A good dinner provided gratis in the back
shop, completes the illusion.  “If these people wanted to rob me,” says
the Tartar to himself, “they would not go to all this expense in giving
me a dinner for nothing.”  When once the Chinese has got hold of the
Tartar, he employs over him all the resources of the skilful and utterly
unprincipled knavery of the Chinese character.  He keeps him in his
house, eating, drinking, and smoking, one day after another, until his
subordinates have sold all the poor man’s cattle, or whatever else he has
to sell, and bought for him, in return, the commodities he requires, at
prices double and triple the market value.  But so plausible is the
Chinese, and so simple is the Tartar, that the latter invariably departs
with the most entire conviction of the immense philanthropy of the
former, and with a promise to return, when he has other goods to sell, to
the establishment where he has been treated so fraternally.

The next morning we went out to purchase some winter clothing, the want
of which began to make itself sensibly felt.  But first, in order to
facilitate our dealings, we had to sell some ounces of silver.  The money
of the Chinese consists entirely of small round copper coins, of the size
of our halfpenny, with a square hole in the centre, through which the
people string them, so that they may be more conveniently carried.  These
coins the Chinese call, tsien; the Tartars, dehos; and the Europeans,
sapeks.  Gold and silver are not coined at all; they are melted into
ingots of various sizes, and thus put into circulation.  Gold-dust and
gold leaf are also current in commerce, and they also possess bank notes.
The ordinary value of the ounce of silver is 1,700 or 1,800 sapeks,
according to the scarcity or abundance of silver in the country.

The money changers have two irregular modes of making a profit by their
traffic: if they state the fair price of silver to the customer, they
cheat him in the weight; if their scales and their method of weighing are
accurate, they diminish the price of the silver accordingly.  But when
they have to do with Tartars, they employ neither of these methods of
fraud; on the contrary, they weigh the silver scrupulously, and sometimes
allow a little overweight, and even they pay them above the market price;
in fact, they appear to be quite losers by the transaction, and so they
would be, if the weight and the price of the silver alone were
considered; their advantage is derived, in these cases, from their manner
of calculating the amount.  When they come to reduce the silver into
sapeks, they do indeed reduce it, making the most flagrant
miscalculations, which the Tartars, who can count nothing beyond their
beads, are quite incapable of detecting, and which they, accordingly,
adopt implicitly, and even with satisfaction, always considering they
have sold their bullion well, since they know the full weight has been
allowed, and that the full market price has been given.

At the money changers in the Blue Town, to which we went to sell some
silver, the Chinese dealers essayed, according to custom, to apply this
fraud to us, but they were disconcerted.  The weight shown by their
scales was perfectly correct, and the price they offered us was rather
above the ordinary course of exchange, and the bargain between us was so
far concluded.  The chief clerk took the souan-pan, the calculation table
used by the Chinese, and after calculating with an appearance of intense
nicety, announced the result of his operation.  “This is an
exchange-office,” said we; “you are the buyers, we the sellers; you have
made your calculation, we will make ours: give us a pencil and a piece of
paper.”—“Nothing can be more just; you have enunciated a fundamental law
of commerce,” and so saying, they handed us a writing-case.  We took the
pencil, and a very short calculation exhibited a difference in our favour
of a thousand sapeks.  “Superintendent of the bank,” said we, “your
souan-pan is in error by a thousand sapeks.”—“Impossible!  Do you think
that all of a sudden I’ve forgotten my souan-pan?  Let me go over it
again;” and he proceeded with an air of great anxiety to appear correct,
to set his calculating machine once more in operation, the other
customers by our side looking on with great amazement at all this.  When
he had done: “Yes,” said he, “I knew I was right; see, brother;” and he
passed the machine to a colleague behind the counter, who went over his
calculation; the result of their operations was exactly the same to a
fraction.  “You see,” said the principal, “there is no error.  How is it
that our calculation does not agree with that which you have written down
there?”—“It is unimportant to inquire why your calculation does not agree
with ours; this is certain, that your calculation is wrong and ours
right.  You see these little characters that we have traced on this
paper; they are a very different thing from your souan-pan; it is
impossible for them to be wrong.  Were all the calculators in the world
to work the whole of their lives upon this operation, they could arrive
at no other result than this; that your statement is wrong by a thousand
sapeks.”

The money-changers were extremely embarrassed, and began to turn very
red, when a bystander, who perceived that the affair was assuming an
awkward aspect, presented himself as umpire.  “I’ll reckon it up for
you,” said he, and taking the souan-pan, his calculation agreed with
ours.  The superintendent of the bank hereupon made us a profound bow:
“Sirs Lamas,” said he, “your mathematics are better than mine.”  “Oh, not
at all,” replied we, with a bow equally profound; “your souan-pan is
excellent, but who ever heard of a calculator always exempt from error?
People like you may very well be mistaken once and a way, whereas poor
simple folks like us make blunders ten thousand times.  Now, however, we
have fortunately concurred in our reckoning, thanks to the pains you have
taken.”  These phrases were rigorously required under the circumstances,
by Chinese politeness.  Whenever any person in China is compromised by
any awkward incident, those present always carefully refrain from any
observation which may make him blush, or as the Chinese phrase it, take
away his face.

After our conciliatory address had restored self-possession to all
present, everybody drew round the piece of paper on which we had cast up
our sum in Arabic numerals.  “That is a fine souan-pan,” said one to
another; “simple, sure, and speedy.”—“Sirs Lamas,” asked the principal,
“what do these characters mean?  What souan-pan is this?”  “This
souan-pan is infallible,” returned we; “the characters are those which
the Mandarins of Celestial Literature use in calculating eclipses, and
the course of the seasons.” {116}  After a brief conversation on the
merits of the Arabic numerals, the cashier handed us the full amount of
sapeks, and we parted good friends.

The Chinese are sometimes victims to their own knavery, and we have known
even Tartars catch them in a snare.  One day a Mongol presented himself
at the counter of a Chinese moneychanger, with a youen-pao carefully
packed and sealed.  A youen-pao is an ingot of silver weighing three
pounds—in China there are sixteen ounces to the pound; the three pounds
are never very rigorously exacted; there being generally four or five
ounces over, so that the usual weight of an ingot of silver is fifty-two
ounces.  The Tartar had no sooner unpacked his youen-pao than the Chinese
clerk resolved to defraud him of an ounce or two, and weighing it, he
pronounced it to be fifty ounces.  “My youen-pao weighs fifty-two
ounces,” exclaimed the Tartar.  “I weighed it before I left home.”  “Oh,
your Tartar scales are all very well for sheep; but they don’t do for
weighing bullion.”  After much haggling, the bargain was concluded, the
youen-pao was purchased as weighing fifty ounces, and the Tartar, having
first required and obtained a certificate of the stated weight and value
of the ingot, returned to his tent with a good provision of sapeks and
bank notes.

In the evening the principal of the establishment received the usual
report from each clerk of the business done in the course of the day.
“I,” said one of them with a triumphant air, “bought a youen-pao of
silver, and made two ounces by it.”  He produced the ingot, which the
chief received with a smile, soon changing into a frown.  “What have you
got here?” cried he.  “This is not silver!”  The ingot was handed round,
and all the clerks saw that indeed it was base bullion.  “I know the
Tartar,” said the clerk who had purchased it, “and will have him up
before the Mandarin.”

The satellites of justice were forthwith dispatched after the roguish
Tartar, whose offence, proved against him, was matter of capital
punishment.  It was obvious that the ingot was base bullion, and on the
face of the affair there was clear proof that the Tartar had sold it.
The Tartar, however, stoutly repudiated the imputation.  “The humblest of
the humble,” said he, “craves that he may be allowed to put forth a word
in his defence.”  “Speak,” said the Mandarin, “but beware how you say
aught other than the exact truth.”  “It is true,” proceeded the Tartar,
“that I sold a youen-pao at this person’s shop, but it was all pure
silver.  I am a Tartar, a poor, simple man, and these people, seeking to
take advantage of me, have substituted a false for my genuine ingot.  I
cannot command many words, but I pray our father and mother, (_i.e._ the
Mandarin), to have this false youen-pao weighed.”  The ingot was weighed,
and was found to contain fifty-two ounces.  The Tartar now drew from one
of his boots a small parcel, containing, wrapped in rags, a piece of
paper, which he held up to the Mandarin.  “Here is a certificate” cried
he, “which I received at the shop, and which attests the value and weight
of the youen-pao that I sold.”  The Mandarin looked over the paper with a
roguish smile, and then said: “According to the testimony of the clerk
himself who wrote this certificate, this Mongol sold to him a youen-pao
weighing fifty ounces; this youen-pao of base bullion weighs fifty-two
ounces; this, therefore, cannot be the Mongol’s youen-pao; but now comes
the question, whose is it?  Who are really the persons that have false
bullion in their possession?”  Every body present, the Mandarin included,
knew perfectly well how the case stood; but the Chinese magistrate,
tickled with the Tartar’s ingenuity, gave him the benefit of the clerk’s
dull roguery, and dismissed the charge; but not so the accusers, who were
well bastinadoed, and would have been put to death as coiners, had they
not found means to appease justice by the present of some ingots of purer
metal.  It is only, however, upon very rare and extraordinary occasions
that the Mongols get the better of the Chinese.  In the ordinary course
of things, they are everywhere, and always, and in every way, the dupes
of their neighbours who by dint of cunning and unprincipled machinations,
reduce them to poverty.

Upon receiving our sapeks, we proceeded to buy the winter clothing we
needed.  Upon a consideration of the meagreness of our exchequer, we came
to the resolution that it would be better to purchase what we required at
some secondhand shop.  In China and Tartary no one has the smallest
repugnance to wear other people’s clothes; he who has not himself the
attire wherein to pay a visit or make a holiday, goes without ceremony to
a neighbour and borrows a hat, or a pair of trousers, or boots, or shoes,
or whatever else he wants, and nobody is at all surprised at these
borrowings, which are quite a custom.  The only hesitation any one has in
lending his clothes to a neighbour, is, lest the borrower should sell
them in payment of some debt, or, after using them, pawn them.  People
who buy clothes buy them indifferently, new or secondhand.  The question
of price is alone taken into consideration, for there is no more delicacy
felt about putting on another man’s hat or trousers, than there is about
living in a house that some one else has occupied before you.

This custom of wearing other people’s things was by no means to our
taste, and all the less so, that, ever since our arrival at the mission
of Si-Wang, we had not been under the necessity of departing from our old
habits in this respect.  Now, however, the slenderness of our purse
compelled us to waive our repugnance.  We went out, therefore, in search
of a secondhand clothes shop, of which, in every town here, there are a
greater or less number, for the most part in connection with pawnshops,
called in these countries Tang-Pou.  Those who borrow upon pledges, are
seldom able to redeem the articles they have deposited, which they
accordingly leave to die, as the Tartars and Chinese express it; or in
other words, they allow the period of redemption to pass, and the
articles pass altogether from them.  The old clothes shops of the Blue
Town were filled in this way with Tartar spoils, so that we had the
opportunity of selecting exactly the sort of things we required, to suit
the new costume we had adopted.

At the first shop we visited they showed us a quantity of wretched
garments turned up with sheep-skin; but though these rags were
exceedingly old, and so covered with grease that it was impossible to
guess at their original colour, the price asked for them was exorbitant.
After a protracted haggling, we found it impossible to come to terms, and
we gave up this first attempt; and we gave it up, be it added, with a
certain degree of satisfaction, for our self-respect was somewhat wounded
at finding ourselves reduced even to the proposition of wearing such
filthy rags.  We visited another shop, and another, a third, and a
fourth, and still several more.  We were shown magnificent garments,
handsome garments, fair garments, endurable garments, but the
consideration of expense was, in each instance, an impracticable
stumbling-block.  The journey we had undertaken might endure for several
years, and extreme economy, at all events in the outset, was
indispensable.  After going about the whole day, after making the
acquaintance of all the rag-merchants in the Blue Town, after turning
over and over all their old clothes, we were fain to return to the
secondhand dealer whom we had first visited, and to make the best bargain
we could with him.  We purchased from him, at last, two ancient robes of
sheepskin, covered with some material, the nature of which it was
impossible to identify, and the original colour of which we suspected to
have been yellow.  We proceeded to try them on, and it was at once
evident that the tailor in making them had by no means had us in his eye.
M. Gabet’s robe was too short, M. Huc’s too long; but a friendly exchange
was impracticable, the difference in height between the two missionaries
being altogether too disproportionate.  We at first thought of cutting
the excess from the one, in order to make up the deficiency of the other;
but then we should have had to call in the aid of a tailor, and this
would have involved another drain upon our purse; the pecuniary
consideration decided the question, and we determined to wear the clothes
as they were, M. Huc adopting the expedient of holding up, by means of a
girdle, the surplus of his robe, and M. Gabet resigning himself to the
exposure to the public gaze of a portion of his legs; the main
inconvenience, after all, being the manifestation to all who saw us that
we could not attire ourselves in exact proportion to our size.

Provided with our sheep-skin coats, we next asked the dealer to show us
his collection of secondhand winter hats.  We examined several of these,
and at last selected two caps of fox-skin, the elegant form of which
reminded us of the schakos of our sappers.  These purchases completed,
each of us put under his arm his packet of old clothes, and we returned
to the hotel of the “Three Perfections.”

We remained two days longer at Koukou-Khoton; for, besides that we needed
repose, we were glad of the opportunity of seeing this great town, and of
becoming acquainted with the numerous and celebrated Lamaseries
established there.

The Blue Town enjoys considerable commercial importance, which it has
acquired chiefly through its Lamaseries, the reputation of which attracts
thither Mongols from the most distant parts of the empire.  The Mongols
bring hither large herds of oxen, camels, horses, sheep, and loads of
furs, mushrooms, and salt, the only produce of the deserts of Tartary.
They receive, in return, brick-tea, linen, saddlery, odoriferous sticks
to burn before their idols, oatmeal, millet, and kitchen utensils.

The Blue Town is especially noted for its great trade in camels.  The
camel market is a large square in the centre of the town; the animals are
ranged here in long rows, their front feet raised upon a mud elevation
constructed for that purpose, the object being to show off the size and
height of the creatures.  It is impossible to describe the uproar and
confusion of this market, what with the incessant bawling of the buyers
and sellers as they dispute, their noisy chattering after they have
agreed, and the horrible shrieking of the camels at having their noses
pulled, for the purpose of making them show their agility in kneeling and
rising.  In order to test the strength of the camel, and the burden it is
capable of bearing, they make it kneel, and then pile one thing after
another upon its back, causing it to rise under each addition, until it
can rise no longer.  They sometimes use the following expedient: While
the camel is kneeling, a man gets upon its hind heels, and holds on by
the long hair of its hump; if the camel can rise then, it is considered
an animal of superior power.

The trade in camels is entirely conducted by proxy: the seller and the
buyer never settle the matter between themselves.  They select
indifferent persons to sell their goods, who propose, discuss, and fix
the price; the one looking to the interests of the seller, the other to
those of the purchaser.  These “sale-speakers” exercise no other trade;
they go from market to market to promote business, as they say.  They
have generally a great knowledge of cattle, have much fluency of tongue,
and are, above all, endowed with a knavery beyond all shame.  They
dispute, by turns, furiously and argumentatively, as to the merits and
defects of the animal; but as soon as it comes to a question of price,
the tongue is laid aside as a medium, and the conversation proceeds
altogether in signs.  They seize each other by the wrist, and beneath the
long wide sleeve of their jackets, indicate with their fingers the
progress of the bargain.  After the affair is concluded they partake of
the dinner, which is always given by the purchaser, and then receive a
certain number of sapeks, according to the custom of different places.

                       [Picture: The Camel Market]

In the Blue Town there exist five great Lamaseries, each inhabited by
more than 2,000 Lamas; besides these, they reckon fifteen less
considerable establishments—branches, as it were, of the former.  The
number of regular Lamas resident in this city may fairly be stated at
20,000.  As to those who inhabit the different quarters of the town,
engaged in commerce and horse-dealing, they are innumerable.  The
Lamasery of the Five Towers is the finest and the most famous: here it is
that the Hobilgan lives—that is, a Grand Lama—who, after having been
identified with the substance of Buddha, has already undergone several
times the process of transmigration.  He sits here upon the altar once
occupied by the Guison-Tamba, having ascended it after a tragical event,
which very nearly brought about a revolution in the empire.

The Emperor Khang-Hi, during the great military expedition which he made
in the West against the Oelets, one day, in traversing the Blue Town,
expressed a wish to pay a visit to the Guison-Tamba, at that time the
Grand Lama of the Five Towers.  The latter received the Emperor without
rising from the throne, or manifesting any kind of respect.  Just as
Khang-Hi drew near to speak to him, a Kian-Kan, or high military
Mandarin, indignant at this unceremonious treatment of his master, drew
his sabre, fell upon the Guison-Tamba, and laid him dead on the steps of
his throne.  This terrible event roused the whole Lamasery, and
indignation quickly communicated itself to all the Lamas of the Blue
Town.

They ran to arms in every quarter, and the life of the Emperor, who had
but a small retinue, was exposed to the greatest danger.  In order to
calm the irritation of the Lamas, he publicly reproached the Kian-Kan
with his violence.  “If the Guison-Tamba,” answered the Kian-Kan, “was
not a living Buddha, why did he not rise in the presence of the master of
the universe?  If he was a living Buddha, how was it he did not know I
was going to kill him?”  Meanwhile the danger to the life of the Emperor
became every moment more imminent; he had no other means of escape than
that of taking off his imperial robes, and attiring himself in the dress
of a private soldier.  Under favour of this disguise, and the general
confusion, he was enabled to rejoin his army, which was near at hand.
The greater part of the men who had accompanied the Emperor into the Blue
Town were massacred, and among the rest, the murderer of the
Guison-Tamba.

The Mongols sought to profit by this movement.  Shortly afterwards it was
announced that the Guison-Tamba had re-appeared, and that he had
transmigrated to the country of the Khalkhas, who had taken him under
their protection, and had sworn to avenge his murder.  The Lamas of the
Great Kouren set actively to the work of organization.  They stripped off
their red and yellow robes, clothed themselves in black, in memory of the
disastrous event of the Blue Town, and allowed the hair and beard to
grow, in sign of grief.  Everything seemed to presage a grand rising of
the Tartar tribes.  The great energy and rare diplomatic talents of the
Emperor Khang-Hi alone sufficed to arrest its progress.  He immediately
opened negotiations with the Talé-Lama, Sovereign of Thibet, who was
induced to use all his influence with the Lamas for the re-establishment
of order, whilst Khang-Hi was intimidating the Khalkha kings by means of
his troops.  Gradually peace was restored; the Lamas resumed their red
and yellow robes; but, as a memorial of their coalition in favour of the
Guison-Tamba, they retained a narrow border of black on the collar of
their robes.  Khalkha Lamas alone bear this badge of distinction.

Ever since that period, a Hobilgan has taken the place in the Blue Town
of the Guison-Tamba, who himself is resident at the great Kouren, in the
district of the Khalkhas.  Meanwhile, the Emperor Khang-Hi, whose
penetrating genius was always occupied with the future, was not entirely
satisfied with these arrangements.  He did not believe in all these
doctrines of transmigration, and clearly saw that the Khalkhas, in
pretending that the Guison-Tamba had re-appeared among them, had no other
end than that of keeping at their disposal a power capable of contending,
upon occasion, with that of the Chinese Emperor.  To abolish the office
of Guison-Tamba would have been a desperate affair; the only course was,
whilst tolerating him, to neutralise his influence.  It was decreed, with
the concurrence of the Court of Lha-Ssa, that the Guison-Tamba should be
recognised legitimate sovereign of the great Kouren; but that after his
successive deaths, he should always be bound to make his transmigration
to Thibet.  Khang-Hi had good reason to believe that a Thibetian by
origin, would espouse with reluctance the resentments of the Khalkhas
against the Court of Peking.

The Guison-Tamba, full of submission and respect for the orders of
Khang-Hi and of the Talé-Lama, has never failed since that to go and
accomplish his metempsychosis in Thibet.  Still, as they fetch him whilst
he is yet an infant, he must necessarily be influenced by those about
him; and it is said, that as he grows up, he imbibes sentiments little
favourable to the reigning dynasty.  In 1839, when the Guison-Tamba made
that journey to Peking, of which we have spoken, the alarm manifested by
the Court arose from the recollection of these events.  The Lamas who
flock from all the districts of Tartary to the Lamaseries of the Blue
Town, rarely remain there permanently.  After taking their degrees, as it
were, in these quasi universities, they return, one class of them, to
their own countries, where they either settle in the small Lamaseries,
wherein they can be more independent, or live at home with their
families; retaining of their order little more than its red and yellow
habit.

Another class consists of those Lamas who live neither in Lamaseries nor
at home with their families, but spend their time vagabondizing about
like birds of passage, travelling all over their own and the adjacent
countries, and subsisting upon the rude hospitality which, in Lamasery
and in tent they are sure to receive, throughout their wandering way.
Lamasery or tent, they enter without ceremony, seat themselves, and while
the tea is preparing for their refreshment, give their hosts an account
of the places they have visited in their rambles.  If they think fit to
sleep where they are, they stretch themselves on the floor and repose
until the morning.  After breakfast, they stand at the entrance of the
tent, and watch the clouds for a while, and see whence the wind blows;
then they take their way, no matter whither, by this path or that, east
or west, north or south, as their fancy or a smoother turf suggests, and
lounge tranquilly on, sure at least, if no other shelter presents itself
by-and-by, of the shelter of the cover, as they express it, of that great
tent, the world; and sure, moreover, having no destination before them,
never to lose their way.

                        [Picture: Vagabond Lamas]

The wandering Lamas visit all the countries readily accessible to
them:—China, Mantchouria, the Khalkhas, the various kingdoms of Southern
Mongolia, the Ourianghai, the Koukou-Noor, the northern and southern
slopes of the Celestial Mountains, Thibet, India, and sometimes even
Turkestan.  There is no stream which they have not crossed, no mountains
they have not climbed, no Grand Lama before whom they have not prostrated
themselves, no people with whom they have not associated, and whose
customs and language are unknown to them.  Travelling without any end in
view, the places they reach are always those they sought.  The story of
the Wandering Jew, who is for ever a wanderer, is exactly realised in
these Lamas.  They seem influenced by some secret power, which makes them
wander unceasingly from place to place.  God seems to have infused into
the blood which flows in their veins, something of that motive power
which propels them on their way, without allowing them to stop.

The Lamas living in community are those who compose the third class.  A
Lamasery is a collection of small houses built around one or more Buddhic
temples.  These dwellings are more or less large and beautiful, according
to the means of the proprietor.  The Lamas who live thus in community,
are generally more regular than the others; they pay more attention to
prayer and study.  They are allowed to keep a few animals; some cows to
afford them milk and butter, the principal materials of their daily food;
horses; and some sheep to be killed on festivals.

Generally speaking, the Lamaseries have endowments, either royal or
imperial.  At certain periods of the year, the revenues are distributed
to the Lamas according to the station which they have obtained in the
hierarchy.  Those who have the reputation of being learned physicians, or
able fortune-tellers, have often the opportunity of acquiring possession
of the property of strangers; yet they seldom seem to become rich.  A
childish and heedless race, they cannot make a moderate use of the riches
they acquire; their money goes as quickly as it comes.  The same Lama
whom you saw yesterday in dirty, torn rags, to-day rivals in the
magnificence of his attire the grandeur of the highest dignitaries of the
Lamasery.  So soon as animals or money are placed within his disposition,
he starts off to the next trading town, sells what he has to sell, and
clothes himself in the richest attire he can purchase.  For a month or
two he plays the elegant idler, and then, his money all gone, he repairs
once more to the Chinese town, this time to pawn his fine clothes for
what he can get, and with the certainty that once in the Tang-Pou, he
will never, except by some chance, redeem them.  All the pawnbrokers
shops in the Tartar Chinese towns are full of these Lama relics.  The
Lamas are very numerous in Tartary; we think we may affirm, without
exaggeration, that they compose at least a third of the population.  In
almost all families, with the exception of the eldest son, who remains a
layman, the male children become Lamas.

The Tartars embrace this profession compulsorily, not of their own free
will; they are Lamas or laymen from their birth, according to the will of
the parents.  But as they grow up, they grow accustomed to this life;
and, in the end, religious exaltation attaches them strongly to it.

It is said that the policy of the Mantchou dynasty is to increase the
number of Lamas in Tartary; the Chinese Mandarins so assured us, and the
thing seems probable enough.  It is certain that the government of
Peking, whilst it leaves to poverty and want the Chinese Bonzes, honours
and favours Lamanism in a special degree.  The secret intention of the
government, in augmenting the number of the Lamas, who are bound to
celibacy, is to arrest, by this means, the progress of the population in
Tartary.  The recollection of the former power of the Mongols ever fills
its mind; it knows that they were formerly masters of the empire,—and in
the fear of a new invasion, it seeks to enfeeble them by all the means in
its power.  Yet, although Mongolia is scantily peopled, in comparison
with its immense extent, it could, at a day’s notice, send forth a
formidable army.  A high Lama, the Guison-Tamba, for instance, would have
but to raise his finger, and all the Mongols, from the frontiers of
Siberia to the extremities of Thibet, rising as one man, would
precipitate themselves like a torrent wherever their sainted leader might
direct them.  The profound peace which they have enjoyed for more than
two centuries, might seem to have necessarily enervated their warlike
character; nevertheless, you may still observe that they have not
altogether lost their taste for warlike adventures.  The great campaigns
of Tsing-Kis-Khan, who led them to the conquest of the world, have not
escaped their memory during the long period of leisure of their nomadic
life; they love to talk of them, and to feed their imagination with vague
projects of invasion.

During our short stay at the Blue Town we had constant conversations with
the Lamas of the most celebrated Lamaseries, endeavouring to obtain fresh
information on the state of Buddhism in Tartary and Thibet.  All they
told us only served to confirm us more and more in what we had before
learnt on this subject.  In the Blue Town, as at Tolon-Noor, everyone
told us that the doctrine would appear more sublime and more luminous as
we advanced towards the West.  From what the Lamas said, who had visited
Thibet, Lha-Ssa was, as it were, a great focus of light, the rays of
which grew more and more feeble in proportion as they became removed from
their centre.

One day we had an opportunity of talking with a Thibetian Lama for some
time, and the things he told us about religion astounded us greatly.  A
brief explanation of the Christian doctrine, which we gave to him, seemed
scarcely to surprise him; he even maintained that our views differed
little from those of the Grand Lamas of Thibet.  “You must not confound,”
said he, “religious truths with the superstitions of the vulgar.  The
Tartars, poor, simple people, prostrate themselves before whatever they
see; everything with them is Borhan.  Lamas, prayer books, temples,
Lamaseries, stones, heaps of bones,—’tis all the same to them; down they
go on their knees, crying, Borhan!  Borhan!”  “But the Lamas themselves
admit innumerable Borhans?”  “Let me explain,” said our friend,
smilingly; “there is but one sole Sovereign of the universe, the Creator
of all things, alike without beginning and without end.  In Dchagar
(India) he bears the name of Buddha, in Thibet, that of Samtche Mitcheba
(all Powerful Eternal); the Dcha-Mi (Chinese) call him Fo, and the
Sok-Po-Mi (Tartars), Borhan.”  “You say that Buddha is sole; in that
case, who are the Talé-Lama of Lha-Ssa, the Bandchan of Djachi-Loumbo,
the Tsong-Kaba of the Sifan, the Kaldan of Tolon-Noor, the Guison-Tamba
of the Great Kouren, the Hobilgan of Blue Town, the Hotoktou of Peking,
the Chaberon of the Tartar and Thibetian Lamaseries generally?”  “They
are all equally Buddha.”  “Is Buddha visible?”  “No, he is without a
body; he is a spiritual substance.”  “So, Buddha is sole, and yet there
exist innumerable Buddhas; the Talé-Lama, and so on.  Buddha is
incorporeal; he cannot be seen, and yet the Talé-Lama, the Guison-Tamba,
and the rest are visible, and have bodies like our own.  How do you
explain all this?”  “The doctrine, I tell you, is true,” said the Lama,
raising his arm, and assuming a remarkable accent of authority; “it is
the doctrine of the West, but it is of unfathomable profundity.  It
cannot be sounded to the bottom.”

These words of the Thibetian Lama astonished us strangely; the Unity of
God, the mystery of the Incarnation, the dogma of the Real Presence
seemed to us enveloped in his creed; yet with ideas so sound in
appearance, he admitted the metempsychosis, and a sort of pantheism of
which he could give no account.

These new indications respecting the religion of Buddha gave us hopes
that we should really find among the Lamas of Thibet symbolism more
refined and superior to the common belief, and confirmed us in the
resolution we had adopted, of keeping on our course westward.

Previous to quitting the inn we called in the landlord, to settle our
bill.  We had calculated that the entertainment, during four days, of
three men and our animals, would cost us at least two ounces of silver;
we were therefore agreeably surprised to hear the landlord say, “Sirs
Lamas, there is no occasion for going into any accounts; put 300 sapeks
into the till, and that will do very well.  My house,” he added, “is
recently established, and I want to give it a good character.  You are
come from a distant land, and I would enable you to say to your
countrymen that my establishment is worthy of their confidence.”  We
replied that we would everywhere mention his disinterestedness; and that
our countrymen, whenever they had occasion to visit the Blue Town, would
certainly not fail to put-up at the “Hotel of the Three Perfections.”

                        [Picture: Tchagan-Kouren]




CHAPTER VI.


A Tartar-eater—Loss of Arsalan—Great Caravan of Camels—Night Arrival at
Tchagan-Kouren—We are refused Admission into the Inns—We take up our
abode with a Shepherd—Overflow of the Yellow River—Aspect of
Tchagan-Kouren—Departure across the Marshes—Hiring a Bark—Arrival on the
Banks of the Yellow River—Encampment under the Portico of a
Pagoda—Embarkation of the Camels—Passage of the Yellow River—Laborious
Journey across the Inundated Country—Encampment on the Banks of the
River.

We quitted the Blue Town on the fourth day of the ninth moon.  We had
already been travelling more than a month.  It was with the utmost
difficulty that our little caravan could get out of the town.  The
streets were encumbered with men, cars, animals, stalls in which the
traders displayed their goods; we could only advance step by step, and at
times we were obliged to come to a halt, and wait for some minutes until
the way became a little cleared.  It was near noon before we reached the
last houses of the town, outside the western gate.  There, upon a level
road, our camels were at length able to proceed at their ease in all the
fulness of their long step.  A chain of rugged rocks rising on our right
sheltered us so completely from the north wind, that we did not at all
feel the rigour of the weather.  The country through which we were now
travelling was still a portion of Western Toumet.  We observed in all
directions the same indications of prosperity and comfort which had so
much gratified us east of the town.  Everywhere around substantial
villages presented proofs of successful agriculture and trade.  Although
we could not set up our tent in the cultivated fields by which we were
now surrounded, yet, so far as circumstances permitted, we adhered to our
Tartar habits.  Instead of entering an inn to take our morning meal, we
seated ourselves under a rock or tree, and there breakfasted upon some
rolls fried in oil, of which we had bought a supply at the Blue Town.
The passers-by laughed at this rustic proceeding, but they were not
surprised at it.  Tartars, unused to the manners of civilised nations,
are entitled to take their repast by the roadside even in places where
inns abound.

During the day this mode of travelling was pleasant and convenient
enough; but, as it would not have been prudent to remain out all night,
at sunset we sought an inn: the preservation of our animals of itself
sufficed to render this proceeding necessary.  There was nothing for them
to eat on the way side, and had we not resorted in the evening to places
where we could purchase forage for them, they would, of course, have
speedily died.

On the second evening after our departure from Blue Town, we encountered
at an inn a very singular personage.  We had just tied our animals to a
manger under a shed in the great court, when a traveller made his
appearance, leading by a halter a lean, raw-boned horse.  The traveller
was short, but then his rotundity was prodigious.  He wore on his head a
great straw hat, the flapping brim of which rested on his shoulders; a
long sabre suspended from his girdle presented an amusing contrast with
the peaceful joyousness of his physiognomy.  “Superintendent of the
soup-kettle,” cried he, as he entered, “is there room for me in your
tavern?”  “I have but one travellers’ room,” answered the innkeeper, “and
three Mongols who have just come occupy it; you can ask them if they will
make room for you.”  The traveller waddled towards us.  “Peace and
happiness unto you, Sirs Lamas: do you need the whole of your room, or
can you accommodate me?”  “Why not?  We are all travellers, and should
serve one another.”  “Words of excellence!  You are Tartars; I am
Chinese, yet, comprehending the claims of hospitality, you act upon the
truth, that all men are brothers.”  Hereupon, fastening his horse to a
manger, he joined us, and, having deposited his travelling-bag upon the
kang, stretched himself at full length, with the air of a man greatly
fatigued.  “Whither are you bound?” asked we; “are you going to buy up
salt or catsup for some Chinese company?”  “No; I represent a great
commercial house at Peking, and I am collecting some debts from the
Tartars.  Where are you going?”  “We shall to-day pass the Yellow River
to Tchagan Kouren, and then journey westward through the country of the
Ortous.”  “You are not Mongols, apparently?”  “No; we are from the West.”
“Well, it seems we are both of one trade; you, like myself, are
Tartar-eaters.”  “Tartar-eaters!  What do you mean?”  “Why, we eat the
Tartars.  You eat them by prayers; I by commerce.  And why not?  The
Mongols are poor simpletons, and we may as well get their money as
anybody else.”  “You are mistaken.  Since we entered Tartary we have
spent a great deal, but we have never taken a single sapek from the
Tartar.”  “Oh, nonsense!”  “What! do you suppose our camels and our
baggage came to us from the Mongols?”  “Why, I thought you came here to
recite your prayers.”  We entered into some explanation of the difference
between our principles and those of the Lamas, for whom the traveller had
mistaken us, and he was altogether amazed at our disinterestedness.
“Things are quite the other way here,” said he.  “You won’t get a Lama to
say prayers for nothing; and certainly, as for me, I should never set
foot in Tartary but for the sake of money.”  “But how is it you manage to
make such good meals of the Tartars?”  “Oh, we devour them; we pick them
clean.  You’ve observed the silly race, no doubt; whatever they see when
they come into our towns they want, and when we know who they are, and
where we can find them, we let them have goods upon credit, of course at
a considerable advance upon the price, and upon interest at thirty or
forty per cent., which is quite right and necessary.  In China the
Emperor’s laws do not allow this; it is only done with the Tartars.
Well, they don’t pay the money, and the interest goes on until there is a
good sum owing worth the coming for.  When we come for it, they’ve no
money, so we merely take all the cattle and sheep and horses we can get
hold of for the interest, and leave the capital debt and future interest
to be paid next time, and so it goes on from one generation to another.
Oh! a Tartar debt is a complete gold mine.”

Day had not broken when the Yao-Tchang-Ti (exactor of debts) was on foot.
“Sirs Lamas,” said he, “I am going to saddle my horse, and proceed on my
way,—I propose to travel to-day with you.”  “’Tis a singular mode of
travelling with people, to start before they’re up,” said we.  “Oh, your
camels go faster than my horse; you’ll soon overtake me, and we shall
enter Tchagan-Kouren (White Enclosure) together.”  He rode off and at
daybreak we followed him.  This was a black day with us, for in it we had
to mourn a loss.  After travelling several hours, we perceived that
Arsalan was not with the caravan.  We halted, and Samdadchiemba, mounted
on his little mule, turned back in search of the dog.  He went through
several villages which we had passed in the course of the morning, but
his search was fruitless; he returned without having either seen or heard
of Arsalan.  “The dog was Chinese,” said Samdadchiemba; “he was not used
to a nomadic life, and getting tired of wandering about over the desert,
he has taken service in the cultivated district.  What is to be done?
Shall we wait for him?”  “No, it is late, and we are far from White
Enclosure.”  “Well, if there is no dog, there is no dog; and we must do
without him.”  This sentimental effusion of Samdadchiemba gravely
delivered, we proceeded on our way.

At first, the loss of Arsalan grieved us somewhat.  We were accustomed to
see him running to and fro in the prairie, rolling in the long grass,
chasing the grey squirrels, and scaring the eagles from their seat on the
plain.  His incessant evolutions served to break the monotony of the
country through which we were passing, and to abridge, in some degree,
the tedious length of the way.  His office of porter gave him especial
title to our regret.  Yet, after the first impulses of sorrow, reflection
told us that the loss was not altogether so serious as it had at first
appeared.  Each day’s experience of the nomadic life had served more and
more to dispel our original apprehension of robbers.  Moreover, Arsalan,
under any circumstances, would have been a very ineffective guard; for
his incessant galloping about during the day sent him at night into a
sleep which nothing could disturb.  This was so much the case, that every
morning, make what noise we might in taking down our tent, loading the
camels, and so on, there would Arsalan remain, stretched on the grass,
sleeping a leaden sleep; and when the caravan was about to start, we had
always to arouse him with a sound kick or two.  Upon one occasion, a
strange dog made his way into our tent, without the smallest opposition
on the part of Arsalan, and had full time to devour our mess of oatmeal
and a candle, the wick of which he left contumeliously on the outside of
the tent.  A consideration of economy completed our restoration to
tranquillity of mind: each day we had had to provide Arsalan with a
ration of meal, at least quite equal in quantity to that which each of us
consumed; and we were not rich enough to have constantly seated at our
table a guest with such excellent appetite, and whose services were
wholly inadequate to compensate for the expense he occasioned.

We had been informed that we should reach White Enclosure the same day,
but the sun had set, and as yet we saw no signs of the town before us.
By-and-by, what seemed clouds of dust made their appearance in the
distance, approaching us.  By degrees they developed themselves in the
form of camels, laden with western merchandise for sale in Peking.  When
we met the first camel-driver, we asked him how far it was from White
Enclosure.  “You see here,” said he with a grin, “one end of our caravan;
the other extremity is still within the town.”

[Picture: Long Caravan] “Thanks,” cried we; “in that case we shall soon
be there.”  “Well, you’ve not more than fifteen lis to go.”  “Fifteen
lis! why you’ve just told us that the other end of your caravan is still
in the town.”  “So it is, but our caravan consists of at least ten
thousand camels.”  “If that be the case,” said we, “there is no time to
be lost: a good journey to you, and peace,” and on we went.

The cameleers had stamped upon their features, almost blackened with the
sun, a character of uncouth misanthropy.  Enveloped from head to foot in
goatskins, they were placed between the humps of their camels, just like
bales of merchandise; they scarcely condescended to turn even their heads
round to look at us.  Five months journeying across the desert seemed
almost to have brutified them.  All the camels of this immense caravan
wore suspended from their necks Thibetian bells, the silvery sound of
which produced a musical harmony which contrasted very agreeably with the
sullen taciturn aspect of the drivers.  In our progress, however, we
contrived to make them break silence from time to time; the roguish
Dchiahour attracted their attention to us in a very marked manner.  Some
of the camels, more timid than others, took fright at the little mule,
which they doubtless imagined to be a wild beast.  In their endeavour to
escape in an opposite direction they drew after them the camels next
following them in the procession, so that, by this operation, the caravan
assumed the form of an immense bow.  This abrupt evolution aroused the
cameleers from their sullen torpidity; they grumbled bitterly, and
directed fierce glances against us, as they exerted themselves to restore
the procession to its proper line.  Samdadchiemba, on the contrary,
shouted with laughter; it was in vain that we told him to ride somewhat
apart in order not to alarm the camels; he turned a deaf ear to all we
said.  The discomfiture of the procession was quite a delightful
entertainment for him, and he made his little mule caracole about in the
hope of an encore.

The first cameleer had not deceived us.  We journeyed on between the
apparently interminable file of the caravan, and a chain of rugged rocks,
until night had absolutely set in, and even then we did not see the town.
The last camel had passed on, and we seemed alone in the desert, when a
man came riding by on a donkey.  “Elder brother,” said we, “is White
Enclosure still distant?”  “No, brothers,” he replied, “it is just before
you, there, where you see the lights.  You have not more than five lis to
go.”  Five lis!  It was a long way in the night, and upon a strange road,
but we were fain to resign ourselves.  The night grew darker and darker.
There was no moon, no stars even, to guide us on our way.  We seemed
advancing amid chaos and abysses.  We resolved to alight, in the hope of
seeing our way somewhat more clearly: the result was precisely the
reverse; we would advance a few steps gropingly and slowly; then, all of
a sudden, we threw back our heads in fear of dashing them against rocks
or walls that seemed to rise from an abyss.  We speedily got covered with
perspiration, and were only happy to mount our camels once more, and rely
on their clearer sight and surer feet.  Fortunately the baggage was well
secured: what misery would it have been had that fallen off amid all this
darkness, as it had frequently done before!  We arrived at last in
Tchagan-Kouren, but the difficulty now was to find an inn.  Every house
was shut up, and there was not a living creature in the streets, except a
number of great dogs that ran barking after us.

At length, after wandering haphazard through several streets, we heard
the strokes of a hammer upon an anvil.  We proceeded towards the sound,
and before long, a great light, a thick smoke, and sparks glittering in
the air, announced that we had come upon a blacksmith’s shop.  We
presented ourselves at the door, and humbly entreated our brothers, the
smiths, to tell us where we should find an inn.  After a few jests upon
Tartars and camels, the company assented to our request, and a boy,
lighting a torch, came out to act as our guide to an inn.

After knocking and calling for a long time at the door of the first inn
we came to, the landlord opened it, and was inquiring who we were, when,
unluckily for us, one of our camels, worried by a dog, took it into its
head to send forth a succession of those horrible cries for which the
animal is remarkable.  The innkeeper at once shut his door in our faces.
At all the inns where we successively applied, we were received in much
the same manner.  No sooner were the camels noticed than the answer was,
No room; in point of fact, no innkeeper, if he can avoid it, will receive
camels into his stables at all: their size occupies great space, and
their appearance almost invariably creates alarm among the other animals;
so that Chinese travellers generally make it a condition with the
landlord before they enter an inn, that no Tartar caravan shall be
admitted.  Our guide finding all our efforts futile, got tired of
accompanying us, wished us good night, and returned to his forge.

We were exhausted with weariness, hunger, and thirst, yet there seemed no
remedy for the evil, when all at once we heard the bleating of sheep.
Following the sound, we came to a mud enclosure, the door of which was at
once opened upon our knocking.  “Brother,” said we, “is this an inn?”
“No, it is a sheep-house.  Who are you?”  “We are travellers, who have
arrived here, weary and hungry; but no one will receive us.”  As we were
speaking, an old man came to the door, holding in his hand a lighted
torch.  As soon as he saw our camels and our costume, “Mendou!  Mendou!”
he exclaimed, “Sirs Lamas, enter; there is room for your camels in the
court, and my house is large enough for you; you shall stay and rest here
for several days.”  We entered joyfully, fastened our camels to the
manger, and seated ourselves round the hearth, where already tea was
prepared for us.  “Brother,” said we to the old man, “we need not ask
whether it is to Mongols that we owe this hospitality.”  “Yes, Sirs
Lamas,” said he, “we are all Mongols here.  We have for some time past
quitted the tent, to reside here; so that we may better carry on our
trade in sheep.  Alas! we are insensibly becoming Chinese!”  “Your manner
of life,” returned we, “may have changed, but it is certain that your
hearts have remained Tartar.  Nowhere else in all Tchagan-Kouren, has the
door of kindness been opened to us.”

Observing our fatigue, the head of the family unrolled some skins in a
corner of the room, and we gladly laid ourselves down to repose.  We
should have slept on till the morning, but Samdadchiemba aroused us to
partake of the supper which our hosts had hospitably prepared—two large
cups of tea, cakes baked in the ashes, and some chops of boiled mutton,
arranged on a stool by way of a table.  The meal seemed after our long
fasting, perfectly magnificent; we partook of it heartily, and then
having exchanged pinches of snuff with the family, resumed our slumber.

Next morning we communicated the plan of our journey to our Mongol hosts.
No sooner had we mentioned that we intended to pass the Yellow River, and
thence traverse the country of the Ortous, than the whole family burst
out with exclamations.  “It is quite impossible,” said the old man, “to
cross the Yellow River.  Eight days ago the river overflowed its banks,
and the plains on both sides are completely inundated.”  This
intelligence filled us with the utmost consternation.  We had been quite
prepared to pass the Yellow River under circumstances of danger arising
from the wretchedness of the ferry boats and the difficulty of managing
our camels in them, and we knew, of course, that the Hoang-Ho was subject
to periodical overflows; but these occur ordinarily in the rainy season,
towards the sixth or seventh month, whereas we were now in the dry
season, and, moreover, in a peculiarly dry season.

We proceeded forthwith towards the river to investigate the matter for
ourselves, and found that the Tartar had only told us the exact truth.
The Yellow River had become, as it were, a vast sea, the limits of which
were scarcely visible.  Here and there you could see the higher grounds
rising above the water, like islands, while the houses and villages
looked as though they were floating upon the waves.  We consulted several
persons as to the course we should adopt.  Some said that further
progress was impracticable, for that, even where the inundation had
subsided, it had left the earth so soft and slippery that the camels
could not walk upon it, while elsewhere we should have to dread at every
step some deep pool, in which we should inevitably be drowned.  Other
opinions were more favourable, suggesting that the boats which were
stationed at intervals for the purpose would easily and cheaply convey us
and our baggage in three days to the river, while the camels could follow
us through the water, and that once at the river side, the great
ferry-boat would carry us all over the bed of the stream without any
difficulty.

What were we to do?  To turn back was out of the question.  We had vowed
that, God aiding, we would go to Lha-Ssa whatever obstacles impeded.  To
turn the river by coasting it northwards would materially augment the
length of our journey, and, moreover, compel us to traverse the great
desert of Gobi.  To remain at Tchagan-Kouren, and patiently await for a
month the complete retirement of the waters and the restoration of
solidity in the roads, was, in one point of view, the most prudent
course, but there was a grave inconvenience about it.  We and our five
animals could not live for a month in an inn without occasioning a most
alarming atrophy in our already meagre purse.  The only course remaining
was to place ourselves exclusively under the protection of Providence,
and to go on, regardless of mud or marsh.  This resolution was adopted,
and we returned home to make the necessary preparations.

Tchagan-Kouren is a large, fine town of recent construction.  It is not
marked on the map of China compiled by M. Andriveau-Goujon, doubtless
because it did not exist at the time when the Fathers Jesuits residing at
Peking were directed by the Emperor Khang-Hi to draw maps of the empire.
Nowhere in China, Mantchouria, or in Thibet, have we seen a town like
White Enclosure.  The streets are wide, clean, and clear; the houses
regular in their arrangement, and of very fair architecture.  There are
several squares, decorated with trees, a feature which struck us all the
more that we had not observed it anywhere else in this part of the world.
There are plenty of shops, commodiously arranged, and well supplied with
Chinese, and even with European goods.  The trade of Tchagan-Kouren,
however, is greatly checked by the proximity of the Blue Town, to which,
as a place of commerce, the Mongols have been much longer accustomed.

Our worthy Tartar host, in his hospitality, sought to divert us from our
project, but unsuccessfully; and he even got rallied by Samdadchiemba for
his kindness.  “It’s quite clear,” said our guide, “that you’ve become a
mere Kitat (Chinese), and think that a man must not set out upon a
journey unless the earth is perfectly dry and the sky perfectly
cloudless.  I have no doubt you go out to lead your sheep with an
umbrella in one hand and a fan in the other.”  It was ultimately arranged
that we should take our departure at daybreak next morning.

Meantime we went out into the town to make the necessary supply of
provisions.  To guard against the possibility of being inundation-bound
for several days, we bought a quantity of small loaves fried in mutton
fat, and for our animals we procured a quantity of the most portable
forage we could find.

Next morning we departed full of confidence in the goodness of God.  Our
Tartar host, who insisted upon escorting us out of the town, led us to an
elevation whence we could see in the distance a long line of thick vapour
which seemed journeying from west to east; it marked the course of the
Yellow River.  “Where you see that vapour,” said the old man, “you will
find a great dike, which serves to keep the river in bounds, except upon
any extraordinary rise of the waters.  That dike is now dry; when you
come to it, proceed along it until you reach the little pagoda you see
yonder, on your right; there you will find a boat that will convey you
across the river.  Keep that pagoda in sight, and you can’t lose your
way.”  We cordially thanked the old man for the kindness he had shown us
and proceeded on our journey.

We were soon up to the knees of the camels in a thick slimy compost of
mud and water, covering other somewhat firmer mud, over which the poor
animals slowly slid on their painful way; their heads turning alternately
right and left, their limbs trembling, and the sweat exuding from each
pore.  Every moment we expected them to fall beneath us.  It was near
noon ere we arrived at a little village, not more than a couple of miles
from the place where we had left the old man.  Here a few wretched
people, whose rags scarce covered their gaunt frames, came round us, and
accompanied us to the edge of a broad piece of water, portion of a lake,
which they told us, and which, it was quite clear, we must pass before we
could reach the dike indicated by the Tartar.  Some boatmen proposed to
carry us over this lake to the dike.  We asked them how many sapeks they
would charge for the service:—“Oh, very little; next to nothing.  You see
we will take in our boats you, and the baggage, and the mule, and the
horse; one of our people will lead the camels through the lake; they are
too big to come into the boat.  When one comes to reckon on all this
load, and all the trouble and fatigue, the price seems absolutely less
than nothing.”  “True, there will be some trouble in the affair, no one
denies it; but let us have a distinct understanding.  How many sapeks do
you ask?”  “Oh, scarcely any.  We are all brothers; and you, brothers,
need all our assistance in travelling.  We know that; we feel it in our
hearts.  If we could only afford it, we should have pleasure in carrying
you over for nothing; but look at our clothes.  We poor fellows are very
poor.  Our boat is all we have to depend upon.  It is necessary that we
should gain a livelihood by that; five lis sail, three men, a horse, a
mule, and luggage; but come, as you are spiritual persons, we will only
charge you 2,000 sapeks.”  The price was preposterous; we made no answer.
We took our animals by the bridle and turned back, pretending that we
would not continue our journey.  Scarcely had we advanced twenty paces
before the ferryman ran after us.  “Sirs Lamas, are not you going to
cross the water in my boat?”  “Why,” said we drily, “doubtless you are
too rich to take any trouble in the matter.  If you really wanted to let
your boat, would you ask 2,000 sapeks?”  “2,000 sapeks is the price I
ask; but what will you give?”  “If you like to take 500 sapeks, let us
set out at once; it is already late.”  “Return, Sir Lamas; get into the
boat;” and he caught hold, as he spoke, of the halters of our beasts.  We
considered that the price was at last fixed; but we had scarcely arrived
on the border of the lake, when the ferryman exclaimed to one of his
comrades,—“Come, our fortune deserts us to-day; we must bear much fatigue
for little remuneration.  We shall have to row five lis, and after all we
shall have only 1,500 sapeks to divide between eight of us.”  “1,500
sapeks!” exclaimed we; “you are mocking us; we will leave you;” and we
turned back for the second time.  Some mediators, inevitable persons in
all Chinese matters, presented themselves, and undertook to settle the
fare.  It was at length decided that we should pay 800 sapeks; the sum
was enormous, but we had no other means of pursuing our way.  The boatmen
knew this, and took accordingly the utmost advantage of our position.

The embarkation was effected with extraordinary celerity, and we soon
quitted the shore.  Whilst we advanced by means of the oars, on the
surface of the lake, a man mounted on a camel and leading two others
after him, followed a path traced out by a small boat rowed by a
waterman.  The latter was obliged every now and then to sound the depth
of the water, and the camel-driver needed to be very attentive in
directing his course in the straight trail left by the boat, lest he
should be swallowed up in the holes beneath the water.  The camels
advanced slowly, stretching out their long necks, and at times leaving
only their heads and the extremity of their humps visible above the lake.
We were in continual alarm; for these animals not being able to swim,
there only needed a false step to precipitate them to the bottom.  Thanks
to the protection of God, all arrived safe at the dike which had been
pointed out to us.  The boatmen, after assisting us to replace, in a
hasty manner, our baggage on the camels, indicated the point whither we
must direct our steps.  “Do you see, to the right, that small Miao?
(pagoda).  A little from the Miao, do you observe those wooden huts and
those black nets hanging from long poles?  There you will find the
ferry-boat to cross the river.  Follow this dike, and go in peace.”

[Picture: Navigation of the Yellow River] After having proceeded with
difficulty for half an hour, we reached the ferry-boat.  The boatmen
immediately came to us.  “Sirs Lamas,” said they, “you intend, doubtless,
to cross the Hoang-Ho, but you see this evening the thing is
impracticable—the sun is just setting!”  “You are right; we will cross
to-morrow at daybreak: meanwhile, let us settle the price, so that
to-morrow we may lose no time in deliberation.”  The watermen would have
preferred waiting till the morrow to discuss this important point,
expecting we should offer a much larger sum, when just about to embark.
At first their demands were preposterous: happily, there were two boats
which competed together, otherwise we should have been ruined.  The price
was ultimately fixed at 1,000 sapeks.  The passage was not long, it is
true, for the river had nearly resumed its bed; but the waters were very
rapid, and, moreover the camels had to ride.  The amount, enormous in
itself, appeared, upon the whole, moderate, considering the difficulty
and trouble of the passage.  This business arranged, we considered how we
should pass the night.  We could not think of seeking an asylum in the
fishermen’s cabins; even if they had been sufficiently large, we should
have had a considerable objection to place our effects in the hands of
these folks.  We were sufficiently acquainted with the Chinese not to
trust to their honesty.  We looked out for a place whereon to set up our
tent; but we could find nowhere a spot sufficiently dry: mud or stagnant
water covered the ground in all directions.  About a hundred yards from
the shore was a small Miao, or temple of idols; a narrow, high path led
to it.  We proceeded thither to see if we could find there a place of
repose.  It turned out as we wished.  A portico, supported by three stone
pillars, stood before the entrance door, which was secured by a large
padlock.  This portico, made of granite, was raised a few feet from the
ground, and you ascended it by five steps.  We determined to pass the
night here.

Samdadchiemba asked us if it would not be a monstrous superstition to
sleep on the steps of a Miao.  When we had relieved his scruples, he made
sundry philosophical reflections.  “Behold,” said he, “a Miao which has
been built by the people of the country, in honour of the god of the
river.  Yet, when it rained in Thibet, the Pou-sa had no power to
preserve itself from inundation.  Nevertheless, this Miao serves at
present to shelter two missionaries of Jehovah—the only real use it has
ever served.”  Our Dchiahour, who at first had scrupled to lodge under
the portico of this idolatrous temple, soon thought the idea magnificent,
and laughed hugely.

After having arranged our luggage in this singular encampment, we
proceeded to tell our beads on the shores of the Hoang-Ho.  The moon was
brilliant, and lit up this immense river, which rolled over an even and
smooth bed its yellow and tumultuous waters.  The Hoang-Ho is beyond a
doubt one of the finest rivers in the world; it rises in the mountains of
Thibet, and crosses the Koukou-Noor, entering China by the province of
Kan-Sou.  Thence it follows the sandy regions at the feet of the Alécha
mountains, encircles the country of the Ortous; and after having watered
China first from north to south, and then from west to east, it falls
into the Yellow Sea.  The waters of the Hoang-Ho, pure and clear at their
source, only take the yellow hue after having passed the sands of the
Alécha and the Ortous.  They are almost, throughout, level with the lands
through which they flow, and it is this circumstance which occasions
those inundations so disastrous to the Chinese.  As for the Tartar
nomads, when the waters rise, all they have to do is to strike their
tents, and drive their herds elsewhere. {141}

Though the Yellow River had cost us so much trouble, we derived much
satisfaction from taking a walk at night upon its solitary banks, and
listening to the solemn murmur of its majestic waters.  We were
contemplating this grand work of nature, when Samdadchiemba recalled us
to the prose of life, by announcing that the oatmeal was ready.  Our
repast was as brief as it was plain.  We then stretched ourselves on our
goat-skins, in the portico, so that the three described the three sides
of a triangle, in the centre of which we piled our baggage; for we had no
faith at all that the sanctity of the place would deter robbers, if
robbers there were in the vicinity.

As we have mentioned, the little Miao was dedicated to the divinity of
the Yellow River.  The idol, seated on a pedestal of grey brick, was
hideous, as all those idols are that you ordinarily see in Chinese
pagodas.  From a broad, flat, red face, rose two great staring eyes, like
eggs stuck into orbits, the smaller end projecting.  Thick eyebrows,
instead of describing a horizontal line, began at the bottom of each ear,
and met in the middle of the forehead, so as to form an obtuse angle.
The idol had on its head a marine shell, and brandished, with a menacing
air, a sword like a scythe.  This Pou-sa had, right and left, two
attendants, each putting out its tongue, and apparently making faces at
it.

Just as we were lying down, a man approached us, holding in one hand a
small paper lantern.  He opened the grating which led to the interior of
the Miao, prostrated himself thrice, burned incense in the censers, and
lighted a small lamp at the feet of the idol.  This personage was not a
bonze.  His hair, hanging in a tress, and his blue garments, showed him
to be a layman.  When he had finished his idolatrous ceremonies, he came
to us.  “I will leave the door open,” said he; “you’ll sleep more
comfortably inside than in the portico.”  “Thanks,” replied we; “shut the
door, however; for we shall do very well where we are.  Why have you been
burning incense?  Who is the idol of this place?”  “It is the spirit of
the Hoang-Ho, who inhabits this Miao.  I have burned incense before him,
in order that our fishing may be productive, and that our boats may float
without danger.”  “The words you utter,” cried Samdadchiemba, insolently,
“are mere _hou-choue_ (stuff and nonsense).  How did it happen, that the
other day when the inundation took place, the Miao was flooded, and your
Pou-sa was covered with mud?”  To this sudden apostrophe the pagan
churchwarden made no answer, but took to his heels.  We were much
surprised at this proceeding; but the explanation came next morning.

We stretched ourselves on our goat-skins once more, and endeavoured to
sleep, but sleep came slowly and but for a brief period.  Placed between
marshes and the river, we felt throughout the night a piercing cold,
which seemed to transfix us to the very marrow.  The sky was pure and
serene, and in the morning we saw that the marshes around were covered
with a thick sheet of ice.  We made our preparations for departure, but
upon collecting the various articles, a handkerchief was missing.  We
remembered that we had imprudently hung it upon the grating at the
entrance of the Miao, so that it was half in and half out of the
building.  No person had been near the place, except the man who had come
to pay his devotions to the idol.  We could, therefore, without much
rashness, attribute the robbery to him, and this explained why he had
made his exit so rapidly, without replying to Samdadchiemba.  We could
easily have found the man, for he was one of the fishermen engaged upon
the station, but it would have been a fruitless labour.  Our only
effectual course would have been to seize the thief in the fact.

Next morning, we placed our baggage upon the camels, and proceeded to the
river side, fully persuaded that we had a miserable day before us.  The
camels having a horror of the water, it is sometimes impossible to make
them get into a boat.  You may pull their noses, or nearly kill them with
blows, yet not make them advance a step; they would die sooner.  The boat
before us seemed especially to present almost insurmountable obstacles.
It was not flat and large, like those which generally serve as
ferry-boats.  Its sides were very high, so that the animals were obliged
to leap over them at the risk and peril of breaking their legs.  If you
wanted to move a carriage into it, you had first of all to pull the
vehicle to pieces.

The boatmen had already taken hold of our baggage, for the purpose of
conveying it into their abominable vehicle, but we stopped them.  “Wait a
moment; we must first try and get the camels in.  If they won’t enter the
boat, there is no use in placing the baggage in it.”  “Whence came your
camels, that they can’t get into people’s boats?”  “It matters little
whence they came; what we tell you is that the tall white camel has never
hitherto consented to cross any river, even in a flat boat.”  “Tall camel
or short, flat boat or high boat, into the boat the camel shall go,” and
so saying, the ferryman ran and fetched an immense cudgel.  “Catch hold
of the string in the camel’s nose,” cried he to a companion.  “We’ll see
if we can’t make the brute get into the boat.”  The man in the boat
hauled at the string; the man behind beat the animal vehemently on the
legs with his cudgel, but all to no purpose; the poor camel sent forth
piercing cries, and stretched out its long neck.  The blood flowed from
its nostrils, the sweat from every pore; but not an inch forward would
the creature move; yet one step would have placed it in the boat, the
sides of which were touched by its fore legs.

We could not endure the painful spectacle.  “No more of this,” we cried
to the ferryman; “it is useless to beat the animal.  You might break its
legs or kill it before it would consent to enter your boat.”  The two men
at once left off, for they were tired, the one of pulling, the other of
beating.  What were we to do?  We had almost made up our minds to ascend
the banks of the river until we found some flat boat, when the ferryman
all at once jumped up, radiant with an idea.  “We will make another
attempt,” cried he, “and if that fails I give the matter up.  Take the
string gently,” he added, to a companion, “and keep the camel’s feet as
close as ever you can to the side of the boat.”  Then, going back for
some paces, he dashed forward with a spring and threw himself with all
his weight upon the animal’s rear.  The shock, so violent and unexpected,
occasioned the camel somewhat to bend its fore legs.  A second shock
immediately succeeded the first, and the animal, in order to prevent
itself from falling into the water, had no remedy but to raise its feet
and place them within the boat.  This effected, the rest was easy.  A few
pinches of the nose and a few blows sufficed to impel the hind legs after
the fore, and the white camel was at last in the boat, to the extreme
satisfaction of all present.  The other animals were embarked after the
same fashion, and we proceeded on our watery way.

First, however, the ferryman deemed it necessary that the animals should
kneel, so that no movement of theirs on the river might occasion an
overturn.  His proceeding to this effect was exceedingly comic.  He first
went to one camel and then to the other, pulling now this down, then
that.  When he approached the larger animal, the creature, remembering
the man’s treatment, discharged in his face a quantity of the grass
ruminating within its jaws, a compliment which the boatman returned by
spitting in the animal’s face.  And the absurdity was, that the work made
no progress.  One camel was no sooner induced to kneel down than the
other got up, and so the men went backwards and forwards, gradually
covered by the angry creatures with the green substance, half masticated
and particularly inodorous, which each animal in turns spat against him.
At length, when Samdadchiemba had sufficiently entertained himself with
the scene, he went to the camels, and, exercising his recognised
authority over them, made them kneel in the manner desired.

We at length floated upon the waters of the Yellow River; but though
there were four boatmen, their united strength could scarcely make head
against the force of the current.  We had effected about half our voyage,
when a camel suddenly rose, and shook the boat so violently that it was
nearly upset.  The boatmen, after ejaculating a tremendous oath, told us
to look after our camels and prevent them from getting up, unless we
wanted the whole party to be engulfed.  The danger was indeed formidable.
The camel, infirm upon its legs, and yielding to every movement of the
boat, menaced us with a catastrophe.  Samdadchiemba, however, managed to
get quickly beside the animal, and at once induced it to kneel, so that
we were let off with our fright, and in due course reached the other side
of the river.

At the moment of disembarkation, the horse, impatient to be once more on
land, leaped out of the boat, but striking, on its way, against the
anchor, fell on its side in the mud.  The ground not being yet dry, we
were fain to take off our shoes, and to carry the baggage on our
shoulders to an adjacent eminence; there we asked the boatmen if we
should be any great length of time in traversing the marsh and mud that
lay stretched out before us.  The chief boatman raised his head, and
after looking for a while towards the sun, said: “It will soon be noon;
by the evening you will reach the banks of the Little River; to-morrow
you will find the ground dry.”  It was under these melancholy auspices
that we proceeded upon our journey, through one of the most detestable
districts to be found in the whole world.

We had been told in what direction we were to proceed; but the inundation
had obliterated every trace of path and even of road, and we could only
regulate our course by the nature of the ground, keeping as clear as we
could of the deeper quagmires, sometimes making a long circuit in order
to reach what seemed firmer ground, and then, finding the supposed solid
turf to be nothing more than a piece of water, green with stagnant matter
and aquatic plants, having to turn back, and, as it were, grope one’s way
in another direction, fearful, at every step, of being plunged into some
gulf of liquid mud.

By-and-by, our animals alarmed and wearied, could hardly proceed, and we
were compelled to beat them severely and to exhaust our voices with
bawling at them before they would move at all.  The tall grass and plants
of the marshes twisted about their legs, and it was only by leaps, and at
the risk of throwing off both baggage and riders that they could
extricate themselves.  Thrice did the youngest camel lose its balance and
fall; but on each occasion, the spot on which it fell was providentially
dry; had it stumbled in the mud, it would inevitably have been stifled.

On our way, we met three Chinese travellers, who, by the aid of long
staves, were making their laborious way through the marshes, carrying
their shoes and clothes over their shoulders.  We asked them in what
direction we were likely to find a better road: “You would have been
wiser,” said they, “had you remained at Tchagan-Kouren; foot passengers
can scarcely make their way through these marshes: how do you suppose you
can get on with your camels?” and with this consolatory assurance, they
quitted us, giving us a look of compassion, certain as they were that we
should never get through the mud.

The sun was just setting, when we perceived a Mongol habitation; we made
our way direct to it, without heeding the difficulties of the road.  In
fact experience had already taught us that selection was quite out of the
question, and that one way was as good as another in this universal
slough.  Making circuits merely lengthened the journey.  The Tartars were
frightened at our appearance, covered as we were with mud and
perspiration; they immediately gave us some tea, and generously offered
us the hospitality of their dwelling.  The small mud house in which they
lived, though built upon an eminence, had been half carried away by the
inundation.  We could not conceive what had induced them to fix their
abode in this horrible district, but they told us that they were employed
to tend the herds belonging to some Chinese of Tchagan-Kouren.  After
resting for a while, we requested information as to the best route to
pursue, and we were told that the river was only five lis off, that its
banks were dry, and that we should find there boats to carry us to the
other side.  “When you have crossed the Paga-Gol,” (Little River,) said
our hosts, “you may proceed in peace; you will meet with no more water to
interrupt you.”  We thanked these good Tartars for their kindness, and
resumed our journey.

After half an hour’s march, we discovered before us a large extent of
water, studded with fishing-vessels.  The title, Little River, may, for
anything we know, be appropriate enough under ordinary circumstances, but
at the time of our visit, the Paga-Gol was a broad sea.  We pitched our
tent on the bank which, by reason of its elevation, was perfectly dry,
and the remarkable excellence of the pasturage determined us upon
remaining in this place several days, in order to give rest to our
animals, which, since their departure from Tchagan-Kouren had undergone
enormous fatigue: we ourselves, too, felt the necessity of some
relaxation, after the sufferings which these horrible marshes had
inflicted upon us.

                             [Picture: Camel]

                [Picture: Waterfowl and Birds of Passage]




CHAPTER VII.


Mercurial Preparation for the Destruction of Lice—Dirtiness of the
Mongols—Lama Notions about the Metempsychosis—Washing—Regulations of
Nomadic Life—Aquatic and Passage Birds—The Yuen-Yang—The Dragon’s
Foot—Fishermen of the Paga-Gol—Fishing Party—Fisherman bit by a
Dog—Kou-Kouo, or St. Ignatius’s Bean—Preparations for Departure—Passage
of the Paga-Gol—Dangers of the Voyage—Devotion of Samdadchiemba—The Prime
Minister of the King of the Ortous—Encampment.

Upon taking possession of our post our first business was to excavate a
ditch round the tent, in order that, should rain occur, the water might
be carried into a pond below.  The excavated earth served to make a mound
round the tent; and, within, the packsaddles and furniture of the camels
formed very comfortable bedsteads for us.  Having made our new habitation
as neat as possible, the next business was to make our persons neat also.

We had now been travelling for nearly six weeks, and still wore the same
clothing we had assumed on our departure.  The incessant pricklings with
which we were harassed, sufficiently indicated that our attire was
peopled with the filthy vermin to which the Chinese and Tartars are
familiarly accustomed, but which with Europeans are objects of horror and
disgust,—lice, which of all our miseries on our long journey have been
the greatest.  Hunger and thirst, fierce winds and piercing cold, wild
beasts, robbers, avalanches, menaced death and actual discomfort, all had
been as nothing compared with the incessant misery occasioned by these
dreadful vermin.

Before quitting Tchagen-Kouren we had bought in a chemist’s shop a few
sapeks’ worth of mercury.  We now made with it a prompt and specific
remedy against the lice.  We had formerly got this receipt from some
Chinese, and as it may be useful to others, we think it right to describe
it here.  You take half-an-ounce of mercury, which you mix with old
tea-leaves, previously reduced to paste by mastication.  To render this
softer, you generally add saliva, water would not have the same effect.
You must afterwards bruise and stir it awhile, so that the mercury may be
divided into little balls as fine as dust.  You infuse this composition
into a string of cotton, loosely twisted, which you hang round the neck;
the lice are sure to bite at the bait, and they thereupon as surely
swell, become red, and die forthwith.  In China and in Tartary you have
to renew this sanitary necklace once a month, for, otherwise, in these
dirty countries you could not possibly keep clear from vermin, which
swarm in every Chinese house and in every Mongol tent.

The Tartars are acquainted with the cheap and efficacious anti-louse
mixture I have described, but they make no use of it.  Accustomed from
their infancy to live amid vermin, they at last take no heed whatever of
them, except, indeed, when the number becomes so excessive as to involve
the danger of their being absolutely eaten up.  Upon such a juncture they
strip off their clothes, and have a grand battue, all the members of the
family and any friends who may have dropped in, taking part in the sport.
Even Lamas, who may be present, share in the hunt, with this distinction,
that they do not kill the game, but merely catch it and throw it away;
the reason being, that, according to the doctrine of metempsychosis, to
kill any living being whatever, is to incur the danger of homicide, since
the smallest insect before you may be the transmigration of a man.  Such
is the general opinion; but we have met with Lamas whose views on this
subject were more enlightened.  They admitted that persons belonging to
the sacerdotal class should abstain from killing animals; but not, said
they, in fear of committing a murder by killing a man transmigrated into
an animal, but because to kill is essentially antagonistic with the
gentleness which should characterise a man of prayer, who is ever in
communication with the Deity.

There are some Lamas who carry this scruple to a point approaching the
puerile, so that as they ride along, they are constantly manoeuvring
their horses in and out, here and there, in order to avoid trampling upon
some insect or other that presents itself in their path.  Yet say they,
the holiest among them occasion inadvertently, the death, every day, of a
great many living creatures.  It is to expiate these involuntary murders
that they undergo fasting and penitence, that they recite certain
prayers, and that they make prostrations.

We who had no such scruples, and whose conscience stood upon a solid
basis as to the transmigration of souls, concocted, as effectively as
possible, our anti-louse preparation, doubling the dose of mercury in our
anxiety to kill the greatest practicable number of the vermin that had
been so long tormenting us by day and by night.

It would have been to little purpose merely to kill the present vermin;
it was necessary to withhold any sort of shelter or encouragement from
their too probable successors, and the first point, with this view, was
to wash all our under-clothing, which, for some time past, had not been
subjected to any such operation.  For nearly two months since our
departure, we had been wholly dependent, in all respects, upon ourselves,
and this necessity had compelled us to learn a little of various
professions with which we had been previously unacquainted; becoming our
own tailors and shoe menders, for example, when clothes or shoes required
repairs.  The course of nomadic life now practically introduced us also
to the occupation of washermen.  After boiling some ashes and soaking our
linen in the lye, we next proceeded to wash it in an adjacent pond.  One
great stone on which to place the linen when washed, and another
wherewith to beat it while washing, were our only implements of trade;
but we got on very well, for the softness of the pond water gave every
facility for cleansing the articles.  Before long, we had the delight of
seeing our linen once more clean; and when, having dried it on the grass,
we folded and took it home to our tent, we were quite radiant with
satisfaction.

The quiet and ease which we enjoyed in this encampment rapidly remedied
the fatigue we had undergone in the marshes.  The weather was
magnificent; all that we could have possibly desired.  By day, a gentle,
soothing heat; by night, a sky pure and serene; plenty of fuel; excellent
and abundant pasturage; nitrous water, which our camels delighted in; in
a word, everything to renovate the health and revive the spirits.  Our
rule of daily life may appear odd enough to some, and perhaps not
altogether in harmony with the regulations of monastic houses, but it was
in exact adaptation to the circumstances and wants of our little
community.

Every morning, with the first dawn, before the earliest rays of the sun
struck upon our tent, we rose spontaneously, requiring neither call-bell
nor valet to rouse us.  Our brief toilette made, we rolled up our
goat-skins and placed them in a corner; then we swept out the tent, and
put the cooking utensils in order, for we were desirous of having
everything about us as clean and comfortable as possible.  All things go
by comparison in this world.  The interior of our tent, which would have
made a European laugh, filled with admiration the Tartars who from time
to time paid us a visit.  The cleanliness of our wooden cups, our kettle
always well polished, our clothes not altogether as yet incrusted with
grease; all this contrasted favourably with the dirt and disorder of
Tartar habitations.

Having arranged our apartment, we said prayers together, and then
dispersed each apart in the desert to engage in meditation upon some
pious thought.  Oh! little did we need, amid the profound silence of
those vast solitudes, a printed book to suggest a subject for prayer!
The void and vanity of all things here below, the majesty of God, the
inexhaustible measures of his Providence, the shortness of life, the
essentiality of labouring with a view to the world to come, and a
thousand other salutary reflections, came of themselves, without any
effort on our parts, to occupy the mind with gentle musings.  In the
desert the heart of man is free; he is subject to no species of tyranny.
Far away from us were all those hollow theories and systems, those
utopias of imaginary happiness which men are constantly aiming at, and
which as constantly evade their grasp; those inexhaustible combinations
of selfishness and self-sufficiency, those burning passions which in
Europe are ever contending, ever fermenting in men’s minds and hardening
their hearts.  Amid these silent prairies there was nothing to disturb
our tranquil thoughts, or to prevent us from reducing to their true value
the futilities of this world, from appreciating at their lofty worth the
things of God and of eternity.

The exercise which followed these meditations was, it must be admitted,
far from mystic in its character; but it was necessary, and not wholly
without entertainment in its course.  Each of us hung a bag from his
shoulders and went in different directions to seek argols for fuel.
Those who have never led a nomadic life will, of course, find it
difficult to understand how this occupation could possibly develope any
enjoyment.  Yet, when one is lucky enough to find, half concealed among
the grass, an argol, recommendable for its size and dryness, there comes
over the heart a gentle joy, one of those sudden emotions which create a
transient happiness.  The pleasure at finding a fine argol is cognate
with that which the hunter feels when he discovers the track of game,
with which the boy regards, his eyes sparkling, the linnet’s nest be has
long sought; with which the fisherman sees quivering at the end of his
line a large fish; nay, if we may compare small things with great, one
might even compare this pleasure with the enthusiasm of a Leverrier when
he has discovered a new planet.

Our sack, once filled with argols, we returned, and piled the contents
with pride at the entrance of the tent; then we struck a light and set
the fire in movement; and while the tea was boiling in the pot, pounded
the meal and put some cakes to bake in the ashes.  The repast, it is
observable, was simple and modest, but it was always extremely delicious,
first, because we had prepared it ourselves, and secondly, because our
appetites provided most efficient seasoning.

After breakfast, while Samdadchiemba was collecting round the tent the
animals which had dispersed in search of pasturage, we recited a portion
of our breviary.  Towards noon we indulged in a brief repose, a few
minutes of gentle but sound sleep, never interrupted by nightmare or by
unpleasant dreams.  This repose was all the more necessary that the
evenings were prolonged far into the night.  It was always with
difficulty that we tore ourselves from our walks by moonlight on the
banks of the river.  During the day all was silent and tranquil around
us; but so soon as the shades of night began to overspread the desert,
the scene became animated and noisy.  Aquatic birds, arriving in immense
flocks, diffused themselves over the various pools, and soon thousands of
shrill cries filled the air with wild harmony.  The cries of anger, the
accents of passion, proceeding from those myriads of migratory birds, as
they disputed among themselves possession of the tufts of marsh grass in
which they desired to pass the night, gave one quite the idea of a
numerous people in all the fury of civil war, fighting and clamouring, in
agitation and violence, for some supposed advantage, brief as this
eastern night.

Tartary is populated with nomadic birds.  Look up when you may, you will
see them floating high in air, the vast battalions forming, in their
systematically capricious flight, a thousand fantastic outlines,
dissipating as soon as formed, forming again as soon as dissipated, like
the creations of a Kaleidoscope.  Oh! how exactly are these migrant birds
in their place, amid the deserts of Tartary, where man himself is never
fixed in one spot, but is constantly on the move.  It was very pleasant
to listen to the distant hum of these winged bands, wandering about like
ourselves.  As we reflected upon their long peregrinations, and glanced
in thought over the countries which their rapid flight must have
comprehended, the recollection of our native land came vividly before us.
“Who knows,” we would say to each other, “who knows but that among these
birds there are some who have traversed—who have, perhaps, alighted for
awhile in our dear France: who have sought transient repose and
refreshment in the plains of Languedoc, or on the heights of the Jura.
After visiting our own country, they have doubtless pursued their route
towards the north of Europe, and have come hither through the snows of
Siberia, and of Upper Tartary.  Oh! if these birds could understand our
words, or if we could speak their tongue, how many questions should we
not put to them!”  Alas! we did not then know that for two years more we
should be deprived of all communication with our native land.  The
migratory birds which visit Tartary are for the most part known in
Europe; such as wild geese, wild ducks, teal, storks, bustards, and so
on.  There is one bird which may deserve particular mention: the
Youen-Yang, an aquatic bird frequenting ponds and marshes; it is of the
size and form of the wild duck, but its beak, instead of being flat, is
round, its red head is sprinkled with white, its tail is black, and the
rest of its plumage a fine purple; its cry is exceedingly loud and
mournful, not the song of a bird, but a sort of clear, prolonged sigh,
resembling the plaintive tones of a man under suffering.  These birds
always go in pairs; they frequent, in an especial manner, desert and
marshy places.  You see them incessantly skimming over the surface of the
waters without the couple ever separating from each other; if one flies
away, the other immediately follows; and that which dies first does not
leave its companion long in widowhood, for it is soon consumed by sorrow
and lonesomeness.  Youen is the name of the male, Yang that of the
female: Youen-Yang their common denomination.

We remarked in Tartary another species of migratory bird, which offers
various peculiarities singular in themselves, and perhaps unknown to
naturalists.  It is about the size of a quail; its eyes, of a brilliant
black, are encircled by a magnificent ring of azure; its body is of ash
colour, speckled with black; its legs, instead of feathers, are covered
with a sort of long, rough hair, like that of the musk-deer; its feet are
totally different from those of any other bird; they exactly resemble the
paws of the green lizard, and are covered with scales so hard as to
resist the edge of the sharpest knife.  This singular creature,
therefore, partakes at once of the bird, of the quadruped, and of the
reptile.  The Chinese call it Loung-Kio (Dragon’s Foot).  These birds
make their periodical appearance in vast numbers from the north,
especially after a great fall of snow.  They fly with astonishing
swiftness, and the movement of their wings makes a loud, rattling noise,
like that of heavy hail.

While we had the charge, in Northern Mongolia, of the little christendom
of the Valley of Black Waters, one of our Christians, a skilful huntsman,
brought us two of these birds which he had caught alive.  They were
excessively ferocious; no sooner was your hand extended to touch them,
than the hair on their legs bristled; and if you had the temerity to
stroke them, you instantly were assailed with vehement strokes of the
bill.  The nature of these Dragon’s Feet was evidently so wild as to
preclude the possibility of preserving them alive: they would touch
nothing we offered them.  Perceiving, therefore, that they must soon die
of starvation, we determined to kill and eat them; their flesh was of
agreeable, pheasant-like savour, but terribly tough.

The Tartars might easily take any number of these migratory birds,
especially of the wild geese and ducks, the crowds of which are perfectly
prodigious; and take them, moreover, without the expenditure of a single
ounce of powder, by merely laying traps for them on the banks of the
pools, or by surprising them in the night, amongst the aquatic plants;
but as we have before observed, the flesh of wild creatures is not at all
to the taste of the Tartars; there is nothing to their palates at all
comparable with a joint of mutton, very fat and half boiled.

The Mongols are equally disinclined to fishing; and accordingly, the
highly productive lakes and ponds which one meets with so frequently in
Tartary, have become the property of Chinese speculators, who, with the
characteristic knavery of their nation, having first obtained from the
Tartar kings permission to fish in their states, have gradually converted
this toleration into a monopoly most rigorously enforced.  The Paga-Gol
(Little River), near which we were now encamped, has several Chinese
fishing stations upon its banks.  This Paga-Gol is formed by the junction
of two rivers, which, taking their source from the two sides of a hill,
flow in opposite directions; the one, running towards the north, falls
into the Yellow River; the other, proceeding southwards, swells the
current of another stream, which itself also falls into the Hoang-Ho; but
at the time of the great inundations, the two rivers, in common with the
hill which separates their course, all alike disappear.  The overflowing
of the Hoang-Ho reunites the two currents, and that which then presents
itself is a large expanse of water, the breadth of which extends to
nearly two miles.  At this period, the fish which abound in the Yellow
River repair in shoals to this new basin, wherein the waters remain
collected until the commencement of the winter; and during the autumn,
this little sea is covered in all directions with the boats of Chinese
fishermen, whose habitations for the fishing season are miserable cabins
constructed on either bank.

During the first night of our encampment in this locality, we were kept
awake by a strange noise, constantly recurring in the distance: as it
seemed to us, the muffled and irregular roll of drums; with day-break the
noise continued, but more intermittent and less loud; it apparently came
from the water.  We went out and proceeded towards the bank of the lake,
where a fisherman, who was boiling his tea in a little kettle, supported
by three stones, explained the mystery; he told us that during the night,
all the fishermen seated in their barks, keep moving over the water, in
all directions, beating wooden drums for the purpose of alarming the
fish, and driving them towards the places where the nets are spread.  The
poor man whom we interrogated had himself passed the whole night in this
painful toil.  His red, swollen eyes and his drawn face clearly indicated
that it was long since he had enjoyed adequate rest.  “Just now,” he
said, “we have a great deal of work upon our hands; there is no time to
be lost if we wish to make any money of the business.  The fishing season
is very short; at the outside not more than three months; and a few days
hence we shall be obliged to withdraw.  The Paga-Gol will be frozen, and
not a fish will be obtainable.  You see, Sirs Lamas, we have no time to
lose.  I have passed all the night hunting the fish about; when I have
drunk some tea and eaten a few spoonfuls of oatmeal, I shall get into my
boat, and visit the nets I have laid out there westward; then I shall
deposit the fish I have taken in the osier reservoirs you see yonder;
then I shall examine my nets, and mend them if they need mending; then I
shall take a brief repose, and after that, when the old grandfather (the
sun) goes down, I shall once more cast my nets; then I shall row over the
water, now here, now there, beating my drum, and so it goes on.”  These
details interested us, and as our occupations at the moment were not very
urgent, we asked the fisherman if he would allow us to accompany him when
he went to raise his nets.  “Since personages like you,” answered he, “do
not disdain to get into my poor boat and to view my unskilful and
disagreeable fishing, I accept the benefit you propose.”  Hereupon we sat
down in a corner of his rustic hearth to wait until he had taken his
repast.  The meal of the fisherman was as short as the preparations for
it had been hasty.  When the tea was sufficiently boiled, he poured out a
basin full of it; threw into this a handful of oatmeal, which he
partially kneaded with his fore finger; and then, after having pressed it
a little, and rolled it into a sort of cake, he swallowed it without any
other preparation.  After having three or four times repeated the same
operation, the dinner was at an end.  This manner of living had nothing
in it to excite our curiosity; having adopted the nomad way of living, a
sufficiently long experience had made it familiar to us.

[Picture: Fishing Party] We entered his small boat and proceeded to enjoy
the pleasure of fishing.  After having relished for some moments the
delight of a quiet sail on the tranquil water, smooth and unbroken as
glass through troops of cormorants and wild geese, which were disporting
on the surface of the expanse, and which, half running, half flying, made
a free passage for us as we advanced, we reached the place where the nets
lay.  At intervals we saw pieces of wood floating on the water, to which
the nets were attached which rested at the bottom.  When we drew them up
we saw the fish glitter as they struggled in the meshes.  These fish were
generally large, but the fisherman only kept the largest; those that were
under half a pound he threw back into the water.

After having examined a few of the nets, he stopped to see if the haul
had been productive.  Already the two wells, constructed at the
extremities of the boat, were nearly full.  “Sirs Lamas,” said the
fisherman, “do you eat fish?  I will sell you some if you please.”  At
this proposition, the two poor French missionaries looked at each other
without saying a word.  In that look you might see that they were by no
means averse from trying the flavour of the fish of the Yellow River, but
that they dared not, a sufficient reason keeping them in suspense.  “How
do you sell your fish?”  “Not dear; eighty sapeks a pound.”  “Eighty
sapeks! why that is dearer than mutton.”  “You speak the words of truth;
but what is mutton compared with the fish of the Hoang-Ho?”  “No matter;
it is too dear for us.  We have still far to go; our purse is low, we
must economize.”  The fisherman did not insist; he took his oar, and
directed the boat towards those nets which had not yet been drawn up from
the water.  “For what reason,” asked we “do you throw back so much fish?
Is it because the quality is inferior?”  “Oh, no; all the fish in the
Yellow River are excellent, these are too small, that is all.”  “Ah, just
so; next year they will be bigger.  It is a matter of calculation; you
refrain now, so that in the end you may get more by them.”  The fisherman
laughed.  “It is not that,” he said; “we do not hope to re-capture these
fish.  Every year the basin is filled with fresh fish, brought hither by
the overflowings of the Hoang-Ho; there come great and small; we take the
first; and the others we throw back, because they do not sell well.  The
fish here are very abundant.  We are able to select the best . . . .
Sirs Lamas, if you like to have these little fish, I will not throw them
back.”  The offer was accepted, and the small fry, as they came, were
placed in a little basket.  When the fishing was over, we found ourselves
possessors of a very respectable supply of fish.  Before leaving the
boat, we washed an old basket, and having deposited our fish in it, we
marched in triumph to the tent.  “Where have you been?” exclaimed
Samdadchiemba, as soon as he saw us; “the tea is now boiled, and it soon
gets cold: I have boiled it up again; it has again got cold.”  “Pour out
some of your tea,” answered we.  “We will not have oatmeal to-day, but
some fresh fish.  Place some loaves under the ashes to bake.”  Our
prolonged absence had put Samdadchiemba in an ill humour.  His forehead
was more contracted than usual, and his small black eyes flashed with
displeasure.  But when he beheld in the basket the fish which were still
in motion, his face relaxed into a smile, and his countenance insensibly
grew more cheerful.  He opened smilingly the bag of flour, the strings of
which were never untied except on rare occasions.  Whilst he was busily
occupied with the pastry, we took some of the fish, and proceeded to the
shores of a lake at a short distance from the tent.  We had scarcely got
there, when Samdadchiemba ran to us with all his might.  He drew aside
the four corners of the cloth which contained the fish.  “What are you
going to do?” said he, with an anxious air.  “We are going to cut open
and scale this fish.”  “Oh, that is not well; my spiritual fathers, wait
a little; you must not transgress thus.”  “What are you talking about?
Who is committing a sin?”  “Why, look at these fish; they are still
moving.  You must let them die in peace, before you open them: is it not
a sin to kill a living creature?”  “Go make your bread and let us alone.
Are we always to be pestered with your notions of metempsychosis?  Do you
still think that men are transformed into beasts, and beasts into men?”
The lips of our Dchiahour opened for a long laugh.  “Bah!” said he,
striking his forehead, “what a thick head I have; I did not think of
that; I had forgotten the doctrine,” and he returned not a little ashamed
at having come to give us such ridiculous advice.

The fish were fried in mutton fat, and we found them exquisite.

In Tartary and in the north of China, the fishing continues to the
commencement of winter, when the ponds and rivers are frozen.  At that
time they expose to the air, in the night, the fish they have kept alive
in the reservoirs; these immediately freeze, and may be laid up without
trouble.  It is in this state that they are sold to the fishmongers.
During the long winters of the northern part of the empire, the wealthy
Chinese can always, by this means, procure fresh fish; but great care
must be taken not to make too large a provision of them to be consumed
during the time of the great frosts, for on the first thaw the fish
become putrid.

During our few days’ rest, we considered the means of crossing the
Paga-Gol.  A Chinese family having obtained from the King of the Ortous
the privilege of conveying travellers across, we were obliged to address
ourselves to the master of the boat.  He had undertaken to conduct us to
the other side, but we had not yet agreed about the fare; he required
upwards of 1,000 sapeks.  The sum appeared to us exorbitant, and we
waited.

On the third day of our halt, we perceived a fisherman coming towards our
tent, dragging himself along with great difficulty by the aid of a long
staff.  His pale and extremely meagre face, showed that he was a man in
suffering.  As soon as he had seated himself beside our hearth,
“Brother,” said we, “it seems that your days are not happy.”  “Ah,” said
he, “my misfortune is great, but what am I to do?  I must submit to the
irrevocable laws of heaven.  It is now a fortnight since, as I was going
to visit a Mongol tent, I was bitten in the leg by a mad dog; there has
been formed a wound which grows larger and mortifies day by day.  They
told me that you were from the Western Heaven, and I am come to you.  The
men of the Western Heaven, say the Tartar Lamas, have an unlimited power.
With a single word they are able to cure the most grievous disorders.”
“They have deceived you, when they said we had such great powers;” and
hereupon we took occasion to elucidate to this man the great truths of
the faith.  But he was a Chinese, and, like all his nation, but little
heedful of religious matters.  Our words only glanced over his heart; his
hurt absorbed all his thoughts.  We resolved to treat his case with the
Kou-Kouo, or bean of St. Ignatius.  This vegetable, of a brown or ashy
colour, and of a substance which resembles horn, extremely hard, and of
intolerable bitterness, is a native of the Philippine Isles.  The manner
of using the Kou-Kouo is to bruise it in cold water, to which it
communicates its bitterness.  This water, taken inwardly, modifies the
heat of the blood, and extinguishes internal inflammation.  It is an
excellent specific for all sorts of wounds and contusions, and, enjoying
a high character in the Chinese Materia Medica, is sold in all chemists’
shops.  The veterinary doctors also apply it with great success to the
internal diseases of cattle and sheep.  In the north of China we have
often witnessed the salutary effects of the Kou-Kouo.

We infused the powder of one of these beans in some cold water, with
which we washed the poor man’s wound, and we supplied some clean linen,
in place of the disgustingly dirty rags which previously served for a
bandage.  When we had done all we could for the sufferer, we observed
that he still seemed very embarrassed in his manner.  His face was red
with blushes, he held down his eyes, and he began several sentences which
he could not complete.  “Brother,” said we, “you have something on your
mind.”  “Holy personages, you see how poor I am! you have tended my
wound, and you have given me a great mug of healing water to take; I know
not what I can offer in exchange for all this.”  “If this be the subject
of your uneasiness,” said we, “be at once reassured.  In doing what we
could for your leg, we only fulfilled a duty commanded by our religion.
The remedies we have prepared, we freely give you.”  Our words evidently
relieved the poor fisherman from a very grave embarrassment.  He
immediately prostrated himself before us, and touched the ground thrice
with his forehead, in token of his gratitude.  Before withdrawing, he
asked us whether we intended to remain where we were for any length of
time.  We told him that we should gladly depart the next day, but that we
had not as yet agreed with the ferryman as to the fare.  “I have a boat,”
said the fisherman, “and since you have tended my wound, I will endeavour
to-morrow, to convey you over the water.  If my boat belonged entirely to
myself, I would at once undertake the matter; but as I have two partners,
I must first get their consent.  Moreover, we must procure some
particulars as to our course; we fishermen are not acquainted with the
depth of water at all the points of the passage.  There are dangerous
places here and there, which we must ascertain the exact nature and
locality of beforehand, so that we may not incur some misfortune.  Don’t
say anything more about the matter to the ferry people.  I will come back
in the course of the evening, and we will talk over the subject.”

These words gave us hopes of being able to continue our journey, without
too heavy an outlay for the river passage.  As he had promised, the
fisherman returned in the evening.  “My partners,” said he, “were not at
first willing to undertake this job, because it would lose them a day’s
fishing.  I promised that you would give them 400 sapeks, and so the
affair was arranged.  To-morrow we will make inquiries as to the best
course to follow on the river.  Next morning, before sun-rise, fold your
tent, load your camels, and come down to the river side.  If you see any
of the ferry people, don’t tell them you are going to give us 400 sapeks.
As they have the sole right of carrying passengers for hire, they might
prosecute us for carrying you, if they knew you had paid us anything.”

At the appointed hour, we proceeded to the fisherman’s hut.  In a minute
the baggage was packed in the boat, and the two missionaries seated
themselves beside it, attended by the boatman whose wound they had cured.
It was agreed that a young companion of his should ride the horse across
the shallows, leading the mule, while Samdadchiemba, in like manner, was
to conduct the camels over.  When all was ready we started, the boat
following one course, the horses and camels another, for the latter were
obliged to make long circuits in order to avoid the deeper parts of the
river.

The navigation was at first very pleasant.  We floated tranquilly over
the broad surface of the waters, in a small skiff, propelled by a single
man with two light sculls.  The pleasure of this water party, amid the
deserts of Mongolia, was not, however, of long duration.  The poetry of
the thing, soon at an end, was succeeded by some very doleful prose.  We
were advancing gently over the smooth water, vaguely listening to the
measured dips of the sculls, when, all of a sudden, we were aroused by a
clamour behind, of which the shrieks of the camels constituted a
prominent share.  We stopped, and, looking round, perceived that horse,
mule, and camels were struggling in the water, without making any onward
progress.  In the general confusion we distinguished Samdadchiemba
flourishing his arms, as if to recall us.  Our boatman was not at all
disposed to accept the invitation, reluctant as he was to quit the easy
current he had found; but as we insisted, he turned back, and rowed
towards the other party.

Samdadchiemba was purple with rage.  As soon as we came up to him, he
furiously assailed the boatman with invectives: “Did you want to drown
us,” bawled he, “that you gave us for a guide a fellow that doesn’t know
a yard of the way.  Here are we amid gulfs, of which none of us know the
depth or extent.”  The animals, in fact, would neither advance nor
recede; beat them as you might, there they remained immovable.  The
boatman hurled maledictions at his partner: “If you did not know the way,
what did you come for?  The only thing to be done now is to go back to
the hut, and tell your cousin to get on the horse; he’ll be a better
guide than you.”

To return for a better guide was clearly the safest course, but this was
no easy matter; the animals had got so frightened at finding themselves
surrounded with such a body of water, that they would not stir.  The
young guide was at his wits end; it was in vain that he beat the horse,
and pulled the bridle this way and that; the horse struggled and splashed
up the water, and that was all; not an inch would it move, one way or the
other.  The young man, no better horseman than guide, at last lost his
balance and fell into the water; he disappeared for a moment, to our
increased consternation, and then rose at a little distance, just where
he could stand and have his head above water.  Samdadchiemba grew
furious, but at last, seeing no other alternative, he quietly took off
all his clothes as he sat on the camel, threw them into the boat, and
slipped down the camel’s side into the stream.  “Take that man into your
boat,” cried he to our boatman; “I’ll have nothing more to do with him.
I’ll go back and find some one who can guide us properly.”  He then made
his way back through the water, which sometimes rose up to his neck,
leading the animals, whose confidence returned when they saw themselves
preceded by the Dchiahour.

Our hearts were filled with gratitude at observing the devotion and
courage of this young neophyte, who, for our sakes, had not hesitated to
plunge into the water which, at that season, was bitterly cold.  We
anxiously followed him with our eyes until we saw him close upon the
shore.  “You may now,” said the boatman, “be quite at your ease; he will
find in my hut a man who will guide him, so as to avoid the least
danger.”

We proceeded on our way, but the navigation was by no means so agreeable
as before; the boatman could not find again the clear path on the waters
which he was pursuing when we returned to aid Samdadchiemba; and hampered
with aquatic plants, the vessel made but very slow progress.  We tried to
mend matters, by turning to the right and then to the left, but the
difficulty only grew greater; the water was so shallow that the boat, in
its laboured advance, turned up the mud.  We were compelled ourselves to
take the sculls, while the boatman, getting into the water and passing
across his shoulders a rope, the other end of which was tied to the boat,
tried to pull us along.  We applied our united efforts to the task of
moving the vessel, but all in vain; it scarcely advanced a foot.  The
boatman at last resumed his seat and folded his arms in utter despair:
“Since we cannot get on by ourselves,” said he, “we must wait here until
the passage-boat comes up, and then follow in its course.”  We waited.

The boatman was evidently altogether disconcerted; he loudly reproached
himself for having undertaken this laborious business; while we, on our
parts, were angry with ourselves for having permitted a consideration of
economy to deter us from proceeding with the ferry-boat.  We should have
got into the water and waded to the shore, but, besides the difficulty
connected with the baggage, the undertaking was dangerous in itself.  The
ground was so irregular that, while at one moment you passed through
water so shallow that it would scarcely float the boat, in the next
moment you came to a hole, deep enough to drown you three times over.

It was near noon when we saw three passage-boats passing us, which
belonged to the family who enjoyed the monopoly of the ferry.  After
having, with infinite labour, extricated ourselves from the mud and
attained the channel indicated by these boats, we were quietly following
their course when they stopped, evidently awaiting us.  We recognised the
person with whom we had tried to bargain for our passage over, and he
recognised us, as we could easily perceive by the angry glances which he
directed against us.  “You tortoise-egg,” cried he to our boatman, “what
have these western men given you for the passage?  They must have handed
over a good bagful of sapeks to have induced you to trespass upon my
rights!  You and I will have a little talk about the matter, by-and-by;
be sure of that.”  “Don’t answer him,” whispered the boatman to us; then
raising his voice and assuming an air of virtuous indignation, he cried
to the ferryman: “What do you mean?  You don’t know what you’re talking
about.  Consult the dictates of reason, instead of getting into a fury
about nothing.  These Lamas have not given me a sapek; they have cured my
leg with one of their western specifics, and do you mean to say that in
gratitude for such a benefit I am not to carry them over the Paga-Gol?
My conduct is perfectly right, and in conformity with religion.”  The
ferryman grumbling between his teeth, pretended to accept the statement
thus made.

This little altercation was succeeded by profound silence on both sides.
While the flotilla was peaceably advancing, pursuing the thread of a
narrow current, just wide enough to admit the passage of a boat, we saw
galloping towards us, along the shallows, a horseman whose rapid progress
dashed aside the water in all directions.  As soon as he came within call
he stopped short: “Make haste,” cried he, “make haste; lose no time, row
with all your might! The Prime Minister of the King of the Ortous is
yonder on the prairie with his suite, waiting the arrival of your boat.
Row quickly.”  He who spoke was a Tartar Mandarin, his rank being
indicated by the blue button which surmounted his hair cap.  After
issuing his orders he turned round, whipped his horse, and galloped back
the same way he had come.  When he was out of sight, the murmurs which
his presence had restrained burst out.  “Here’s a day’s labour marked
out!  A fine thing, truly, to be employed by a Mongol Toudzelaktsi
(Minister of State), who’ll make us row all day, and then not give us a
single sapek for our pains.”  “As to that, it need not so much matter;
but the chances are that this Tcheou-ta-dze will break every bone in our
bodies into the bargain.”  “Well, row away, it can’t be helped; after
all, we shall have the honour of ferrying over a Toudzelaktsi.”  This
little piece of insolence excited a laugh, but the prevalent expression
was that of furious invective against the Mongol authorities.

Our boatman remained silent; at last he said to us; “This is a most
unfortunate day for me.  I shall be obliged to carry some of this
Toudzelaktsi’s suite perhaps to Tchagan-Kouren itself.  I am by myself, I
am ill, and my boat ought this evening to be engaged in fishing.”  We
were truly afflicted at this unlucky turn of affairs, feeling as we did
that we were the involuntary occasion of the poor fisherman’s misfortune.
We knew very well that it was no trifling matter to be called into the
service, in this way, of a Chinese or Tartar Mandarin, for whom every
thing must be done at once, unhesitatingly and cheerfully.  No matter
what may be the difficulties in the way, that which the Mandarin desires
must be done.  Knowing the consequences of the meeting to our poor
boatman, we determined to see what we could do to relieve him from the
dilemma.  “Brother,” said we, “do not be uneasy; the Mandarin who awaits
the passage boats is a Tartar, the minister of the king of this country.
We will endeavour to manage matters for you.  Go very slowly, stop now
and then; while we are in your boat no one, attendants, Mandarins, not
even the Toudzelaktsi himself will venture to say a word to you.”  We
stopped short in our course, and meanwhile the three passage-boats
reached the landing-place where the Mongol authorities were waiting for
them.  Soon two Mandarins, with the blue button, galloped towards us;
“What are you stopping there for?” cried they.  “Why do you not come on?”
We interposed: “Brother Mongols,” said we, “request your master to
content himself with the three boats already at the shore.  This man is
ill, and has been rowing a long time; it would be cruel to prevent him
from resting himself awhile.”  “Be it as you desire, Sirs Lamas,” replied
the horsemen, and they galloped back to the Toudzelaktsi.

We then resumed our course, but very slowly, in order to give time for
every person to embark before we reached the shore.  By-and-by, we saw
the three ferry-boats returning, filled with Mandarins and their
attendants; the horses were fording the river in another direction, under
the guidance of one of the boatmen.  As the party approached, our boatman
grew more and more afraid; he did not venture to raise his eyes, and he
scarcely breathed.  At last the boats were level with each other; “Sirs
Lamas,” cried a voice, “is peace with you?”  The red button in the cap of
the speaker, and the richness of his embroidered dress, indicated that it
was the prime minister who addressed to us this Tartar compliment.
“Toudzelaktsi of the Ortous,” replied we, “our progress is slow, but it
is favourable; may peace also attend you.”  After a few other civilities,
required by Tartar forms, we proceeded on our way.  When we had attained
a safe distance from the Mandarins, our boatman was perfectly relieved;
we had extricated him from a most serious difficulty.  The ferry-boats,
it was probable, would be engaged at least three days in their gratuitous
labour, for the Toudzelaktsi not choosing to travel across the marshes,
the boats would have to convey him down the Yellow River all the way to
Tchagan-Kouren.

After a long, laborious, and dangerous passage, we reached the other side
of the waters.  Samdadchiemba had arrived long before us, and was
awaiting us on the margin of the stream.  He was still naked, as to
clothes, but then he was covered well nigh up to the shoulders with a
thick layer of mud, which gave him a negro aspect.  In consequence of the
extreme shallowness of the water, the boat could not get within thirty
feet of the shore.  The boatmen who preceded us had been obliged to carry
the Mandarins and their attendants on their shoulders to the boats.  We
did not choose to adopt the same process, but rather to make use of the
animals for our disembarkation.  Samdadchiemba accordingly brought them
close to the boat; M. Gabet got on the horse, M. Huc on the mule, and so
we reached the shore, without having occasion to employ any person’s
shoulders.

The sun was just about to set.  We would willingly have encamped at once,
for we were exhausted with hunger and fatigue, but we could not possibly
do so, for we had, they told us, fully two lis to journey before we
should get out of the mud.  We loaded our camels, therefore, and
proceeded onward, completing the miserable day in pain and suffering.
Night had closed in before we came to a place where we could set up our
tent; we had no strength left for preparing the usual meal, so drinking
some cold water, and eating a few handfuls of millet, we lay down, after
a brief prayer, and fell into a deep slumber.

                       [Picture: Chapter Tailpiece]

                  [Picture: Election of a Living Buddha]




CHAPTER VIII.


Glance at the Country of the Ortous—Cultivated Lands—Sterile, sandy
steppes of the Ortous—Form of the Tartar-Mongol
Government—Nobility—Slavery—A small Lamasery—Election and Enthronization
of a Living Buddha—Discipline of the Lamaseries—Lama Studies—Violent
Storm—Shelter in some Artificial Grottoes—Tartar concealed in a
Cavern—Tartaro-Chinese Anecdote—Ceremonies of Tartar
Marriages—Polygamy—Divorce—Character and Costume of the Mongol Women.

The sun was already very high when we rose.  On leaving the tent we
looked round us, in order to get acquainted with this new country, which
the darkness of the preceding evening had not allowed us to examine.  It
appeared to us dismal and arid; but we were happy, on any terms, to lose
sight of bogs and swamps.  We had left behind us the Yellow River, with
its overflowing waters, and entered the sandy steppes of Ortous.

The land of Ortous is divided into seven banners; it extends a hundred
leagues from east to west, and seventy from south to north.  It is
surrounded by the Yellow River on the west, east, and north, and by the
Great Wall on the south.  This country has been subjected, at all
periods, to the influence of the political revolutions, by which the
Chinese empire has been agitated.  The Chinese and Tartar conquerors have
taken possession of it in turns, and made it the theatre of sanguinary
wars.  During the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries, it remained
under the sceptre of the kings of Hia, who derived their origin from the
Thou-Pa Tartars of the land of Si-Fan.  The capital of their kingdom,
called Hia-Tcheou, was situated at the foot of the Alécha mountains
between the Hoang-Ho and the Great Wall.  At present, this town is called
Ning-Hia, and belongs to the province Kan-Sou.  In 1227 the kingdom of
Hia, and afterwards Ortous, were involved in the common desolation by the
victories of Tchingghis-Khan, founder of the Tartar dynasty of the Youen.

After the expulsion of the Tartar Mongols by the Ming, the Ortous fell
under the power of the Khan of the Tchakar.  When the latter submitted to
the Mantchou conquerors in 1635, the Ortous followed his example, and
were reunited to the empire as a tributary people.

The Emperor Khang-Hi resided for some time among the Ortous in 1696, when
he was on his expedition against the Eleuts; and this is what he wrote of
this people in a letter to the prince, his son, who had remained at
Peking:—“Till now, I never had at all an accurate idea respecting the
Ortous: they are a very civilised nation, and have lost nothing of the
old manners of the true Mongols.  All their princes live in perfect union
among themselves, and do not know the difference between _mine_ and
_thine_.  No one ever heard of a thief amongst them, although they take
not the slightest precaution for guarding their camels and horses.  If by
chance one of these animals goes astray, it is taken care of by him who
finds it, till he has discovered its owner, to whom he restores it,
without the least payment.  The Ortous are extremely skilful in breeding
cattle; most of their horses are tame and tractable.  The Tchakars, north
of the Ortous, enjoy the reputation of training them with more care and
success; nevertheless, I believe that the Ortous excel them in this
point.  Notwithstanding these advantages, they are not at all so rich as
the other Mongols.”

This quotation, which we take from the Abbé Grosier, is in every point
conformable with what we ourselves were able to observe among the Ortous;
so that, since the time of the Emperor Khang-Hi, this people has not at
all changed in its manners.

The aspect of the country through which we travelled on the first day of
our journey seemed affected by the vicinity of the Chinese fishermen, who
reside on the banks of the Yellow River.  We saw here and there
cultivated grounds, but there can be nothing more wretched and bare
looking than this cultivation, except, perhaps, the cultivator himself.
These miserable agriculturists are a mixed people, half Chinese, half
Tartars, but possessing neither the industry of the former, nor the frank
and simple manners of the latter.  They live in houses, or rather in
dirty sheds built of branches intertwined, rudely covered with mud and
cow’s excrement.  Thirst obliging us to enter one of these habitations to
ask for some water, we were able to convince ourselves that the interior
did not in any way contradict the misery which appeared outside.  Men and
animals live together higgledy-piggledy in these abodes, which are far
inferior to those of the Mongols, where, at least, the air is not
infected by the presence of cattle and sheep.

The sandy soil, which is cultivated by these poor people, beyond a little
buck-wheat and millet, produces only hemp, but this is very large and
abundant.  Though, when we were there, the crop was already gathered in,
we could nevertheless judge of the beauty of its stem from what remained
in the fields.  The farmers of Ortous do not pull up the hemp when it is
ripe, as is done in China; they cut it off above the ground, so high as
to leave a stump of about an inch in diameter.  It was accordingly great
toil for our camels to traverse those vast fields of hemp; the stumps,
occurring at every step beneath their large feet, compelled them to
execute all sorts of fantastic movements, which would have excited our
mirth, had we not been fearful of seeing them wounded.  However, that
which so impeded our camels proved of great use to ourselves.  When we
had set up our tent, these stumps furnished us with a ready and abundant
fuel.

We soon entered once more the Land of Grass, if, indeed, one can give
this name to such a barren, arid country as that of the Ortous.  Wherever
you turn you find only a soil, bare, and without verdure; rocky ravines,
marly hills, and plains covered with a fine, moving sand, blown by the
impetuous winds in every direction; for pasture, you will only find a few
thorny bushes and poor fern, dusty and fetid.  At intervals only, this
horrible soil produces some thin, sharp grass, so firm in the earth, that
the animals can only get it up by digging the sand with their muzzles.
The numerous swamps, which had been so heavy a desolation to us on the
borders of the Yellow River, became matter of regret in the country of
the Ortous, so very rare here is water; not a single rivulet is there,
not a spring, where the traveller can quench his thirst; at distances
only are there ponds and cisterns, filled with a fetid, muddy water.

The Lamas, with whom we had been in communication at Blue Town, had
warned us of all the miseries we should have to endure in the country of
the Ortous, especially on account of the scarcity of water.  By their
advice we had bought two wooden pails, which proved indeed of the
greatest service to us.  Whenever we were lucky enough to find on our way
pools or wells dug by the Tartars, we filled our pails, without
considering too nicely the quality of the water, which we used with the
greatest economy, as if it had been some rare and precious beverage.  In
spite of all these precautions, it happened more than once that we were
obliged to pass whole days without getting a single drop of water
wherewith to moisten our lips.  But our personal privations were trifling
compared with the pain we felt at seeing our animals wanting water almost
every day in a country where they had nothing to eat beyond a few plants
nearly dried up, and, as it were, calcined by nitre, and where they
accordingly fell away visibly.  After some days’ travelling, the horse
assumed a truly wretched appearance; it bent down its head, and seemed,
at every step, as though it would sink down with weakness; the camels
painfully balanced themselves on their long legs, and their emaciated
humps hung over their backs like empty bags.

[Picture: The Steppes of Ortous] The steppes of the Ortous, though so
destitute of water and good pasture, have not been quite abandoned by
wild animals.  You often find there grey squirrels, agile yellow goats,
and beautifully plumaged pheasants.  Hares are in abundance, and are so
far from shy, that they did not even take the trouble to move at our
approach; they merely rose on their hind legs, pricked up their ears, and
looked at us as we passed with the utmost indifference.  The fact is,
these animals feel perfectly secure, for, with the exception of a few
Mongols who follow the chase, nobody ever molests them.

The herds of the Tartars of the Ortous are not very numerous, and are
quite different from those which feed on the rich pastures of the
Tchakar, or of Gechekten.  The cattle and horses appeared very miserable;
the goats, sheep, and camels, however, looked very well, which is
undoubtedly the consequence of their predilection for plants impregnated
with saltpetre, whereas cattle and horses prefer fresh pastures, and pure
and abundant water.

The Mongols of Ortous are very much affected by the wretchedness of the
soil upon which they live.  In the course of our journey we saw no
indication that they had become much richer than they were in the time of
the Emperor Khang-Hi.  Most of them live in tents made of some rags of
felt, or of goat-skins framed on a wretched woodwork.  Everything about
these tents is so old and dirty, so tattered with time and storms, that
you would with difficulty suppose they could serve as abodes for human
beings.  Whenever we happened to pitch our tent near these poor
habitations, we were sure to be visited by a crowd of wretches who
prostrated themselves at our feet, rolled on the earth, and gave us the
most magnificent titles, in order to extract something from our charity.
We were not rich, but we could not abstain from bestowing upon them a
part of the modicum which the goodness of Providence had bestowed upon
us.  We gave them some leaves of tea, a handful of oatmeal, some broiled
millet, sometimes some mutton fat.  Alas! we would fain have given more,
but we were obliged to give according to our means.  The missionaries are
themselves poor men, who only live upon the alms distributed among them
every year by their brothers in Europe.

Any one not acquainted with the laws by which the Tartars are ruled,
would not readily understand why men condemn themselves to spend their
lives in the wretched country of the Ortous, whilst Mongolia presents, in
every direction, immense uninhabited plains, where water and pasture are
to be found in abundance.  Although the Tartars are nomads, and
incessantly wandering about from one place to another, they are,
nevertheless, not at liberty to live in any other country than their own.
They are bound to remain in their own kingdom, under the dominion of
their own sovereign, for slavery is still maintained among the Mongol
tribes with the utmost rigour.  In order to attain an accurate idea of
the degree of liberty these people enjoy in their desert regions, it is
expedient to enter into some details as to the form of their government.

Mongolia is divided into several sovereignties, whose chiefs are subject
to the Emperor of China, himself a Tartar, but of the Mantchou race:
these chiefs bear titles corresponding to those of kings, dukes, earls,
barons, etc.  They govern their states according to their own pleasure,
none having any right to meddle with their affairs.  They acknowledge as
sovereign only the Emperor of China.  Whenever there arise differences
among them, they appeal to Peking.  Instead of levelling lances at each
other, as used to be done in the middle age of Europe, among its little
sovereigns, so warlike and so turbulent, they always submit with respect
to the decision of the Court of Peking, whatever it may be.  Though the
Mongol sovereigns think it their duty to prostrate themselves, once a
year, before the Son of Heaven, Lord of the Earth, they nevertheless do
not concede to the Grand-Khan the right of dethroning the reigning
families in the Tartar principalities.  He may, they say, cashier a king
for grave misconduct, but he is bound to fill up the vacant place with
one of the superseded prince’s sons.  The sovereignty belongs, they
contend, to such and such a family, by a right which is inalienable, and
of which it were a crime to dispossess the owner.

A few years ago, the King of Barains {170} was accused at Peking of
having conspired a rebellion against the Emperor; he was tried by the
Supreme Tribunal without being heard, and condemned to be “shortened at
both ends,” the meaning of the decree being, that his head and feet
should be cut off.  The king made enormous presents to the officials who
were sent to superintend the execution of the imperial edict, and they
contented themselves with cutting off his braid of hair, and the soles of
his boots.  They reported at Peking that the order had been executed, and
no more was said about the matter.  The king, however, descended from his
throne, and was succeeded by his son.

Although it is a sort of customary right that power shall always remain
in the same family, it cannot be said that there is anything precisely
fixed in this respect.  There can be nothing more vague and indefinite
than the relations between the Tartar sovereigns and the Grand-Khan or
Emperor of China, whose omnipotent will is above all laws and all
customs.  In practice, the Emperor has the right to do whatever he
chooses to do, and the right is never disputed by any person.  If
doubtful or disputed cases arise, they are decided by force.

In Tartary, all the families that are in any way related to the
sovereign, form a nobility, or a patrician cast, who are proprietors of
the whole soil.  These nobles, called Taitsi, are distinguished by a blue
button surmounting the cap.  It is from among them that the sovereigns of
the different states select their ministers, who are generally three in
number, and called Toutzelaktsi—that is to say, a man who assists or
lends his aid.  This rank gives them the right of wearing the red button.
Below the Toutzelaktsi are the Touchimel, subaltern officers, who are
charged with the details of government.  Lastly, a certain number of
secretaries or interpreters, who must be versed in the Mongol, Mantchou,
and Chinese languages, complete the hierarchy.

In the country of the Khalkhas, to the north of the desert of Gobi, there
is a district entirely occupied by Taitsi, who are supposed to be
descendants of the Mongol dynasty, that was founded by Tchinggiskhan, and
which occupied the imperial throne from 1260 to 1341.  After the
revolution, which restored the national independence of the Chinese,
these people sought refuge among the Khalkhas, obtained, without
difficulty, a portion of their immense territory, and adopted the nomad
life, which their ancestors had led prior to the conquest of China.
These Taitsi live in the greatest independence, liable to no duty, paying
no tribute to any one, and recognising no sovereign.  Their wealth
consists in tents and cattle.  The country of the Taitsi is, of all the
Mongol regions, that wherein the patriarchal manners are found to be most
accurately preserved, such as the Bible describes them in the lives of
Abraham, Jacob, and the other pastors of Mesopotamia.

The Tartars who do not belong to the royal family, are all slaves, living
in absolute subjection to their masters.  Besides the rents they pay,
they are bound to keep their master’s flocks and herds, but they are not
forbidden to breed also cattle on their own account.  It would be a
fallacy to imagine that slavery in Tartary is oppressive and cruel, as
amongst some nations; the noble families scarcely differ from the slave
families.  In examining the relations between them, it would be difficult
to distinguish the master from the slave: they live both alike in tents,
and both alike occupy their lives in pasturing their flocks.  You will
never find among them luxury and opulence insolently staring in the face
of poverty.  When the slave enters his master’s tent, the latter never
fails to offer him tea and milk; they smoke together, and exchange their
pipes.  Around the tents the young slaves and the young noblemen romp and
wrestle together without distinction; the stronger throws the weaker;
that is all.  You often find families of slaves becoming proprietors of
numerous flocks, and spending their days in abundance.  We met many who
were richer than their masters, a circumstance giving no umbrage to the
latter.  What a difference between this slavery and that of Rome, for
instance, where the Roman citizen, when he made up the inventory of his
house, classed his slaves as furniture.  With those haughty and cruel
masters the slave did not merit even the name of man; he was called,
without ceremony, a domestic thing, _res domestica_.  Slavery, with the
Mongol Tartars, is even less oppressive, less insulting to humanity, than
the bondage of the middle ages.  The Mongol masters never give to their
slaves those humiliating nicknames which were formerly used to designate
serfs; they call them brothers; never villeins, never scum, never _gent
taillable et corvéable à merci_.

The Tartar nobles have the right of life and death over their slaves.
They may administer justice themselves upon their bondsmen, even to
sentence of death; but this privilege is never exercised in an arbitrary
way.  In case a slave has been put to death, a superior tribunal
investigates the action of the master, and if it be found that he has
abused his right, the innocent blood is revenged.  The Lamas who belong
to slave families become free, in some degree, as soon as they enter the
sacerdotal tribe; they are liable neither to rents nor enforced labour;
they are at liberty to quit their country, and ramble through the world
at their pleasure, without anybody having the right to stay them.

Although the relations between master and slave are generally full of
humanity and good-will, there are nevertheless Tartar sovereigns who
abuse their right, and oppress their people, and exact exorbitant
tributes.  We know one who makes use of a system of oppression that is
truly revolting.  He selects from among his flocks the oldest and
sickliest cattle, camels, sheep and goats, and gives them in charge to
the rich slaves in his states, who cannot, of course, object to pasture
the cattle of their sovereign master; but are fain to consider it rather
an honour.  After a few years, the king applies for his cattle, by this
time all dead or dying of illness or old age, and selects from the flocks
of his slaves the youngest and strongest; often even, not content with
this, he demands double or treble the number.  “Nothing,” says he, “is
more just; for in two or three years my beasts must have multiplied, and
therefore a great number of lambs, colts, calves, and young camels belong
to me.”

Slavery, however mitigated and softened, can never be in harmony with the
dignity of man.  It has been abolished in Europe, and we hope will be
abolished one day among the Mongol people.  But this great revolution
will, as everywhere else, be operated by the influence of Christianity.
It will not be theory-mongers who will liberate these nomad people.  The
work will be the work of the priests of Jesus Christ, of the preachers of
the Holy Gospel, that Divine Charter, wherein are set forth the true
rights of man.  So soon as the missionaries shall have taught the Mongols
to say, “Our Father who art in Heaven,” slavery will fall in Tartary, and
the tree of liberty will grow beside the cross.

After some days’ march across the sands of the Ortous, we noticed on our
way a small Lamasery, richly built in a picturesque and wild situation.
We passed on without stopping.  We had advanced a gun-shot from the
place, when we heard behind us the galloping of a horse.  On looking
round we saw a Lama following us at full speed.  “Brothers,” he said,
“you have passed our _Soumé_ (Lamasery) without stopping.  Are you in
such haste that you cannot repose for a day, and offer your adorations to
our saint?”  “Yes, we are rather in a hurry; our journey is not of a few
days; we are going to the West.”  “I knew very well by your physiognomies
that you were not Mongols, and that you came from the West; but as you
are going so far, you had better prostrate yourselves before our saint;
that will bring you good luck.”  “We never prostrate ourselves before
men; the true creed of the West forbids that.”  “Our saint is not a mere
man; you do not imagine, perhaps, that in our little Lamasery we have the
happiness to possess a Chaberon, a living Buddha.  It is two years since
he deigned to descend from the holy mountains of Thibet; he is now seven
years old.  In one of his former lives he was Grand Lama of a splendid
Lamasery in this vale, which was destroyed, according to the
prayer-books, in the time of the wars of Tching-Kis.  The saint having
reappeared a few years since, we have constructed in haste a small
Lamasery.  Come, brothers, our saint will hold his right hand over your
heads, and luck will accompany your steps!”  “The men who know the Holy
Doctrine of the West, do not believe in all these transmigrations of the
Chaberons.  We adore only the Creator of Heaven and earth; his name is
Jehovah.  We believe that the child you have made superior of your
Lamasery is destitute of all power.  Men have nothing to hope or to fear
from him.”  When the Lama heard these words, which he certainly never
expected, he was quite stupified.  By degrees his face became animated,
and at last exhibited indignation and anger.  He looked at us several
times, then, pulling the bridle of his horse, he turned short round and
left us hastily, muttering between his teeth some words which we could
not exactly hear, but which we were aware did not constitute a
benediction.

The Tartars believe with firm and absolute faith in all these various
transmigrations.  They would never allow themselves to entertain the
slightest doubt as to the authenticity of their Chaberons.  These living
Buddhas are in large numbers, and are always placed at the head of the
most important Lamaseries.  Sometimes they modestly begin their career in
a small temple, and have only a few disciples; but very soon their
reputation increases around, and the small Lamasery becomes a place of
pilgrimage and devotion.  The neighbouring Lamas, speculating upon the
rising fashion, surround it with their cells; the Lamasery acquires
development from year to year, and becomes at last famous in the land.

The election and enthronization of the living Buddhas are conducted in so
singular a manner as to be well worth relating.  When a Grand Lama has
gone, that is to say, is dead, the circumstance is no occasion of
mourning in the Lamasery.  There are no tears, no lamentations, for
everybody knows the Chaberon will very soon reappear.  This apparent
death is but the beginning of a new existence, as it were, one ring more
added to the unlimited, uninterrupted chain of successive lives—a regular
palingenesis.  While the saint is in a state of chrysalis, his disciples
are in the greatest anxiety; for it is their most important affair to
discover the place where their master will resume life.  A rainbow
appearing in the air is considered a signal sent to them by their old
Great Lama to aid them in their research.  Everyone thereupon says his
prayers, and while the Lamasery which has lost its Buddha redoubles its
fastings and prayers, a troop of elect proceeds to consult the Tchurtchun
or augur, famous for the knowledge of things hidden from the common herd.
He is informed that on such a day of such a moon the rainbow of the
Chaberon has manifested itself on the sky; it made its appearance in such
a place; it was more or less luminous, and it was visible so long; then
it disappeared amid such and such circumstances.  When the Tchurtchun has
received all the necessary indications, he recites some prayers, opens
his books of divination, and pronounces at last his oracle, while the
Tartars who have come to consult him, listen, kneeling and full of
unction.  “Your Great Lama,” says he, “has reappeared in Thibet, at such
a distance from your Lamasery.  You will find him in such a family.”
When these poor Mongols have heard this oracle, they return full of joy
to announce the glad tidings to their Lamasery.

It often happens that the disciples of the defunct have no occasion to
trouble themselves at all in order to discover the new birth-place of
their Great Lama.  He himself takes the trouble to initiate them into the
secret of his transformation.  As soon as he has effected his
metamorphosis in Thibet, he reveals himself at an age when common
children cannot yet articulate a single word.  “It is I,” he says with
the accent of authority; “it is I who am the Great Lama, the living
Buddha of such a temple; conduct me to my ancient Lamasery.  I am its
immortal superior.”  The wonderful baby having thus spoken, it is
speedily communicated to the Lamas of the Soumé indicated, that their
Chaberon is born in such a place, and they are summoned to attend and
invite him home.

In whatever manner the Tartars discover the residence of their Great
Lama, whether by the appearance of the rainbow, or by the spontaneous
revelation of the Chaberon himself, they are always full of intense joy
on the occasion.  Soon all is movement in the tents, and the thousand
preparations for a long journey are made with enthusiasm, for it is
almost always in Thibet that they have to seek their living Buddha, who
seldom fails to play them the trick of transmigrating in some remote and
almost inaccessible country.  Everyone contributes his share to the
organisation of the holy journey.  If the king of the country does not
place himself at the head of the caravan, he sends either his own son or
one of the most illustrious members of the royal family.  The great
Mandarins, or ministers of the king, consider it their duty and an honour
to join the party.  When everything is at last prepared, an auspicious
day is chosen, and the caravan starts.

Sometimes these poor Mongols, after having endured incredible fatigues in
horrible deserts, fall into the hands of the brigands of the Blue Sea,
who strip them from head to foot.  If they do not die of hunger and cold
in those dreadful solitudes—if they succeed in returning to the place
whence they came—they commence the preparations for a new journey.  There
is nothing capable of discouraging them.  At last, when, by dint of
energy and perseverance, they have contrived to reach the eternal
sanctuary, they prostrate themselves before the child who has been
indicated to them.  The young Chaberon, however, is not saluted and
proclaimed Great Lama without a previous examination.  There is held a
solemn sitting, at which the new living Buddha is examined publicly, with
a scrupulous attention.  He is asked the name of the Lamasery of which he
assumes to be the Great Lama; at what distance it is; what is the number
of the Lamas residing in it.  He is interrogated respecting the habits
and customs of the defunct Great Lama, and the principal circumstances
attending his death.  After all these questions, there are placed before
him different prayer-books, articles of furniture, teapots, cups, etc.,
and amongst all these things he has to point out those which belonged to
his former life.

Generally this child, at most but five or six years old, comes forth
victorious out of all these trials.  He answers accurately all the
questions that are put to him, and makes without any embarrassment the
inventory of his goods.  “Here,” he says, “are the prayer-books I used;
there is the japanned porringer out of which I drank my tea.”  And so on.

No doubt the Mongols are often dupes of the fraud of those who have an
interest in making a Great Lama out of this puppet.  Yet we believe that
often all this proceeds on both sides with honesty and good faith.  From
the information we obtained from persons worthy of the greatest credit,
it appears certain that all that is said of the Chaberons must not be
ranged amongst illusion and deception.  A purely human philosophy will,
undoubtedly, reject such things, or put them, without hesitating, down to
the account of Lama imposture.  We Catholic missionaries believe that the
great liar who once deceived our first parents in the earthly Paradise
still pursues his system of falsehood in the world.  He who had the power
to hold up in the air Simon Magus may well at this day speak to mankind
by the mouth of an infant, in order to maintain the faith of his adorers.

When the titles of the living Buddha have been confirmed, he is conducted
in triumph to the Lamasery, of which he is to be the Grand Lama.  Upon
the road he takes, all is excitement, all is movement.  The Tartars
assemble in large crowds to prostrate themselves on his way, and to
present to him their offerings.  As soon as he is arrived at his
Lamasery, he is placed upon the altar; and then, kings, princes,
mandarins, Lamas, Tartars, from the richest to the poorest, come and bend
the head before this child, which has been brought from the depths of
Thibet, at enormous expense, and whose demoniac possessions excite every
body’s respect, admiration, and enthusiasm.

There is no Tartar kingdom which does not possess, in one of its
Lamaseries of the first class, a living Buddha.  Besides this superior,
there is always another Grand Lama, who is selected from the members of
the royal family.  The Thibetian Lama resides in the Lamasery, like a
living idol, receiving every day the adorations of the devout, upon whom
in return he bestows his blessing.  Everything which relates to prayers
and liturgical ceremonies, is placed under his immediate superintendence.
The Mongol Grand Lama is charged with the administration, good order, and
executive of the Lamasery; he governs whilst his colleague is content to
reign.  The famous maxim, _Le roi règne et ne gouverne pas_, is not,
therefore, the grand discovery in politics that some people imagine.
People pretend to invent a new system, and merely plunder, without saying
a word about it, the old constitution of the Tartar Lamaseries.

Below these two sovereigns, are several subaltern officers, who direct
the details of the administration, the revenues, the sales, the
purchases, and the discipline.  The scribes keep the registers, and draw
up the regulations and orders which the governor Lama promulgates for the
good keeping and order of the Lamasery.  These scribes are generally well
versed in the Mongol, Thibetian, and sometimes in the Chinese and
Mantchou languages.  Before they are admitted to this employment, they
are obliged to undergo a very rigorous examination, in presence of all
the Lamas and of the principal civil authorities, of the country.

After this staff of superiors and officers, the inhabitants of the
Lamasery are divided in Lama-masters and Lama-disciples or Chabis; each
Lama has under his direction one or more Chabis, who live in his small
house, and execute all the details of the household.  If the master
possesses cattle, they take charge of them, milk the cows, and prepare
the butter and cream.  In return for these services, the master directs
his disciples in the study of the prayers, and initiates them into the
liturgy.  Every morning the Chabi must be up before his master; his first
task is to sweep the chamber, to light a fire and to make the tea; after
that he takes his prayer-book, presents it respectfully to his master,
and prostrates himself thrice before him, without saying a single word.
This sign of respect is equivalent to a request that the lesson he has to
learn in the course of the day may be marked.  The master opens the book,
and reads some pages, according to the capacity of his scholar, who then
makes three more prostrations in sign of thanks, and returns to his
affairs.

The Chabi studies his prayer-book, when he is disposed to do so, there
being no fixed period for that; he may spend his time, sleeping or
romping with the other young pupils, without the slightest interference
on the part of his master.  When the hour for retiring to bed has
arrived, he recites the lesson assigned him in the morning, in a
monotonous manner; if the recitation is good, he is looked upon as having
done his duty, the silence of his master being the only praise he is
entitled to obtain; if, on the contrary, he is not able to give a good
account of his lesson, the severest punishment makes him sensible of his
fault.  It often happens, that under such circumstances, the master,
laying aside his usual gravity, rushes upon his scholar, and overwhelms
him at once with blows and terrible maledictions.  Some of the pupils,
who are over maltreated, run away and seek adventures far from their
Lamasery; but in general they patiently submit to the punishment
inflicted on them, even that of passing the night in the open air,
without any clothes and in full winter.  We often had opportunities of
talking with Chabis, and when we asked them whether there was no means of
learning the prayers without being beaten, they ingenuously and with an
accent manifesting entire conviction, replied, that it was impossible.
“The prayers one knows best,” they said, “are always those for which one
has got most blows.  The Lamas who cannot recite prayers, or cure
maladies, or tell fortunes, or predict the future, are those who have not
been beaten well by their masters.”

Besides these studies, which are conducted at home, and under the
immediate superintendence of the master, the Chabis may attend, in the
Lamasery, public lectures, wherein the books which relate to religion and
to medicine are expounded.  But these commentaries are mostly vague,
unsatisfactory, and quite inadequate to form learned Lamas; there are few
of them who can give an exact account of the books they study; to justify
their omission in this respect, they never fail to allege the profundity
of the doctrine.  As to the great majority of the Lamas, they think it
more convenient and expeditious to recite the prayers in a merely
mechanical way, without giving themselves any trouble about the ideas
they contain.  When we come to speak of the Lamaseries of Thibet, where
the instruction is more complete than in those of Tartary, we shall enter
into some details upon Lama studies.

The Thibetian books alone being reputed canonical, and admitted as such
by the Buddhist Reformation, the Mongol Lamas pass their lives in
studying a foreign idiom, without troubling themselves at all about their
own language.  There are many of them well versed in the Thibetian
literature, who do not even know their own Mongol alphabet.  There are
indeed a few Lamaseries where the study of the Tartarian idiom receives
some slight attention, and where they sometimes recite Mongol prayers,
but these are always a translation of Thibetian books.  A Lama who can
read Thibetian and Mongol is reputed quite a _savant_; he is thought a
being raised above mankind, if he has some knowledge of Chinese and
Mantchou literature.

As we advanced in the Ortous, the country seemed more and more desert and
dismal.  To make matters still worse, a terrible storm, solemnly closing
in the autumn season, brought upon us the cold of winter.

One day, we were proceeding with difficulty through the arid sandy
desert; the perspiration ran down our foreheads, for the heat was
stifling; we felt overpowered by the closeness of the atmosphere, and our
camels, with outstretched necks and mouths half open, vainly sought in
the air a breath of cooling freshness.  Towards noon, dark clouds began
to gather in the horizon; fearful of being surprised by the storm, we
determined to pitch our tent.  But where?  We looked round on all sides;
we ascended to the tops of the hillocks and anxiously sought with our
eyes for some Tartar habitation, which might provide us with fuel, but in
vain; we had before us on all sides nothing but a mournful solitude.
From time to time, we saw the foxes retiring to their holes, and herds of
yellow goats running to take repose in the defiles of the mountains.
Meantime, the clouds continued to rise and the wind began to blow
violently.  In the irregularity of its gusts it seemed now to bring us
the tempest, now to drive it from us.  While we were thus suspended
between hope and fear, loud claps of thunder, and repeated flashes of
lightning, that seemed to enkindle the sky, gave us notice that we had no
other resource than to place ourselves entirely in the hands of
Providence.  The icy north wind blowing fiercely, we directed our steps
to a defile, which opened near us; but before we had time to reach it the
storm exploded.  At first, rain fell in torrents, then hail, and at last
snow half melted.  In an instant we were wet through to the skin, and
felt the cold seizing upon our limbs.  We immediately alighted, hoping
that walking would warm us a little, but we had hardly advanced ten steps
amidst the deluge of sand, when our legs sank as in mortar.  When we
found it impossible to go any further we sought shelter by the side of
our camels, and crouched down, pressing our arms closely against our
sides, in order to attain, if possible, a little warmth.

While the storm continued to hurl against us its fury, we awaited with
resignation the fate which Providence destined for us.  It was impossible
to pitch the tent; it was beyond human power to spread cloth saturated
with rain, and half frozen by the north wind.  Besides it would have been
difficult to find a site for it, since the water streamed in every
direction.  Amid circumstances so dreadful, we looked at each other in
sadness and in silence; we felt the natural warmth of our body
diminishing every minute, and our blood beginning to freeze.  We offered,
therefore, the sacrifice of our lives to God, for we were convinced that
we should die of cold during the night.

One of us, however, collecting all his strength and all his energy,
climbed up an eminence, which commanded a view of the contiguous defile,
and discovered a footpath, leading by a thousand sinuosities into the
depths of the immense ravine; he pursued its direction, and after a few
steps in the hollow, perceived in the sides of the mountain large
openings, like doors.  At this sight recovering at once his courage and
his strength, he ascended once more the eminence in order to communicate
the good news to his companions.  “We are saved,” he cried; “there are
caves in this defile; let us hasten to take refuge in them.”  These words
immediately aroused the little caravan; we left our animals upon the
hill, and speedily descended into the ravine.  A footpath led to the
opening; we advanced our heads, and discovered in the interior of the
mountain, not simple caves formed by nature, but fine, spacious
apartments excavated by the hand of man.  Our first exclamation was an
expression of thankfulness for the goodness of Providence.  We selected
the cleanest and largest of these caverns and in an instant passed from
the utmost misery to the height of felicity.  It was like a sudden and
unhoped-for transition from death to life.

[Picture: Caves of the Ortous] On viewing these subterranean dwellings,
constructed with so much elegance and solidity, we were of opinion that
some Chinese families had repaired to this country to cultivate the soil;
but that, repelled by its barrenness, they had given up their enterprise.
Traces of cultivation, which we perceived here and there, confirmed our
conjecture.  When the Chinese establish themselves anywhere in Tartary,
if they find mountains, the earth of which is hard and solid, they
excavate caverns in their sides.  These habitations are cheaper than
houses, and less exposed to the irregularity of the seasons.  They are
generally very well laid out; on each side of the door there are windows,
giving sufficient light to the interior; the walls, the ceiling, the
furnaces, the kang, everything inside is so coated with plaster, so firm
and shining, that it has the appearance of stucco.  These caves have the
advantage of being very warm in winter and very cool in summer; the want
of sufficient air, however, sometimes makes a sojourn in them dangerous
to the health.  Those dwellings were no novelty to us, for they abound in
our mission of Si-Wan.  However, we had never seen any so well
constructed as these of the Ortous.

We took possession of one of those subterranean abodes, and commenced
proceedings by making a large fire in the furnaces, with plentiful
bundles of hemp-stems, which we found in one of the caves.  Never, on our
journey, had we at our disposal such excellent fuel.  Our clothes dried
very soon, and we were so happy at being in this fine hotel of
Providence, that we spent the greater part of the night enjoying the
delightful sensation of warmth, while Samdadchiemba was never tired of
broiling little cakes in mutton fat.  It was altogether quite a festival
with us, and our flour felt somewhat the effects of it.

The animals were not less happy than we.  We found for them stables out
in the mountain, and, which was better still, excellent forage.  One cave
was filled with millet stems and oat-straw.  But for this horrible storm,
which had nearly killed us, our animals would never have got so grand a
treat.  After having for a long time enjoyed the poetry of our miraculous
position, we yielded to the necessity of taking repose, and laid down
upon a well-warmed kang, which made us forget the terrible cold we had
endured during the tempest.

Next morning, while Samdadchiemba was using the rest of the hemp stems,
and drying our baggage, we went out for a nearer inspection of these
numerous subterrenes.  We had scarcely gone ten steps, when we beheld, to
our great astonishment, whirls of smoke issuing from the door and windows
of a cave adjoining our own.  As we fancied we were alone in the desert,
the sight of this smoke excited a surprise, mingled with fear.  We
directed our steps to the opening of the cavern, and, on reaching the
threshold of the door, perceived within a large fire of hemp stems, whose
undulating flame reached the ceiling, so that the place looked like an
oven.  On further investigation we observed a human form moving amidst
the thick smoke; we soon heard the Tartar salute, Mendou! uttered by a
sonorous voice; “Come and sit beside this fire.”  We did not like to
advance.  This cave of Cacus, that loud voice, presented to our minds
something phantastic.  Finding that we remained silent and motionless,
the inhabitant of this sort of vent-hole of Erebus, rose and came to the
threshold.  He was neither a devil nor a ghost, but simply a Mongol
Tartar, who, the night before, having been surprised by the storm, had
fled to this cave, where he had passed the night.  After a few words
about the rain, wind and hail, we invited him to breakfast with us, and
brought him to our dwelling.  While Samdadchiemba, aided by our guest,
made the tea, we went out again to pursue our researches.

We walked amid these deserted and silent abodes with a curiosity not free
from terror.  All were constructed upon much the same model, and still
preserved their pristine integrity.  Chinese characters engraved on the
walls, and pieces of porcelain vases, confirmed our impression that these
caves had been inhabited not long since by Chinese.  Some old woman’s
shoes, which we discovered in a corner, removed any remaining doubt.  We
could not shake off a feeling of sadness and melancholy, when we thought
of those numerous families, who, after having lived a long time in the
entrails of this large mountain, had gone elsewhere to seek a more
hospitable soil.  As we entered the caves, we alarmed flocks of sparrows,
which had not yet left these former dwellings of man, but had, on the
contrary, boldly taken possession of these grand nests.  The millet and
oats strewn around profusely, induced them to remain.  “Undoubtedly,”
said we, “they too will fly away when they no longer find here any more
grains, when they find that the old inhabitants of these caves return no
more, and they will seek hospitality under the roofs of houses.”

The sparrow is a regular cosmopolite; we have found it wherever we have
found man; ever with the same vivid, petulant, quarrelsome character;
ever with the same sharp, angry cry.  It is, however, to be remarked that
in Tartary, China, and Thibet it is, perhaps, more insolent than in
Europe; because there, nobody makes war upon it, and its nest and brood
are piously respected.  You see it boldly enter the house, live there on
familiar terms, and peck up at its leisure the remnants of man’s food.
The Chinese call it Kio-nio-eul, (bird of the family).

After having inspected about thirty of these caves, which did not present
anything remarkable, we returned to our own.  At breakfast, the
conversation naturally turned upon the Chinese who had excavated these
dwellings.  We asked the Tartar if he had seen them.  “What!” said he,
“have I seen the Kitats who inhabited this defile?  Why, I knew all of
them; it is not more than two years since they left the country.  For
that matter,” he added, “they had no right to remain here; as they were
rascals, it was quite proper to turn them out.”  “Rascals, say you? why,
what mischief could they do in this wretched ravine?”  “Oh, the Kitats
are sly, cheating fellows.  At first, they seemed very good; but that did
not last long.  It is more than twenty years ago that a few of their
families sought our hospitality: as they were poor, they got permission
to cultivate some land in the vicinity, on condition, that every year
after harvest they should furnish some oatmeal to the Taitsi of the
country.  By degrees, other families arrived, who also excavated caverns
wherein to dwell; and soon this defile was full of them.  In the
beginning, these Kitats showed a gentle, quiet character; we lived
together like brothers.  Tell me, Sirs Lamas, is it not well to live
together like brothers?  Are not all men brothers?”  “Yes, that is true;
you speak the words of justice; but why did these Kitats go hence?”
“Peace did not last long; they soon showed themselves wicked and false.
Instead of being content with what had been given them, they extended
their cultivation at their pleasure, and took possession of a large
territory, without asking anyone’s leave.  When they were rich they would
not pay the oatmeal they had agreed to pay as tribute.  Every year, when
we claimed the rent, we were received with insults and maledictions.  But
the worst thing was, that these rascally Kitats turned thieves, and took
possession of all the goats and sheep that lost their way in the
sinuosities of the ravine.  At last, a Taitsi of great courage and
capacity, called together the Mongols of the neighbourhood, and
said,—‘The Kitats take away our land, they steal our beasts, and curse
us; as they do not act or speak as brothers, we must expel them.’
Everybody was pleased with these words of the old Taitsi.  After a
deliberation, it was decided that the principal men of the country should
go to the king, and supplicate an order condemning the Kitats to be
expelled.  I was one of the deputation.  The king reproached us for
having permitted foreigners to cultivate our lands; we prostrated
ourselves before him, observing profound silence.  However, the king, who
always acts with justice, had the order written, and sealed with his red
seal.  The ordonnance said, that the king would not permit the Kitats to
live any longer in the country; and that they must leave it before the
first day of the eighth moon.  Three Taitsi rode off to present the
ordonnance to the Kitats.  They made no answer to the three deputies, but
said amongst themselves, ‘The king desires us to go; very well.’

“Afterwards we learned that they had assembled and had resolved to
disobey the orders of the king and to remain in the country, in spite of
him.  The first day of the eighth moon arrived, and they still occupied
calmly their habitations, without making any preparation for departure.
In the morning, before daybreak, all the Tartars mounted their horses,
armed themselves with their lances, and drove their flocks and herds upon
the cultivated lands of the Kitats, on which the crop was still standing:
when the sun rose, nothing of that crop was left.  All had been devoured
by the animals, or trodden down.  The Kitats yelled and cursed us, but
the thing was done.  Seeing that their position was desperate, they
collected, the same day, their furniture and agricultural implements, and
went off to settle in the eastern parts of the Ortous, at some distance
from the Yellow River, near the Paga-Gol.  As you came through
Tchagan-Kouren, you must have met on your route, west of the Paga-Gol,
Kitats cultivating some pieces of land; well, it was they who inhabited
this defile, and excavated all these caves.”

Having finished his narrative, the Tartar went out for a moment and
brought back a small packet, which he had left in the cavern, where he
had passed the night.  “Sirs Lamas,” he said on his return, “I must
depart; but will you not come and repose for a few days in my dwelling?
My tent is not far hence; it is behind that sandy mountain which you
perceive there towards the north.  It is at the utmost not more than
thirty lis off.”  “We are much obliged to you,” answered we.  “The
hospitality of the Mongols of Ortous is known everywhere, but we have a
long journey before us; we cannot stop on our way.”  “What are a few
days, sooner or later, in a long journey?  Your beasts cannot always be
on their feet; they need a little rest.  You yourselves have had much to
endure from the weather of yesterday.  Come with me; all will then be
well.  In four days we shall have a festival.  My eldest son is going to
establish a family.  Come to the nuptials of my son; your presence will
bring him good fortune.”  The Tartar, seeing us inflexible, mounted his
horse, and after having ascended the pathway which led to the defile,
disappeared across the heath and sand of the desert.

Under other circumstances, we should have accepted with pleasure the
offer thus made; but we desired to make the shortest possible stay
amongst the Ortous.  We were anxious to leave behind us that miserable
country, where our animals were wasting away daily, and where we had
ourselves met with such fatigue and misery.  Besides, a Mongol wedding
was no new thing to us.  Since we had entered Tartary, we had witnessed
more than once, ceremonies of that kind.

The Mongols marry very young, and always under the influence of the
absolute authority of the parents.  This affair, so grave and important,
is initiated, discussed, and concluded, without the two persons most
interested in it, taking the least part in it.  Whatever promises of
marriage may take place in youth, or at more advanced age, it is the
parents who always settle the contract, without even speaking to their
children about it.  The two future consorts do not know, perhaps never
saw each other.  It is only when they are married that they have the
opportunity to inquire whether there is sympathy between their characters
or not.

The daughter never brings any marriage portion.  On the contrary, the
young man has to make presents to the family of his bride: and the value
of these presents is seldom left to the generosity of the husband’s
parents.  Everything is arranged beforehand and set forth in a public
document, with the minutest details.  In fact, the matter is less a
marriage present than the price of an object, sold by one party and
bought by the other.  The thing is indeed very clearly expressed in their
language; they say, “I have bought for my son the daughter of so and so.”
“We have sold our daughter to such and such a family.”  The marriage
contract is thus simply a contract of sale.  There are mediators, who
bargain and haggle, up and down, till at last they come to an agreement.
When it is settled how many horses, oxen, sheep, pieces of linen, pounds
of butter, what quantity of brandy and wheat-flour shall be given to the
family of the bride, the contract is at length drawn up before witnesses,
and the daughter becomes the property of the purchaser.  She remains,
however, with her family till the time of the nuptial ceremonies.

When the marriage has been concluded between the mediators, the father of
the bridegroom, accompanied by his nearest relations, carries the news to
the family of the bride.  On entering, they prostrate themselves before
the little domestic altar, and offer to the idol of Buddha a boiled
sheep’s head, milk, and a sash of white silk.  Then they partake of a
repast provided by the parents of the bridegroom.  During the repast, all
the relations of the bride receive a piece of money, which they deposit
in a vase filled with wine made of fermented milk.  The father of the
bride drinks the wine, and keeps the money.  This ceremony is called
Tahil-Tébihou, “striking the bargain.”

The day indicated by the Lamas as auspicious for the marriage having
arrived, the bridegroom sends early in the morning a deputation to fetch
the girl who has been betrothed to him, or rather whom he has bought.
When the envoys draw near, the relations and friends of the bride place
themselves in a circle before the door, as if to oppose the departure of
the bride, and then begins a feigned fight, which of course terminates
with the bride being carried off.  She is placed on a horse, and having
been thrice led round her paternal house, she is then taken at full
gallop to the tent which has been prepared for the purpose, near the
dwelling of her father-in-law.  Meantime, all the Tartars of the
neighbourhood, the relations and friends of both families, repair to the
wedding-feast, and offer their presents to the new married pair.  The
extent of these presents, which consist of beasts and eatables, is left
to the generosity of the guests.  They are destined for the father of the
bridegroom and often fully indemnify him for his expenses in the purchase
of the bride.  As the offered animals come up they are taken into folds
ready constructed for them.  At the weddings of rich Tartars, these large
folds receive great herds of oxen, horses and sheep.  Generally the
guests are generous enough, for they know that they will be paid in
return, upon a similar occasion.

When the bride has finished dressing, she is introduced to her
father-in-law; and while the assembled Lamas recite the prayers
prescribed by the ritual, she first prostrates herself before the image
of Buddha, then before the hearth, and lastly before the father, mother,
and other near relatives of the bridegroom, who, on his part, performs
the same ceremonies towards the family of his bride, assembled in an
adjacent tent.  Then comes the wedding-feast, which sometimes continues
for seven or eight days.  An excessive profusion of fat meat, infinite
tobacco, and large jars of brandy, constitute the splendour and
magnificence of these repasts.  Sometimes music is added to the
entertainment, and they invite Toolholos, or Tartar singers, to give more
solemnity to the festival.

The plurality of wives is admitted in Tartary, being opposed neither to
the laws, nor to the religion, nor to the manners of the country.  The
first wife is always the mistress of the household, and the most
respected in the family.  The other wives bear the name of little spouses
(paga éme), and owe obedience and respect to the first.

Polygamy, abolished by the Gospel, and contrary in itself to the
happiness and concord of families, may, perhaps, be regarded as a
blessing to the Tartars.  Considering the present state of society with
them, it is, as it were, a barrier opposed to libertinism and corruption
of morals.  Celibacy being imposed on the Lamas, and the class of those
who shave the head and live in lamaseries being so numerous, it is easy
to conceive what disorders would arise from this multiplication of young
women without support and abandoned to themselves, if girls could not be
placed in families in the quality of second wives.

Divorce is very frequent among the Tartars.  It takes place without any
participation of the civil or ecclesiastical authorities.  The husband,
who repudiates his wife, has not even occasion for a pretext to justify
his conduct.  He sends her back, without any formality, to her parents,
and contents himself with a message that he does not require her any
longer.  This proceeding is in accordance with Tartar manners, and does
not offend any one.  The husband thinks himself entitled to the
privilege, in consideration of the oxen, sheep and horses he was obliged
to give as nuptial presents.  The parents of the repudiated wife do not
complain at having their daughter back; she resumes her place in the
family till another husband presents himself, in which case, they even
rejoice over the profit they make by thus selling the same merchandise
twice over.

In Tartary, the women lead an independent life enough.  They are far from
being oppressed and kept in servitude, as with other Asiatic nations.
They may come and go at their pleasure, ride out on horseback, and pay
each other visits from tent to tent.  Instead of the soft, languishing
physiognomy of the Chinese women, the Tartar woman presents in her
bearing and manners a power and force well in accordance with her active
life and nomad habits, and her attire augments the effect of her
masculine, haughty mien.

Large leather boots, and a long green or violet robe fastened round the
waist by a black or blue girdle, constitutes her dress, except that
sometimes she wears over the great robe a small coat, resembling in form
our waistcoats, but very large, and coming down to the hips.  The hair of
the Tartar women is divided in two tresses, tied up in taffetas, and
hanging down upon the bosom; their luxury consists in ornamenting the
girdle and hair with spangles of gold and silver, pearls, coral, and a
thousand other toys, the form and quality of which it would be difficult
for us to define, as we had neither opportunity, nor taste, nor patience
to pay serious attention to these futilities.

                       [Picture: Chapter Tailpiece]

                 [Picture: Barbarous Lamanesque Ceremony]




CHAPTER IX.


Departure of the Caravan—Encampment in a fertile Valley—Intensity of the
Cold—Meeting with numerous Pilgrims—Barbarous and Diabolical Ceremonies
of Lamanism—Project for the Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin—Dispersion and
rallying of the little Caravan—Anger of Samdadchiemba—Aspect of the
Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin—Different Kinds of Pilgrimages around the
Lamaseries—Turning Prayers—Quarrel between two Lamas—Similarity of the
Soil—Description of the Tabsoun-Noor or Salt Sea—Remarks on the Camels of
Tartary.

The Tartar who had just taken his leave had informed us, that at a short
distance from the caverns we should find in a vale the finest pasturages
in the whole country of the Ortous.  We resolved to depart.  It was near
noon already when we started.  The sky was clear, the sun brilliant; but
the temperature, still affected by the storm of the preceding day, was
cold and sharp.  After having travelled for nearly two hours over a sandy
soil, deeply furrowed by the streams of rain, we entered, on a sudden, a
valley whose smiling, fertile aspect singularly contrasted with all that
we had hitherto seen among the Ortous.  In the centre flowed an abundant
rivulet, whose sources were lost in the sand; and on both sides, the
hills, which rose like an amphitheatre, were covered with pasturage and
clumps of shrubs.

Though it was still early, we gave up all idea of continuing our journey
that day.  The place was too beautiful to be passed by; besides, the
north wind had risen, and the air became intolerably cold.  We pitched
our tent, therefore, in a corner, sheltered by the hills.  From the
interior of the tent, our view extended, without obstruction, down the
valley, and we were thus enabled to watch our animals without moving.

After sunset, the violence of the wind increased, and the cold became
more and more intense.  We thought it advisable to take some measures of
security.  Whilst Samdadchiemba piled up large stones to consolidate the
borders of the tent, we went about the adjacent hills, and made, by aid
of a hatchet, an abundant provision of fuel.  As soon as we had taken our
tea and our daily broth, we went to sleep.  But sleep did not last long;
the cold became so severe that it soon roused us.  “We can’t remain so,”
said the Dchiahour; “if we don’t want to die of cold on our goatskins, we
must get up and make a large fire.”  Samdadchiemba’s words were full of
sense; it was not advisable to sleep at such a time, and accordingly we
rose, and added to our usual dress the great sheepskin robes that we had
bought at Blue Town.

Our fire of roots and green branches was hardly lighted, when we felt our
eyes as it were calcined by the biting acid influence of a thick smoke,
which filled the tent.  We opened the door; but as this gave admission to
the wind, without getting rid of the smoke, we were soon obliged to shut
it again.  Samdadchiemba was not in any way molested by the thick smoke,
which stifled us and drew burning tears from our eyes.  He laughed
without pity at seeing us crouched by the fire, our heads bending over
our knees, and our faces buried in both hands.  “My spiritual fathers,”
he said, “your eyes are large and bright, but they cannot endure a little
smoke; mine are small and ugly, but, never mind, they perform their
service very well.”  The jests of our camel driver were not much adapted
to cheer us up; we suffered dreadfully.  Yet, amid our tribulations, we
saw occasion to feel our happiness to be very great.  We could not
reflect without gratitude upon the goodness of Providence, which had led
us to caves, whose great value we now fully appreciated.  If we had not
been able to dry our clothes, if we had been surprised by the cold in the
piteous state in which the storm had left us, we certainly could not have
lived long; we should have been frozen with our clothes in one immovable
block.

We did not think it prudent to proceed amid such severe cold, and to
leave an encampment, where at least our animals got sufficient herbage to
browse upon, and where fuel was abundant.  Towards noon, the weather
having grown milder, we went out to cut wood on the hills.  On our way we
observed that our animals had left the pasturage, and collected on the
banks of the rivulet.  We at once conceived that they were tormented by
thirst, and that the stream being frozen, they could not quench it.  We
bent our steps to them, and found, in fact, the camels eagerly licking
the surface of the ice, while the horse and the mule were kicking upon it
with their hard hoofs.  The hatchet we had brought with us to cut wood,
served to break the ice, and to dig a small pond, where our animals could
quench their thirst.

Towards evening, the cold having resumed its intensity, we adopted a plan
for enabling us to obtain a better sleep than we had in the preceding
night.  Until morning, the time was divided into three watches, and each
of us was charged, in turns, with keeping up a large fire in the tent,
while the others slept.  Thus we did not feel much of the cold, and slept
in peace, without fear of setting our linen house on fire.

After two days of horrible cold the wind abated, and we resolved to
proceed on our way.  It was only with great difficulty that we got down
our tent.  The first nail that we tried to draw out, broke like glass
under the hammer.  The sandy, humid soil on which we had made our
encampment, was so frozen that the nails stuck in it as if they had been
incrusted in stone.  To uproot them, we were obliged to wet them several
times with boiling water.

At the time of our departure, the temperature was so mild that we were
fain to take off out skin coats, and to pack them up until further
occasion.  Nothing is more frequent in Tartary than these sudden changes
of temperature.  Sometimes the mildest weather is abruptly followed by
the most horrible frost.  All that is needed for this is the falling of
snow, and the subsequent rise of the north wind.  Any one not inured to
these sudden changes of the atmosphere, and not provided, in travelling,
with well-furred robes, is often exposed to dreadful accidents.  In the
north of Mongolia especially, it is not unusual to find travellers frozen
to death amidst the desert.

On the fifteenth day of the new moon, we came upon numerous caravans,
following, like ourselves, the direction from east to west.  The road was
filled with men, women, and children, riding on camels or oxen.  They
were all repairing, they said, to the Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin.  When
they had asked whether our journey had the same object, they were
surprised at receiving an answer in the negative.  These numerous
pilgrims, the astonishment they showed upon hearing that we were not
going to the Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin, excited our curiosity.  At the
turn of a defile, we overtook an old Lama, who, laden with a heavy pack,
seemed to make his way with great labour and pain.  “Brother,” said we,
“you are old; your black hairs are not so numerous as the grey.
Doubtless your fatigue must be extreme.  Place your burden upon one of
our camels; that will relieve you a little.”  Upon hearing these words
the old man prostrated himself before us, in order to express his
gratitude.  We made a camel kneel, and Samdadchiemba added to our baggage
that of the Lama.  So soon as the pilgrim was relieved from the weight
which had oppressed him, his walk became more elastic, and an expression
of satisfaction was diffused over his countenance.  “Brother,” said we,
“we are from the West, and the affairs of your country not being well
known to us, we are astonished at finding so many pilgrims here in the
desert.”  “We are all going to Rache-Tchurin,” replied he, in accents
full of emotion.  “Doubtless,” said we, “some grand solemnity calls you
together?”  “Yes, to-morrow will be a great day: a Lama Boktè will
manifest his power: kill himself, yet not die.”  We at once understood
what solemnity it was that thus attracted the Ortous-Tartars.  A Lama was
to cut himself open, take out his entrails and place them before him, and
then resume his previous condition.  This spectacle, so cruel and
disgusting, is very common in the Lamaseries of Tartary.  The Boktè who
is to manifest his power, as the Mongols phrase it, prepares himself for
the formidable operation by many days fasting and prayer, pending which,
he must abstain from all communication whatever with mankind, and observe
the most absolute silence.  When the appointed day is come, the multitude
of pilgrims assemble in the great court of the Lamasery, where an altar
is raised in front of the Temple-gate.  At length the Boktè appears.  He
advances gravely, amid the acclamations of the crowd, seats himself upon
the altar, and takes from his girdle a large knife which he places upon
his knees.  At his feet, numerous Lamas, ranged in a circle, commence the
terrible invocations of this frightful ceremony.  As the recitation of
the prayers proceeds, you see the Boktè trembling in every limb, and
gradually working himself up into phrenetic convulsions.  The Lamas
themselves become excited: their voices are raised; their song observes
no order, and at last becomes a mere confusion of yelling and outcry.
Then the Boktè suddenly throws aside the scarf which envelopes him,
unfastens his girdle, and seizing the sacred knife, slits open his
stomach, in one long cut.  While the blood flows in every direction, the
multitude prostrate themselves before the terrible spectacle, and the
enthusiast is interrogated about all sorts of hidden things, as to future
events, as to the destiny of certain personages.  The replies of the
Boktè to all these questions are regarded, by everybody, as oracles.

When the devout curiosity of the numerous pilgrims is satisfied, the
Lamas resume, but now calmly and gravely, the recitation of their
prayers.  The Boktè takes, in his right hand, blood from his wound,
raises it to his mouth, breathes thrice upon it, and then throws it into
the air, with loud cries.  He next passes his hand rapidly over his
wound, closes it, and everything after a while resumes its pristine
condition, no trace remaining of the diabolical operation, except extreme
prostration.  The Boktè once more rolls his scarf round him, recites in a
low voice, a short prayer; then all is over, and the multitude disperse,
with the exception of a few of the especially devout, who remain to
contemplate and to adore the blood-stained altar which the Saint has
quitted.

These horrible ceremonies are of frequent occurrence in the great
Lamaseries of Tartary and Thibet, and we do not believe that there is any
trick or deception about them; for from all we have seen and heard, among
idolatrous nations, we are persuaded that the devil has a great deal to
do with the matter; and moreover, our impression that there is no trick
in the operation is fortified by the opinion of the most intelligent and
most upright Buddhists whom we have met in the numerous Lamaseries we
visited.

It is not every Lama that can perform miraculous operations.  Those who
have the fearful power to cut themselves open, for example, are never
found in the higher ranks of the Lama hierarchy.  They are generally lay
Lamas of indifferent character, and little esteemed by their comrades.
The regular Lamas generally make no scruple to avow their horror of the
spectacle.  In their eyes, all these operations are wicked and
diabolical.  Good Lamas, they say, are incapable of performing such acts,
and should not even desire to attain the impious talent.

Though these demoniac operations are, in general, decried in
well-regulated Lamaseries, yet the superiors do not prohibit them.  On
the contrary, there are certain days in the year set apart for the
disgusting spectacle.  Interest is, doubtless, the only motive which
could induce the Grand Lamas to favour actions which in their conscience
they reprove.  The fact is, that these diabolical displays are an
infallible means of collecting together a swarm of stupid and ignorant
devotees, who communicate renown to the Lamasery, and enrich it with the
numerous offerings which the Tartars never fail to bring with them on
such occasions.

Cutting open the abdomen is one of the most famous _sié-fa_
(supernaturalisms) possessed by the Lamas.  There are others of the same
class, less imposing, but more common; these are practised in people’s
houses, privately, and not at the great solemnities of the Lamaseries.
For example, they heat irons red-hot, and then lick them with impunity;
they make incisions in various parts of the body, which an instant
afterwards leave no trace behind, etc.  All these operations have to be
preceded by the recitation of some prayer.

We knew a Lama who, according to every one’s belief, could fill a vase
with water, by the mere agency of a prayer; but we could never induce him
to try the experiment in our presence.  He told us that as we held not
the same faith with him, the experiment, in our company, would not be
merely fruitless, but would expose him to serious danger.  One day,
however, he recited to us the prayer of his sié-fa.  It was brief, but we
readily recognised in it a direct appeal to the assistance of the demon.
“I know thee, thou knowest me;” thus it ran: “Come old friend, do what I
ask of thee.  Bring water, and fill the vase I hold out to thee.  To fill
a vase with water, what is that to thy vast power!  I know thou chargest
dear for a vase of water; but never mind: do what I ask of thee, and fill
the vase I present to thee.  Some time hence we’ll come to a reckoning:
on the appointed day thou shalt receive thy due.”  It sometimes happens
that the appeal remains without effect: in such cases, praying is
discontinued, and the being invoked is assailed with insults and
imprecations.

The famous sié-fa that was now attracting so large a number of pilgrims
to the Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin, inspired us with the idea of repairing
thither also, and of neutralizing, by our prayers, the satanic
invocations of the Lamas.  Who knows, said we to each other, who knows
but that God even now has designs of mercy towards the Mongols of the
Ortous land; perhaps the sight of their Lama’s power, fettered and
overcome by the presence of the priests of Jesus Christ, will strike upon
the hearts of these people, and make them renounce the lying creed of
Buddha, and embrace the faith of Christianity!  To encourage each other
in this design, we dwelt upon the history of Simon Magus, arrested in his
flight by the prayer of St. Peter, and precipitated from the air to the
feet of his admirers.  Of course, poor missionaries, such as we, had not
the insane pretension to compare ourselves with the prince of the
Apostles; but we knew that the protection of God, which is sometimes
granted in virtue of the merit and sanctity of him who seeks it, is also
often accorded to the omnipotent effacity in prayer itself.

We resolved, therefore, to go to Rache-Tchurin, to mingle with the crowd,
and, at the moment when the diabolical invocations should commence, to
place ourselves, fearlessly, and with an air of authority before the
Boktè, and to solemnly forbid him, in the name of Jesus Christ, to make a
display of his detestable power.  We did not disguise from ourselves the
possible results of this proceeding; we knew that it would assuredly
excite the fury and hatred of the adorers of Buddha; and that perhaps a
violent death would be an instant reward for the endeavour to convert
these Tartars; “But what matter!” exclaimed we; “let us do courageously
our work as missionaries; let us employ fearlessly the power that we have
received from on high, and leave to Providence the care of a future which
does not appertain to us.”

Such were our intentions and our hopes; but the views of God are not
always in conformity with the designs of man, even when these appear most
in harmony with the plan of His Providence.  That very day there happened
to us an accident which, carrying us far away from Rache-Tchurin,
involved us in the most distressing perplexities.

In the evening, the old Lama who was travelling with us asked us to make
the camel kneel, so that he might take his pack from its back.
“Brother,” said we, “are we not going to journey together to the Lamasery
of Rache-Tchurin?”  “No; I must follow the path which you see meandering
towards the north, along those hills.  Behind that sand-hill is a trading
place, where, upon festival days, a few Chinese merchants set up their
tents and sell goods.  As I want to make a few purchases, I cannot
continue to walk in your shadow.”  “Can we buy flour at the Chinese
encampment?”  “Millet, oatmeal, flour, beef, mutton, tea-bricks,
everything is sold there.”  Not having been able to purchase provisions
since our departure from Tchagan-Kouren, we considered this a favourable
opportunity for supplying our deficiency in this respect.  In order not
to fatigue our beasts of burden with a long circuit across stony hills,
M. Gabet took the flour-sacks upon his camel, separated from the caravan,
and went off at a gallop towards the Chinese post.  According to the
indications furnished by the old Lama, he was to meet us again in a
valley at no great distance from the Lamasery.

After travelling for nearly an hour along a rugged road, continually
intersected by pits and quagmires, the Missionary Purveyor reached the
small heath, on which he found a number of Chinese encamped, some of
their tents serving as shops, and the rest as dwellings.  The encampment
presented the appearance of a small town full of trade and activity, the
customers being the Lamas of Rache-Tchurin and the Mongol pilgrims.  M.
Gabet speedily effected his purchases; and having filled his sacks with
flour, and hung two magnificent sheep’s’ livers over one of the camel’s
humps, rode off to the place where it had been arranged the caravan
should await him.  He soon reached the spot, but he found no person
there, and no trace of man or beast having recently passed was visible on
the sand.  Imagining that perhaps some derangement of the camels’ loads
had delayed our progress, he turned into the road, which it had been
agreed we should follow; but it was to no purpose that he hastened along
it, that he galloped here and there, that he ascended every hill he came
to,—he could see nothing; and the cries he uttered to attract our
attention remained unanswered.  He visited several points where various
roads met, but he found merely another confusion of the steps of horses,
camels, oxen, sheep, tending in every direction, and crossing and
recrossing each other, so that he was left, at last, without even a
conjecture.

By-and-by be recalled to mind that our aim, as last resolved, had been
the Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin; he turned round, and perceiving the
Lamasery in the distance, hurried thither as fast as he could go.  When
he reached the structure, which stood in the form of an amphitheatre upon
the slope of a hill, he looked every where for us, and asked everybody
about us, for here, at least, there was no lack of persons from whom to
seek information, and our little caravan was composed in a manner likely
to attract the attention of those who saw it at all: two laden camels, a
white horse, and, above all, a black mule, that everyone we passed
stopped to remark, on account of its extreme diminutiveness, and the
splendid tint of its skin.  M. Gabet inquired and inquired, but to no
purpose; no one had seen our caravan.  He ascended to the summit of the
hill, whence the eye extended over a large expanse, but he could see
nothing at all like us.

The sun set, yet the caravan did not appear.  M. Gabet beginning to fear
that some serious accident had befallen it, once more set off, and
searched in every direction, up hill and down dale, but he could see
nothing of us, and learn nothing of us, from the travellers whom he met.

The night advanced, and soon the Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin disappeared in
the darkness.  M. Gabet found himself alone in the desert, without path
and without shelter, fearing alike to advance or to recede, lest he
should fall into some abyss.  He was fain, therefore, to stop where he
was, in a narrow, sandy defile, and to pass the night there.  By way of
supper, he had to content himself with an _Impression de Voyage_.  Not
that provisions were wanting, by any means, but fire was, and water.
Besides, the feeling of hunger was superseded by the anxieties which
afflicted his heart as to the caravan.  He knelt on the sand, said his
evening prayer, and then lay down his head upon one of the flour-sacks
beside the camel, keeping its bridle round his arm lest the animal should
stray during the night.  It is needless to add that his sleep was neither
sound nor continuous; the cold, bare ground is not a very eligible bed,
especially for a man preyed upon by dark anxieties.

With the earliest dawn, M. Gabet mounted his camel, and though well nigh
exhausted with hunger and fatigue, proceeded anew in search of his
companions.

The caravan was not lost, though it was terribly astray.  After M. Gabet
had quitted us, in order to visit the Chinese post, we at first exactly
followed the right path; but before long we entered upon a vast steppe,
all trace of road insensibly faded away amidst sand so fine that the
slightest wind made it undulate like sea-waves; there was no vestige upon
it of the travellers who had preceded us.  By-and-by the road disappeared
altogether, and we found ourselves environed with yellow hills, which
presented not the slightest suggestion even of vegetation.  M. Huc,
fearing to lose himself amid these sands, stopped the cameleer.
“Samdadchiemba,” said he, “do not let us proceed at random.  You see
yonder, in the valley, that Tartar horseman driving a herd of oxen; go
and ask him the way to Rache-Tchurin.”  Samdadchiemba raised his head,
and looked for a moment, closing one eye, at the sun, which was veiled
with some passing clouds.  “My spiritual father,” said he, “I am
accustomed to wander about the desert; my opinion is, that we are quite
in the right road: let us continue our course westward, and we cannot go
astray.”  “Well, well, since you think you know the desert, keep on.”
“Oh, yes; don’t be afraid.  You see that long, white line on the mountain
yonder? that’s the road, after its issue from the sands.”

On Samdadchiemba’s assurance, we continued to advance in the same
direction.  We soon came to a road as he had promised, but it was a road
disused, upon which we could see no person to confirm or contradict the
assertion of Samdadchiemba, who persisted that we were on the way to
Rache-Tchurin.  The sun set, and the twilight gradually gave place to the
darkness of night, without our discovering the least indication of the
Lamasery, or, which surprised us still more, of M. Gabet, who, according
to the information of the old Lama, ought to have rejoined us long ago.
Samdadchiemba was silent, for he now saw that we had lost our way.

It was important to encamp before the night had altogether closed in.
Perceiving a well at the end of a hollow, we set up our tent beside it.
By the time our linen-house was in order, and the baggage piled, the
night had completely set in; yet M. Gabet had not appeared.  “Get on a
camel,” said M. Huc to Samdadchiemba, “and look about for M. Gabet.”  The
Dchiahour made no reply; he was thoroughly disconcerted and depressed.
Driving a stake into the ground, he fastened one of the camels to it, and
mounting upon the other, departed mournfully in quest of our friend.  He
had scarcely got out of sight, when the camel that was left behind,
finding itself alone, sent forth the most frightful cries; by-and-by it
became furious; it turned round and round the stake, backed to the very
limit of the rope and of its long neck, made longer by painful extension,
and applied every effort to get rid of the wooden curl that was passed
through its nose: the spectacle of its struggle was really frightful.  At
last it succeeded in breaking the cord, and then dashed off boundingly
into the desert.  The horse and mule had also disappeared; they were
hungry and thirsty; and about the tent there was not a blade of grass,
not a drop of water.  The well beside which we had encamped was perfectly
dry; in fact, it was nothing more than an old cistern which had probably
been for years useless.

Thus our little caravan, which for nearly two months had journeyed,
without once separating, through the desert plains of Tartary, was now
utterly dispersed; man and beast—all had disappeared.  There remained
only M. Huc, solitary in his little linen-house, and a prey to the most
corroding anxieties.  For a whole day he had neither eaten nor drunk; but
under such circumstances you do not ordinarily feel either hunger or
thirst; the mind is too full to give any place to the suggestions of the
body; you seem environed with a thousand fearful phantoms: and great
indeed were your desolation, but that you have for your safety and your
consolation, prayer, the sole lever that can raise from off your heart
the weight of sombre apprehensions that would otherwise crush it.

The hours passed on, and no one returned.  As, in the obscurity of night,
persons might pass quite close to the tent, and yet not see it, M. Huc,
from time to time, ascended the adjacent hills and rocks, and, in his
loudest tones, called out the names of his lost companions, but no one
replied; all still was silence, and solitude.  It was near midnight, when
at length the plaintive cries of a camel, apparently remonstrating
against being driven so fast, were heard in the distance.  Samdadchiemba
soon came up.  He had met several Tartar horsemen who had no tidings,
indeed, of M. Gabet, but from whom he learned that we had gone altogether
astray; that the road we were pursuing led to a Mongol encampment, in
precisely the contrary direction to Rache-Tchurin.  “By day-break,” said
Samdadchiemba, “we must raise the tent, and find the right path; we shall
there, no doubt, meet the elder spiritual father.”  “Samdadchiemba, your
advice is a bubble; the tent and the baggage must remain here, for the
excellent reason, that they cannot be moved without animals.”  “Animals!”
exclaimed the Dchiahour, “where, then, is the camel I fastened to the
stake?”  “It broke the rope and ran away; the horse and the mule have run
away too, and I have not the least idea where any of them are to be
sought.”  “This is a pretty business,” grumbled the cameleer; “however,
when day breaks we must see what can be done.  Meanwhile, let us make a
little tea.”  “Make tea, by all means, if you can make tea without water,
but water there is none; the well is perfectly dry.”  This announcement
completed the discomfiture of poor Samdadchiemba; he sank back quite
exhausted upon the baggage, and his weariness soon threw him into deep
slumber.

With the first streaks of dawn, M. Huc ascended an adjacent hill in the
hope of discovering something or somebody.  He perceived, in a distant
valley, two animals, one black, one white; he hastened to them, and found
our horse and mule browsing on some thin, dusty grass, beside a cistern
of soft water.  When he led the animals back to the tent, the sun was
about to rise, but Samdadchiemba still slumbered, lying in exactly the
same position which he had assumed when he went to sleep.
“Samdadchiemba,” cried M. Huc, “won’t you have some tea this morning?”
At the word tea, our cameleer jumped up as though he had been
electrified; he looked round, his eyes still heavy with sleep, “Did not
the spiritual father mention tea?  Where is the tea?  Did I dream I was
going to have some tea?”  “I don’t know whether you dreamed it, but tea
you may have, if you wish, as there is soft water in the valley yonder,
where, just now, I found the horse and the mule.  Do you go and fetch
some water, while I light the fire.”  Samdadchiemba joyfully adopted the
proposition, and putting the buckets over his shoulders, hastened to the
cistern.

When tea was ready, Samdadchiemba became quite comfortable; he was
absorbed with his beloved beverage, and seemed to have altogether
forgotten the disruption of the caravan.  It was necessary, however, to
recall the circumstance to him, in order that he might go in search of
the camel that had run away.

Nearly one half the day elapsed, yet his companions did not rejoin M.
Huc.  From time to time there passed Tartar horsemen or pilgrims
returning from the festival of Rache-Tchurin.  Of these M. Huc inquired
whether they had not seen, in the vicinity of the Lamasery, a Lama
dressed in a yellow robe and a red jacket, and mounted on a red camel.
“The Lama,” said he, “is very tall, with a great grey beard, a long
pointed nose, and a red face.”  To this description, there was a general
answer in the negative: “Had we seen such a personage,” said the
travellers, “we should certainly have remarked him.”

At length, M. Gabet appeared on the slope of a hill; from its summit he
had recognised our blue tent pitched in the valley, and he galloped
towards his recovered companion as fast as his camel could go.  After a
brief, animated conversation, wherein both spoke and neither answered, we
burst into a hearty laugh at the misadventure thus happily terminated.
The reorganization of the caravan was completed before sunset, by
Samdadchiemba’s return with the missing camel, which, after a long round,
he had found fastened to a tent; the Tartar, who owned the tent, having
seen the animal running away, had caught it and secured it until some one
should claim it.

Though the day was far advanced, we determined to remove, for the place
where we had encamped was miserable beyond all expression.  Not a blade
of grass was to be seen, and the water I had discovered was at so great a
distance, that it involved quite a journey to fetch it.  “Besides,” said
we, “if we can only, before night, manage to get within sight of the
right road, it will be a great point gained.”  Our departure thus
determined, we sat down to tea.  The conversation naturally turned upon
the vexatious mischance which had given us so much fatigue and trouble.
Already more than once, on our journey, the intractable, obstinate
temperament of Samdadchiemba had been the occasion of our losing our way.
Mounted on his little mule, as we have described, it was he who led the
caravan, preceding the beasts of burden.  Upon his assumption that he
thoroughly understood the four cardinal points, and that he was perfectly
conversant with the deserts of Mongolia, he would never condescend to
inquire the route from persons whom he met, and we not unfrequently
suffered from his self opinion.  We were resolved, therefore, to convert
the accident which had just befallen us, into the basis of a warning to
our guide.  “Samdadchiemba,” said we, “listen with attention to the
important advice we are about to impart.  Though in your youth you may
have travelled a good deal in Mongolia, it does not follow that you are
master of all the routes; distrust, therefore, your own conjectures, and
be more willing to consult the Tartars whom we meet.  If yesterday, for
example, you had asked the way, if you had not persisted in your practice
of being guided wholly by the course of the sun, we should not have
endured so much misery.”  Samdadchiemba made no reply.

We then got up to make the preparations for departure.  When we had put
in order the different articles that had been confusedly thrown about the
tent, we remarked that the Dchiahour was not occupied, as usual, in
saddling the camels.  We went to see what he was about, and to our great
surprise found him tranquilly seated upon a large stone behind the tent.
“Well!” exclaimed we, “has it not been determined that we are to encamp
elsewhere this evening?  What are you seated on that stone for?”
Samdadchiemba made no reply; he did not even raise his eyes, but kept
them fixedly directed towards the ground.  “Samdadchiemba, what is the
matter with you?  Why don’t you saddle the camels?”  “If you wish to go,”
replied he drily, “you can go; as for me, I remain here.  I cannot any
longer accompany you.  I am, it seems, a wicked man, devoid of
conscience; what occasion can you have for such a person?”  We were
greatly surprised to hear this from a young neophyte who had seemed so
attached to us.  We, however, thought it best to attempt no persuasion,
lest we should aggravate the sullen pride of his character, and render
him still more indocile for the future.  We accordingly proceeded to do
the necessary work ourselves.

We had already folded the tent and packed it on a camel, not a word being
spoken by any of the party.  Samdadchiemba remained seated on the stone,
covering his face with his hands, and probably watching through his
fingers how we got on with the labour which he was accustomed to fulfil.
When he saw that we were doing very well without him, he rose, without
uttering a word, loaded the other camel, saddled his own mule, mounted
it, and led the way as usual.  M. Gabet and M. Huc exchanged smiles, but
they said nothing, for they feared that any observations at that moment
might irritate a temperament which evidently required the greatest care
in its management.

We halted in a spot beside the road, not very magnificent, certainly, as
a station, but at all events, infinitely preferable to the ravine of
desolation in which we had experienced such misery.  There was this great
blessing, that we were once more united; an immense satisfaction in the
desert, and which we had never sufficiently appreciated until the
occurrence of the mischance that had for a while separated us.  We
celebrated the occasion by a splendid banquet, of which the flour and
sheep’s liver, purchased by M. Gabet, formed the basis.  This
unaccustomed treat relaxed the frowning brow of Samdadchiemba, who
applied himself to the culinary arrangements with absolute enthusiasm,
and effected, with very limited resources, a supper of several courses.

Next morning, at daybreak, we were in motion.  We had not proceeded far
when we discovered before us, outlined on the yellow ground of a sandy
hill, several large buildings, surrounded with a multitude of white huts.
This was the Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin, which, as we approached it,
seemed to us a well-built, well-kept place.  The three Buddhist temples
which rise from the centre of the establishment, are of elegant, of
majestic construction.  The entrance to the principal temple is through a
square tower of colossal proportions, at each angle of which is a
monstrous dragon, elaborately carved in stone.  We traversed the Lamasery
from one end to the other, along the chief streets.  There was throughout
religious and solemn silence.  The only persons we saw were a few Lamas
enveloped in their large red scarfs, who, after giving us the salutation
of the day in a tone scarce above a whisper, gravely continued their
melancholy walk.

[Picture: Lamasery of Rache-Tchurin] Towards the western extremity of the
Lamasery, Samdadchiemba’s little mule shied, and then dashed off at a
gallop, followed in its irregular flight, by the two baggage camels.  The
animals on which we were mounted were equally alarmed.  All this disorder
was occasioned by a young Lama, who was stretched at full length in the
middle of the street, performing a rite in great vogue among the
Buddhists, and which consists in making the circuit of a Lamasery,
prostrating yourself, with your forehead to the ground, at every single
step you make.  Sometimes the number of devotees performing together this
painful pilgrimage is perfectly prodigious; they follow each other, in
Indian file, along a narrow path which encircles the entire Lamasery and
its appendant buildings.  Any one who deviates in the slightest degree
from the prescribed line, is considered to have failed in his devotion,
and loses all the fruit he would otherwise have derived from his previous
toil.  Where the Lamasery is of any extent, the devotees have hard work
to get through the ceremony in the course of a long day; so that the
pilgrims, who have undertaken this exercise, and have started early in
the morning, think themselves lucky if they can complete the operation by
nightfall.  For the pilgrimage must be performed without intermission, so
strictly, that the pilgrims are not allowed to stop for a moment even to
take a little nourishment.  If, after commencing the rite you do not
complete it offhand, it does not count; you have acquired no merit, and
you are not to expect any spiritual profit.

Each prostration must be perfect, so that the body shall be stretched
flat along the ground, and the forehead touch the earth, the arms being
spread out before you, and the hands joined, as if in prayer.  Before
rising, the pilgrim describes each time a semi-circle on the ground by
means of a goat’s horn, which he holds in either hand, the line being
completed by drawing the arm down to the side.  You cannot but feel
infinite compassion when you look upon these wretched creatures, their
face and clothes all covered with dust or mud.  The most inclement
weather will not check their intrepid devotion; they continue their
prostrations amid snow and rain and the most piercing cold.

There are various modes of performing the pilgrimage round a Lamasery.
Some pilgrims do not prostrate themselves at all, but carry, instead, a
load of prayer-books, the exact weight of which is prescribed them by the
Great Lama, and the burden of which is so oppressive at times that you
see old men, women, and children absolutely staggering under it.  When,
however, they have successfully completed the circuit, they are deemed to
have recited all the prayers contained in the books they have carried.
Others content themselves with simply walking the circuit, telling the
beads of their long chaplets, or constantly turning a sort of wheel,
placed in the right hand, and which whirls about with inconceivable
rapidity.  This instrument is called Tchu-Kor, (turning prayer.)  You see
in every brook a number of these Tchu-Kor, which are turned by the
current, and in their movement are reputed to be praying, night and day,
for the benefit of those who erect them.  The Tartars suspend them over
the fire-place, and these in their movements are supposed to pray for the
peace and prosperity of the whole family, emblemed by the hearth.  The
movement itself is effected by the through draught occasioned by the
openings at the top of the tent.

[Picture: Turning Prayers] The Buddhists have another mode of simplifying
pilgrimages and devotional rites.  In all the great Lamaseries you find
at short intervals figures in the form of barrels, and turning upon an
axle.  The material of these figures is a thick board, composed of
infinite sheets of paper pasted together, and upon which are written in
Thibetian characters the prayers most reputed throughout the country.
Those who have not the taste, or the zeal, or the strength to carry huge
boards of books on their shoulders, or to prostrate themselves, step
after step, in the dust and mire, or to walk round the Lamasery in
winter’s cold or summer’s heat, have recourse to the simple and
expeditious medium of the prayer barrel.  All they have to do is to set
it in motion; it then turns of itself for a long time, the devotees
drinking, eating, or sleeping, while the complacent mechanism is turning
prayers for them.

One day, on approaching a prayer barrel, we found two Lamas quarrelling
furiously, and just on the point of coming to blows, the occasion being
the fervour of each for prayer.  One of them having set the prayer
automaton in motion, had quietly returned to his cell.  As he was
entering it he turned his head, doubtless to enjoy the spectacle of the
fine prayers he had set to work for himself, but to his infinite disgust,
he saw a colleague stopping his prayers, and about to turn on the barrel
on his own account.  Indignant at this pious fraud, he ran back, and
stopped his competitor’s prayers.  Thus it went on for some time, the one
turning on, the other stopping the barrel, without a word said on either
side.  At last, however, their patience exhausted, they came to high
words; from words they proceeded to menaces, and it would doubtless have
come to a fight, had not an old Lama, attracted by the uproar, interposed
words of peace, and himself put the automaton in motion for the joint
benefit of both parties.

Besides the pilgrims whose devotion is exercised within or about the
Lamaseries, you find many who have undertaken fearfully long journeys,
which they execute with a prostration at every step.  Sad and lamentable
is it to see these unhappy victims of error enduring, to no purpose, such
terrible and painful labours; one’s heart is pierced with grief, and
one’s soul impressed with yearning for the day when these poor Tartars
shall consecrate to the service of the true God that religious energy
which they daily waste upon a vain and lying creed.  We had hoped to
profit by the solemnities at Rache-Tchurin to announce the true faith to
the Ortous; but such was doubtless not the will of God, since He had
permitted us to lose our way on the very day which seemed most favourable
for our project.  We accordingly passed through the Lamasery of
Rache-Tchurin without stopping, eager as we were to arrive at the very
source of that immense superstition, of which, as yet, we had only
witnessed a few shallow streams.

At a short distance from Rache-Tchurin we reached a road well marked out,
and covered with travellers.  It was not, however, devotion that had set
these people in motion, as it had the pilgrims whom we saw at the
Lamasery; mere matter of business was leading them towards the
Dabsoun-Noor, (the Salt Lake,) celebrated throughout Western Mantchou,
and which supplies with salt, not only the adjacent Tartars, but also
several provinces of the Chinese Empire.

For a day’s journey before you reach Dabsoun-Noor the soil changes by
degrees its form and aspect; losing its yellow tint, it becomes
insensibly white, as though thinly covered with snow.  The earth swelling
in every direction, forms innumerable hillocks, cone-shaped, and of a
regularity so perfect that you might suppose them to have been
constructed by the hand of man.  Sometimes they are grouped in heaps, one
on the other, like pears piled on a plate; they are of all sizes, some
but just created, others old, exhausted, and falling to decay.  Around
these excrescences grow creeping thorns, long-pointed, without flowers or
leaves, which, intertwining spirally, surmount them with a sort of
net-work cap.  These thorns are never found elsewhere than about these
hillocks; upon those of more recent growth they are firm, vigorous, and
full of shoots.  Upon the elder elevations they are dried up, calcined by
the nitre, brittle, and in shreds.

As you look upon these numerous mounds, covered with a thick
efflorescence of nitre, it is obvious to your sense that beneath the
surface, and at no great depth, some great chemical operation is in
progress.  Springs, generally so rare in the Ortous country, are here of
frequent occurrence, but the water is for the most part excessively salt.
Here and there, however, by the very side of a brackish pool, there is a
spring of soft, sweet, delicious water; all such are indicated to
travellers by a small flag, fluttering from the end of a long pole.

Dabsoun-Noor is not so much a lake as a reservoir of mineral salt, mixed
with nitrous effloresence.  The latter, in colour pale white, and
crumbling between the fingers, is easily distinguishable from the salt,
which is of a grey tint, and glitters like crystal when broken.
Dabsoun-Noor is about twenty lis in circumference.  Around it, at
intervals, are the tents occupied by the Mongols who work it, and the
Chinese who have thrust themselves in as partners.  It were difficult
indeed to find any description of industry or commerce within a certain
range of their own country in which the Chinese do not contrive to have a
hand.  The manipulation to which the salt is subjected requires neither
great labour nor great science.  All the workers do is to pick it up as
it comes in the reservoir, to pile it, and, when the heap is of a certain
size, to cover it with a thin coating of potter’s earth.  When the salt
has sufficiently purified itself, the Tartars convey it to the nearest
Chinese mart and exchange it for tea, tobacco, brandy, and other
commodities.  In the locality itself salt is of no value: at every step
you see lumps of it, sometimes of remarkable purity.  We filled a bag
with these for our own use and for that of the camels, which are all very
fond of salt.  We traversed Dabsoun-Noor throughout its breadth from east
to west, and we had to take the utmost precaution as we proceeded over
its loose, and at times almost moving, soil.  The Tartars recommended us
not to deviate in the least from the path we should find marked out, and
by all means to avoid any places where we should see the water bubbling
up, for there they informed us, were gulfs which they had frequently
endeavoured to sound, but without result.  This statement induced us to
believe that there is a noor, or lake, here, but that it is underground,
the place called Dabsoun-Noor being merely the covering or roof of the
lake, composed of the saline and saltpetrous matter produced by the
constant evaporation of the subterranean waters.  Foreign matter, brought
by the wind, and consolidated by the rain, would in the lapse of time
form a crust upon such a roof strong enough to bear the caravans that
incessantly traverse Dabsoun-Noor.

This great salt mine seems to pervade with its influence the whole Ortous
district, throughout whose extent the water is brackish, the soil arid,
and the surface encrusted with saline matter.  This absence of rich
pasturage and fresh water is very adverse to the growth of cattle; but
the camel, whose robust and hardy temperament adapts itself to the most
sterile regions, affords compensation to the Tartars of the Ortous.  This
animal, a perfect treasure to the dwellers in the desert, can remain a
fortnight, or even a month, without eating or drinking.  However wretched
the land may be on which it is put to feed, it can always find wherewith
to satisfy its hunger, especially if the soil be impregnated with salt or
nitre.  Things that no other animal will touch, to it are welcome; briars
and thorns, dry wood itself, supply it with efficient food.

Though it costs so little to keep, the camel is of an utility
inconceivable to those who are not acquainted with the countries in which
Providence has placed it.  Its ordinary load is from 700 to 800 lbs., and
it can carry this load ten leagues a day.  Those, indeed, which are
employed to carry dispatches, are expected to travel eighty leagues per
diem, but then they only carry the dispatch bearer.  In several countries
of Tartary the carriages of the kings and princes are drawn by camels,
and sometimes they are harnessed to palanquins; but this can only be done
in the level country.  The fleshy nature of their feet does not permit
them to climb mountains, when they have a carriage or litter of any sort
to draw after them.

The training of the young camel is a business requiring great care and
attention.  For the first week of its life it can neither stand nor suck
without some helping hand.  Its long neck is then of such excessive
flexibility and fragility, that it runs the risk of dislocating it,
unless some one is at hand to sustain the head while it sucks the teats
of its dam.

The camel, born to servitude, seems impressed from its birth, with a
sense of the yoke it is destined to bear through life.  You never see the
young camel playing and frolicking about, as you see kids, colts, and
other young animals.  It is always grave, melancholy, and slow in its
movements, which it never hastens, unless under compulsion.  In the
night, and often in the day also, it sends forth a mournful cry, like
that of an infant in pain.  It seems to feel that joy or recreation are
not within its portion; that its inevitable career is forced labour and
long fastings, until death shall relieve it.

The maturation of the camel is a long affair.  It cannot carry even a
single rider until its third year; and it is not in full vigour until it
is eight years old.  Its trainers then begin to try it with loads,
gradually heavier and heavier.  If it can rise with its burden, this is a
proof that it can carry it throughout the journey.  When that journey is
only of brief duration, they sometimes load the animal in excess, and
then they aid it to rise by means of bars and levers.  The camel’s
capacity for labour endures for a long time.  Provided that at certain
periods of the year it is allowed a short holiday for pasturing at its
leisure, it will continue its service for fully fifty years.

Nature has provided the camel with no means of defence against other
animals, unless you may so consider its piercing, prolonged cry, and its
huge, shapeless, ugly frame, which resembles, at a distance, a heap of
ruins.  It seldom kicks, and when it does, it almost as seldom inflicts
any injury.  Its soft, fleshy foot cannot wound, or even bruise you;
neither can the camel bite an antagonist.  In fact, its only practical
means of defence against man or beast is a sort of vehement sneeze,
wherewith it discharges, from nose and mouth, a mass of filth against the
object which it seeks to intimidate or to annoy.

Yet the entire male camels, _bore_ as the Tartars call them, (_temen_
being the generic appellation of the animal), are very formidable during
the twelfth moon, which is their rutting time.  At this period, their
eyes are inflamed; an oily, fetid humour exhales from their heads; their
mouths are constantly foaming; and they eat and drink absolutely nothing
whatever.  In this state of excitement they rush at whatever presents
itself, man or beast, with a fierceness of precipitation which it is
impossible to avoid or to resist; and when they have overthrown the
object they have pursued, they pound it beneath the weight of their
bodies.  The epoch passed, the camel resumes its ordinary gentleness, and
the routine of its laborious career.

The females do not produce young until their sixth or seventh year; the
period of gestation is fourteen months.  The Tartars geld most of their
male camels, which, by this operation, acquire a greater development of
strength, height, and size.  Their voices become at the same time thinner
and lower, in some instances wholly lost; and the hair is shorter and
finer than that of the entire camels.

The awkward aspect of the camel, the excessive stench of its breath, its
heavy, ungraceful movements, its projecting hare-lips, the callosities
which disfigure various parts of its body, all contribute to render its
appearance repulsive; yet its extreme gentleness and docility, and the
services it renders to man, render it of pre-eminent utility, and make us
forget its deformity.

Notwithstanding the apparent softness of its feet, the camel can walk
upon the most rugged ground, upon sharp flints, or thorns, or roots of
trees, without wounding itself.  Yet, if too long a journey is
continuously imposed upon it, if after a certain march you do not give it
a few days’ rest, the outer skin wears off, the flesh is bared, and the
blood flows.  Under such distressing circumstances, the Tartars make
sheep-skin shoes for it, but this assistance is unavailing without rest;
for if you attempt to compel the camel to proceed, it lies down, and you
are compelled either to remain with or to abandon it.

There is nothing which the camel so dreads as wet, marshy ground.  The
instant it places its feet upon anything like mud, it slips and slides,
and, generally, after staggering about like a drunken man, falls heavily
on its sides.

When about to repose, it kneels down, folds its fore legs symmetrically
under its body, and stretches out its long neck before it on the ground.
In this position, it looks just like a monstrous snail.

Every year, towards the close of spring, the camel sheds its hair, every
individual bristle of which disappears before a single sprout of the new
stock comes up.  For twenty days the animal remains completely bare, as
though it had been closely shaved all over, from the top of the head to
the extremity of the tail.  At this juncture, it is excessively sensitive
to cold or wet; and you see it, at the slightest chillness in the air or
the least drop of rain, shivering and shaking in every limb, like a man
without clothes exposed on the snow.  By degrees the new hair shows
itself, in the form of fine, soft, curling wool, which gradually becomes
a long, thick fur, capable of resisting the extremest inclemency of the
weather.  The greatest delight of the animal is to walk in the teeth of
the north wind, or to stand motionless on the summit of a bill, beaten by
the storm and inhaling the icy wind.  Some naturalists say that the camel
cannot exist in cold countries; these writers must have wholly forgotten
the Tartarian camels, which, on the contrary, cannot endure the least
heat, and which certainly could not exist in Arabia.

The hair of an ordinary camel weighs about ten pounds.  It is sometimes
finer than silk, and always longer than sheep’s wool.  The hair growing
below the neck and on the legs of the entire camels is rough, bushy, and
in colour black, whereas that of the ordinary camel is red, grey, and
white.  The Tartars make no sort of use of it.  In the places where the
animals pasture, you see great sheets of it, looking like dirty rags,
driven about by the wind, until they are collected in sheltered corners,
in the hill sides.  The utmost use the Tartars make of it is to twist
some of it into cord, or into a sort of canvas, of which they construct
sacks and carpets.

The milk of the camel is excellent, and supplies large quantities of
butter and cheese.  The flesh is hard, unsavoury, and little esteemed by
the Tartars.  They use the hump, however, which, cut into slices, and
dissolved in tea, serves the purpose of butter.  It is known that
Heliogabalus had camel’s flesh served up at his banquets, and that he was
very fond of camel’s feet.  We cannot speak as to the latter dish, which
the Roman Emperor piqued himself upon having invented, but we can
distinctly affirm that camel’s flesh is detestable.

                       [Picture: Chapter Tailpiece]

                        [Picture: Mongol Butcher]




CHAPTER X.


Purchase of a Sheep—A Mongol Butcher—Great Feast _à la Tartare_—Tartar
Veterinary Surgeons—Strange Cure of a Cow—Depth of the Wells of the
Ortous—Manner of Watering the Animals—Encampment at the Hundred
Wells—Meeting with the King of the Alechan—Annual Embassies of the Tartar
Sovereigns to Peking—Grand Ceremony in the Temple of the Ancestors—The
Emperor gives Counterfeit Money to the Mongol Kings—Inspection of our
Geographical Map—The Devil’s Cistern—Purification of the Water—A Lame
Dog—Curious Aspect of the Mountains—Passage of the Yellow River.

The environs of the Dabsoun-Noor abound in flocks of goats and sheep.
These animals like to browse on the furze and thorny bushes, the sole
vegetation of these barren steppes; they especially delight in those
nitrous efflorescences which are found here on all sides in the utmost
abundance.  The soil, miserable as it is in other respects, seems very
favourable to the growth of these animals, which enter largely into the
consumption of the Tartars, constituting indeed the basis of their food.
If bought on the spot, they are of very moderate price.  As we calculated
that a pound of meat would cost us less than a pound of flour, we
resolved, as a matter of economy, to buy a sheep.  The thing was not
difficult to find; but as it would of course oblige us to stop, at least
for a day, we waited till we should come to some place, not quite barren,
and where our animals could find some pasturage to browse upon.

Two days after crossing Dabsoun-Noor, we entered a long narrow valley,
where some Mongol families had stationed themselves.  The earth was
covered with a close herb, which, in form and character, had much
resemblance to thyme.  Our beasts, as they proceeded, browsed furtively,
right and left, on this plant, and seemed to be very fond of it.  This
new pasturage gave us the idea of encamping on the spot.  Not far from a
tent, a Lama was sitting on a hillock, making ropes with camel’s hair.
“Brother,” said we as we approached him, “the flock upon that hill
doubtless belongs to you.  Will you sell us a sheep?”  “Certainly,” he
answered, “I will let you have an excellent sheep; as to the price, we
shall not quarrel about that.  We men of prayer are not like merchants.”
He indicated to us a spot near his own tent, and unloaded our beasts.
The entire family of the Lama, when they heard the cries of our camels,
hastened to assist us to encamp.  We, indeed, were not allowed to do
anything to it; for our new friends took delight in making themselves
useful, in unsaddling the beasts, pitching the tent, and putting our
baggage in order within.

The young Lama, who had received us with so much kindness, after having
unsaddled the horse and the mule, perceived that both these beasts were
hurt a little on the back.  “Brothers,” he said, “here is a bad business;
and as you are upon a long journey, it must be remedied, or you will not
be able to go on.”  So saying, he took the knife, which hung from his
girdle, sharpened it with rapidity upon his boot-tops, took our saddles
to pieces, examined the rough parts of the wood, and pared them away on
both sides till he had removed the slightest unevenness.  He then put
together again, with wonderful skill, all the pieces of the saddles, and
returned them to us.  “That will do,” said he; “now you may travel in
peace.”  This operation was effected rapidly and in the readiest manner
possible.  The Lama was then about to fetch the sheep; but as it was
already late, we said it was unnecessary, for that we should remain a
whole day in his valley.

Next morning, before we were awake, the Lama opened the door of our tent,
laughing so loud that he aroused us.  “Ah,” said he, “I see plainly that
you do not intend to depart to-day.  The sun is already very high, and
you sleep still.”  We rose quickly, and as soon as we were dressed, the
Lama spoke of the sheep.  “Come to the flock,” he said; “you may choose
at your pleasure.”  “No, go by yourself, and select a sheep for us
yourself.  At present we have an occupation.  With us, Lamas of the
Western sky, it is a rule to pray as soon as we rise.”  “Oh, what a fine
thing!” said the Lama; “oh, the holy rules of the West!”  His admiration,
however, did not make him forget his little affair of business.  He
mounted his horse and rode towards a flock of sheep which we saw
undulating upon the slope of a hill.

We had not yet finished our prayers when we heard the Tartar returning at
full gallop.  He had fastened the sheep to the back of his saddle, like a
portmanteau.  Hardly arrived at the door of our tent, he dismounted; and
in the twinkling of an eye he had put upon its four legs the poor sheep,
quite astounded at the ride it had been favoured with.  “That is the
sheep; is it not fine?  Does it suit you?”  “Admirably.  What is the
price?”  “One ounce; is that too much?”  Considering the size of the
animal, we thought the price moderate.  “You ask an ounce; here is an
ingot, which is just of the weight you require.  Sit down for a moment;
we will fetch our scales, and you shall ascertain whether this piece of
silver really weighs an ounce.”  At these words the Lama drew back, and
cried, stretching out both hands towards us: “Above there is a heaven,
below there is the earth, and Buddha is the lord of all things.  He wills
that men behave towards each other like brothers; you are of the West, I
am of the East.  Is that any reason why the intercourse between us should
not be frank and honourable?  You have not cheapened my sheep: I take
your money without weighing it.”  “An excellent principle,” said we.  “As
you will not weigh the money, pray sit, nevertheless, for a moment; we
will take a cup of tea together and talk over a little matter.”  “I know
what you mean; neither you nor I may cause the transmigration of this
living being.  We must find a layman who knows how to kill sheep.  Is it
not so?” and without awaiting an answer, he added, “another thing; from
your appearance, one may easily guess that, you are no great hands at
cutting up sheep and preparing them.”  “You are not mistaken,” we
answered, laughing.  “Well, keep the sheep tied to your tent; and for the
rest, rely upon me; I shall he back in a minute.”  He mounted his horse,
went off at full gallop and disappeared in a bend of the vale.

According to his promise, the Lama soon returned.  He went straight to
his tent, tied his horse to a post, took off his saddle, bridle and
halter, gave it a cut with his whip, and so sent it off to pasture.  He
went into his tent for a little while, and then appeared with all the
members of his family, that is to say, his old mother and two younger
brothers.  They advanced slowly towards our tent, in truly ridiculous
fashion, just as if they were going to remove all their furniture.  The
Lama carried on his head a large pot, which covered him as with an
enormous hat.  His mother had on her back a large basket, filled with
argols.  The two young Mongols followed with a trivet, an iron spoon, and
several other minor kitchen implements.  At this sight, Samdadchiemba was
full of joy, for he saw before him a whole day of poetry.

When the entire _batterie de cuisine_ was arranged in open air, the Lama
invited us, in his politeness, to go and repose in our tent for awhile.
He judged from our air, that we could not, without derogation, be present
at the approaching scene of butchering.  The suggestion, however, did not
meet our views, and we requested that if we could do so without
inconveniencing them, we might sit down on the grass at a respectful
distance, and with the promise that we would not touch anything.  After
some objections, perceiving that we were curious to be spectators, they
dispensed with the etiquette of the matter.

The Lama seemed anxious; he kept looking towards the north of the valley,
as if expecting some one.  “All right,” he said at last, with an air of
satisfaction, “here he comes.”  “Who comes?  Of whom do you speak?”  “I
forgot to tell you that I had been just now to invite a layman to come,
who is very skilful in killing a sheep.  There he is.”  We rose and
perceived, indeed, something moving among the heath of the valley.  At
first we could not clearly distinguish what it was, for though it
advanced with some rapidity, the object did not seem to enlarge.  At last
the most singular person we had ever met with in our lives presented
himself to our view.  We were obliged to make the utmost efforts to
repress the strong impulse to laughter that came upon us.  This layman
seemed to be about fifty years old, but his height did not exceed three
feet.  On the top of his head, which terminated like a sugar-loaf, rose a
small tuft of badly combed hair; a grey, thin beard descended in disorder
down his chin.  Finally, two prominences, one on his back, the other on
his breast, communicated to this little butcher a perfect resemblance
with Æsop, as he appears in various editions of the “Fables de la
Fontaine.”

The strong sonorous voice of the layman was in singular contrast with the
exiguity of his thin, stunted frame.  He did not lose much time in
saluting the company.  After having darted his small black eyes at the
sheep, which was tied to one of the nails of our tent, he said “Is this
the beast you wish to have put in order?”  And while feeling its tail in
order to judge its fat, he gave it a turn, and placed it on its back with
remarkable dexterity.  He next tied together its legs; then, while
uncovering his right arm by throwing back the sleeve of his leathern
coat, he asked whether the operation was to be effected in the tent or
outside?  “Outside,” said we.  “Outside, very well, outside;” so saying,
he drew from a leathern sheath, suspended from his sash, a knife with a
large handle, but whose blade by long use had become thin and narrow.
After having examined for a moment its point with his thumb, he plunged
it to the hilt into the side of the sheep, and drawing it out quite red,
the sheep was dead, dead at once, without making any movement; not a
single drop of blood had spouted from the wound.  We were greatly
astonished at this, and asked the little man how he managed to kill a
sheep so very easily and quickly.  “We Tartars,” he said, “do not kill in
the same way as the Kitat; they cut the throat, we go straight to the
heart.  By our method, the animal suffers less, and all the blood is, as
it should be, retained in the interior.”

The transmigration once operated, nobody had any further scruples.  Our
Dchiahour and the Tartar Lama turned back their sleeves, and advanced to
assist the little butcher.  The sheep was skinned with admirable
celerity.  Meantime the mother of the Lama had made the two pots boil.
She now took the entrails of the sheep, washed them pretty clean, and
then, with the blood which she took from the interior of the sheep by
means of a large wooden spoon, prepared some puddings, the basis of which
was the never-failing oatmeal.  “Sirs Lamas,” said the little layman,
“shall I bone the sheep?”  Upon our answering in the affirmative, he had
the animal hooked upon the tent, for he was not big enough to perform
that operation himself; he then mounted upon a large stone, and passing
his knife rapidly along the bones, he detached, in one piece, all the
meat, so as to leave dangling from the tent a mere skeleton, clean,
cleared, and nicely polished.

While the little layman was, according to his expression, putting in
order the flesh of the sheep, the rest of the company had prepared a gala
in the Tartar fashion.  The young Lama was director of the feast.  “Now,”
he cried, “let us all sit round; the great pot is going to be emptied.”
Forthwith everyone sat down upon the turf.  The old Mongol woman plunged
both hands into the pot, which was boiling over, and drew out all the
intestines—the liver, the heart, the kidneys, the spleen, and the bowels,
stuffed with blood and oatmeal.  In this gastronomical preparation, the
most remarkable thing was, that all the intestines had been retained in
their integrity, so that they presented themselves much as they are seen
in the living beast.  The old woman served up, or rather threw this
splendid dish upon the lawn, which was at once our chair, table, plate,
and, in case of need, our napkin.  It is unnecessary to add, that we used
our fingers instead of forks.  Everyone seized with his hands a portion
of the bowels, twisted it from the mass, and devoured it without
seasoning or salt.

The two French missionaries were not able, despite their utmost
willingness, to do honour to this Tartar dish.  First we burned our
fingers when we tried to touch the hot and smoking repast.  Although our
guests urged that it ought not to be allowed to grow cold, we waited a
little, afraid of burning our lips also.  At last we tasted these
puddings of sheep’s blood and oatmeal, but after getting down a few
mouthsful, we were quite satisfied.  Never, perhaps, had we eaten
anything so utterly tasteless and insipid.  Samdadchiemba, having
foreseen this, had withdrawn from the common dish, the liver and the
kidneys, which he placed before us, with some salt, which he had
previously crushed between two stones.  We were thus enabled to keep pace
with the company, who, with a devouring appetite, were swallowing the
vast system of entrails.

When the whole had disappeared, the old woman brought up the second
service, by placing in the midst of us the large pot in which the
puddings had been cooked.  Instantly all the members of the banquet
invited each other, and every one taking from his bosom his wooden
porringer, ladled out bumpers of a smoking, salt liquid, which they
dignified with the pompous name of sauce.  As we did not wish to appear
eccentric, or as if we despised the Tartar cuisine, we did like the rest.
We plunged our porringer into the pot, but it was only by the most
laudable efforts that we could get down this green stuff, which gave us
the idea of half masticated grass.  The Tartars, on the contrary, found
it delicious, and readily reached the bottom of the extempore tureen, not
stopping for a moment, till nothing was left—not a drop of sauce, not an
inch of pudding.

When the feast was finished, the little layman took leave, receiving as
his fee the four feet of the sheep.  To this fee, fixed by the old custom
of the Mongols, we added, as a supplement, a handful of tea leaves, for
we desired that he should long remember and talk to his countrymen of the
generosity of the Lamas of the Western sky.

Every one having now thoroughly regaled, our neighbours took their
kitchen utensils and returned home, except the young Lama, who said he
would not leave us alone.  After much talk about the east and the west,
he took down the skeleton, which was still hanging at the entrance of the
tent, and amused himself with reciting, or rather singing, the
nomenclature of all the bones, large and small, that compose the frame of
the sheep.  He perceived that our knowledge on this subject was very
limited, and this extremely astonished him; and we had the greatest
trouble to make him understand, that in our country ecclesiastical
studies had for their object more serious and important matters than the
names and number of the bones of a sheep.

Every Mongol knows the number, the name, and the position of the bones
which compose the frame of animals; and thus they never break the bones
when they are cutting up an ox or a sheep.  With the point of their large
knife they go straight and at once to the juncture of the bones and
separate them with astonishing skill and celerity.  These frequent
dissections, and especially the habit of being every day amongst their
flocks, make the Tartars well acquainted with the diseases of animals,
and skilful in their cure.  The remedies, which they employ internally,
are always simples gathered in the prairie, and the decoction of which
they make the sick animals drink.  For this purpose, they use a large
cow-horn.  When they have contrived to insert the small end of this into
the mouth of the animal, they pour the physic in at the other extremity,
as through a funnel.  If the beast persists in not opening its mouth, the
liquid is administered through the nostrils.  Sometimes the Tartars
employ a lavement in their treatment of the diseases of animals; but
their instruments are still of primitive simplicity.  A cow’s horn serves
for the pipe, and the pump is a great bladder, worked by squeezing it.

Internal remedies, however, are not very often applied; the Tartars make
more frequent use of punctures and incisions in different parts of the
body.  Some of these operations are extremely ludicrous.  One day, when
we had pitched our tent beside a Mongol dwelling, a Tartar brought to the
chief of the family a cow, which, he said, would not eat, and which was
pining away day by day.  The chief examined the animal, opened its mouth,
and rubbed its fore teeth with his nail.  “Fool, blockhead,” said he to
the man who had come to ask his advice, “why did not you come before?
Your cow is on the verge of death; there is scarce a day’s life more in
her.  Yet, there may be tried one means: I will attempt it.  If your cow
dies, you will say it is your own fault; if it recovers, you will regard
it as a great favour from Hormousdha, operated by my skill.”  He called
some of his slaves, and ordered them to keep a firm hold of the beast,
while he was operating upon it.  Then he entered his tent, whence he soon
returned, armed with a nail and a great hammer.  We waited with
impatience this strange chirurgical operation, which was to be performed
with a nail and a hammer.  While several Mongols held the cow, in order
to prevent its running away, the operator placed the nail under its
belly, and then drove it in up to the head with a violent stroke of the
hammer.  Next, he seized with both hands the tail of the cow, and ordered
those who were holding it to let go.  Instantly, the animal that had been
so very singularly operated upon, dashed off, dragging after it the
veterinary Tartar, clinging to its tail.  In this fashion, they ran
nearly a li.  The Tartar then quitted his victim, and came quietly back
to us, who were quite amazed at this new method of curing cows.  He
declared there was no further danger for the beast; for he had
ascertained, he said, by the stiffness of the tail, the good effect of
the ferruginous medicine he had administered.

The Tartar veterinarians sometimes perform their operations at the belly,
as we have just seen; but it is more generally, with the head, ears,
temple, upper lip, and about the eyes that they deal.  The latter
operation is principally had recourse to, in the disease which the
Tartar’s call Hen’s dung, to which mules are greatly subject.  When this
disease breaks out, the animals leave off eating, and fall into extreme
weakness, so that they can hardly keep themselves on their legs; fleshy
excrescences, similar to the excrements of poultry, grow under the lids,
in the corners of the eyes.  If these excrescences are removed in time,
the mules are saved, and recover by degrees their original vigour; if
not, they pine for a few days, and then die.

Although cupping and bleeding have great place in the veterinary art of
the Tartars, you must not suppose that they have at their disposal fine
collections of instruments, such as those of European operators.  Most of
them have nothing but their ordinary knife, or the small iron awl, which
they keep in their girdle, and which they use daily to clear their pipes,
and mend their saddles and leathern boots.

The young Lama who had sold us the sheep, spent a great part of the day
in telling us anecdotes, more or less piquant and curious, about the
veterinary science in which he seemed to be very skilful.  Moreover, he
gave us important instructions concerning the road we had to pursue.  He
settled the stages we ought to make, and indicated the places where we
should encamp, so as to prevent our dying from thirst.  We had still
before us in the country of the Ortous, a journey of about fourteen days;
in all that time we should find neither rivulet, nor spring, nor cistern;
but only, at certain distances, wells of an extraordinary depth; some of
them distant from each other two days’ march, so that we should have to
carry with us our provision of water.

Next morning, after having paid our respects to the Tartar family, who
had shown us so much kindness, we proceeded on our way.  Towards evening,
when it was nearly time to pitch our tent, we perceived in the distance a
large assemblage of various herds.  Thinking that one of the indicated
wells lay probably there, we bent our steps in the direction, and soon
found that we were correct in our anticipation; the water was before us.
The beasts were collected from every quarter, waiting to be watered.  We
halted accordingly, and set up our encampment.  As we gazed upon the
assembled flocks, and the well, the covering of which was a large stone,
we recalled with pleasure the passage of Genesis, which relates the
journey of Jacob in Mesopotamia, to Laban, son of Bathuel the Syrian.

    “Then Jacob went on his journey, and came into the land of the people
    of the east.

    “And he looked, and behold a well in the field, and, lo, there were
    three flocks of sheep lying by it; for out of that well they watered
    the flocks: and a great stone was upon the well’s mouth.

    “And thither were all the flocks gathered: and they rolled the stone
    from the well’s mouth, and watered the sheep, and put the stone again
    upon the well’s mouth in its place.” {218a}

The wooden troughs placed around the well, reminded us of the other
passage, where the meeting of Rebecca with the servant of Abraham is
related.

    “And when she had done giving him drink, she said, I will draw water
    for thy camels also, until they have done drinking.

    “And she hasted, and emptied her pitcher into the trough, and ran
    again unto the well to draw water, and drew for all his camels.”
    {218b}

One cannot travel in Mongolia, amongst a pastoral and nomad population,
without one’s mind involuntarily going back to the time of the first
patriarch, whose pastoral life had so close a relation with the manners
and customs which we still find amongst the Mongol tribes.  But how sad
and painful do these coincidences become, when we reflect that these
unfortunate people are still ignorant of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and
Jacob.

We had scarcely pitched our tent, and arranged our modest kitchen, when
we saw several Tartar horsemen advancing at full gallop.  They were
coming to draw water and give it to the numerous flocks that had been
long awaiting them.  These animals, which had hitherto stood at a
distance, seeing the shepherds approach, hastened to the spot, and soon
all were grouped round the well, eager to quench their thirst.  This
large assemblage of animals, so numerous and so various, created an
agitation, a tumult to which we were quite unused amid the silent
solitude of the desert; and it was perhaps on account of its novelty that
this confusion was, to us, full of entertainment.  It was amusing to see
the half-tamed horses pushing and struggling to arrive first at the well;
then, instead of drinking in peace, biting, quarrelling, and even leaving
the water in order to pursue each other on the plain.  The scene was
especially entertaining and picturesque, when an enormous camel came
forward, spreading alarm round the well, and driving away the vulgar herd
by its despotic presence.

There were four Mongol shepherds; while two of them, armed with a long
rod, ran about trying to effect a little order among the flocks, the two
others drew the water in a manner which greatly excited our surprise.
First, the utensil they used by way of pail, appeared to us very
remarkable; it was the entire skin of a goat, solidly fastened at the
four feet, the only opening being at the neck.  A hoop kept this orifice
open; a long, strong rope of camel’s hair was fastened at one end to the
wooden handle that crossed the diameter of the orifice, and at the other
end to the saddle of the horse ridden by one of the Tartars, who, when
the skin was filled rode off, and thus hauled up the bucket to the edge
of the well, where it was received by another man, who emptied its
contents into the troughs.

The well was of astonishing depth; the rope used to raise the bucket
seemed more than 200 feet long.  Instead of running in a pulley, it went
right over a large stone, in which a large groove was already made by the
constant friction.  Although the drawing up of the water was performed
with great activity, it was nearly dark before all the flock had been
watered; we then brought our five animals to participate in the general
banquet, and the Tartars had the complaisance to draw water also for us;
otherwise, it is probable we should never have got it, but have been
obliged to suffer thirst beside an abundant well.

These Tartars did not seem contented, like those we had met with in the
other parts of Mongolia; we saw they were very depressed at being obliged
to spend their lives in such a barren country, where pasturage is so very
scarce and water still rarer.  They talked to us of the Mongol kingdoms
through which we had passed, and where it was so easy, so agreeable
indeed, to feed animals.  “Oh, how happy are the inhabitants of these
countries!” said they.  “How fortunate were we, could we spend our days
amidst those rich pasturages.”

Before they returned to their dwelling, which lay behind a high mountain,
these Tartars told us that we ought to depart next morning before
daybreak, for that we should not find any water until we came to the
Hundred Wells, which was distant a hundred and fifty lis (fifteen
leagues).

Dawn had not yet appeared when we left.  The country was, as before,
sandy, barren, and dismal.  About noon we halted, in order to take a
little food, and to make tea with the water we had brought with us on one
of the camels.  Night was setting in before we reached the Hundred Wells;
our poor animals could hardly move for hunger and fatigue; yet, at all
cost, we were obliged to reach the encampment.  To remain where we were
would have caused infinite wretchedness.  At last we came to the wells,
and without troubling ourselves to ascertain whether or no there were a
hundred of them, as the Tartar name of the place imported, we hastened to
pitch our tent.  Happily the well was not so deep as that we had seen the
night before.  Our first care was to draw some water for the horse and
the mule; but when we went to lead them to the trough, we did not find
them near the tent, where they usually stood to be unsaddled.  This
misfortune occasioned us an alarm that made us forget the fatigues of the
day.  We had, it is true, no fear of robbers, for in this respect no
country is more safe than the Ortous; but we thought that our animals,
thirsty as they were, had run away in search of water.  They will go,
meditated we, till they have found water; perhaps they will go without
stopping to the frontier of the Ortous to the fiery banks of the Yellow
River.

The night was quite dark; nevertheless, we thought it proper to go
instantly in search of our horses, while Samdadchiemba was preparing
supper.  We wandered about for a long time in all directions without
seeing anything; ever and anon we stopped to listen whether we could
distinguish the sound of the bells suspended from the horse’s neck; but
our efforts were vain; nothing interrupted the dead silence of the
desert.  We went on, without losing courage, still hoping to find animals
so very necessary to us, and the loss of which would have placed us in
such difficulties.  Sometimes we fancied we heard in the distance the
tinkling of the bells.  Then we laid flat down, applying our ears to the
earth, in order to catch more readily the slightest noise that might
occur; but it was all in vain; our search was fruitless.

The fear of losing our way in a dark night in a country, the bearings of
which we had not been able to examine, made us think of retracing our
steps.  Judge of our consternation when, on turning round, we perceived,
apparently in the place where we had pitched our tent, a large volume of
flame and smoke rising.  We did not doubt for an instant that
Samdadchiemba also had set out in search of the animals, and that in his
absence the tent had caught fire.  Oh, how sad and discouraging was that
moment.  In the middle of the desert, at two thousand lis’ distance from
our christendom, we contemplated without hope those flames consuming our
tent, our sole shelter against the inclemency of the weather.  “Alas!” we
said, “the tent is certainly destroyed, and doubtless all that was in it
has also become a prey to the flames.”

We mournfully directed our steps to the place of our encampment.  Though
anxious to ascertain our misfortune, we advanced slowly, for we were, at
the same time, afraid to approach the fearful spectacle, destructive of
our plans, and plunging us into misery of every description.  As we
advanced, we heard loud cries; at last we distinguished the voice of
Samdadchiemba, apparently calling for assistance.  Imagining that we
could still save something from the conflagration, we hastened to the
spot, calling out, at the pitch of our voices, that we were coming.  When
we at last arrived at the encampment, we stood for an instant quite
stupified upon seeing Samdadchiemba quietly seated beside an immense
fire, and drinking with the greatest satisfaction bumpers of tea.  The
tent was untouched, and all our animals lying around it: there had been
no conflagration at all.  The Dchiahour, having found the horse and the
mule, had imagined that, having doubtless got to some distance, we should
have a difficulty in finding our way back to the encampment, and
therefore he had made a large fire to direct our steps, and sent forth
vehement cries inviting us to return.  We had so fully believed in the
reality of our misfortune that, on beholding our tent again, we seemed to
pass at once from the extreme of misery to the height of happiness.

As the night had already made considerable progress, we hastened to eat,
with excellent appetite, the soup that Samdadchiemba had prepared, and
then laid down upon our goat-skins, where we enjoyed a profound sleep
till daybreak.

On getting up next morning a glance around the encampment diffused a
shudder of terror through all our limbs; for we found ourselves
surrounded on every side by deep wells.  We had been, indeed, told that
we should not find water until we reached the place called Hundred Wells,
but we had never imagined, that this denomination, Hundred Wells, was to
be taken literally.  When we had pitched our tent the night before, it
was too dark for us to remark the presence of these numerous precipices,
and accordingly we had taken no precautions.  When we went out in search
of our stray animals we had, without knowing it, made a thousand turnings
and windings amongst these deep pits; and that we had thus walked in a
dark night, without any accident, could only be attributed to a special
protection of Providence.  Before our departure, therefore, we planted a
small wooden cross on the brink of one of these wells, as a sign of our
thankfulness for the goodness of God.

After having made our usual breakfast, we proceeded.  Towards noon we
perceived before us a great multitude issuing from a narrow defile,
formed by two precipitous mountains.  We were lost in conjecture as to
what this numerous and imposing caravan could be.  Innumerable camels,
laden with baggage, advanced in single file, one after the other,
escorted on either side by a number of horsemen, who, in the distance,
appeared to be richly attired.  We slackened our pace, to obtain a nearer
view of this caravan, which appeared to us a very strange affair.

[Picture: Encampment at the Hundred Wells] It was still a considerable
distance off, when four horsemen, who formed a sort of vanguard, galloped
on towards us.  They were all four Mandarins, as we perceived from the
blue button which surmounted their cap of ceremony.  “Sirs Lamas,” they
said, “peace be with you!  Towards what point of the earth do you direct
your steps?”  “We are of the West, and it is to the West we are going.
And you, brothers of Mongolia, whither do you travel in so large a troop,
and in such magnificent apparel?”  “We are from the kingdom of Alechan,
and our king is making a journey to Peking to prostrate himself at the
feet of Him who dwells above the sky.”  After these few words the four
horsemen rose somewhat in their saddles, saluted, and then returned to
their position at the head of the caravan.

We had thus encountered on his way the King of Alechan, repairing to
Peking with his gorgeous retinue, to be present at the great meeting of
the tributary princes, who, on the first day of the first moon, are bound
to offer the compliments of the new year to the Emperor.  Behind the
vanguard came a palanquin carried by two splendid mules, harnessed, the
one before, the other behind, to gilt shafts.  The palanquin was square,
plain, and by no means elegant; its roof was adorned with some silk
fringe, and its four panels were decorated with some pictures of dragons,
birds, and nosegays.  The Tartar monarch was sitting, not upon a seat,
but with his legs crossed, in the oriental fashion.  He seemed to be
about fifty years old; and his full round features gave to his
physiognomy a remarkable air of good nature.  As he passed us, we cried:
“King of the Alechan, peace and happiness be on your way!”  “Men of
prayer,” he answered, “may you also be at peace,” and he accompanied
these words with a friendly salute.  An old white-bearded Lama, mounted
upon a magnificent horse, led the fore mule of the palanquin; he was
considered the guide of the whole caravan.  Generally, the great marches
of the Tartars are under the guidance of the most venerable of the Lamas
of the district; for these people are persuaded, that they have nothing
to fear on their way, so long as they have at their head, a
representative of the divinity, or rather the divinity himself incarnate
in the person of the Lama.

A great number of horsemen, who surrounded, as a guard of honour, the
royal palanquin, made their horses curvet incessantly, and dash up and
down, in and out, from one side to the other, without ever stopping in
their rapid movements.  Immediately behind the carriage of the king, came
a white camel of extraordinary beauty and size; a young Tartar, on foot,
led it by a silken string.  This camel was not laden.  From the tip of
each hump, which looked like two pyramids, floated pieces of yellow
taffeta.  There was no doubt, that this magnificent animal was a present
destined for the Chinese Emperor.  The remainder of the troop consisted
of numerous camels, carrying the baggage, the boxes, tents, pots, the
thousand and one utensils, that are always wanted in a country where no
tavern is to be found.

The caravan had passed on a long time, when meeting with a well, we
resolved to pitch our tent beside it.  While we were making our tea,
three Tartars, one decorated with the red, the other with the blue
button, alighted at the entrance of our dwelling.  They asked for news of
the caravan of the King of the Alechans.  We answered that we had met it
a long time since, that it must already be at a considerable distance,
and that it would doubtless arrive, before night, at the encampment of
the Hundred Wells.  “As it is so,” they said, “we would rather remain
here, than arrive by night at the Hundred Wells, at the risk of falling
into some hole.  Tomorrow, by starting a little before day, we shall
reach the caravan.”

No sooner said than done: the Tartars forthwith unsaddled their horses,
sent them off to seek their fortune in the desert, and without ceremony
took their seat beside our fire.  They were all Taitsi of the kingdom of
the Alechan.  One of these, he who wore the cap with the red button, was
the king’s minister; they all three belonged to the great caravan, but
the day before, having started to visit a friend, a prince of the Ortous,
they had been left behind by the main body.

The minister of the King of Alechan had an open, frank character, and a
very acute understanding; he combined Mongol good nature with vivacious
and elegant manners, which he had no doubt acquired in his frequent
visits to Peking.  He asked many questions about the country which the
Tartars call the Western Heaven, and informed us, that every three years
a great number of our countrymen, from the different western kingdoms,
rendered their homage to the Emperor at Peking.

It is needless to observe that, for the most part, the Tartars do not
carry very far their geographical studies.  The west means with them
simply Thibet and some adjacent countries, which they hear mentioned by
the Lamas, who have made the pilgrimage to Lha-Ssa.  They firmly believe
that beyond Thibet there is nothing; there, say they, is the end of the
world; beyond, there is merely a shoreless ocean.

When we had satisfied all the inquiries of the red button, we addressed
some to him about the country of the Alechan, and the journey to Peking.
“Every third year all the sovereigns of the world,” said he, “repair to
Peking, for the feast of the new year.  Princes who live near, are bound
to go thither every year; those who live at the extremities of the earth,
go every second or third year, according to the distance they have to
travel.”  “What is your purpose in going every year to Peking?”  “We
ourselves go as the retinue of our king; the king alone enjoys the
happiness of prostrating himself in the presence of the Old Buddha (the
Emperor).”  He entered then into long details about the ceremony of the
first day of the year, and the relations between the Chinese Emperor and
the tributary kings.

The foreign sovereigns, under the dominating influence of the China
empire, repair to Peking; first, as an act of obeisance and submission:
secondly, to pay certain rents to the Emperor, whose vassals they
consider themselves.  These rents, which are decorated with the fine name
of offerings, are, in fact, imposts which no Tartar king would venture to
refuse the payment of.  They consist in camels, in horses remarkable for
their beauty, and which the Emperor sends to augment his immense herds in
the Tchakar.  Every Tartar prince is, besides, obliged to bring some of
the rarer productions of his country; deer, bear and goat venison;
aromatic plants, pheasants, mushrooms, fish, etc.  As they visit Peking
in the depth of winter, all these eatables are frozen; so that they bear,
without danger of being spoiled, the trial of a long journey, and even
remain good long after they have arrived at their destination.

One of the Banners of the Tchakar is especially charged with sending to
Peking, every year, an immense provision of pheasant’s eggs.  We asked
the minister of the King of the Alechan, whether these pheasant’s eggs
were of a peculiar flavour, that they were so highly appreciated by the
Court.  “They are not destined to be eaten,” he answered; “the Old Buddha
uses them for another purpose.”  “As they are not eaten, what are they
used for?”  The Tartar seemed embarrassed, and blushed somewhat as he
replied that these eggs were used to make a sort of varnish, which the
women of the imperial harem used for the purpose of smoothing their hair,
and which communicates to it, they say, a peculiar lustre and brilliancy.
Europeans, perhaps, may consider this pomatum of pheasant’s eggs, so
highly esteemed at the Chinese court, very nasty and disgusting; but
beauty and ugliness, the nice and the nasty, are, as everybody knows,
altogether relative and conventional matters, upon which the various
nations that inhabit this earth have ideas remotest from the uniform.

These annual visits to the Emperor of China are very expensive and
extremely troublesome to the Tartars of the plebeian class, who are
overwhelmed with enforced labour, at the pleasure of their masters, and
are bound to provide a certain number of camels and horses, to carry the
baggage of the king and the nobles.  As these journeys take place in the
depth of winter, the animals find little food, especially when, after
leaving the Land of Grass, they enter upon the districts cultivated by
the Chinese; and a great number of them, accordingly, die on the road.
Hence, when the caravan returns, it is far from being in such good order
and condition as when it started; it presents, one might almost say,
merely the skeletons of the animals.  Those which have still retained a
little strength are laden with the baggage necessary on the way; the
others are dragged along by the halter, scarcely able to move one leg
before the other.  It is a very sad, and, at the same time, singular
thing, to see the Mongols walking on foot, and leading behind them horses
which they dare not mount for fear of breaking them down.

As soon as the tributary kings are arrived at Peking, they repair to the
interior of the city, where they inhabit a quarter especially set apart
for them.  They are generally two hundred in number, each of whom has his
palace or inn, which he occupies, with his retinue.  A Mandarin, a grand
dignitary of the realm, superintends this quarter, and has it in charge
to maintain peace and concord amongst these illustrious visitors.  The
tributes are transferred to the care of a special Mandarin, whom we may
consider as steward of the household.

During their stay at Peking, these monarchs have no communication with
the Emperor, no solemn audience.  Some of them may perchance obtain
admittance to the throne; but it is only upon affairs of the highest
importance, above the jurisdiction of the ordinary ministers.

On the first day of the year, however, there is a solemn ceremony, at
which these two hundred monarchs are admitted to a sort of contact with
their suzerain and master, with him who, as they phrase it, sitting
beneath the sky, rules the four seas and the ten thousand nations of the
world by a single act of his will.  According to the ritual which
regulates the state proceedings of the Emperor of China, he is bound to
visit every year, on the first day of the first moon, the temple of his
ancestors, and to prostrate himself before the tablet of his fathers.
There is before the entrance of this temple a long avenue, wherein the
tributary princes, who have come to Peking to render homage to the
Emperor, assemble.  They range themselves right and left of the
peristyle, in three lines, each occupying the place appertaining to his
dignity.  They stand erect, grave, and silent.  It is said to be a fine
and imposing spectacle, to witness all these remote monarchs, attired in
their silk robes, embroidered with gold and silver, and indicating, by
the variety of their costumes, the different countries they inhabit, and
the degrees of their dignity.

Meantime the Emperor issues in great pomp from his Yellow Town.  He
traverses the deserted and silent streets of Peking; for, when the
Asiatic tyrant appears, every door must be closed, and every inhabitant
of the town must, on pain of death, remain silent within his house.  As
soon as the Emperor has arrived at the temple of the ancestors, the
heralds, who precede the procession, cry out, at the moment he places his
foot on the first step of the stairs that lead to the gallery of the
tributary kings: “Let all prostrate themselves, for here is the Lord of
the earth.”  To this the two hundred tributary kings respond in unison:
“Ten thousand congratulations!”  And, having thus wished a happy new year
to the Emperor, they all fall down with their face towards the earth.
Then passes through their ranks, the son of heaven, who enters the temple
of the ancestors, and prostrates himself, in his turn, thrice before the
tablet of his fathers.  Whilst the Emperor is offering up his adoration
to the spirits of his family, the two hundred monarchs remain prostrate
on the earth, and they do not rise until the Emperor has again passed
through their ranks; after this they re-enter their litters and return to
their respective palaces.

[Picture: Grand ceremony at the Ancestral Temple]

And such is the entire and sole fruit of the long patience of these
potentates, after leaving their distant countries, and enduring fatigues
and dangers of every description, and a long journey through the desert:
they have enjoyed the happiness of prostrating themselves in the path of
the Emperor!  Such a spectacle would with us Europeans be a matter of
pity and disgust, for we could not comprehend how there should be so much
humility on one side, so much arrogance on the other.  Yet it is the
simplest thing in the world to Asiatic nations.  The Emperor takes his
all-mightiness as a grave matter of course; and the Tartar kings think
themselves happy and honoured in paying homage to it.

The prime minister of the king of the Alechan told us that a sight of the
Emperor is not easily obtained.  One year, when his master was ill, he
was obliged to take his place at Peking, in the ceremony of the temple of
the ancestors, and he then hoped to see the Old Buddha, on his way down
the peristyle, but he was altogether mistaken in his expectation.  As
minister, the mere representative of his monarch, he was placed in the
third file, so that, when the Emperor passed, he saw absolutely nothing
at all.  “Those who are in the first line,” he said, “if they are
cautiously dexterous, may manage to get a glimpse of the yellow robe of
the son of heaven; but they must take heed not to lift up their heads,
for such an audacity would be considered a great crime, and be punished
very severely.”

All the Tartar princes are pensioned by the Emperor; the sum allotted to
them is a small matter, but it effects a considerable political result.
The Tartar princes, in receiving their pay, consider themselves the
slaves, or at least, as the servants of him who pays them; and concede,
in consequence, to the Emperor the right of requiring their submission
and obedience.  It is about the first day of the year that the tributary
sovereigns receive, at Peking, the allotted pension, which is distributed
by some of the great Mandarins, who are said, by slanderous tongues, to
speculate in this lucrative employment, and never fail to make enormous
profits at the expense of the poor Tartars.

The minister of the king of the Alechan related, for our edification,
that in a particular year, all the tributary princes received their
pension in ingots of gilt copper.  All found it out at once, but were
fain to keep silence, afraid to make public an affair that might result
in a catastrophe, compromising, not only the highest dignitaries of the
empire, but the Tartar kings themselves.  As, in fact, the latter were
supposed to receive their money from the hands of the Emperor himself, a
complaint would, in some sort, have been to charge the Old Buddha, the
son of heaven, with being a coiner.  They received accordingly their
copper ingots with a prostration, and it was not until they returned into
their own countries, that they declared, not indeed that they had been
cheated, but that the Mandarins, charged with distributing the money, had
been the dupes of the Peking bankers.  The Tartar Mandarin who related
the adventure, gave us completely to understand that neither the Emperor,
nor the courtiers, nor the Mandarins, had anything to do with the affair.
We took good care not to undeceive him: as to us, who had no great faith
in the probity of the government of Peking, we were convinced that the
Emperor had regularly swindled the Tartar kings.  We were confirmed in
this opinion by the fact that the period of this adventure coincided with
the British war; when, as we knew, the Emperor was in the last extremity,
and knew not where to get the money necessary to keep from starving the
handful of soldiers who were charged with the preservation of the
integrity of the Chinese territory.

The visit of the three Mandarins of the Alechan was not only pleasant on
account of the narrative they gave us of the relations of the Tartar
kings with the Emperor, but it was of essential utility to us.  When they
understood that we were directing our steps towards the West, they asked
us whether we intended passing through the district of the Alechan.  On
our answering in the affirmative, they dissuaded us from the project;
they told us that our animals would perish there, for not a single
pasturage was to be met with.  We already knew that the Alechan is a
tract still more barren than the Ortous.  It consists, in fact, of chains
of lofty mountains of sand, where you may travel sometimes for whole days
together, without seeing a single blade of vegetation.  Some narrow
valleys, here and there, alone offer to the flocks a few thorny and
wretched plants.  On this account the Alechan is very thinly inhabited,
even in comparison with the other parts of Mongolia.

The Mandarins told us that this year the drought which had been general
throughout Tartary had rendered the district of the Alechan almost
uninhabitable.  They assured us that at least one-third of the flocks had
perished of hunger and thirst, and that the remainder were in a wretched
state.  For their journey to Peking, they had, they said, chosen the best
they could find in the country; and we might have observed that the
animals of the caravan were very different indeed from those we had seen
in Tchakar.  The drought, the want of water and pastures, the destruction
of the flocks—all this had given birth to an utter state of misery,
whence, again, numerous bands of robbers who were ravaging the country,
and robbing travellers.  They assured us that, being so few in number, it
would not be wise for us to enter upon the Alechan mountains,
particularly in the absence of the principal authorities.

On receiving this information, we resolved not to retrace our steps, for
we were too far advanced, but to diverge a little from our route.  The
night was far advanced ere we thought of taking rest; we had scarcely
slept a few minutes, in fact, when the day broke.  The Tartars saddled
their steeds, and after having wished us peace and happiness, dashed off
at full gallop, to overtake the great caravan which preceded them.

As for us, before setting out, we unrolled the excellent map of the
Chinese empire, published by M. Andriveau-Goujon, and sought upon it to
what point we ought to direct our steps, so as to avoid the wretched
district of the Alechan, without, however, deviating too much from our
route.  After looking at the map, we saw no other way than to recross the
Yellow River, to pass the Great Wall of China, and to travel across the
Chinese province of Kan-Sou, until we arrived among the Tartars of the
Koukou-Noor.  Formerly this determination would have made us tremble.
Accustomed as we had been to live privately in our Chinese christendom,
it would have seemed to us impossible to enter the Chinese empire alone,
and without the care of a catechist.  At that time it would have seemed
to us clear as the day, that our strangulation, and the persecution of
all the Chinese missions, would have been the certain result of our rash
undertaking.  Such would have been our fears formerly, but the time of
our fear was gone.  Indurated by our two months journey, we had come to
the persuasion that we might travel in China with as much safety as in
Tartary.  The stay that we had already made in several large commercial
towns, compelled as we had been to manage our own affairs, had rendered
the Chinese manners and customs more familiar to us.  The language
presented to us no difficulties; besides being able to speak the Tartar
idiom, we were familiar with the colloquial phrases of the Chinese, a
very difficult attainment to those who reside in the missions, because
the Christians there seek to flatter them by only employing, in the
presence of the Missionaries, the short vocabulary of words that they
have studied in books.  Besides these purely moral and intellectual
advantages, our long journey had been useful in a physical point of view;
the rain, the wind, and the sun, which had during two months raged
against our European tint, had in the end embrowned and tanned it so,
that we looked quite like wild men of the wood in this respect.  The fear
of being recognised by the Chinese now no longer troubled us.

We told Samdadchiemba that we should cease, in a few days, to travel in
the Land of Grass, and that we should continue our route through the
Chinese empire.  “Travel among the Chinese!” said the Dchiahour; “very
well.  There are good inns there.  They boil good tea there.  When it
rains, you can go under shelter.  During the night, you are not disturbed
by the blowing of the north wind.  But in China, there are ten thousand
roads; which shall we take?  Do we know which is the best?”  We made him
look at the map, pointing out all the places which we should have to pass
before we reached Koukou-Noor.  We even reduced, for his edification,
into lis, all the distances from one town to the other.  Samdadchiemba
looked at our small geographical chart with perfect enthusiasm.  “Oh,”
said he, “how sincerely I regret that I did not study while I was in the
Lamasery; if I had listened to my master, if I had paid more attention, I
might perhaps now understand the description of the world, that is here
drawn on this piece of paper.  With this, one can go everywhere, without
asking the way.  Is it not so?”  “Yes, everywhere,” answered we; “even to
your own family.”  “How is that? is my country also written down here?”
and as he spoke he bent over the chart, so as entirely to cover it with
his huge frame.  “Stand aside and we will show you your country.  Look;
do you see this little space beside that green line?  That is the country
of the Dchiahours, which the Chinese call the Three Valleys
(San-Tchouen).  Your village must be here; we shall pass not more than
two days’ journey from your house.”  “Is it possible?” cried he, striking
his forehead; “shall we pass two days’ journey from my house?  Do you say
so?  How can that be?  Not more than two days’ journey?  In that case,
when we are near it, I will ask my spiritual fathers permission to go and
see once more my country.”  “What can you have to do now in the Three
Valleys?”  “I will go and see what is doing there.  It is eighteen years
since my departure from my house.  I will go and see if my old mother is
still there; and if she is alive, I will make her enter into the Holy
Church.  As for my two brothers, who knows whether they will have enough
sense not to believe any longer in the transmigrations of Buddha.  Ah,
yes,” added he after a short pause, “I will make a little tea, and we
will talk this matter over again.”

Samdadchiemba was no longer with us; his thoughts had flown to his native
land.  We were obliged to remind him of his real
position,—“Samdadchiemba, you need not make any tea; and just now,
instead of talking, we must fold up our tent, load the camels, and
proceed on our way.  Look; the sun is already high in the heavens: if we
do not get on, we shall never reach the Three Valleys.”  “True,” cried
he; and springing up he set himself busily about making preparations for
our departure.

On resuming our route, we abandoned the direction towards the west, which
we had strictly followed during our journey, and diverged a little to the
south.  After having continued our march for half the day, we sat down
for a while under a rock to take our repast.  As usual, we dined on bread
and water; and what bread and water!  Dough half baked, and brackish
water, which we had to draw up with the sweat of our brow, and to carry
about with us during our journey.

Towards the conclusion of our repast, while we were trying to scrape
together a few grains of tobacco in our snuff phials, by way of desert,
we saw coming towards us a Tartar on a camel; he seated himself beside
us.  After having wished each other peace, we let him smell at our empty
snuff phial, and then offered him a little loaf baked in the ashes.  In
an instant he had swallowed the bread, and taken three sniffs of snuff.

We questioned him about the route; he told us that if we followed the
same direction we should arrive in two days at the Yellow River, on
crossing which, we should enter the Chinese territory.  This information
gave us great satisfaction, for it perfectly agreed with our map.  We
asked him if water was far off.  “Yes,” answered he, “the wells are
distant.  If you encamp again to-day, you will find a cistern on the way;
but there is little water, and that is very bad.  Formerly it was an
excellent well, but it is now abandoned, for a tchutgour (demon) has
corrupted its waters.”

This information induced us to proceed at once, for we had no time to
lose, if we desired to arrive before night.  The Mongol mounted his
camel, which bounded across the desert, while our little caravan
continued slowly its uniform and monotonous march.

Before sunset, we arrived at the indicated cistern, when we pitched our
tent, as there was no hope of finding further on better water; besides,
we fancied the cistern might perhaps turn out less diabolical than the
Tartar had pretended it to be.

While we were lighting the fire, the Dchiahour went to draw water; he
returned in a few moments, saying that it was unfit to be drunk; that it
was mere poison.  He brought a basin full with him, that we might taste
it and judge for ourselves.

The stench of this dirty, muddy water was, indeed, intolerable; and on
the surface of the nauseous stuff, we saw floating a sort of oily drop,
which infinitely increased our disgust.  We had not the courage to raise
it to our lips; we were satisfied with its sight, and, above all, with
its smell.

Still we must either drink or die with thirst; we accordingly resolved to
make the best we could of this Cistern of the Devil, as it is called by
the Tartars.  We collected roots, which were growing abundantly around
it, half buried in the sand; a few moments labour supplied us with an
ample provision of them.  Then, first of all, we made some charcoal which
we broke into small pieces; next we filled our kettle with the muddy,
stinking water, placed it upon the fire, and when the water boiled, threw
in a quantity of the charcoal.

While we were engaged upon this chemical operation, Samdadchiemba, seated
beside the kettle, kept every moment asking us what sort of soup we
intended to make with all those detestable ingredients.  We gave him, by
way of reply, a complete dissertation upon the discolouring and
disinfecting properties of charcoal.  He listened to our scientific
statement with patience, but appeared in no degree convinced by it.  His
eyes were fixed upon the kettle, and it was easy to see, from the
sceptical expression of his features, that he had no sort of expectation
or idea that the thick water bubbling in the kettle could at all become a
clear and limpid fluid.

By-and-by, we poured out the liquid thus prepared, and filtered it
through an impromptu linen sieve.  The water realised was not, indeed,
delicious, but it was drinkable, having deposited all its salt and all
its ill odour.  We had more than once, on our journey, used water in no
degree superior.

Samdadchiemba was perfectly intoxicated with enthusiasm.  Had he not been
a Christian, he would assuredly have taken us for living Buddhas.  “The
Lamas,” said he, “pretend they have all knowledge and all power in their
prayer books; but I am certain they would have died of thirst, or been
poisoned, had they only had the water of this cistern to make tea with.
They have no more notion than a sheep how to render this bad water good.”
And then he overwhelmed us with all sorts of odd questions about the
natural properties of things.  In relation to the purification of water
which we had just operated, he asked whether by rubbing his face hard
with the charcoal, he could make it as white as ours; but then, when his
eyes turned to his hands, still black with the charcoal he had just
broken up, he himself laughed immensely at the idea he had propounded.

Night had set in before we had completed the distillation of the water we
required.  We then made abundance of tea, and the evening was occupied in
drinking it.  We contented ourselves with infusing a few pinches of
oatmeal in the tea, for the ardent thirst which devoured us absorbed all
desire to eat.  After having deluged our inward man, we sought repose.

We had scarcely, however, stretched ourselves on the turf, when an
extraordinary and altogether unexpected noise threw us into a state of
stupor.  It was a long, lugubrious, deep cry that seemed approaching our
tent.  We had heard the howl of wolves, the roar of tigers and of bears;
but these in no way resembled the sound which now affrighted our ears.
It was something like the bellowing of a bull, but crossed with tones so
strange and unintelligible, that we were utterly panic-stricken.  And we
were all the more surprised and confounded, because everybody had assured
us that there were no wild beasts of any kind in the whole Ortous
country.

Our embarrassment was becoming serious.  We were in fear not only for our
animals, which were tied round the tent, but also on our own account.  As
the noise did not cease, but, on the contrary, seemed to approach nearer
and nearer, we got up, not, indeed, to go forth in search of the
villainous beast that was thus disturbing our repose, but in order to try
to frighten it.  To this intent all three of us set to work, shouting at
the pitch of our lungs; then we stopped, and so did the beast.  After a
moment’s silence, the roaring was heard once more, but at a considerable
distance.  We conjectured that in our turn we had frightened the animal,
and this somewhat reassured us.

The cries once more approaching, we piled up some brushwood at a few
paces from the tent, and made a bonfire.  The light, instead of deterring
the unknown monster, seemed rather to attract it; and before long, by the
flame of the brushwood, we could distinguish the outline of what appeared
to be a great quadruped, of reddish hue, the aspect of which, however, as
near as we could judge, was by no means so ferocious as its voice.  We
ventured to advance towards it, but as we advanced, it retreated.
Samdadchiemba, whose eyes were very sharp, and accustomed to the desert,
assured us that the creature was either a dog or a stray calf.

Our animals were, at the very least, as absorbed with the subject as
ourselves.  The horse and the mule pointed their ears, and dug up the
earth with their hoofs, while the camels, with outstretched necks and
glaring eyes, did not for an instant remove their gaze from the spot
whence these wild cries issued.

In order to ascertain precisely with what creature we had to do, we
diluted a handful of meal in a wooden dish, and placing this at the
entrance of the tent, withdrew inside.  Soon we saw the animal slowly
advance, then stop, then advance again.  At last it came to the dish, and
with the most remarkable rapidity, lapped up the supper we had prepared
for it.  We now saw that it was a dog of immense size.  After having
thoroughly licked and polished the empty dish, it lay down, without
ceremony, at the entrance of the tent; and we forthwith followed its
example, glad to have found a protector in the apprehended foe.

Next morning, upon awaking, we were able to examine at leisure the dog
which, after having so alarmed us, had so unreservedly attached itself to
us.  Its colour was red, its size immense; its excessive meagreness
showed that it had been wandering about homeless for some time past.  A
dislocated leg, which it dragged along the ground, communicated to it a
sort of swinging motion, which added to its formidable effect.  But it
was especially alarming when it sent forth its loud, fierce voice.
Whenever we heard it, we instinctively looked at the animal whence it
proceeded, to see whether it really belonged to the canine race.

We resumed our route, and the new Arsalan accompanied us, its general
position being a few paces in advance of the caravan, as though to show
us the way, with which it appeared to be tolerably familiar.

After two days’ journey we reached the foot of a chain of mountains, the
summits of which were lost in the clouds.  We set about ascending them,
however, courageously, for we hoped that beyond them we should find the
Yellow River.  That day’s journey was very painful, especially to the
camels, for every step was upon sharp, rugged rock; and their feet,
accordingly, were very speedily bleeding.  We ourselves, however, were
too absorbed with the strange, fantastic aspect of the mountains we were
traversing to think of the toil they occasioned us.

In the hollows and chasms of the precipices formed by these lofty
mountains, you see nothing but great heaps of mica and laminated stones,
broken, bruised, and in some cases absolutely pulverised.  This wreck of
slate and schist must have been brought into these abysses by some
deluge, for it in no way belongs to the mountains themselves, which are
of granite.  As you approach the summits, the mountains assume forms more
and more fantastic.  You see great heaps of rock piled one upon the
other, and apparently cemented together.  These rocks are almost entirely
encrusted with shells and the remains of a plant resembling sea weed; but
that which is most remarkable is that these granitic masses are cut and
torn and worn in every direction, presenting a ramification of holes and
cavities, meandering in a thousand complicated turns and twists, so that
you might imagine all the upper portion of each mountain to have been
subjected to the slow and destructive action of immense worms.  Sometimes
in the granite you find deep impressions, that seem the moulds of
monsters, whose forms they still closely retain.

As we gazed upon all these phenomena, it seemed to us that we were
travelling in the bed of some exhausted ocean.  Everything tended to the
belief that these mountains had undergone the gradual action of the sea.
It is impossible to attribute all you see there to the influence of mere
rain, or still less to the inundations of the Yellow River, which,
however prodigious they may be, can never have attained so great an
elevation.  The geologists who affirm that the deluge took place by
sinking, and not by a depolarization of the earth, might probably find in
these mountains good arguments in favour of their system.

On reaching the crest of these mountains we saw beneath us the Yellow
River, rolling its waves majestically from south to north.  It was now
near noon, and we hoped that same evening to pass the river, and sleep in
one of the inns of the little town of Che-Tsui-Dze, which we perceived on
the slope of a hill beyond the river.

We occupied the whole afternoon in descending the rugged mountain,
selecting as we went, the places right and left that seemed more
practicable than the rest.  At length we arrived, and before nightfall,
on the banks of the Yellow River, our passage across which was most
successfully effected.  In the first place, the Mongol Tartars who rented
the ferry oppressed our purse less direfully than the Chinese ferry-men
had done.  Next, the animals got into the boat without any difficulty.
The only grievance was that we had to leave our lame dog on the bank, for
the Mongols would not admit it on any terms, insisting upon the rule that
all dogs must swim across the river, the boat being destined solely for
men, or for animals that cannot swim.  We were fain to submit to the
prejudice.

On the other side of the Yellow River we found ourselves in China, and
bade adieu for awhile to Tartary, to the desert, and to the nomadic life.

                        [Picture: Chinese Statue]

                    [Picture: Chinese and Tartar arms]




CHAPTER XI.


Sketch of the Tartar Nations.

The Tartars, descended from the ancient Scythians, have preserved to this
day the dexterity of their ancestors in archery and horsemanship.  The
early part of their history is veiled in obscurity, enveloped as they are
by the wonders and prodigies of the exploits of their first conqueror,
Okhous-Han, who seems to be the Madyes of Herodotus.  This illustrious
leader of the Scythian hordes carried his arms into Syria, and reached
even the confines of Egypt.

The Chinese annals frequently mention certain nomad tribes, which they
call Hioung-Nou, and which are no other than the Huns.  These wandering
and warlike tribes gradually extended themselves, and finished by
covering the immense deserts of Tartary from east to west.  Thenceforward
they made continual incursions on their neighbours, and on several
occasions made attacks on the frontiers of the empire.  It was on such an
occasion that Thsin-Chi-Hoang-Ti had the Great Wall built in the year 213
B.C.  About 134 B.C. the Huns, under the conduct of Lao-Chan, their
emperor, made an attack on the Tartars Youei-Tchi (the Getæ), who dwelt
on the confines of the province of Chen-Si.  After a series of long and
terrible conflicts, Lao-Chan defeated them, slew their chief, and made of
his head a drinking cup, which he wore suspended from his girdle.  The
Getæ did not choose to submit to the victors, and preferred going
elsewhere in search of another country.  They divided into two principal
bands.  One advanced towards the north-west, and took possession of the
plains situated upon the banks of the river Ili, beyond the glaciers of
the Moussour mountains; this is that part of Tartary which is now called
the Tourgout.  The other division marched southwards, associated with it
in its course several other tribes, and reached the regions watered by
the Indus.  There it laid waste the kingdom founded by the successors of
Alexander, strove for some time against the Parthians, and finished by
establishing itself in Bactriana.  The Greeks called these Tartar tribes
Indo-Scythians.

Meanwhile divisions arose among the Huns; and the Chinese, ever politic
and cunning, took advantage of this circumstance to enfeeble them.
Towards the year 48 of our era, the Tartar empire was divided into
northern and southern.  Under the dynasty of Han, the Northern Huns were
completely defeated by the Chinese armies.  They were obliged to abandon
the regions wherein they had settled, and proceeded in large numbers
towards the west, to the borders of the Caspian Sea; here they spread
themselves over the countries watered by the Volga, and round the Palus
Mæotis.

They commenced in 376 their formidable irruptions upon the Roman empire.
They began by subduing the territory of the Alani, a nomad and pastoral
people like themselves; some of these sought refuge in the Circassian
mountains, others migrated further west, and finally settled on the
shores of the Danube.  Later, they drove before them the Suevi, the
Goths, the Gepidæ, and the Vandals, and with these advanced to ravage
Germany, in the beginning of the fifth century.  These large hordes of
barbarians resembling waves, one driven on by the other, thus formed, in
their destructive course, a fearful torrent, which finally inundated
Europe.

The Southern Huns, who had remained in Tartary, were for a long time
weakened by the dispersion of their northern countrymen; but they
recovered, by insensible degrees, and again became terrible to the
Chinese; though they did not acquire a political and historical
importance till the time of the famous Tchinggiskhan, towards the close
of the twelfth century.

The power of the Tartars, long confined within the desert steppes of
Mongolia, broke at length its bounds, and innumerable armies might be
seen descending from the lofty table-lands of Central Asia, and
precipitating themselves with fury on horrified nations: Tchinggiskhan
carried pillage and death even to the most remote regions.  China,
Tartary, India, Persia, Syria, Muscovy, Poland, Hungary, Austria,—all
these countries successively felt the terrible blows of the victorious
Tartar.  France, Italy, and the other regions further west, escaped with
their fear.

In the year 1260 of our era, Khan-Khoubilai, grandson of Tchinggis, who
had commenced the conquest of China, succeeded in subduing that vast
empire.  It was the first time that it had passed under the yoke of
foreigners.  Khoubilai died at Peking in the year 1294, aged eighty.  His
empire was, without dispute, the largest that had ever existed.  Chinese
geographers state that, under the Mongol dynasty of the Youen, the empire
northwards went beyond the In-Chan mountains; westwards it extended
beyond the Gobi or sandy desert; to the east, it was terminated by the
countries situated on the left of the river Siao; and in the southern
direction it reached the shores of the Youé Sea.  It is obvious that this
description does not include the countries tributary to the empire.
Thibet, Turkestan, Muscovy, Siam, Cochin China, Tonking, and Corea,
acknowledged the supremacy of the Grand Khan of the Tartars, and
faithfully paid him tribute.  Even European nations were, from time to
time, insolently summoned to acknowledge the Mongol supremacy.  Haughty
and threatening letters were sent to the Pope, to the King of France, to
the Emperor, commanding them to send as tribute the revenues of their
states to the depths of Tartary.  The descendants of Tchinggiskhan, who
reigned in Muscovy, Persia, Bactriana, and Sogdiana, received investiture
from the Emperor of Peking, and undertook nothing of importance without
first giving him notice.  The diplomatic papers which the King of Persia
sent, in the thirteenth century, to Philip the Fair, are a proof of this
dependance.  On these precious monuments, which are preserved to this day
in the archives of France, are seals in Chinese characters, which testify
the supremacy of the Grand Khan of Peking over the sovereigns of Persia.

The conquests of Tchinggiskhan and of his successors; and, in later
times, those of Tamerlan or Timour, which transferred the seat of the
Mongol empire to Samarcand, contributed, in as great, and perhaps a
greater degree than the Crusades, to renew the intercourse of Europe with
the most distant states of the East, and favoured the discoveries which
have been so useful to the progress of the arts, of the sciences, and of
navigation.

On this subject, we will quote in this place, an interesting passage from
the Memoirs which M. Abel Rémusat published in 1824, on the political
relations of the Christian princes, and particularly of the Kings of
France with the Mongol Emperors:—

    “The lieutenants of Tchinggiskhan, and of his first successors, on
    arriving in Western Asia, did not seek at first, to contract any
    alliance there.  The princes, whose domains they entered, silently
    permitted the impost of a tribute; the rest were required to submit.
    The Georgians and Armenians were among the first.  The Franks of
    Syria, the Kings of Hungary, the Emperor himself, had to repel their
    insolent demands.  The Pope was not exempted, by the supremacy he
    enjoyed in relation to the other Christian princes; nor the King of
    France, by the high renown he enjoyed throughout the East.  The
    terror which the Tartars inspired, precluded a fitting answer to
    their demands.  The course resorted to was conciliation, the seeking
    their alliance, and the endeavouring to rouse them against the
    Moslems.  The latter attempt would scarcely have been successful, had
    not the Christians in the East, who, by adhesion as vassals, had
    obtained credit at the courts of their generals and their princes,
    zealously employed themselves in the matter.  The Mongols were
    induced at last to undertake war against the Sultan of Egypt.  Such
    were the relations with this nation during the first period, which
    lasted from 1224 to 1262.

    “In the second period, the Khalifat was destroyed; a Mongol
    principality was founded in Persia: it bordered on the states of the
    Sultan of Egypt.  A sanguinary rivalry arose between the two
    countries, which the Eastern Christians did all in their power to
    irritate.  The Mongol empire was divided.  Those of Persia had need
    of auxiliaries, which their Armenian vassals procured for them: these
    auxiliaries were the Franks.  From this time, their power declined
    more and more; and ere long it was annihilated.  Fresh crusades might
    restore it.  The Mongols excited these in the West.  They joined
    their exhortations to those of the Georgians, Armenians, of the wreck
    of the crusaders, who had taken refuge in Cyprus, and to those of the
    sovereign pontiffs.  The first Tartars had commenced by threats; the
    last came to offers, and even descended to supplications.  Twenty
    ambassadors were sent by them to Italy, France, and England; and it
    was no fault of theirs that the fire of the holy wars was not
    rekindled, and extended over Europe and Asia.  These diplomatic
    attempts, the recital of which forms, so to speak, an epilogue to the
    transmarine expeditions, scarcely noticed by those who have written
    their history, and, indeed, unknown to most of them, would deserve,
    perhaps, our fixed attention.  We should have to collect facts,
    resolve difficulties, and place in a clear point of view the
    political system to which the negociations with the Tartars belong.
    Specialties of this class could not be appreciated, whilst they were
    considered isolately, and without examining them one with another.
    We might doubt, with Voltaire and De Guignes, that a king of the
    Tartars had met Saint Louis with offers of service.  This fact might
    seem not tenable, and its recital paradoxical.  Yet such scepticism
    would be unreasonable, after we had seen that the Mongols had acted
    upon that principle for fifty years; and when we are assured, by
    reading contemporary writings, and by the inspection of original
    monuments, that this conduct was natural on their part, that it
    entered into their views, that it conformed to their interests, and
    that it is explained by the common rules of reason and policy.

    “The series of events which are connected with these negociations
    serves to complete the history of the Crusades; but the part they may
    have had in the great moral revolution, which soon followed the
    relations which they occasioned between people hitherto unknown to
    each other, are facts of an importance more general and still more
    worthy of our particular attention.  Two systems of civilization had
    become established at the two extremities of the ancient continent,
    as the effect of independent causes, without communication, and
    consequently without mutual influence.  All at once the events of war
    and political combinations bring into contact these two great bodies,
    long strangers to each other.  The formal interviews of ambassadors
    are not the only occasions which brought them together.  Other
    occasions more private, but also more efficacious, were established
    by imperceptible, but innumerable ramifications, by the travels of a
    host of individuals, attracted to the two extremities of the earth,
    with commercial views, in the train of ambassadors or armies.  The
    irruption of the Mongols, by throwing everything into agitation,
    neutralized distance, filled up intervals, and brought the nations
    together; the events of war transported millions of individuals to an
    immense distance from the places where they were born.  History has
    recorded the voyages of kings, of ambassadors, of missionaries.
    Sempad, the Orbelian; Hayton, King of Armenia; the two Davids, Kings
    of Georgia; and several others were led by political motives to the
    depths of Asia.  Yeroslaf, Grand Duke of Sousdal and vassal of the
    Mongols, like the other Russian princes, came to Kara-Koroum, where
    he died of poison, it was said, administered by the Empress herself,
    the mother of the Emperor Gayouk.  Many monks, Italians, French,
    Flemings, were charged with diplomatic missions to the Grand Khan.
    Mongols of distinction came to Rome, Barcelona, Valencia, Lyons,
    Paris, London, Northampton; and a Franciscan of the kingdom of Naples
    was Archbishop of Peking.  His successor was a professor of theology
    of the Faculty of Paris.  But how many others, less celebrated, were
    led in the train of those men, either as slaves, or impelled by the
    desire of gain, or by curiosity, to countries hitherto unexplored.
    Chance has preserved the names of a few.  The first envoy who came on
    the part of the Tartars to the King of Hungary was an Englishman,
    banished from his country for certain crimes, and who, after having
    wandered throughout Asia, had finally taken service among the
    Mongols.  A Flemish Cordelier met in the depth of Tartary a woman of
    Metz, named Paquette, who had been carried away from Hungary, a
    Parisian goldsmith whose brother was established in Paris on the
    Grand Pont, and a young man from the environs of Rouen, who had been
    present at the capture of Belgrade; he saw there also Russians,
    Hungarians, and Flemings.  A singer, named Robert, after travelling
    through the whole of Eastern Asia, returned to find a grave in the
    Cathedral of Chartres.  A Tartar was a helmet-maker in the armies of
    Philip the Fair.  Jean de Plan-Carpin met, near Gayouk, with a
    Russian gentleman, whom he calls Temer, who served as interpreter.
    Several merchants of Breslau, Poland, and Austria, accompanied him in
    his journey to Tartary; others returned with him through Russia;
    these were Genoese, Pisans, and two merchants of Venice whom chance
    had brought to Bokhara.  They were induced to go in the suite of a
    Mongol ambassador, whom Houlagou had sent to Khoubilai.  They
    sojourned several years in China and Tartary, took letters from the
    Grand Khan to the Pope, and returned to the Grand Khan, bringing with
    them the son of one of their number, the celebrated Marco-Polo, and
    quitted once more the Court of Khoubilai to return to Venice.
    Travels of this kind were not less frequent in the succeeding age.
    Of this number are those of John de Mandeville, an English physician;
    of Oderic of Friuli; of Pegoletti; of Guillaume de Boutdeselle, and
    several others.  We may be certain that the journeys which have been
    recorded are but a small portion of those which were performed, and
    that there were at that period more people able to make a long
    journey than to write an account of it.  Many of these adventurers
    must have established themselves and died in the countries they went
    to visit.  Others returned to their country as obscure as when they
    left it; but with their imaginations full of what they had seen,
    relating it all to their families and friends, and doubtless with
    exaggerations; but leaving around them, amidst ridiculous fables, a
    few useful recollections and traditions productive of advantage.
    Thus were sown in Germany, in Italy, in France, in the monasteries,
    among the nobility, and even in the lowest grades of society,
    precious seeds destined to bud at a later period.  All these obscure
    travellers, carrying the arts of their native country to distant
    lands, brought back other information about these no less precious,
    and thus effected, unconsciously, exchanges more productive of good
    than all those of commerce.  By this means not merely the traffic in
    silks, in porcelains, in commodities from Hindostan, was made more
    extensive and more practicable, opening new routes to industry and
    commerce; but, that which was far more valuable, foreign manners and
    customs of before unknown nations, extraordinary productions, were
    presented to the European mind, confined, since the fall of the Roman
    empire, within too narrow a circle.  Men began to have an idea that,
    after all, there was something worthy of notice in the finest, the
    most populous and the most anciently civilized of the four quarters
    of the world.  People began to think of studying the arts, the
    religions, the languages of the nations who inhabited it, and there
    was even a proposition to establish a professorship of the Tartar
    language in the University of Paris.  Romantic narratives, reduced by
    discussion within reasonable proportions, diffused in all directions
    juster and more varied information: the world seemed opening towards
    the East.  Geography made immense strides, and ardour of discovery
    became the new form assumed by the adventurous spirit of Europeans.
    The idea of another hemisphere ceased, as soon as our own became
    better known, to present itself to the mind as a paradox destitute of
    all probability, and it was in going in search of the Zipangri of
    Marco-Polo that Christopher Columbus discovered the New World.

    “I should make too great a digression, were I to investigate what
    were in the East the effects of the Mongol irruption, the destruction
    of the Khalifat, the extermination of the Bulgarians, of the Romans,
    and other northern nations.  The decline of the population of Upper
    Asia, so favourable to the reaction by which the Russians, hitherto
    the vassals of the Tartars, subdued in their turn all the nomads of
    the North; the submission of China to a foreign yoke; the definitive
    establishment of the Indian religion in Thibet and Tartary; all these
    events deserve to be studied in detail.  I will not even pause to
    inquire what might have been the results, to the nations of Eastern
    Asia, of the intercourse which they had with the West.  The
    introduction of the Indian numerals into China, a knowledge of the
    astronomical system of the Moslems, the translation of the New
    Testament and the Psalms into the Mongol language, executed by the
    Latin Archbishop of _Khan Balik_ (Peking), the foundation of the
    lamanical hierarchy, framed in imitation of the pontifical court, and
    produced by the fusion effected between the remnants of the
    Nestorianism established in Tartary and the dogmas of the Buddhists;
    such were all the innovations of which there are any traces in
    Eastern Asia, and therewith the commerce of the Franks has very
    little to do.  The Asiatics are punished for their contempt of the
    knowledge of Europeans, by the limited results which that very scorn
    enables them to derive from it.  To confine myself to what concerns
    the people of the West, and to attempt to justify what I said at the
    commencement of this Memoir, that the effects of the communications
    with the nations of Upper Asia, in the thirteenth century, had
    contributed indirectly to the progress of European civilization, I
    will conclude with a reflection, which I shall offer with the more
    confidence, that it is not entirely new, while, at the same time, the
    facts we have just investigated seem calculated to give it a sanction
    it had not before.

    “Before the establishment of the intercourse which, first the
    Crusades, and then, later, the irruption of the Mongols, caused to
    spring up between the nations of the East and those of the West, the
    greater part of those inventions, which distinguished the close of
    the middle ages, had been known to the Asiatics for centuries.  The
    polarity of the loadstone had been discovered and put into operation
    in China from the remotest antiquity.  Gunpowder had been as long
    known to the Hindoos and the Chinese, the latter of whom had, in the
    tenth century, ‘thunder carriages,’ which seem to have been cannon.
    It is difficult to account in any other way for the fire-stone
    throwers, which are so often mentioned in the history of the Mongols.
    Houlagou, when he set out for Persia, had in his army a body of
    Chinese artillerymen.  Again, the first edition of the classic books
    engraved on wooden boards is dated in the year 952.  The institution
    of bank notes, and of banking and exchange offices, took place among
    the Jou-Tchen in 1154.  Bank notes were adopted by the Mongols
    established in China; they were known to the Persians by the same
    name as the Chinese give them, and Josaphat Barbaro was informed in
    1450 by an intelligent Tartar whom he met at Asof, and who had been
    on an embassy to China, that this sort of money was printed in China
    every year _con nuova stampa_; and this expression is remarkable
    enough, considering the time when Barbaro made this observation.
    Lastly, playing cards—into the origin of which so many learned
    antiquarians would not have busied themselves to inquire, were it not
    that it marked one of the first applications of the art of engraving
    on wood—were invented in China in the year 1120.

    “There are, besides, in the commencement of each of these inventions,
    particular features which seem calculated to show their origin.  I
    will not speak of the compass, the ancient use of which, in China,
    Hager seems to me successfully to have demonstrated, and which passed
    into Europe by means of the Crusades, previous to the irruption of
    the Mongols, as the famous passage in Jacques de Vitry, and some
    others, prove.  But the oldest playing cards, those used in the _jeu
    de tarots_, have a marked analogy in their form, their designs, their
    size, their number, with the cards which the Chinese make use of.
    Cannons were the first firearms made use of in Europe; they are also,
    it would appear, the only fire-arms with which the Chinese were
    acquainted at this period.  The question as to paper money appears to
    have been viewed in its true light by M. Langles, and after him by
    Hager.  The first boards made use of to print upon were made of wood
    and stereotyped, like those of the Chinese; and nothing is more
    natural than to suppose that some book from China gave the idea.
    This would not be more surprising than the fragment of the Bible, in
    Gothic characters, which Father Martini discovered in the house of a
    Chinese at Tchang-Tcheou-Fou.  We have the instance of another usage,
    which evidently followed the same route—it is that of the Souan-Pan,
    or arithmetical machine of the Chinese, which was, doubtless,
    introduced into Europe by the Tartars of the army of Batou, and which
    has so extensively pervaded Russia and Poland, that women who cannot
    read use nothing else in the settlement of their household accounts,
    and their little commercial dealings.  The conjecture which gives a
    Chinese origin to the primitive idea of European typography is so
    natural, that it was propounded before there was any opportunity for
    collecting together all the circumstances which make it so probable.
    It is the idea of Paulo Jovio, and of Mendoça, who imagine that a
    Chinese book may have been brought into Europe before the arrival of
    the Portuguese in the Indies, by the medium of the Scythians and
    Muscovites.  It was developed by an anonymous Englishman; and
    carefully putting aside from the consideration the impression in
    moveable types, which is, no doubt, an invention peculiar to the
    Europeans, one cannot conceive any sound objection to an hypothesis
    which bears so strongly the stamp of probability.  But this
    supposition acquires a still greater degree of probability when we
    apply it to the totality of the discoveries in question.  All were
    made in Eastern Asia; all were unheard-of in the West.  Communication
    took place: it was continued for a century and a-half, and ere
    another century had elapsed, all these inventions were known in
    Europe.  Their origin is veiled in obscurity.  The region where they
    manifested themselves, the men who produced them, are equally a
    subject of doubt.  Enlightened countries were not their theatre.  It
    was not learned men who were their authors; it was common men,
    obscure artisans, who lighted up, one after another, these unexpected
    flames.  Nothing can better demonstrate the effects of a
    communication; nothing can be more in accordance with what we have
    said above as to those invisible channels, those imperceptible
    ramifications, whereby the science of the Eastern nations penetrated
    into Europe.  The greater part of these inventions appear at first in
    the state of infancy in which the Asiatics have left them; and this
    circumstance alone, almost prevents our having any doubt as to their
    origin.  Some are immediately put in practice; others remain for some
    time enveloped in obscurity, which conceals from us their progress,
    and they are taken, on their appearance, for new discoveries; all are
    soon brought to perfection, and, as it were, fecundated by the genius
    of Europeans, operating in concert, communicate to human intelligence
    the greatest impulse known to history.  Thus, by this shock of
    nations, the darkness of the middle age was dispersed.  Calamities,
    which at first aspect seemed merely destined to afflict mankind,
    served to arouse it from the lethargy in which it had remained for
    ages; and the subversion of twenty empires was the price at which
    Providence accorded to Europe the light of modern civilization.”

The Mongol dynasty of the Youen occupied the empire for a century.  After
having shone with a brilliancy, the reflection of which spread over the
most remote regions, it ended with Chun-Ti, a feeble prince, more mindful
of frivolous amusements than of the great inheritance which had been left
him by his ancestors.  The Chinese regained their independence; and
Tchou-Youen-Tchang, the son of a labourer, and for some time a servant in
a convent of bonzes, was the founder of the celebrated dynasty of the
Ming.  They ascended the imperial throne in 1368, and reigned in the name
of Houng-Wou.

The Tartars were massacred in great numbers in the interior of China, and
the rest were driven back to their old country.  The Emperor Young-Lo
pursued them three several times beyond the desert, more than 200 leagues
north of the Great Wall, in order to exterminate them.  He could not,
however, effect this object, and, dying on his return from his third
expedition, his successors left the Tartars in peace beyond the desert,
whence they diffused themselves right and left.  The principal chiefs of
the blood of Tchinggiskhan occupied, each with his people, a particular
district, and gave birth to various tribes, which all formed so many
petty kingdoms.

These fallen princes, ever tormented by the recollection of their ancient
power, appeared several times on the frontiers of the empire, and did not
cease to disquiet the Chinese princes, without, however, succeeding in
their attempts at invasion.

Towards the commencement of the seventeenth century, the Mantchou Tartars
having made themselves masters of China, the Mongols gradually submitted
to them, and placed themselves under their sovereignty.  The Oelets, a
Mongol tribe, deriving their name from Oloutai, a celebrated warrior in
the fourteenth century, made frequent irruptions into the country of the
Khalkhas, and a sanguinary war arose between these two people.  The
Emperor Khang-Hi, under the pretence of conciliating them, intervened in
their quarrel, put an end to the war by subjecting both parties, and
extended his domination in Tartary to the frontiers of Russia; the three
Khans of the Khalkhas came to make their submission to the Mantchou
Emperor, who convoked a grand meeting near Tolon-Noor.  Each Khan
presented to him eight white horses, and one white camel; from which
circumstance this tribute was called, in the Mongol language,
_Yousoun-Dchayan_, (the nine white); it was agreed that they should bring
every year a similar present.

At the present time the Tartar nations, more or less subject to the sway
of the Mantchou emperors, are no longer what they were in the time of
Tchinggiskhan and Timour.  Since that epoch Tartary has been disorganized
by so many revolutions; it has undergone such notable political and
geographical changes, that what travellers and writers said about it in
former periods no longer applies to it.

During a length of time geographers divided Tartary into three grand
parts—1.  Russian Tartary, extending from east to west, from the sea of
Kamchatka to the Black Sea, and from north to south, from the regions
inhabited by the Tongous and Samoiede tribes, to the lakes Baikal and
Aral.  2.  Chinese Tartary, bounded east by the sea of Japan, south by
the Great Wall of China, west by the Gobi or great sandy desert; and
north, by the Baikal Lake.  3.  Independent Tartary, extending to the
Caspian Sea, and including in its limits the whole of Thibet.  Such a
division is altogether chimerical, and without any sound basis.  All
these immense tracts, indeed, once formed part of the great empires of
Tchinggiskhan and Timour.  The Tartar hordes made encampments there at
their will in the course of their warlike wanderings; but now all this is
completely changed, and, to form an exact idea of modern Tartary, it is
necessary to modify in a great degree the notions that have been
transmitted to us by the mediæval authors, and which, in default of
better information, have been adopted by all the geographers, down to
Malte-Brun, inclusive.  To realize a definite idea about Tartary, we
think that the clearest, most certain, and consequently the most
reasonable rule, is to adopt the opinions of the Tartars themselves, and
of the Chinese, far more competent judges of this matter than Europeans,
who, having no connection with this part of Asia, are obliged to trust to
conjectures which have often little to do with truth.  In accordance with
a universal usage, the soundness of which we were enabled to confirm in
the course of our travels, we will divide the Tartar people into Eastern
Tartars (Toung-Ta-Dze), or Mantchous, and Western Tartars (Si-Ta-Dze), or
Mongols.  The boundaries of Mantchouria are very distinct, as we have
already stated.  It is bounded on the north by the Kinggan mountains,
which separate it from Siberia; on the south by the gulf of Phou-Hai and
Corea; on the east by the sea of Japan; and on the west by the Barrier of
Stakes and a branch of the Sakhalien-Oula.  It would be a difficult
matter to define the limits of Mongolia in an equally exact manner;
however, without any serious departure from the truth, we may include
them between the 75th and the 118th degrees longitude of Paris, and 85th
and 50th degrees of north latitude.  Great and Little Boukaria,
Kalmoukia, Great and Little Thibet—all these denominations seem to us
purely imaginary.  We shall enter, by-and-by, into some details on this
subject, in the second part of our travels, when we come to speak of
Thibet and of the neighbouring people.

The people who are comprised in the grand division of Mongolia, that we
have just given, are not all to be indiscriminately considered as
Mongols.  There are some of them to whom this denomination can only be
applied in a restricted sense.  Towards the north-west, for instance, the
Mongols are frequently confounded with the Moslems; and towards the
south, with the Si-Fans, or Eastern Thibetians.  The best way clearly to
distinguish these people, is to pay attention to their language, their
manners, their religion, their costume, and particularly to the name by
which they designate themselves.  The Mongol Khalkhas are the most
numerous, the most wealthy, and the most celebrated in history.  They
occupy the entire north of Mongolia.  Their country is of vast extent,
including nearly 200 leagues from north to south, and about 500 from east
to west.  We will not repeat here what we have already said about the
Khalkha district; we will merely add that it is divided into four great
provinces, subject to four separate sovereigns.  These provinces are
sub-divided into eighty-four banners, in Chinese called Ky, in Mongol
Bochkhon.  Princes of different ranks are at the head of each banner.
Notwithstanding the authority of these secular princes, it may safely be
said that the Khalkhas are all dependent on the Guison-Tamba, the Grand
Lama, the Living Buddha of all the Mongol Khalkhas, who consider it an
honour to call themselves Disciples of the Holy One of Kouren (_Kouré
bokte ain Chabi_).

The Southern Mongols have no special designation; they merely bear the
name of the principality to which they belong.  Thus they say, “Mongol of
Souniout, Mongol of Gechekten,” etc.  Southern Mongolia comprises
twenty-five principalities, which, like those of the Khalkhas, are
sub-divided into several Bochkhon.  The principal are the Ortous, the two
Toumet, the two Souniout, the Tchakar, Karatsin Oungniot, Gechekten,
Barin, Nayman, and the country of the Eleuts.

The Southern Mongols, near the Great Wall, have little modified their
manners by their constant intercourse with the Chinese.  You may remark
sometimes in their dress a sort of studied elegance, and in their
character pretensions to the refined politeness of the Chinese.  Laying
aside, on the one hand, the frankness, the good-natured openness of the
Mongols of the North, they have borrowed from their neighbours somewhat
of their cunning and foppery.

Proceeding to the South-east, we encounter the Mongols of the Koukou-Noor
or Blue Lake (in Chinese, Tsing-Hai or Blue Sea).  This country is far
from possessing the extent which is generally assigned to it in
geographical charts.  The Mongols of the Koukou-Noor only dwell around
the lake, from which they derive their name; and, moreover, they are
mixed up to a great extent with Si-Fans, who cannot live secure in their
own country, because of the hordes of robbers that are constantly
ravaging it.

To the west of the Koukou-Noor is the river Tsaidam, on whose banks
encamp the numerous tribes, called Tsaidam-Mongols, who must not be
confounded with the Mongols of the Koukou-Noor.  Farther still, in the
very heart of Thibet, we encounter other Mongol tribes.  We shall say
nothing about them here, as we shall have occasion to speak of them in
the course of our narrative.  We will revert, therefore, in some detail
to the Mongols of the Koukou-Noor and the Tsaidam.

The Torgot-Tartars, who formerly dwelt near Kara-Koroum, the capital of
the Mongols in the time of Tchinggiskhan, are now situated to the
north-west of Mongolia.  In 1672, the whole tribe, having raised their
tents and assembled all their flocks, abandoned the district which had
served them as a resting-place, migrated to the western part of Asia, and
established themselves in the steppes between the Don and the Volga.

The Torgot princes recognised the sovereignty of the Muscovite emperors,
and declared themselves their vassals.  But these wandering hordes,
passionately attached to the independence of their nomad life, could not
long accommodate themselves to the new masters they had selected.  They
soon felt an aversion to the laws and regular institutions which were
becoming established in the Russian empire.  In 1770, the Torgots again
made a general migration.  Led by their chief, Aboucha, they suddenly
disappeared, passed the Russian frontiers, and halted on the banks of the
river Ili.  This flight had been concerted with the government of Peking.
The Emperor of China, who had been informed beforehand of the period of
their departure, took them under his protection, and assigned to them
settlements on the banks of the Ili.

The principality of Ili is now the Botany-Bay of China: thither are sent
the Chinese criminals, condemned to exile by the laws of the empire.
Before their arrival in these distant regions they are obliged to cross
frightful deserts, and to climb the Moussour (glacier) mountains.  These
gigantic summits are entirely formed of icebergs, piled one on the top of
the other, so that travellers cannot advance except by hewing steps out
of the eternal ice.  On the other side of the Moussour mountains the
country, they say, is magnificent; the climate temperate enough, and the
soil adapted for every kind of cultivation.  The exiles have transported
thither a great many of the productions of China; but the Mongols
continue to follow their nomad life, and merely to pasture herds and
flocks.

We had occasion to travel for some time with Lamas of the Torgot; some of
them arrived with us at Lha-Ssa.  We did not remark, either in their
costume, in their manners, or in their language, anything to distinguish
them from the Mongols.  They spoke a good deal about the _Oros_
(Russians), but in a way to make us understand that they were by no means
desirous of again becoming subject to their sway.  The Torgot camels are
remarkably fine, and generally much larger and stronger than those in the
other parts of Mongolia.

It would be a very desirable thing to send missionaries to Ili.  We
believe that there would be found already formed there a numerous and
fervent body of Christians.  It is well known that for many years past,
it is hither that the Christians who have refused to apostatize, have
been exiled from all the provinces of China.  The missionary who should
obtain permission to exercise his zeal in the Torgot, would doubtless
have to undergo great privations during his journey thither; but he would
be amply compensated, by the thought of carrying the succour of religion
to all those generous confessors of the faith, whom the tyranny of the
Chinese government has sent to die in these distant regions.

To the south-west of Torgot is the province of Khachghar.  At the present
day, this district cannot at all be considered a part of Mongolia.  Its
inhabitants have neither the language, nor the physiognomy, nor the
costume, nor the religion, nor the manners of the Mongols; they are
Moslems.  The Chinese, as well as the Tartars, call them Hoei-Hoei, a
name by which they designate the Mussulmen who dwell in the interior of
the Chinese empire.  This description of Khachghar, is also applicable to
the people to the south of the Celestial Mountains, in the Chinese tongue
called Tien-Chan, and in Mongol, Bokte-oola (holy mountains).

Not long since the Chinese government had to sustain a terrible war
against Khachghar.  We are indebted for the following details to some
military Mandarins who accompanied this famous and distant expedition.

The Court of Peking kept in Khachghar two grand Mandarins, with the title
of Delegates Extraordinary (_Kintchai_), who were charged to guard the
frontiers, and to keep an eye on the movements of the neighbouring
people.  These Chinese officers, instead of merely watching, exercised
their power with such horrible and revolting tyranny, that they wore out
the patience of the people of Khachghar, who, at length, rose in a body,
and massacred all the Chinese resident in the country.  The news reaching
Peking, the Emperor, who knew nothing of the misconduct of his officers,
assembled his troops, and marched them against the Moslems.  The contest
was long and bloody.  The Chinese government had several times to send
reinforcements.  The Hoei-Hoei were commanded by a hero called
Tchankoeul; his stature, they say, was prodigious, and he had no weapon
but an enormous club.  He frequently defeated the Chinese army, and
destroyed several grand military Mandarins.  At length, the Emperor sent
the famous Yang, who put an end to the war.  The conqueror of Khachghar
is a military Mandarin of the province of Chang-Tong, remarkable for his
lofty stature, and above all for the prodigious length of his beard.
According to the account we heard of him, his manner of fighting was
singular enough.  As soon as the action commenced, he tied up his beard
in two great knots, in order that it might not get in his way, and then
he placed himself behind his troops.  There, armed with a long sabre, he
drove his soldiers on to combat, and massacred, without pity, those who
were cowards enough to draw back.  This method of commanding an army will
seem somewhat peculiar; but those who have lived among the Chinese will
see that the military genius of Yang was founded on a thorough knowledge
of the soldiers he had to deal with.

The Moslems were defeated, and Tchankoeul was, by means of treachery,
made a prisoner.  He was conveyed to Peking, where he had to undergo the
most barbarous and humiliating treatment, even the being exposed to the
people, shut up in an iron cage, like a wild beast.  The Emperor
Tao-Kouang wished to see this warrior, of whom fame spoke so much, and
ordered him to be brought to him.  The Mandarins immediately took alarm;
they were afraid lest the prisoner should reveal to the Emperor the
causes which had brought about the revolt of Khachghar, and the horrible
massacres which had followed it.  The great dignitaries saw that these
revelations would be dangerous for them, and make them seem guilty of
negligence in the eyes of the Emperor, for not having duly observed the
conduct of the Mandarins who were placed in charge of distant provinces.
To obviate this danger, they made the unfortunate Tchankouel swallow a
draught which took away his speech, and threw him into a disgusting state
of stupor.  When he appeared in the presence of the Emperor, his mouth,
they say, foamed, and his visage was horrible; he could not answer any of
the questions which were addressed to him.  Tchankouel was condemned to
be cut into pieces, and to be served up as food for the dogs.

The Mandarin Yang was loaded with favours by the Emperor, for having so
happily terminated the war of Khachghar.  He obtained the dignity of
Batourou, a Tartar word signifying valorous.  This title is the most
honourable that a military Mandarin can obtain.

The Batourou Yang was sent against the English, in their last war with
the Chinese; but there it would appear his tactics did not avail.  During
our travels in China we inquired of several Mandarins, how it was that
the Batourou Yang had not exterminated the English: the answer everywhere
was, that he had had compassion on them.

The numerous principalities of which Mongolia is composed, are all more
or less dependent on the Mantchou Emperor, in proportion as they show
more or less weakness in their relations with the Court of Peking.  They
may be considered as so many feudal kingdoms, giving no obedience to
their sovereign beyond the extent of their fear or their interest; and
indeed, what the Mantchou dynasty fears above all things, is the vicinity
of these Tartar tribes.  The Emperors are fully aware that, headed by an
enterprising and bold chief, these tribes might successfully renew the
terrible wars of other times, and once more obtain possession of the
empire.  For this reason, they use every means in their power to preserve
the friendship of the Mongol princes, and to enfeeble the strength of
these terrible nomads.  It is with this view, as we have already
remarked, that they patronise lamanism, by richly endowing the
Lamaseries, and by granting numerous privileges to the Lamas.  So long as
they can maintain their influence over the sacerdotal tribe, they are
assured that neither the people nor the princes will stir from their
repose.

[Picture: Chinese Princess] Alliances are another means by which the
reigning dynasty seeks to consolidate its power in Mongolia.  The
daughters and nearest relations of the Emperor, intermarrying with the
royal families of Tartary, contribute to maintain between the two peoples
pacific and friendly relations.  Yet these princesses continue to have a
great predilection for the pomp and grandeur of the imperial court.  The
mournful, monotonous life of the desert soon fatigues them, and they sigh
for the brilliant fêtes of Peking.  To obviate the inconvenience that
might attend their frequent journeys to the capital, a very severe
regulation has been made to moderate the wandering humour of these
princesses.  First, for the first ten years after their marriage, they
are forbidden to come to Peking, under penalty of having the annual
pension the Emperor allows to their husbands suspended.  This period
having elapsed, they are allowed to go to Peking, but never at their own
mere fancy.  A tribunal is appointed to examine their reasons for
temporarily quitting their family.  If these are considered valid, they
allow them a certain number of days, on the expiration of which they are
enjoined to return to Tartary.  During their stay at Peking, they are
supported at the expense of the Emperor, suitably to their dignity.

The most elevated personages in the hierarchy of the Mongol princes, are
the Thsin-Wang and the Kiun-Wang.  Their title is equivalent to that of
king.  After them come the Peile, the Beisse, the Koung of the first and
second class, and the Dchassak.  These may be compared to our ancient
dukes, barons, etc.  We have already mentioned that the Mongol princes
are bound to pay certain rents to the Emperor; but the amount of these is
so small, that the Mantchou dynasty can only levy it on account of the
moral effect that may result.  As simple matter-of-fact, it would be
nearer the truth to say that the Mantchous are the tributaries of the
Mongols; for, in return for the few beasts they receive from them, they
give them annually large sums of money, silken stuffs, clothes, and
various articles of luxury and ornament, such as buttons, sables,
peacocks’ feathers, etc.  Each Wang of the first degree receives annually
2,500 ounces of silver (about £800), and forty pieces of silk stuff.  All
the other princes are paid according to the rank they derive from the
Emperor.  A Dchassak, for example, receives yearly one hundred ounces of
silver, and four pieces of silk.

There exist certain Lamaseries, termed Imperial, where each Lama, on
obtaining the degree of Kalon, is obliged to offer to the Emperor an
ingot of silver of the value of fifty ounces; his name is then inscribed
on the register of the imperial clergy at Peking, and he is entitled to
the pension given yearly to the Lamas of the Emperor.  It is obvious that
all these measures, so calculated to flatter the self-love and avarice of
the Tartars, do not a little contribute to maintain their feelings of
respect and submission towards a government which takes such pains to
court their friendship.

The Mongols, however, of the district of the Khalkhas do not seem to be
much affected by these demonstrations.  They only see in the Mantchous a
rival race, in possession of a prey which they themselves have never
ceased to desire.  We have frequently heard the Mongol Khalkhas use the
most unceremonious and seditious language in speaking of the Mantchou
Emperor.  “They are subject,” say they, “to the Guison-Tamba alone, to
the _Most Holy_, and not to the black-man (layman), who sits on the
throne of Peking.”  These redoubtable children of Tchinggiskhan still
seem to be cherishing in their inmost heart schemes of conquest and
invasion.  They only await, they say, the command of their Grand Lama to
march direct upon Peking, and to regain an empire which they believe to
be theirs, for the sole reason that it was formerly theirs.  The Mongol
princes exact from their subjects or slaves certain tributes, which
consist in sheep, and here is the absurd and unjust regulation, in
accordance with which this tribute must be paid:

The owner of five or more oxen must contribute one sheep: the owner of
twenty sheep must contribute one of them; if he owns forty he gives two;
but they need give no more, however numerous their flocks.  As may be
seen, this tribute really weighs upon the poor only; the wealthy may
possess a great number of cattle without being obliged to contribute more
than two sheep.

Besides these regular tributes, there are others which the princes are
accustomed to levy on their slaves, on some extraordinary occasions; for
instance, marriages, burials, and distant voyages.  On these occasions,
each collection of ten tents is obliged to furnish a horse and a camel.
Every Mongol who owns three cows must pay a pail of milk; if he possesses
five, a pot of koumis or wine, made of fermented milk.  The owner of a
flock of 100 sheep, furnishes a felt carpet or a tent covering; he who
owns three camels must give a bundle of long cords to fasten the baggage.
However, in a country where everything is subject to the arbitrary will
of the chief, these regulations, as may be supposed, are not strictly
observed.  Sometimes the subjects are altogether exempted from their
operation, and sometimes also there is exacted from them much more than
the law decrees.

Robbery and murder are very severely punished among the Mongols; but the
injured individuals, or their parents, are themselves obliged to
prosecute the prisoner before the tribunals: the worst outrage remains
unpunished if no one appears to prosecute.  In the ideas of a
semi-barbarous people, the man who attempts to take the property or life
of any one, is deemed to have committed merely a private offence,
reparation for which ought to be demanded, not by the public, but by the
injured party or his family.  Theses rude notions of justice are common
to China and to Thibet; and for that matter, we know that Rome herself
had no other until the establishment of Christianity, which caused the
right of the community to prevail over the right of the individual.

Mongolia, generally speaking, wears a gloomy and savage aspect; the eye
is nowhere recreated by the charm and variety of landscape scenery.  The
monotony of the steppes is only interrupted by ravines, by vast rents of
the earth, or by stony and barren hills.  Towards the north, in the
district of Khalkhas, nature is more animated; tall forests decorate the
summits of the mountains, and numerous rivers water the rich pastures of
the plains; but in the long winter season, the earth remains buried under
a thick bed of snow.  Towards the Great Wall, Chinese industry glides
like a serpent into the desert.  Towns arise on all sides.  The Land of
Grass is crowned with harvests, and the Mongol shepherds find themselves
driven back northwards, little by little, by the encroachments of
agriculture.

Sandy plains occupy, perhaps, the greater part of Mongolia; you do not
see a single tree there; some short, brittle grass, which seems to have
much difficulty in issuing from this unfruitful soil, creeping briars, a
few scanty tufts of heath, such is the sole vegetation and pasturage of
Gobi.  Water is very rarely seen; at long intervals you meet with a few
deep wells, dug for the convenience of the caravans that are obliged to
cross this dismal tract.

In Mongolia there are only two seasons in the year, nine months for
winter, and three for summer.  Sometimes the heat is stifling,
particularly on the sandy steppes, but it only lasts a few days.  The
nights, however, are almost invariably cold.  In the Mongol countries,
cultivated by the Chinese, outside the Great Wall, all agricultural
labour must be comprehended within three months.  As soon as the earth is
sufficiently thawed, they hastily set to work, or rather they do nothing
but touch the surface of the ground lightly with the plough; they then
immediately sow the seed; the corn grows with astonishing rapidity.
Whilst they are waiting for it to come to maturity, the men are
incessantly occupied in pulling up the weeds that overrun the plain.
Scarcely have they gathered in the harvest when the winter comes with its
terrible cold; during this season they thresh the corn.  As the cold
makes vast crevices in the earth, they throw water over the surface of
the threshing-floor, which freezes forthwith, and creates for the
labourers, a place always smooth and admirably clean.

The excessive cold which prevails in Mongolia may be attributed to three
causes:—to the great elevation of the country; to the nitrous substances
with which it is strongly impregnated, and to the almost entire absence
of cultivation.  In the places which the Chinese have cultivated the
temperature has risen in a remarkable degree; the heat goes on
increasing, so to speak, from year to year, as cultivation advances; so
that particular grain crops, which at first would not grow at all,
because of the cold, now ripen with wonderful success.

Mongolia, on account of its immense solitudes, has become the haunt of a
large number of wild animals.  You see at every step, hares, pheasants,
eagles, yellow goats, grey squirrels, foxes and wolves.  It is remarkable
that the wolves of Mongolia attack men rather than animals.  They may be
seen, sometimes, passing at full gallop, through a flock of sheep, in
order to attack the shepherd.  About the Great Wall they frequently visit
the Tartaro-Chinese villages, enter the farms, and disdaining the
domestic animals they find in the yard, proceed to the inside of the
house, and there select their human victims, whom they almost invariably
seize by the throat and strangle.  There is scarcely a village in
Tartary, where, every year, misfortunes of this kind do not occur.  It
would seem as though the wolves of this country were resolved to avenge
on men, the sanguinary war which the Tartars make upon their brethren.

The stag, the wild goat, the mule, the wild camel, the yak, the brown and
black bear, the lynx, the ounce and the tiger, frequent the deserts of
Mongolia.  The Tartars never proceed on a journey, unless armed with
bows, fusils and lances.

When we consider the horrible climate of Tartary, that climate ever so
gloomy and frozen, we should be led to think that the inhabitants of
these wild countries must be of an extremely fierce and rugged
temperament; their physiognomy, their deportment, the costume they wear,
all would seem to confirm this opinion.  The Mongol has a flat face, with
prominent cheek bones, the chin short and retiring, the forehead sunken,
the eyes small and oblique, of a yellow tint, as though full of bile, the
hair black and rugged, the beard scanty, the skin of a deep brown, and
extremely coarse.  The Mongol is of middle height, but his great leathern
boots and large sheep-skin robe, seem to take away from his height, and
make him appear diminutive and stumpy.  To complete this portrait, we
must add a heavy and ponderous gait, and a harsh, shrill, discordant
language, full of frightful aspirates.  Notwithstanding this rough and
unprepossessing exterior, the disposition of the Mongol is full of
gentleness and good nature; he passes suddenly from the most rollicking
and extravagant gaiety to a state of melancholy, which is by no means
disagreeable.  Timid to excess in his ordinary habits; when fanaticism or
the desire of vengeance arouses him, he displays in his courage an
impetuosity which nothing can stay; he is candid and credulous as an
infant, and he passionately loves to hear marvellous anecdotes and
narratives.  The meeting with a travelling Lama is always for him a
source of happiness.

Aversion to toil and a sedentary life, the love of pillage and rapine,
cruelty, unnatural debaucheries, are the vices which have been generally
attributed to the Mongol Tartars.  We are apt to believe that the
portrait which the old writers have drawn of them was not exaggerated,
for we always find these terrible hordes, at the period of their gigantic
conquests, bringing in their train, murder, pillage, conflagration, and
every description of scourge.  But are the Mongols the same now that they
were formerly?  We believe we can affirm the contrary, at least to a
great extent.  Wherever we have seen them, we have found them to be
generous, frank, and hospitable; inclined, it is true, like ill-educated
children, to pilfer little things which excite their curiosity, but by no
means in the habit of practising what is called pillage and robbery.  As
to their aversion for toil and a sedentary life, they are just the same
as heretofore.  It must also be admitted that their manners are very
free, but their conduct has more in it of recklessness than of absolute
corruption.  We seldom find among them those unbridled and brutal
debaucheries to which the Chinese are so much given.

The Mongols are strangers to every kind of industry.  Some felt carpets,
some rudely tanned hides, a little needlework and embroidery, are
exceptions not deserving of mention.  On the other hand, they possess to
perfection the qualities of a pastoral and nomad people.  They have the
senses of sight, hearing, and scent prodigiously developed.  The Mongol
is able to hear at a very long distance the trot of a horse, to
distinguish the form of objects, and to detect the distant scent of
flocks, and the smoke of an encampment.

Many attempts have already been made to propagate Christianity among the
Tartars, and we may say that they have not been altogether fruitless.
Towards the end of the eighth century and in the commencement of the
ninth, Timothy, patriarch of the Nestorians, sent some monks to preach
the Gospel to the Hioung-Nou Tartars, who had taken refuge on the shores
of the Caspian Sea.  At a later period they penetrated into Central Asia,
and into China.  In the time of Tchinggiskhan and his successors,
Franciscan and Dominican missionaries were dispatched to Tartary.  The
conversions were numerous; even princes, it is said, and emperors were
baptized.  But we must not entirely credit the statements of the Tartar
ambassadors, who, the more easily to draw the Christian princes of Europe
into a league against the Moslems, never failed to state that their
masters had been baptized, and had made profession of Christianity.  It
is certain, however, that at the commencement of the fourteenth century,
Pope Clement V. erected at Peking an archbishopric, in favour of Jean de
Montcorvin, a Franciscan missionary who preached the Gospel to the
Tartars for forty-two years; he translated into the Mongol language the
New Testament and the Psalms of David, and left at his death a very
flourishing Christendom.  We find on this subject some curious details in
“Le Livre de l’Estat du Grant Caan” {259} (The book of the State of the
Grand Khan), extracted from a manuscript of the National Library, and
published in the “Nouveau Journal Asiatique” (vol. vi.), by M. Jacquet, a
learned orientalist.  We conceive that it may be acceptable to quote a
few passages from this production.



OF THE MINORITES WHO DWELL IN THIS COUNTRY OF CATHAY (CHINA).


“In the said city of Cambalech was an archbishop, who was called Brother
John of Mount Curvin, of the order of Minorites, and he was legate there
for Pope Clement V.  This archbishop erected in that city aforesaid,
three houses of Minorites, and they are two leagues distant from one
another.  He likewise instituted two others in the city of Racon, which
is a long distance from Cambalech, being a journey of three months, and
it is on the sea coast; and in these two places were put two Minorites as
bishops.  The one was named Brother Andrew of Paris, and the other,
Brother Peter of Florence.  These brothers, and John the Archbishop,
converted many persons to the faith of Jesus Christ.  He is a man of
irreproachable life, agreeable to God and the world, and very much in the
Emperor’s favour.  The Emperor provided him and all his people with all
things necessary, and he was much beloved by both Christians and Pagans;
and he certainly would have converted all that country to the Christian
and Catholic faith, if the false and misbelieving Nestorian Christians
had not prevented it.  The archbishop had great trouble in restoring
these Nestorians to the obedience of our Holy Mother the Roman Church;
without which obedience, he said, they could not be saved; and on this
account these Nestorian schismatics disliked him greatly.  This
archbishop has just departed, as it pleased God, from this life.  A great
multitude of Christians and Pagans attended his funeral; and the Pagans
tore their funeral robes, as is their custom.  And these Christians and
infidels took, with great reverence, the robes of the archbishop, and
held them in great respect, and as relics.  He was buried there
honourably, in the fashion of the faithful.  They still visit his tomb
with great devotion.”



OF CERTAIN NESTORIAN CHRISTIAN SCHISMATICS WHO DWELL THERE.


“In the said city of Cambalech there is a sort of Christian schismatics
whom they call Nestorians.  They observe the customs and manners of the
Greek Church, and are not obedient to the Holy Church of Rome; but they
are of another sect, and are at great enmity with all the Catholic
Christians who are loyal to the Holy Church of Rome aforesaid.  And when
the archbishop, of whom we spoke just now, built those abbeys of
Minorites aforesaid, the Nestorians destroyed them in the night, and did
them all the mischief in their power; for they dared not injure the said
archbishop, or his brethren, or the other faithful Christians publicly
and openly, because the Emperor loved them and showed them his favour.
These Nestorians dwelling in the said empire of Cathay, number more than
30,000, and are very rich; but many of them fear the Christians.  They
have very beautiful and very holy churches, with crosses and images in
honour of God and of the saints.  They receive from the said Emperor
several offices, and he grants them many privileges, and it is thought
that if they would consent to unite and agree with these Minorites and
with other good Christians who reside in this country, they might convert
the whole of this country and the Emperor to the true faith.”



OF THE EXTRAORDINARY FAVOUR WHICH THE GRAND KHAN SHOWS TO THE SAID
CHRISTIANS.


“The Grand Khan protects the Christians who in this said kingdom are
obedient to the Holy Church of Rome, and makes provision for all their
wants, for he shows them very great favour and love; and whenever they
require anything for their churches, their crosses, or their sanctuaries,
in honour of Jesus Christ, he awards it with great willingness.  But they
must pray to God for him and his health particularly in their sermons.
And he is very anxious that they should all pray for him; and he readily
allows the brethren to preach the faith of God in the churches of the
infidels, which they call _vritanes_, and he also permits the infidels to
hear the brethren preach; so that the infidels go there very willingly,
and often with great devotion, and give the brethren much alms; and,
likewise, the Emperor lends and sends his servants to aid and assist the
Christians when they require their services, and so solicit the Emperor.”

While the Tartars remained masters of China, Christianity made great
progress in the empire.  At the present day (we say it with sorrow),
there is not to be found in Mongolia the least vestige of what was done
in ages gone by, in favour of these nomad people.  We trust, however,
that the light of the Gospel will ere long shine once more in their eyes.
The zeal of Europeans for the propagation of the faith will hasten the
accomplishment of Noah’s prophecy.  Missionaries, the children of
Japheth, will display their courage and devotion: they will fly to the
aid of the children of Shem, and will esteem themselves happy to pass
their days under the Mongol tents:  “God shall enlarge Japheth, and he
shall dwell in the tents of Shem.”—Genes. cap. ix. v. 27.

                      [Picture: Chinese Caricature]

                   [Picture: Irrigation of the Fields]




CHAPTER XII.


Hotel of Justice and Mercy—Province of Kan-Sou—Agriculture—Great Works
for the Irrigation of the Fields—Manner of Living in Inns—Great Confusion
in a Town caused by our Camels—Chinese Life-guard—Mandarin Inspector of
the Public Works—Ning-Hia—Historical and topographical Details—Inn of the
Five Felicities—Contest with a Mandarin, Tchong-Wei—Immense Mountains of
Sand—Road to Ili—Unfavourable aspect of Kao-Tan-Dze—Glance at the Great
Wall—Inquiry after the Passports—Tartars travelling in China—Dreadful
Hurricane—Origin and Manners of the Inhabitants of Kan-Sou—The
Dchiahours—Interview with a Living Buddha—Hotel of the Temperate
Climates—Family of Samdadchiemba—Mountain of Ping-Keou—Fight between an
Innkeeper and his Wife—Water-mills—Knitting—Si-Ning-Fou—House of
Rest—Arrival at Tang-Keou-Eul.

Two months had elapsed since our departure from the Valley of Black
Waters.  During that period, we had undergone in the desert continual
fatigue and privations of every kind.  Our health, it is true, was not as
yet materially impaired, but we felt that our strength was leaving us,
and we appreciated the necessity of modifying, for a few days, our late
rough manner of living.  In this point of view a country occupied by
Chinese could not be otherwise than agreeable, and, in comparison with
Tartary, would place within our reach all sorts of comforts.

As soon as we had passed the Hoang-Ho, we entered the small frontier town
called Ché-Tsui-Dze, which is only separated from the river by a sandy
beach.  We proceeded to take up our lodging at the Hotel of Justice and
Mercy (_Jeu-y-Ting_).  The house was large and recently built.  With the
exception of a solid floor of grey tiles, the whole construction was of
wood.  The host received us with that courtesy and attention which are
always displayed when people desire to give a character to a new
establishment; and, besides, the man having a most unprepossessing
aspect, was anxious, probably, by his amiability of manners, to redeem
his ugliness of feature; his eyes, which squinted horribly, were always
turned away from the person whom he was addressing.  However, if the
organ of sight was defective, the organ of speech bad marvellous
elasticity.  In his quality of an old soldier, he had seen much, heard
much, and what is more, he remembered much; he was acquainted with all
countries, and had had to do with all sorts of men.  His loquacity was
far from being troublesome to us: he gave us details of every kind, as to
the places, great and small, which we had to visit before our arrival at
Koukou-Noor.  That part of Tartary was well known to him; for, in the
military part of his career, he had served against the Si-Fan.  The day
after our arrival he brought us, early in the morning, a large scroll, on
which were written, in order, the names of the towns, villages, hamlets,
and places that we had to pass in the province of Kan-Sou; and then he
proceeded to give us a description of the localities with so much
enthusiasm, so much gesticulation, and in such a loud key, that he made
our heads turn.

The time which was not absorbed in long interviews, partly compulsory,
partly voluntary, with our host, was occupied in visiting the town.
Ché-Tsui-Dze is built in the corner of an angle, formed on one side by
the Alechan mountains, and on the other by the Yellow River.  On its
eastern bank the Hoang-Ho is bordered by dark hills, wherein are abundant
coal mines, which the inhabitants work with great activity, and whence
they derive their chief wealth.  The suburbs of the town are occupied by
great potteries, where you observe colossal urns, used in families as
reservoirs of water, and large stoves of admirable construction, and a
large collection of vases of all shapes and sizes.  There is in the
province of Kan-Sou a large trade in this pottery.

At Ché-Tsui-Dze, provisions are abundant, varied, and of astonishingly
moderate price.  Nowhere, perhaps, can a person live so economically.  At
every hour of the day and night, itinerant restaurateurs bring to your
house whatever provisions you need: soups, ragouts of mutton and beef,
vegetables, pastry, rice, vermicelli, etc.  There are dinners for every
appetite, and for every purse—from the complicated banquet of the rich,
to the simple and clear broth of the beggar.  These restaurateurs are
coming and going to and fro almost without interval.  They are generally
Moslems—a blue cap distinguishing them from the Chinese.

After two days repose in the Inn of Justice and Mercy, we proceeded on
our way.  The environs of Ché-Tsui-Dze are uncultivated.  On all sides,
nothing is to be seen but sand and gravel, drifted by the annual
inundation of the Yellow River.  However, as you advance, the soil,
becoming imperceptibly higher, improves.  An hour’s distance from the
town, we crossed the Great Wall, or rather passed over some miserable
ruins that still mark the ancient site of the celebrated rampart of
China.  The country soon becomes magnificent, and we could not but admire
the agricultural genius of the Chinese people.  The part of Kan-Sou which
we were traversing, is especially remarkable by its ingenious and
extensive works for facilitating the irrigation of the fields.

By means of creeks cut in the banks of the Yellow River, the waters are
conveyed into broad artificial canals; these again supply others of a
larger size, which, in their turn, fill the ditches with which all the
fields are surrounded.  Sluices, great and small, admirable in their
simplicity, serve to raise the water and to carry it over all the
inequalities of the land.  The distribution of the water is perfectly
arranged; each landowner waters his fields in his turn, and no one is
allowed to open his flood-gate before his regularly appointed time.

Few villages are met with; but you observe, in all directions, farms of
various sizes separated from one another by meadows.  The eye does not
rest upon either groves or pleasure-gardens.  Except a few large trees
round the dwellings, all the land is devoted to the cultivation of corn;
they do not even reserve a space for stacking the harvest, but pile it up
on the tops of the houses, which are always flat-roofed.  On the days of
the general irrigation, the country gives you a perfect idea of those
famous inundations of the Nile, the descriptions of which have become so
classic.  The inhabitants traverse their fields in small skiffs, or in
light carts with enormous wheels, and generally drawn by buffaloes.

These irrigations, so conducive to the fertility of the land, are a great
pest to travellers.  The roads are generally covered with water and mud,
so that you cannot use them, but must labour along the mounds which form
the boundaries of the fields.  When you have to guide camels over such
roads, it is the height of misery.  We did not advance a single step
without the fear of seeing our baggage fall into the mud; and more than
once such an accident did occur, throwing us into infinite embarrassment.
In fact, that the misfortune did not oftener befall us, was solely
attributable to the skill in mud-walking which our camels had acquired in
their apprenticeship amongst the marshes of the Ortous.

In the evening of our first day’s march, we arrived at a small village
called Wang-Ho-Po; we had expected to find here the same facility in
obtaining provisions as at Ché-Tsui-Dze, but we were soon undeceived.
The customs were not the same; those amiable restaurateurs, with their
baskets of ready-dressed viands, were no longer visible.  Forage-dealers
were the only persons who came to offer their goods.  We therefore
commenced by giving the animals their rations, and afterwards went into
the village to see if we could find any provisions for our own supper.
On our return to the inn, we were obliged to cook our own supper; the
host merely furnished us with water, coal, and a meal-kettle.  Whilst we
were peaceably occupied in appreciating the result of our culinary
labours, a great tumult arose in the courtyard of the inn.  It was
occasioned by a caravan of camels, conducted by Chinese merchants, who
were going to the town of Ning-Hia.  Destined for the same route as
themselves, we soon entered into conversation.  They told us that the
direct road to Ning-Hia was so bad as to be impracticable, even for the
best camels; but they added, they were acquainted with a cross-road
shorter and less dangerous, and they invited us to go with them.  As they
were to depart in the night, we called the host in order to settle our
account.  After the Chinese fashion, when sapeks are in question, on one
side they ask much, on the other they offer too little; then there is a
long squabble, and after mutual concessions you come to an agreement.  As
they thought us Tartars, it was quite a matter of course with them to ask
us nearly triple the just amount: the result was, that the dispute was
twice as long as it ordinarily is.  We had to discuss the matter
vigorously; first, for ourselves, then for our beasts, for the room, the
stabling, the watering, the kettle, the coal, the lamp, for every single
item, until at length we got the innkeeper down to the tariff of
civilised people.  The unfortunate Tartar exterior, which, for other
reasons, we had assumed, had been the occasion of our acquiring a certain
degree of dexterity in discussions of this kind; for not a day passed,
during our journey through the province of Kan-Sou, in which we had not
to quarrel, in this manner, with innkeepers.  Such quarrels, however,
involve no disagreeable results; you dispute, and dispute, and then you
come to an agreement, and the matter is over, and you are as good friends
as ever with your antagonist.

It was scarcely past midnight when the Chinese camel-drivers were on
foot, making, with great tumult, their preparations for departure.  We
rose, but it was to no purpose that we expedited the saddling of our
animals; our fellow travellers were ready before us and went on,
promising to proceed slowly till we came up with them.  The instant that
our camels were ready, we departed.  The night was dark; it was
impossible to discover our guides.  With the aid of a small lamp we
sought traces of them, but we were not successful.  Our only course,
therefore, was to proceed, at chance, across these marshy plains, which
were altogether unknown to us.  We soon found ourselves so involved in
the inundated soil, that we dared advance no farther, and halted at a
bank, and there awaited daybreak.

As soon as the day dawned, we directed our steps, by a thousand ins and
outs, towards a large walled town that we perceived in the distance; it
was Ping-Lou-Hien, a town of the third class.  Our arrival in this town
occasioned lamentable disorder.  The country is remarkable for the number
and beauty of its mules; and at this juncture there was one of these
standing, fastened by a halter, before each of the houses of the long
street, which we were traversing from north to south.  As we proceeded,
all these animals, seized with fright at the sight of our camels, reared
on their hind legs and dashed with violence against the shops; some broke
the halters which confined them, tore off at a gallop, and overthrew, in
their flight, the stalls of the street merchants.  The people gathered
together, sent forth shouts, anathematised the stinking Tartars, cursed
the camels, and increased the disorder instead of lessening it.  We were
grieved to find that our presence had such unfortunate results; but what
could we do?  We could not render the mules less timid, nor prevent the
camels from having a frightful appearance.  One of us, at last,
determined to run on before the caravan, and inform the people of the
approach of the camels.  This precaution diminished the evil, which did
not, however, entirely cease until we were outside the gates of the town.

We had intended to breakfast at Ping-Lou-Hien; but, not having
conciliated the good-will of its inhabitants, we dared not stop there.
We had only the courage to purchase some provisions, for which we paid an
exorbitant price, the occasion not being favourable for bargaining.  At
some distance from the town, we came to a guard-house, where we stopped
to rest awhile, and to take our morning repast.  These guard-houses are
very numerous in China, the rule being that there shall be one of them at
every half-league, on all the great roads.  Of a singular and entirely
Chinese construction, these barracks consist of a little edifice, either
of wood or earth, but always whitewashed.  In the centre, is a kind of
shed, entirely without furniture, and with one large opening in front.
This is reserved for unfortunate travellers, who, during the night, being
overtaken by bad weather, cannot take refuge in an inn.  On each side is
a little room with doors and windows, and sometimes with a wooden bench
painted red, by way of furniture.  The exterior of the barrack is
decorated with rude pictures, representing the gods of war, cavalry, and
fabulous animals; on the walls of the shed are drawn all the weapons used
in China, matchlocks, bows, and arrows, lances, bucklers, and sabres of
every description.  At a little distance from the barrack, you see on the
right a square tower, and on the left, five small posts standing in a
line.  These denote the five lis which are the distance from one
guard-house to another; frequently a large board, on two poles, informs
the traveller of the names of the nearest towns, in that quarter.  The
directions on the board now before us were these:—

    From Ping-Lou-Hien to Ning-Hia, fifty lis.

    Northwards to Ping-Lou-Hien, five lis.

    Southwards to Ning-Hia, forty-five lis.

In time of war, the square tower serves during the night for giving
signals by means of fireworks, combined in particular ways.  The Chinese
relate that the Emperor Yeou-Wang, the thirteenth emperor of the Tcheou
dynasty, 780 B.C., yielding to the absurd solicitations of his wife,
ordered one night the signals of alarm to be made.  The Empress wanted at
once to amuse herself at the expense of the soldiers, and to ascertain,
at the same time, whether these fireworks would really bring the troops
to succour the capital.  As the signals passed on to the provinces, the
governors dispatched the military Mandarins and their forces to Peking.
When the soldiers learned, on their arrival, that they had been called
together for the capricious amusement of a woman, they returned home full
of indignation.  Shortly afterwards, the Tartars made an irruption into
the empire, and advanced with rapidity to the very walls of the capital.
This time the Emperor gave the alarm in grave earnest, but throughout the
provinces not a man stirred, thinking the Empress was again amusing
herself; the consequence was, that the Tartars entered Peking, and the
imperial family was massacred.

The profound peace which China has enjoyed so long has much diminished
the importance of these guard-houses.  When they decay they are seldom
repaired; in most cases their doors and windows have been carried off,
and no one lives in them at all.  On some of the more frequented roads,
they keep in repair the direction-boards and the posts.

The barrack where we halted was deserted.  After having tied our beasts
to a thick post, we entered a room, and took in peace a wholesome
refreshment.  Travellers looked at us as they passed, and seemed a little
surprised to find the place turned into a dining-room.  The finer people,
especially, smiled at these three uncivilised Mongols, as they deemed us.
Our halt was brief.  The direction-board officially announced that we had
yet forty-five lis’ march before we reached Ning-Hia, so that,
considering the difficulty of the road, and the slowness of our camels,
we had no time to lose.  We proceeded along the banks of a magnificent
canal, supplied by the waters of the Yellow River, and destined for the
irrigation of the fields.  Whilst the small caravan was slowly marching
over a muddy and slippery ground, we saw advancing towards us a numerous
party of horsemen.  As the retinue came up, the innumerable labourers who
were repairing the banks of the canal, prostrated themselves on the
earth, and exclaimed, “Peace and happiness to our father and mother!”  We
at once understood that the person so addressed was a superior Mandarin.
In accordance with the strict rules of Chinese etiquette, we ought to
have dismounted, and have prostrated ourselves, as the others did; but we
considered that, in our quality of priests of the Western Heaven, we
might dispense with this troublesome and disagreeable ceremony.  We
remained, therefore, gravely seated on our steeds, and advanced quietly.
At sight of our camels, the other horsemen prudently removed to a
respectful distance; but the Mandarin, to show his bravery, spurred his
horse, and compelled it to come towards us.  He saluted us politely, and
made inquiries in Mongol as to our health and our journey.  As his horse
grew more and more afraid of our camels, he was constrained to cut short
the conversation, and to rejoin his retinue, but he went away, triumphant
at the reflection that he had found an opportunity of speaking Mongol,
and of thus giving the horsemen of his suite a high notion of his
knowledge.  This Mandarin appeared to us to be a Tartar-Mantchou; he was
making an official inspection of the irrigating canals.

We proceeded still some way along the banks of the same canal, meeting
nothing on our road but some carriages on large wheels, drawn by
buffaloes, and a few travellers mounted on asses of lofty stature.  At
length, we discerned the lofty ramparts of Ning-Hia, and the numerous
kiosks of the pagodas, which looked in the distance like tall cedars.
The brick-walls of Ning-Hia are ancient, but well preserved.  The
antiquity, which has almost entirely covered them with moss and lichen,
gives them a grand and imposing aspect.  On every side they are
surrounded by marshes, where canes, reeds, and water-lilies grow in
abundance.  The interior of the town is poor and miserable; the streets
are dirty, narrow, and tortuous; the houses smoke-dried and tottering;
you see at once that Ning-Hia is a town of very great antiquity.
Although situated near the frontiers of Tartary, the commerce there is
inconsiderable.

After having gone nearly half up the central street, as we found we had
still a league to go before we reached the other extremity, we resolved
to make a halt.  We entered a large inn, where we were soon followed by
three individuals who impudently demanded our passports.  We saw at once
that we had to defend our purses against three swindlers.  “Who are you
that dare to demand our passports?”  “We are employed by the great
tribunal: it is not lawful for strangers to pass through the town of
Ning-Hia without a passport.”  Instead of replying we called the
innkeeper and desired him to write upon a small piece of paper, his name
and that of his inn.  Our demand greatly surprised him.  “What is the
good of this writing? what are you going to do with it?”  “We shall soon
have need of it.  We are going to the great tribunal, to inform the
Mandarin that three thieves have sought to rob us in your inn.”  At these
words the three collectors of passports took to their heels; the landlord
loaded them with imprecations, and the mob, who were already assembled in
great numbers, laughed heartily.  This little adventure caused us to be
treated with especial respect.  Next morning, ere day had dawned, we were
awakened by a terrible noise, which arose all at once in the court-yard
of the inn.  Amid the confusion of numerous voices that seemed in violent
dispute, we distinguished the words, “Stinking Tartar—camel—tribunal.”
We hastily dressed ourselves, and proceeded to investigate the nature of
this sudden uproar, with which it struck us we had something to do, and
so it turned out; our camels had devoured, in the course of the night,
two cart-loads of osiers which were in the yard.  The remnants still lay
scattered about.  The owners, strangers at the inn like ourselves,
required to be paid the price of their goods, and their demand we
considered perfectly just, only, we thought that the landlord alone was
bound to repair the damage.  Before going to rest, we had warned him of
the danger in which the osiers lay.  We had told him that he had better
place them elsewhere, for that the camels would certainly break their
halters in order to get at them.  The owners of the carts had joined with
us in advising their removal, but the landlord had laughed at our fears,
and asserted that camels did not like osiers.  When we had sufficiently
explained the matter, the mob, the standing jury among the Chinese,
decided that the whole loss should be made good by the landlord; however,
we had the generosity not to demand the price of the halters of our
camels.

Immediately after this impartial judgment had been pronounced, we
departed on our way.  The southern part of the town seemed to us in even
a worse condition than that which we had passed through on the preceding
evening.  Several portions were altogether pulled down and deserted: the
only living things to be seen were a few swine, raking up the rubbish.
The inhabitants of this large city were in a state of utter misery.  The
greater number of them were covered with dirty rags.  Their pale visages,
haggard and thin, showed that they were often without the necessaries of
life.  Yet Ning-Hia was once a royal town, and, doubtless, opulent and
flourishing.

In the tenth century, a prince of Tartar race, a native of Tou-Pa, at
present under the dominion of the Si-Fan, having induced a few hordes to
follow him, came, and formed, despite the Chinese, a small state not far
from the banks of the Yellow River.  He chose for his capital,
Hia-Tcheou, which afterwards came to be called Ning-Hia.  It was from
this town, that this new kingdom was called Hia.  It was in a very
flourishing state for more than two centuries; but in 1227, it was
involved in the common ruin, by the victories of Tchinggiskhan, the
founder of the Mongol dynasty.  At present Ning-Hia is one of the towns
of the first class in the province of Kan-Sou.

On quitting Ning-Hia, you enter upon a magnificent road, almost
throughout bordered by willows and jujube trees.  At intervals, you find
small inns, where the traveller can rest and refresh himself at small
expense.  He can buy there tea, hard eggs, beans fried in oil, cakes, and
fruit preserved in sugar or salt.

This day’s journey was one of absolute recreation.  Our camels, which had
never travelled except in the deserts of Tartary, seemed thoroughly
sensible to the charms of civilization; they turned their heads
majestically right and left, observing, with manifest interest, all that
presented itself on the way, men and things.  They were not, however, so
wholly absorbed in the investigations of the industry and manners of
China as to withdraw their attention altogether from its natural
productions.  The willows, especially, attracted their interest; and when
at all within their reach, they did not fail to pluck the tender
branches, which they masticated with entire satisfaction.  Sometimes,
also, expanding their long necks, they would smell the various delicacies
displayed over the inn doors, a circumstance which, of course, elicited
vehement protests from the innkeepers and other persons concerned.  The
Chinese were not less struck with our camels, than our camels were with
China.  The people collected from all directions to see the caravan pass,
and ranged themselves on each side of the road; taking care, however, not
to approach too near the animals which excited their surprise, and whose
strength they instinctively dreaded.

Towards the close of this day’s march we arrived at Hia-Ho-Po, a large
village without ramparts.  We proceeded to dismount at the Hotel of the
Five Felicities (_Ou-Fou-Tien_).  We were occupied in giving forage to
our beasts, when a horseman bearing a white button on his cap, appeared
in the court of the inn.  Without dismounting, or making the accustomed
salutation, he proceeded to bawl for the landlord.  “The great Mandarin
is on his way here,” cried he, in curt and haughty tones; “let everything
be clean and well swept.  Let these Tartars go and lodge elsewhere; the
great Mandarin will not have camels in the inn.”  Coming from the courier
of a Mandarin, these insolent words did not surprise but they irritated
us.  We pretended not to hear them, and quietly pursued our occupation.
The innkeeper, seeing that we paid no attention to the order that had
been made, advanced towards us, and laid before us, with politeness
mingled with embarrassment, the state of the case.  “Go,” we said to him
firmly; “go tell this white button that you have received us into your
inn, that we will remain there, and that Mandarins have no right to come
and take the places of travellers, who are already lawfully established
anywhere.”  The innkeeper was spared the trouble of reporting our words
to white button, for they had been pronounced in such a manner that he
could hear them himself.  He dismounted forthwith; and addressing us
directly, said, “The grand Mandarin will soon arrive; he has a large
retinue, and the inn is small; besides, how would the horses venture to
remain in this yard in presence of your camels?”  “A man in the suite of
a Mandarin, and, moreover, adorned like you with a white button, should
know how to express himself—first, politely, and next, justly.  We have a
right to remain here, and no one shall expel us; and our camels shall
remain tied to the door of our room.”  “The grand Mandarin has ordered me
to come and prepare apartments for him, at the Hotel of the Five
Felicities.”  “Very well; prepare them, but don’t meddle with our things.
If you cannot accommodate yourselves here, reason suggests that you go
and seek a lodging elsewhere.”  “And the great Mandarin?”  “Tell your
Mandarin that there are three Lamas of the Western Heaven in this place,
who are ready to return to Ning-Hia to discuss the matter with him: or
before the tribunal, if it be necessary, at Peking; they know their way
thither.”  White button mounted and disappeared.  The host came to us
immediately, and begged us to be resolute.  “If you remain here,” said he
to us, “I am sure to profit a little by you; but if the Mandarin takes
your place, his people will turn my inn upside down, will make us work
all night, and then go away in the morning without paying a farthing.
And besides that, if I were forced to send you away would not the Hotel
of the Five Felicities lose its reputation?  Who would afterwards enter
an inn where they receive travellers only for the purpose of turning them
out again?”  Whilst the host was exhorting us to courage, the courier of
the Mandarin reappeared; he dismounted and made us a profound bow, which
we returned with the best grace possible.  “Sirs Lamas,” said he, “I have
ridden through Hia-Ho-Po; there is no other convenient inn.  Who says you
are bound to cede to us your place?  To speak so were to talk
inconsistently with reason!  Now, observe, Sirs Lamas; we are all
travellers: we are all men far distant from our families; cannot we
consult together in a friendly manner and arrange the matter like
brothers?”  “No doubt,” said we, “men ought always to deal together like
brothers; that is the true principle.  When we travel, we should live
like travellers.  When each gives way a little, all are, in the end,
accommodated.”  “Excellent saying! excellent saying!” cried the courier;
and thereupon the most profound bows recommenced on both sides.

After this brief introduction, which had perfectly reconciled both
parties, we deliberated amicably how we should best arrange our common
residence in the Hotel of the Five Felicities.  It was agreed that we
should keep the room in which we were already installed, and that we
should tie up our camels in a corner of the court, so that they might not
terrify the horses of the Mandarin.  The courier was to dispose of the
rest of the place as he pleased.  We hastened to remove our camels from
the door of our room and to place them as had been settled.  Just after
sun-set we heard the Mandarin’s party approaching.  The two folding doors
of the great gate were solemnly opened, and a carriage drawn by three
mules advanced into the middle of the court of the inn, escorted by a
numerous body of horsemen.  In the carriage was seated a man about sixty
years old, with grey mustachios and beard, and having his head covered
with a red hood.  This was the great Mandarin.  On entering, he scanned,
with a quick and searching glance, the interior of the inn.  Perceiving
us, and remarking, above all, three camels at the end of the court, the
muscles of his lean face were suddenly contracted.  When all the horsemen
had dismounted they invited him to descend from his vehicle.  “What!”
cried he in a dry, angry voice; “who are those Tartars? what are those
camels? let the landlord be brought to me.”  On this unexpected summons
the host took to his heels, and white button remained for an instant like
one petrified: his face turned pale, then red, then olive-colour.
However, he made an effort, advanced to the carriage, put one knee to the
ground, then rose, and approaching the ear of his master, spoke to him
for some time, in an undertone.  The dialogue ended, the great Mandarin
condescended to dismount, and after having saluted us with his hand in a
protecting manner, he retired like a simple mortal to the small room
which had been prepared for him.

The triumph we had thus obtained in a country, admission even to which
was prohibited to us under pain of death, {273} gave us prodigious
courage.  These terrible Mandarins, who had formerly occasioned us such
alarm, ceased to be terrible to us the instant that we dared to approach
them, and to look at them closely.  We saw men puffed up with pride and
insolence, pitiless tyrants towards the weak, but dastardly in the
extreme before men of energy.  From this moment we found ourselves as
much at our ease in China as anywhere else, and able to travel without
fear, and with our heads erect in the open face of day.

After two days journey, we arrived at Tchong-Wei, on the banks of the
Yellow River, a walled town of moderate size.  Its cleanliness, its good
condition, its air of comfort, contrasted singularly with the
wretchedness and ugliness of Ning-Hia; and judging merely from its
innumerable shops, all well stocked, and from the large population
crowding its streets, we should pronounce Tchong-Wei to be a place of
much commercial importance; yet the Chinese of this district have no
notion of navigation, and not a boat is to be seen on the Yellow River in
this quarter—a circumstance remarkable in itself, and confirmatory of the
opinion that the inhabitants of this part of Kan-Sou are of Thibetian and
Tartar origin; for it is well known that the Chinese are everywhere
passionately addicted to navigating streams and rivers.

On quitting Tchong-Wei we passed the Great Wall, which is wholly composed
of uncemented stones, placed one on top of the other; and we re-entered
Tartary, for a few days, in the kingdom of the Alechan.  More than once
the Mongol Lamas had depicted in frightful colours the horrors of the
Alechan mountains.  We were now in a position to see with our own eyes
that the reality exceeds all description of this frightful district.  The
Alechans are a long chain of mountains, wholly composed of moving sand,
so fine, that when you touch it, it seems to flow through your finger
like a liquid.  It were superfluous to add that, amid these gigantic
accumulations of sand, you do not find anywhere the least trace of
vegetation.  The monotonous aspect of these immense sands is only
relieved by the vestiges of a small insect, that, in its capricious and
fantastical sports, describes a thousand arabesques on the moving mass,
which is so smooth and fine, that you can trace upon it the meanderings
of an ant.  In crossing these mountains, we experienced inexpressible
labour and difficulty.  At each step our camels sank up to the knees; and
it was only by leaps that they could advance.  The horses underwent still
greater difficulties, their hoofs having less purchase on the sand than
the large feet of the camels.  As for ourselves, forced to walk, we had
to keep constant watch that we did not fall from the top of these
mountains, which seemed to disappear under our feet, into the Yellow
River, whose waters flowed beneath us.  Fortunately, the weather was
calm.  If the wind had blown, we should certainly have been swallowed up
and buried alive in avalanches of sand.  The Alechan mountains themselves
appear to have been formed by the sand which the north wind incessantly
sweeps before it from the Chamo, or Great Desert of Gobi.  The Yellow
River arrests these sandy inundations, and thus preserves the province of
Kan-Sou from their destructive assaults.  It is to the great quantity of
sand that falls into it from the Alechan mountains that this river owes
the yellow colour which has given to it its name _Hoang-Ho_ (Yellow
River).  Above the Alechan mountains its waters are clear and limpid.

By degrees, hills succeeded to mountains, the sand heaps imperceptibly
diminished, and towards the close of the day we arrived at the village of
Ever-Flowing Waters (_Tchang-Lieou-Chouy_).  Here we found, amidst those
sand hills, an oasis of surpassing beauty.  A hundred rills disporting
through the streets, trees, little houses built of stone, and painted
white or red, communicated to the spot an aspect highly picturesque.
Weary as we were, we halted at Ever-Flowing Waters with inexpressible
delight; but the poetry of the thing vanished when we came to settle with
our host.  Not only provisions but forage came from Tchong-Wei, and the
transport being very difficult, they were dear to a degree that
altogether disconcerted our economical arrangements.  For ourselves and
our animals, we were obliged to disburse 1,600 sapeks, a matter of nearly
seven shillings.  Only for this circumstance we should perhaps have
quitted with regret the charming village of Tchang-Lieou-Chouy; but there
is always something which intervenes to aid man in detaching himself from
the things of this world.

On quitting Tchang-Lieou-Chouy, we took the road followed by the Chinese
exiles on their way to Ili.  The country is somewhat less dreadful than
that which we had travelled through on the preceding day, but it is still
very dismal.  Gravel had taken the place of sand, and with the exception
that it produced a few tufts of grass, hard and prickly, the soil was
arid and barren.  We reached, in due course, Kao-Tan-Dze, a village
repulsive and hideous beyond all expression.  It consists of a few
miserable habitations, rudely constructed of black earth, and all of them
inns.  Provisions are even more scarce there than at Ever-Flowing Waters,
and correspondingly dearer.  Every thing has to be brought from
Tchong-Wei, for the district produces nothing, not even water.  Wells
have been sunk to a very great depth, but nothing has been found except
hard, rocky, moistureless earth.  The inhabitants of Kao-Tan-Dze have to
fetch their water a distance of more than twelve miles, and they
accordingly charge travellers a monstrous price for every drop.  A single
bucket costs sixty sapeks.  Had we attempted to water our camels, we
should have had to lay out fifty fifties of sapeks; we were therefore
forced to be content with drinking ourselves, and giving a draught to our
horses.  As to the camels, they had to await better days and a less
inhospitable soil.

Kao-Tan-Dze, miserable and hideous as it is, has not even the advantage
of that tranquillity and security which its poverty and its solitude
might reasonably be supposed to give it.  It is constantly ravaged by
brigands, so that there is not a house in it which does not bear the
marks of fire and devastation.  At the first inn where we presented
ourselves, we were asked whether we desired to have our animals defended
against robbers.  This question threw us into utter amazement, and we
requested further explanation of a point which struck us as so very
singular.  We were informed that at Kao-Tan-Dze there are two sorts of
inns: inns where they fight, and inns where they do not fight; and that
the prices at the former sort are four times greater than those at the
latter.  This explanation gave us a general notion of the matter; but
still we requested some details.  “How!” said the people.  “Don’t you
know that Kao-Tan-Dze is constantly attacked by brigands?”  “Yes, we know
that.”  “If you lodge in an inn where they don’t fight, any brigands that
come will drive off your animals; for no one has undertaken to protect
them.  If, on the contrary, you lodge in an inn where they fight, you
have a good chance of preserving your property, unless the brigands are
the more numerous party, which sometimes happens.”  All this seemed to us
very singular, and very disagreeable.  However, it was necessary to make
up our minds on the subject.  After grave reflection, we decided upon
lodging in an inn where they fought.  It occurred to us that the worthy
innkeepers of Kao-Tan-Dze had an understanding with the brigands, having
for its result the spoliation of travellers, one way or the other, and
that therefore it was better, upon the whole, to pay the larger sum, by
way of black-mail, than to lose our animals, whose loss would involve our
own destruction.

Upon entering the fighting inn, to which we had been directed, we found
every thing about it on a war footing.  The walls were regularly covered
with lances, arrows, bows, and matchlocks.  The presence of those
weapons, however, by no means rendered us perfectly satisfied as to our
safety, and we resolved not to lie down at all, but to keep watch
throughout the night.

Kao-Tan-Dze, with its robber assailants and its pauper population, was to
us an inexplicable place.  We could not conceive how men should make up
their minds to inhabit a detestably ugly country like this, sterile,
waterless, remote from any other inhabited place, and desolated by the
constant inroad of brigands.  What could be their object?  What possible
advantage could be their inducement?  We turned the matter over in all
ways; we framed all sorts of suppositions; but we could achieve no likely
solution of the problem.  During the first watch of the night, we
conversed with the innkeeper, who seemed a frank, open sort of man
enough.  He related to us infinite anecdotes of brigands, full of battle,
murder, and fire.  “But,” said we, “why don’t you leave this detestable
country?”  “Oh,” replied he, “we are not free men; the inhabitants of
Kao-Tan-Dze are all exiles, who are only excused from going to Ili on the
condition that we remain here for the purpose of supplying with water the
Mandarins and soldiers who pass through the place, escorting exiles.  We
are bound to furnish water gratuitously to all the government officers
who come to the village.”  When we found that we were among exiles, we
were somewhat reassured, and began to think that, after all, these people
were not in collusion with the brigands; for we learned that a petty
Mandarin lived in the village to superintend the population.  We
conceived a hope that we might find some Christians at Kao-Tan-Dze, but
the innkeeper informed us that there were none, for that all exiles on
account of the religion of the Lord of Heaven, went on to Ili.

After what the innkeeper had told us, we conceived that we might, without
risk, take a brief repose; we accordingly threw ourselves on our
goatskins, and slept soundly till daybreak, the favour of God preserving
us from any visit on the part of the brigands.

During the greater part of the day, we proceeded along the road to Ili,
traversing with respect, with a degree of religious veneration, that path
of exile so often sanctified by the footsteps of the confessors of the
faith, and conversing, as we went, about those courageous Christians,
those strong souls, who, rather than renounce their religion, had
abandoned their families and their country, and gone to end their days in
unknown lands.  Let us fervently pray that Providence may send
missionaries, full of devotion, to bear the consolations of the faith
amongst these our exiled brethren.

The road to Ili brought us to the Great Wall, which we passed over
without dismounting.  This work of the Chinese nation, of which so much
is said and so little known, merits brief mention here.  It is known that
the idea of raising walls as a fortification against the incursions of
enemies, was not peculiar, in old times, to China: antiquity presents us
with several examples of these labours elsewhere.  Besides the works of
this kind executed in Syria, Egypt, Media, and on the continent of
Europe, there was, by order of the Emperor Septimus Severus, a great wall
constructed in the northern part of Britain.  No other nation, however,
ever effected anything of the sort on so grand a scale as the Great Wall,
commenced by Tsin-Chi-Hoang-Ti, A.D. 214.  The Chinese call it
_Wan-li-Tchang-Tching_ (the Great Wall of ten thousand lis.)  A
prodigious number of labourers was employed upon it, and the works of
this gigantic enterprise continued for ten years.  The Great Wall extends
from the westernmost point of Kan-Sou to the Eastern Sea.  The importance
of this enormous construction has been variously estimated by those who
have written upon China, some of whom preposterously exaggerate its
importance, while others laboriously seek to ridicule it; the probability
being, that this diversity of opinion arises from each writer having
judged the whole work by the particular specimen to which he had access.
Mr. Barrow, who, in 1793, accompanied Lord Macartney to China, as
historiographer to the British embassy, made this calculation: he
supposed that there were in England and Scotland 1,800,000 houses, and
estimating the masonry work of each to be 2,000 cubic feet, he propounded
that the aggregate did not contain as much material as the Great Wall of
China, which, in his opinion, was enough for the construction of a wall
to go twice round the world.  It is evident that Mr. Barrow adopted, as
the basis of his calculation, the Great Wall such as he saw it north of
Peking, where the construction is really grand and imposing; but it is
not to be supposed that this barrier, raised against the irruptions of
the barbarians, is, throughout its extent, equally high, wide, and solid.
We have crossed it at fifteen different points, and on several occasions
have travelled for whole days parallel with it, and never once losing
sight of it; and often, instead of the great double turreted rampart that
exists towards Peking, we have found a mere low wall of brickwork, or
even earth work.  In some places, indeed, we have found this famous
barrier reduced to its simplest expression, and composed merely of
flint-stones roughly piled up.  As to the foundation wall, described by
Mr. Barrow, as consisting of large masses of free-stone cemented with
mortar, we can only say that we have never discovered the slightest trace
of any such work.  It is indeed obvious that Tsin-Chi-Hoang-Ti, in the
execution of this great undertaking, would fortify with especial care the
vicinity of the capital, as being the point to which the Tartar hordes
would first direct their aggressive steps.  It is natural, farther, to
conceive, that the Mandarins charged with the execution of the Emperor’s
plan, would, with especial conscientiousness, perfect the works which
were more immediately under the Emperor’s eye, and content themselves
with erecting a more or less nominal wall at remote points of the empire,
particularly those where the Tartars were little to be feared, as, for
example, the position of the Ortous and the Alechan mountains.

The barrier of San-Yen-Tsin, which stands a few paces beyond the wall, is
noted for its great strictness towards the Tartars who seek to enter
within the intramural empire.  The village possesses only one inn, which
is kept by the chief of the frontier guards.  Upon entering the
court-yard we found several groups of a camels assembled there belonging
to a great Tartar caravan that had arrived on the preceding evening.
There was, however, plenty of room for us, the establishment being on a
large scale.  We had scarcely taken possession of our chamber than the
passport question was started.  The chief of the guards himself made an
official demand for them.  “We have none,” replied we.  At this answer
his features beamed with satisfaction, and he declared that we could not
proceed unless we paid a considerable sum.  “How! a passport or money?
Know that we have travelled China from one end to the other; that we have
been to Peking, and that we have journeyed through Tartary, without
anything in the shape of a passport, and without having paid a single
sapek in lieu of a passport.  You, who are a chief of guards, must know
that Lamas are privileged to travel wherever they please without
passports.”  “What words are these?  Here is a caravan at this very
moment in the house, and the two Lamas who are with it have both given me
their passports like the rest of the party.”  “If what you say be true,
the only conclusion is that there are some Lamas who take passports with
them and others who do not.  We are in the number of those who do not.”
Finding at last that the dispute was becoming tedious, we employed a
decisive course.  “Well, come,” said we, “we will give you the money you
ask, but you shall give us in return a paper signed by yourself, in which
you shall acknowledge that, before you would permit us to pass, you
exacted from us a sum of money instead of passports.  We shall then
address ourselves to the first Mandarin we meet, and ask him whether what
you have done is consistent with the laws of the empire.”  The man at
once gave up the point.  “Oh,” said he, “since you have been to Peking,
no doubt the Emperor has given you special privileges,” and then he
added, in a whisper, and smilingly, “Don’t tell the Tartars here that I
have let you pass _gratis_.”

It is really pitiable to observe these poor Mongols travelling in China;
everybody thinks himself entitled to fleece them, and everybody succeeds
in doing so to a marvellous extent.  In all directions they are
encountered by impromptu custom-house officers, by persons who exact
money from them on all sorts of pretences, for repairing roads, building
bridges, constructing pagodas, etc. etc.  First, the despoilers proffer
to render them great services, call them brothers and friends, and give
them wholesale warnings against ill-designing persons who want to rob
them.  Should this method not effect an unloosening of the purse-strings,
the rascals have recourse to intimidation, frighten them horribly with
visions of Mandarins, laws, tribunals, prisons, punishments, threaten to
take them up, and treat them, in short, just like mere children.  The
Mongols themselves materially aid the imposition by their total ignorance
of the manners and customs of China.  At an inn, instead of using the
room offered to them, and putting their animals in the stables, they
pitch their tent in the middle of the court-yard, plant stakes about it,
and fasten their camels to these.  Very frequently they are not permitted
to indulge this fancy, and in this case they certainly enter the room
allotted to them, and which they regard in the light of a prison; but
they proceed there in a manner truly ridiculous.  They set up their
trivet with their kettle upon it in the middle of the room, and make a
fire beneath with argols, of which they take care to have a store with
them.  It is to no purpose they are told that there is in the inn a large
kitchen where they can cook their meals far more comfortably to
themselves; nothing will dissuade them from their own kettle and their
own aboriginal fire in the middle of the room.  When night comes they
unroll their hide-carpets round the fire, and there lie down.  They would
not listen for a moment to the proposition of sleeping upon the beds or
upon the kang they find in the room ready for their use.  The Tartars of
the caravan we found in the inn at San-Yen-Tsin were allowed to carry on
their domestic matters in the open air.  The simplicity of these poor
children of the desert was so great that they seriously asked us whether
the innkeeper would make them pay anything for the accommodation he
afforded them.

We continued on our way through the province of Kan-Sou, proceeding to
the south-west.  The country, intersected with streams and hills, is
generally fine, and the people apparently well off.  The great variety of
its productions is owing partly to a temperate climate and a soil
naturally fertile, but, above all, to the activity and skill of the
agriculturists.  The chief product of the district is wheat, of which the
people make excellent loaves, like those of Europe.  They sow scarcely
any rice, procuring almost all the little they consume from the adjacent
provinces.  Their goats and sheep are of fine breed, and constitute, with
bread, the principal food of the population.  Numerous and inexhaustible
mines of coal place fuel within everyone’s reach.  It appeared to us that
in Kan-Sou anyone might live very comfortably at extremely small cost.

At two days distance from the barrier of San-Yen-Tsin we were assailed by
a hurricane which exposed us to very serious danger.  It was about ten
o’clock in the morning.  We had just crossed a hill, and were entering
upon a plain of vast extent, when, all of a sudden, a profound calm
pervaded the atmosphere.  There was not the slightest motion in the air,
and yet the cold was intense.  Insensibly, the sky assumed a dead-white
colour; but there was not a cloud to be seen.  Soon, the wind began to
blow from the west; in a very short time it became so violent that our
animals could scarcely proceed.  All nature seemed to be in a state of
dissolution.  The sky, still cloudless, was covered with a red tint.  The
fury of the wind increased; it raised in the air enormous columns of
dust, sand, and decayed vegetable matter, which it then dashed right and
left, here, there, and everywhere.  At length the wind blew so
tremendously, and the atmosphere became so utterly disorganised, that, at
midday, we could not distinguish the very animals upon which we were
riding.  We dismounted, for it was impossible to advance a single step,
and after enveloping our faces in handkerchiefs in order that we might
not be blinded with the dust, we sat down beside our animals.  We had no
notion where we were; our only idea was that the frame of the world was
unloosening, and that the end of all things was close at hand.  This
lasted for more than an hour.  When the wind had somewhat mitigated, and
we could see around us, we found that we were all separated from one
another, and at considerable distances, for amid that frightful tempest,
bawl as loud as we might, we could not hear each other’s voices.  So soon
as we could at all walk we proceeded towards a farm at no great distance,
but which we had not before perceived.  The hurricane having thrown down
the great gate of the court we found no difficulty in entering, and the
house itself was opened to us with almost equal facility; for Providence
had guided us in our distress to a family truly remarkable for its
hospitality.

Immediately upon our arrival, our hosts heated some water for us to wash
with.  We were in a frightful state; from head to foot we were covered
with dust which had saturated, so to speak, our clothes and almost our
skins.  Had such a storm encountered us on the Alechan mountains, we
should have been buried alive in the sand, and all trace of us lost for
ever.

When we found that the worst of the storm was over, and that the wind had
subsided to occasional gusts, we proposed to proceed, but our kind hosts
would not hear of this; they said they would lodge us for the night, and
that our animals should have plenty of food and water.  Their invitation
was so sincere and so cordial, and we so greatly needed rest, that we
readily availed ourselves of their offer.

A very slight observation of the inhabitants of Kan-Sou, will satisfy one
that they are not of purely Chinese origin.  The Tartaro-Thibetian
element is manifestly predominant amongst them; and it displays itself
with especial emphasis in the character, manners, and language of the
country people.  You do not find amongst them the exaggerated politeness
which distinguishes the Chinese; but, on the other hand, they are
remarkable for their open-heartedness and hospitality.  In their
particular form of Chinese you hear an infinitude of expressions which
belong to the Tartar and Thibetian tongues.  The construction of their
phrases, instead of following the Chinese arrangement, always exhibits
the inversions in use among the Mongols.  Thus, for example, they don’t
say, with the Chinese, open the door, shut the window; but, the door
open, the window shut.  Another peculiarity is that milk, butter, curds,
all insupportably odious to a Chinese, are especially favourite food with
the inhabitants of Kan-Sou.  But it is, above all, their religious turn
of mind which distinguishes them from the Chinese, a people almost
universally sceptical and indifferent as to religious matters.  In
Kan-Sou there are numerous and flourishing Lamaseries in which reformed
Buddhism is followed.  The Chinese, indeed, have plenty of pagodas and
idols of all sorts and sizes in their houses; but with them religion is
limited to this external representation, whereas in Kan-Sou everyone
prays often and long and fervently.  Now prayer, as everyone knows, is
that which distinguishes the religious from the irreligious man.

Besides differing materially from the other peoples of China, the
inhabitants of Kan-Sou differ materially amongst themselves, the
Dchiahours marking that sub-division, perhaps, more distinctly than any
of the other tribes.  They occupy the country commonly called
_San-Tchouan_ (Three Valleys), the birthplace of our cameleer
Samdadchiemba.  The Dchiahours possess all the knavery and cunning of the
Chinese, without any of their courtesy, and without their polished form
of language, and they are accordingly feared and disliked by all their
neighbours.  When they consider themselves in any way injured or
insulted, they have immediate recourse to the dagger, by way of remedy.
With them the man most to be honoured is he who has committed the
greatest number of murders.  They have a language of their own, a medley
of Mongol, Chinese, and Eastern Thibetian.  According to their own
account, they are of Tartar origin.  If it be so, they may fairly claim
to have preserved, in all its integrity, the ferocious and independent
character of their ancestors, whereas the present occupiers of Mongolia
have greatly modified and softened their manners.

Though subject to the Emperor of China, the Dchiahours are immediately
governed by a sort of hereditary sovereign belonging to their tribe, and
who bears the title of Tou-Sse.  There are in Kan-Sou, and on the
frontiers of the province of Sse-Tchouan, several other tribes, having
their own special rulers and their own especial laws.  All these tribes
are called Tou-Sse, to which each adds, by way of distinction, the family
name of its chief or sovereign.  Samdadchiemba, for example, belonged to
the Ki-Tou-Sse tribe of Dchiahours.  Yang-Tou-Sse is the most celebrated
and the most redoubtable of all these tribes, and for a long time
exercised great influence at Lha-Ssa, the capital of Thibet, but this
influence was destroyed in 1845, in consequence of an event which we
shall relate by-and-by.

After thoroughly resting from our fatigue, we departed early next
morning.  Everywhere, on our way, we saw traces of the tempest, in trees
uprooted and torn, houses unroofed, fields devastated and almost entirely
deprived of their surface soil.  Before the end of the day, we arrived at
Tchoang-Long, more commonly called Ping-Fang, an ordinary town, with a
tolerable amount of trade, but in no way noticeable, whether for its
beauty or for its deformity.  We went to lodge at the Hotel of the Three
Social Relations (_San-Kan-Tien_), whose landlord was one of the best
humoured and most amusing persons we had hitherto met with.  He was a
thorough Chinese: to give us a proof of his sagacity, he asked us, point
blank, whether we were not English; and that we might thoroughly
understand his question, he added that he understood by Ing-Kie-Li, the
sea-devils (_Yang-Kouei-Dze_) who were making war at Canton.  “No, we are
not English; nor are we devils of any sort, whether of sea or land.”  An
idler who was standing by, interposed to prevent the ill effect of this
awkward question.  “You,” said he to the innkeeper, “you know nothing of
physiognomy.  How could you suppose that these people are Yang-Kouei-Dze?
Don’t you know that they have all blue eyes and red hair?”  “You’re
right,” returned the host, “I had not thought of that.”  “No,” said we,
“clearly you had not thought at all.  Do you suppose that sea-monsters
could live as we do, on land, and ride on horses?”  “You’re right, quite
so; the Ing-Kie-Li, they say, never venture to quit the sea, for when
they’re on land they tremble and die like fish out of water.”  We were
favoured with a good deal more information of the same class, respecting
the manners and characters of the sea-devils, the up-shot of which, so
far as we were concerned, was the full admission that we did not belong
to the same race.

A little before night, an immense bustle pervaded the inn.  A Living
Buddha had arrived, with a numerous train, on his return from a journey
into Thibet, his native country, to the grand Lamasery, of which for many
years he had been the superior, and which was situated in the country of
the Khalkhas, towards the Russian frontier.  As he entered the inn, a
multitude of zealous Buddhists, who had been awaiting him in the great
courtyard, prostrated themselves before him, their faces to the ground.
The Grand Lama proceeded to the apartment which had been prepared for
him, and night coming, the crowd withdrew.  When the inn had become
tolerably clear, this strange personage gave full play to his curiosity;
he poked about all over the inn, going into every room, and asking
everybody all sorts of questions, without sitting down or staying
anywhere.  As we expected, he favoured us also with a visit.  When he
entered our chamber, we were gravely seated on the kang; we studiously
abstained from rising at his entrance, and contented ourselves with
welcoming him by a motion of our hands. He seemed rather surprised at
this unceremonious reception, but not at all disconcerted, Standing in
the middle of the room, he stared at each of us intently, one after the
other.  We, like himself, preserving entire silence all the while,
exercised the privilege of which he had set us the example, and examined
him closely.  Be seemed about fifty years old; he was enveloped in a
great robe of yellow taffeta, and he wore red velvet Thibetian boots,
with remarkably thick soles.  He was of the middle height, and
comfortably stout; his dark brown face denoted extreme good nature, but
there was in his eyes, when you attentively examined them, a strange,
wild, haggard expression, that was very alarming.  At length he addressed
us in the Mongol tongue, which he spoke with great facility.  In the
first instance, the conversation was nothing more than the ordinary
phrases exchanged between travellers, about one another’s health,
destination, horses, the weather, and so on.  When we found him
prolonging his visit, we invited him to sit down beside us on the kang;
he hesitated for a moment, conceiving, no doubt, that in his quality as
Living Buddha, it did not become him to place himself on a level with
mere mortals like ourselves.  However, as he had a great desire for a
chat, he at last made up his mind to sit down, and in fact he could not,
without compromising his dignity, remain any longer standing while we
sat.

A Breviary that lay on a small table beside us, immediately attracted his
attention, and he asked permission to examine it.  Upon our assenting, he
took it up with both hands, admired the binding and the gilt edges,
opened it and turned over the leaves, and then closing it again, raised
it reverentially to his forehead, saying, “It is your Book of Prayer: we
should always honour and respect prayer.”  By-and-by he added, “Your
religion and ours are like this,” and so saying he put the knuckles of
his two forefingers together.  “Yes,” said we, “you are right; your creed
and ours are in a state of hostility, and we do not conceal from you that
the object of our journey and of our labours is to substitute our prayers
for those which are used in your Lamaseries.”  “I know that,” he replied,
smilingly; “I knew that long ago.”  He then took up the Breviary again,
and asked us explanations of the engravings.  He evinced no surprise at
what we told him, only, when we had related to him the subject of the
plate representing the crucifixion, he shook his head compassionately,
and raised his joined hands to his head.  After he had examined all the
prints, he took the Breviary once more in both hands, and raised it
respectfully to his forehead.  He then rose, and having saluted us with
great affability, withdrew, we escorting him to the door.

Upon being left alone, we felt for a moment stupified as it were at this
singular visit.  We tried to conceive what thoughts could have filled the
mind of the Living Buddha as he sat there beside us, and what impression
he had derived from the sketch we gave him of our holy religion.  Now, it
seemed to us that strange feelings must have arisen in his heart; and
then again, we imagined that after all he had felt nothing whatever, but
that, a mere ordinary person, he had mechanically availed himself of his
position, without reflection, and without himself attaching any real
importance to his pretended divinity.  We became so interested in the
point, that we determined to see this personage once more before we
departed.  As that departure was fixed for an early hour next morning, we
went, accordingly, to return his visit before we slept.  We found him in
his apartment, seated on thick large cushions, covered with magnificent
tiger-skins; before him stood, on a small lacquer table, a silver
tea-pot, and a steatite cup in a richly-worked gold saucer.  He was
evidently in the last stage of ennui, and was correspondingly delighted
to see us.  For fear he should take it into his head to let us remain
standing, we proceeded, upon entering the room, to seat ourselves beside
him.  His suite, who were assembled in a contiguous room, which opened
into their principal’s, were extremely shocked at this familiarity, and
gave utterance to a murmur of disapprobation.  The Buddha himself,
however, who passed over the circumstance with a half-angry smile, rang a
silver bell, and desired a young Lama, who obeyed the summons, to bring
us some tea with milk.  “I have often seen your countrymen,” said he; “my
Lamasery stands at no great distance from your native land; the _Oros_
(Russians) often pass the frontier, but I have never known any of them
before to advance so far as you.”  “We are not Russians,” said we; “our
country is a long way from Russia.”  This answer seemed to surprise the
Buddha; he looked at us closely for some time, and then said, “From what
country come you, then?”  “We are from the Western Heaven.”  “Oh! you are
Péling, {285} of _Dchou-Ganga_ (Eastern Ganges), and your city is Galgata
(Calcutta).”  The notions of the Living Buddha, it is observable, though
not exactly correct, were not altogether destitute of meaning; he could
of course only class us among the peoples who were known to him, and in
supposing us first Russians and then English, he manifested an
acquaintance with geographical terms, by no means contemptible under the
circumstances.  He would not be persuaded, however, that we were not
either Oros or Péling of Galgata.  “But after all,” said he, “what
matters it from what country we come, since we are all brothers?  Only
let me advise you, while you are in China, to be cautious not to tell
everybody who you are.  The Chinese are a suspicious and ill-conditioned
race, and they might do you a mischief.”  He then talked to us about
Thibet, and the dreadful road thither that we should have to traverse.
Judging from our appearance, he said, he doubted very much whether we
were strong enough for the undertaking.  The words and the manner of the
Grand Lama were perfectly affable and kind, but there was a look in his
eyes to which we could not reconcile ourselves.  We seemed to read there
something infernal, fiend-like.  But for this circumstance, which perhaps
after all was mere fancy on our part, we should have esteemed our Grand
Lama friend a most amiable personage.

From Tchoang-Long, or Ping-Fang, we proceeded to Ho-Kiao-Y, or, as it is
named on the maps, Tai-Toung-Fou.  The latter is the ancient denomination
of the place, and is no longer in popular use.  The road was, throughout,
covered with oxen, asses, and small carts, all with loads of coal.  We
resolved to sojourn for a few days at Ho-Kiao-Y, for the purpose of
giving rest to our animals, whose strength had become almost exhausted;
the horse and the mule, in particular, had tumours on their sides,
occasioned by the constant rubbing of the saddle, and it was essential to
have these cured before we proceeded further.  Having formed this
project, our next business was to inspect all the inns in the place, for
the purpose of selecting as our abode that which presented the most
favourable indications, and the Hotel of the Temperate Climates was
ultimately honoured with our choice.

Ever since our entry into the province of Kan-Sou, not a day had passed
in which Samdadchiemba had not enlarged upon the subject of the Three
Valleys and the Dchiahours.  Though there was no very immense amount of
sentiment about him, he had a great desire to revisit his native place,
and to see once more any members of his family who might happen to be
surviving there.  We could not do otherwise than aid so laudable a
purpose; accordingly, when we were established in the Hotel of the
Temperate Climates, we granted to our cameleer eight days’ leave of
absence, wherein to revisit his so long abandoned home.  Eight days
appeared to him fully sufficient for the purpose: two to go in, two to
come back in, and four to be spent in the bosom of his family, relating
to them all the marvels he had witnessed abroad.  We allowed him the use
of a camel, that he might appear among his friends with the greater
distinction; and five ounces of silver which we placed in his purse
completed his recommendations to a favourable reception.

While awaiting the return of our Dchiahour, we were exclusively occupied
in taking care of our animals, and of ourselves.  Every day we had to go
into the town to buy our provisions, then to cook them, and, morning and
evening, to water our cattle at some distance from the inn.  The master
of the house was one of those good-natured persons who, in their very
eagerness to oblige, become troublesome; and whose amiability of
intention scarcely induces one to pardon their importunity of attention.
The worthy man was incessantly thrusting himself into our room, to give
us advice how we ought to do this, that, and the other.  After altering
the position of everything in the chamber according to his fancy for the
moment, he would go up to the furnace, take off the lid of the saucepan,
dip his finger into the ragout, and licking it to see how the mess was
going on, add salt or ginger, or other condiment, to the infinite
annoyance of M. Huc, who was officially charged with the cooking
department.  At other times he would loudly protest that we knew nothing
about making up a fire, that the coals ought to be laid so, and the wood
so, and that a draught of air ought to be kept up in this or that
direction; and thereupon he would take up the tongs and overturn our
fire, to the immense discomfiture of M. Gabet, who presided over that
department.  At night he appeared to consider himself especially
indispensable, and would skip in every quarter of an hour to see that the
lamp was burning properly, and that the wick was long enough, or short
enough, and what not.  At times he had really the air of asking us how it
was possible that we had contrived to live without him, the one of us up
to thirty-two years of age, the other up to thirty-seven.  However, among
the exuberance of attentions with which he bored us, there was one which
we readily accepted; it was in the matter of warming our beds, the
process of which was so singular, so peculiar, that we had never had the
opportunity elsewhere of observing it.

The kang, a species of furnace on which you lie, is not in Kan-Sou
constructed altogether of brickwork, as is the case in Northern China,
but the upper flooring consists of moveable planks, placed closely beside
one another.  When they want to heat the kang for sleeping purposes, they
remove the planks, and strew the interior of the kang with horse-dung,
quite dry and pulverised.  Over this combustible they throw some lighted
cinders, and then replace the planks; the fire immediately communicates
itself to the dung, which, once lighted, continues to smoulder; the heat
and the smoke, having no exit, soon warm the planks, and this produces a
tepid temperature which, in consequence of the slow combustion of the
material, prevails throughout the night.  The talent of the kang-heater
consists in putting neither too much nor too little dung, in strewing it
properly, and in so arranging the cinders that combustion shall commence
at different points in the same moment of time, in order that all the
planks may equally benefit by the warmth.  Ashamed to have our bed warmed
for us like children, we one night essayed to perform this service for
ourselves, but the result was by no means happy, for while one of us was
nearly broiled to death, the other trembled with cold all night long; the
fact being, that owing to our want of skill, the fire had actually caught
the planks on one side of the kang, while on the other the fuel had not
lighted at all.  The host of the Hotel of the Temperate Climates was
naturally disgusted at the mischance, and in order to prevent its
recurrence, he locked the closing plank of the furnace, and himself came
every time to light it.

Our various domestic occupations, and the recitation of our Breviary,
passed away the time very smoothly at Ho-Kiao-Y.  On the eighth day, as
had been agreed, Samdadchiemba returned, but not alone; he was
accompanied by a lad, whose features bespoke him a brother of our
cameleer, and as such Samdadchiemba presented him to us.  Our first
interview was very brief, for the two Dchiahours had scarcely presented
themselves before they disappeared.  We imagined, at first, that they
were gone to pay their respects to the host, but it was not so, for they
almost immediately re-appeared with somewhat more solemnity of manner
than before.  Samdadchiemba marched in first: “Babdcho,” said he to his
brother, “prostrate thyself before our masters, and present to them the
offerings of our poor family.”  The younger Dchiahour made us three
salutations in the Oriental fashion, and then laid before us two great
dishes, one of them full of fine nuts, the other laden with three large
loaves, in form resembling those made in France.  To afford Samdadchiemba
the most practical proof in our power that we were sensible to his
attention, we forthwith applied ourselves to one of the loaves, which,
with some of the nuts, constituted quite a delicious repast, for never
since our departure from France had we tasted such excellent bread.

While engaged upon our banquet, we observed that the costume of
Samdadchiemba was reduced to its simplest expression; that whereas he had
gone decently attired, he had come back half-covered with a few rags.  We
asked for an explanation of this change, whereupon he gave us an account
of the miserable condition in which he had found his family.  The father
had been dead for some time; his aged mother had become blind, so that
she had not enjoyed the happiness of seeing him.  He had two brothers,
the one a mere child, the other the young man whom he had brought with
him, and who, the sole support of the family, devoted his time to the
cultivation of a small field which still belonged to them, and to the
tending the flocks of other people for hire.  This narrative at once
explained what Samdadchiemba had done with his clothes; he had given them
all to his poor old mother, without even excepting his travelling cloak.
We thought it our duty to propose that he should remain, and devote
himself to the assistance of his wretched family; but he did not at all
adopt the suggestion.  “What,” said he, “could I have the cruelty to do
such a thing as that!  Could I ever think of going to devour the little
substance that remains to them?  They can scarcely subsist themselves:
how could they possibly support me; for I myself have no means of making
a livelihood there—I cannot labour at the soil, and there is no other way
in which I could help them.”  We considered this resolution neither good
nor great; but knowing, as we did, the character of Samdadchiemba, it in
no degree surprised us.  We did not insist upon his remaining, for we
were even better convinced than he himself was, that he could be of no
sort of service to his family.  We did all we could ourselves to aid
these poor people, by giving Samdadchiemba’s brother as large an alms as
we could spare; and we then proceeded to the preparations for our
departure.

During these eight days of repose, the condition of our animals had so
improved as to enable us to venture upon the difficult road we had to
traverse.  The next day after quitting Ho-Kiao-Y, we began the ascent of
the high mountain called Ping-Keou, the terribly rugged paths of which
interposed almost insurmountable difficulties in the way of our camels.
On the ascent, we were obliged to be constantly calling out, at the pitch
of our voices, in order to warn any muleteers who might be coming down
the road, which was so narrow and dangerous that two animals could not
pass each other abreast.  Our cries were to enable any persons coming the
other way to lead their mules aside, so that they might not take alarm at
the sight of our camels, and dash over the precipice.  We began the
ascent of this mountain before daybreak, and yet it was noon before we
reached its summit.  There we found a little inn, where, under the
denomination of tea, they sold a decoction of burned beans.  We stopped
at this place for a brief period to take a repast, which hunger rendered
very succulent and savoury, of some nuts and a slice of the famous bread
which the Dchiahour had brought us, and which we expended with the utmost
parsimony.  A draught of cold water should have been, according to our
previous plan, the complement of our feast; but the only water attainable
on this mountain was affected with an insupportable stench.  We were
fain, therefore, to have recourse to the decoction of baked beans, a
dreadfully insipid fluid, but for which, notwithstanding, we were charged
extortionately.

The cold was by no means so severe as we had expected from the season of
the year and the great elevation of the mountain.  In the afternoon,
indeed, the weather was quite mild; by-and-by, the sky was overcast, and
snow fell.  As we were obliged to descend the mountain on foot, we soon
got absolutely hot, in the perpetual struggle, of a very laborious kind,
to keep from rolling down the slippery path.  One of our camels fell
twice, but happily in each instance he was stayed by a rock from tumbling
over the mountain’s side.

Having placed behind us the formidable Ping-Keou, we took up our lodging
in the village of the Old Duck (_Lao-Ya-Pou_).  Here we found a system of
heating in operation different from that of Ho-Kiao-Y.  The kangs here
are warmed, not with dried horse-dung, but with coal-dust, reduced to
paste, and then formed into bricks; turf is also used for the purpose.
We had hitherto imagined that knitting was unknown in China; the village
of the Old Duck removed this misconception from our minds, and enabled
us, indeed, to remove it from the minds of the Chinese themselves in
other parts of the empire.  We found here in every street men, not women,
occupied in this species of industry.  Their productions are wholly
without taste or delicacy of execution; they merely knit coarse cotton
into shapeless stockings, like sacks, or sometimes gloves, without any
separation for the fingers, and merely a place for the thumb, the
knitting needles being small canes of bamboo.  It was for us a singular
spectacle to see parties of moustachioed men sitting before the door of
their houses in the sun, knitting, sewing, and chattering like so many
female gossips; it looked quite like a burlesque upon the manners of
Europe.

From Lao-Ya-Pou to Si-Ning-Fou was five days march; on the second day we
passed through Ning-Pey-Hien, a town of the third order.  Outside the
western gate, we stopped at an inn to take our morning meal; a great many
travellers were already assembled in the large kitchen, occupying the
tables which were ranged along the walls; in the centre of the room were
several furnaces, where the innkeeper, his wife, several children, and
some servants were actively preparing the dishes required by the guests.
While every body seemed occupied, either in the preparation or in the
consumption of victuals, a loud cry was heard.  It was the hostess, thus
expressing the pain occasioned by a knock on her head, which the husband
had administered with a shovel.  At the cry, all the travellers looked in
the direction whence it proceeded; the woman retreated, with vehement
vociferations, to a corner of the kitchen; the innkeeper explained to the
company that he had been compelled to correct his wife for insolence,
insubordination, and an indifference to the interests of the
establishment, which eminently compromised its prosperity.  Before he had
finished his version of the story, the wife, from her retreat in the
corner, commenced her’s; she informed the company that her husband was an
idle vagabond, who passed his time in drinking and smoking, expending the
result of her labours for a whole month in a few days of brandy and
tobacco.  During this extempore performance, the audience remained
imperturbably calm, giving not the smallest indication of approbation or
disapprobation.  At length the wife issued from her retreat, and advanced
with a sort of challenging air to the husband: “Since I am a wicked
woman,” cried she, “you must kill me.  Come, kill me!” and so saying, she
drew herself up with a gesture of vast dramatic dignity immediately in
front of the husband.  The latter did not adopt the suggestion to kill
her, but he gave her a formidable box on the ear, which sent her back,
screaming at the pitch of her voice, into her previous corner.  Hereupon,
the audience burst into loud laughter; but the affair, which seemed to
them so diverting, soon took a very serious turn.  After the most
terrible abuse on the one hand, and the most awful threats on the other,
the innkeeper at length drew his girdle tight about his waist, and
twisted his tress of hair about his head, in token of some decided
proceeding.  “Since you will have me kill you,” cried he, “I will kill
you!” and so saying, he took from the furnace a pair of long iron tongs,
and rushed furiously upon his wife.  Everybody at once rose and shouted;
the neighbours ran in, and all present endeavoured to separate the
combatants, but they did not effect the object until the woman’s face was
covered with blood, and her hair was all down about her shoulders.  Then
a man of ripe years, who seemed to exercise some authority in the house,
gravely pronounced these words by way of epilogue: “How! what!” said he,
“husband and wife fighting thus! and in presence of their children, in
presence of a crowd of travellers!”  These words, repeated three or four
times, in a tone which expressed at once indignation and authority, had a
marvellous effect.  Almost immediately afterwards the guests resumed
their dinner, the hostess fried cakes in nut-oil, and the host silently
smoked his pipe.

When we were about to depart, the innkeeper, in summing up our account,
coolly inserted fifty sapeks for the animals which we had tied up in the
court-yard during our meal.  He had evidently an idea of making us pay
_en Tartare_.  Samdadchiemba was indignant.  “Do you think,” asked he,
“that we Dchiahours don’t know the rules of inns?  Where did you ever
hear of making people pay for fastening their animals to a peg in the
wall?  Tell me, master publican, how many sapeks are you going to charge
us for the comedy we’ve just witnessed of the innkeeper and his wife?”
The burst of laughter on the part of the bystanders which hailed this
sarcasm carried the day triumphantly for Samdadchiemba, and we departed
without paying anything beyond our personal expenses.

The road thence to Si-Ning-Fou, generally well made and well kept,
meanders through a fertile and well cultivated country, picturesquely
diversified by trees, hills, and numerous streams.  Tobacco is the staple
of the district.  We saw on our way several water-mills, remarkable for
their simplicity, as is the case with all Chinese works.  In these mills,
the upper story is stationary, while the lower is turned by means of a
single wheel, kept in motion by the current.  To work these mills, though
they are frequently of large proportions, a very small stream suffices,
as the stream plays upon the wheel in the form of a cascade, at least
twenty feet high.

On the day before arriving at Si-Ning-Fou, we passed over a road
extremely laborious, and so dangerously rugged that it suggested frequent
recommendations of ourselves to the protection of the Divine Providence.
Our course was amid enormous rocks, beside a deep, fierce current, the
tumultuous waves of which roared beneath us.  There was the gulf
perpetually yawning to swallow us up, should we make but one false step;
we trembled, above all, for our camels, awkward and lumbering as they
were, whenever they had to pass over an uneven road.  At length, thanks
to the goodness of God, we arrived without accident at Si-Ning.  The town
is of very large extent, but its population is limited, and itself, in
several parts, is falling into absolute decay.  The history of the matter
is, that its commerce has been in great measure intercepted by
Tang-Keou-Eul, a small town on the banks of the Keou-Ho, the frontier
which separates Kan-Sou from Koukou-Noor.

It is the custom, we may say the rule, at Si-Ning-Fou, not to receive
strangers, such as the Tartars, Thibetians, and others, into the inns,
but to relegate them to establishments called Houses of Repose
(_Sie-Kia_), into which no other travellers are admitted.  We proceeded
accordingly to one of these Houses of Repose, where we were exceedingly
well entertained.  The Sie-Kia differ from other inns in this important
particular, that the guests are boarded, lodged, and served there
gratuitously.  Commerce being the leading object of travellers hither,
the chiefs of the Sie-Kia indemnify themselves for their outlay by a
recognised per centage upon all the goods which their guests buy or sell.
The persons who keep these Houses of Repose have first to procure a
license from the authorities of the town, for which they pay a certain
sum, greater or less, according to the character of the commercial men
who are expected to frequent the house.  In outward show, the guests are
well-treated, but still they are quite at the mercy of the landlords,
who, having an understanding with the traders of the town, manage to make
money of both parties.

When we, indeed, departed from Si-Ning-Fou, the Sie-Kia with whom we had
lodged had made nothing by us in the ordinary way, for we had neither
bought nor sold anything.  However, as it would have been preposterous
and unjust on our part to have lived thus at the expense of our
neighbours, we paid the host of the House of Repose for what we had had,
at the ordinary tavern rate.

After crossing several torrents, ascending many rocky hills, and twice
passing the Great Wall, we arrived at Tang-Keou-Eul.  It was now January,
and nearly four months had elapsed since our departure from the Valley of
Dark Waters.  Tang-Keou-Eul is a small town, but very populous, very
animated, and very full of business.  It is a regular tower of Babel,
wherein you find collected Eastern Thibetians, _Houng-Mao-Eul_
(Long-haired Folk), Eleuts, Kolos, Chinese, Tartars from the Blue Sea,
and Mussulmans, descended from the ancient migrations from Turkestan.
Everything in the town bears the impress of violence.  Nobody walks the
streets without a great sabre at his side, and without affecting, at
least, a fierce determination to use it on the shortest notice.  Not an
hour passes without some street combat.

            [Picture: The Jin Seng, a medicinal root of China]




NOTES.


{11}  Notwithstanding the slight importance of the Tartar tribes, we
shall give them the name of kingdoms, because the chiefs of these tribes
are called _Wang_ (King.)

{12}  Sixth Emperor of the Tartar-Mantchou dynasty.  He died in the year
1849.

{16}  The Chinese _Li_ is about equivalent to the quarter of an English
mile.

{23}  Dried dung, which constitutes the chief, and indeed in many places
the sole fuel in Tartary.

{35}  With the exception of a very few inaccuracies, this map of the
Chinese empire is a most excellent one.  We found it of the most valuable
aid throughout our journey.—Huc.

An English version of the map is prefixed to this volume.—ED.

{43}  The English, then at war with the Chinese, were designated by the
Tartars the _Rebels of the South_.

{51}  “Voyage à Peking, à travers la Mongolie, par M. G. Timkouski,”
chap. ii., p. 57.

{93}  The anecdote, which we give as we heard it, must have reference to
Tchun-Tche’s father, who died immediately after the conquest.  Tchun-Tche
himself was only four years old at the time.

{105}  The Chinese designate them San Pao; the Mantchous, Ilan Baobai;
the Mongols, Korban erdeni; and the Thibetians, Tchok-Soum.

{116}  The Fathers Jesuits introduced the use of Arabic numerals into the
Observatory at Peking.

{141}  The bed of the Yellow River has undergone numerous and notable
variations.  In ancient times, its mouth was situated in the Gulf of
Pe-Tchi-Li, in latitude 39.  At present it is in the 34th parallel,
twenty-five leagues from the primitive point.  The Chinese government is
compelled annually to expend enormous sums in keeping the river within
its bed and preventing inundations.  In 1779, the embankment for this
purpose cost no less a sum than £1,600,000.  Yet, despite these
precautions, inundations are of frequent occurrence; for the bed of the
Yellow River, in the provinces of Ho-Nan and Kiang-Sou, is higher for 200
leagues than the plain through which it passes.  This bed, continuing to
rise, with the quantity of mud deposited, there is inevitably impending,
at no remote period, an awful catastrophe, involving in death and
desolation all the adjacent district.

{170}  Barains is a Principality situated north of Peking.  It is one of
the most celebrated in Mongol Tartary.

{218a}  Gen. xxix., 1–3.

{218b}  Gen. xxiv., 19, 20.

{259}  This compilation was made in the fourteenth century, by order of
Pope John XXII.

{273}  At this period there was no French embassy in China, and no treaty
in favour of Europeans.  All missionaries, therefore, who penetrated into
the interior, were, _ipso facto_, liable to be put to death.

{285}  The Thibetians call the English in Hindostan, Péling, a word
signifying stranger, and equivalent to the Chinese y-jin, which the
Europeans translate, barbarian, probably with the notion of flattering
their self-love by the implied contrast.