CHINA***


This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.





                                 TRAVELS
                                    IN
                       TARTARY, THIBET, AND CHINA,


                               ILLUSTRATED.

                            [Picture: Buddha]

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

              [Picture: Mausoleum of a Grand Lama of Thibet]

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

                                * * * * *

                                BY M. HUC.

                TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY W. HAZLITT.

                                * * * * *

                                 VOL. II.

                                * * * * *

                ILLUSTRATED WITH FIFTY ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY
                               227 STRAND.

                                * * * * *

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




CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

                                                                  PAGE
CONTENTS.                                                            v
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.                                              ix
                        CHAPTER I.
Caravan of Khalkha Tartars—Son of the King of                       13
Koukou-Noor—Sandara the Bearded—Two thousand Oxen are
stolen from the Houng-Mao-Eul, or Long Hairs—Fearful
Tumult at Tang-Keou-Eul—Description and character of the
Long Hairs—Feasts of the First Day of the Year—Departure
for the Lamasery of Kounboum—Arrival at Night—Old
Akayé—The Kitat-Lama—The Stammerer—Pilgrims at
Kounboum—Description of the Feast of Flowers
                        CHAPTER II.
Marvellous birth of Tsong-Kaba—His preparation for the              46
Apostleship—He departs for the West—His interview with the
Grand Lama of Thibet—He reforms the Lamanesque
worship—Numerous analogies between the Catholic religion
and reformed Buddhism—Origin of these analogies—Tree of
the Ten Thousand Images—Lamanesque Teaching—Faculty of
Prayer—Government of the Lamasery of Kounboum—Offerings of
the Pilgrims—Industry of the Lamas—The Adventures of
Sandara the Bearded—Favourable disposition of the Lamas
towards Christianity—Singular practice for the relief of
Travellers—Nocturnal Prayers—Departure for the Lamasery of
Tchogortan
                       CHAPTER III.
Aspect of the Lamasery of Tchogortan—Contemplative                  72
Lamas—Lama Herdsmen—The “Book of the Forty-two Points of
Instruction, delivered by Buddha”—Extract from the Chinese
Annals, with relation to the preaching of Buddhism in
China—The Black Tents—Manners of the Si-Fan—Long-haired
Oxen—Adventures of a stuffed Karba—Lamanesque Chronicle of
the Origin of Nations—Alimentary Diet—Valuable discoveries
in the Animal Kingdom—Manufacture of Camel-hair
Cord—Frequent visits to Tchogortan—Classification of
Argols—Brigand Anecdote—Elevation of the Pyramid of
Peace—The Faculty of Medicine at Tchogortan—Thibetian
Physicians—Departure for the Blue Sea
                        CHAPTER IV.
Aspect of the Koukou-Noor—Tribes of Kolos—Chronicle of the          98
Origin of the Blue Sea—Description and March of the Great
Caravan—Passage of the Pouhain-Gol—Adventures of the
Altère-Lama—Character of our pro-cameleer—Mongols of
Tsaidam—Pestilential Vapours of the Bourhan-Bota—Ascent of
the Chuga and Bayen-Kharat Mountains—Wild Cattle—Wild
Mules—Men and Animals Killed with the Cold—Encounter with
Brigands—Plateau of Tant-La—Hot Springs—Conflagration in
the Desert—Village of Na-Ptchu—Sale of Camels, and Hiring
of Long-tailed Oxen—Young Chaberon of the Kingdom of
Khartchin—Cultivated Plains of Pompou—Mountain of the
Remission of Sins—Arrival at Lha-Ssa
                        CHAPTER V.
Lodgings in a Thibetian House—Appearance of Lha-Ssa—Palace         137
of the Talé-Lama—Picture of the Thibetians—Monstrous
Toilet of the Women—Industrial and Agricultural
productions of Thibet—Gold and Silver Mines—Foreigners
resident at Lha-Ssa—The Pebouns—The Katchis—The
Chinese—Position of the relations between China and
Thibet—Various speculations of the Public respecting us—We
present ourselves to the Authorities—Form of the Thibetian
Government—Grand Lama of Djachi-Loumbo—Society of the
Kalons—Thibetian Prophecy—Tragical Death of three
Talé-Lamas—Account of Ki-Chan—Condemnation of the
Nomekhan—Revolt of the Lamasery of Sera
                        CHAPTER VI.
Visit of Five Spies—Appearance before the Regent—Ki-Chan           166
makes us undergo an Examination—Supper at the expense of
the Government—A night of imprisonment with the
Regent—Confidential communications of the Governor of the
Katchi—Domiciliary Visit—Seals affixed to all our
effects—Sinico-Thibetian Tribunal—Inquiry about the
Geographical Maps—Homage paid to Christianity, and to the
French name—The Regent assigns to us one of his
Houses—Erection of a Chapel—Preaching of the
Gospel—Conversion of a Chinese Doctor—Religious
Conferences with the Regent—Recreation with a Magnifying
Glass—Conversations with Ki-Chan—Religious character of
the Thibetians—Celebrated formula of the
Buddhists—Buddhist Pantheism—Election of the Talé-Lama—The
Small-pox at Lha-Ssa—Sepultures in use among the
Thibetians
                       CHAPTER VII.
Notice of Moorcroft the English Traveller—Routes between           201
Lha-Ssa and Europe—Discussion with the Chinese
Ambassador—Contest between the Regent and Ki-Chan about
us—Our expulsion from Lha-Ssa determined on—Protest
against this arbitrary measure—Report of Ki-Chan to the
Emperor of China—System of Chronology in use in Thibet—New
Thibetian year—Festivals and rejoicings—Buddhist
Monasteries of the Province of
Oui—Khaldan—Preboung—Sera—Farewell of the
Regent—Separation from Samdadchiemba—Ly, the Pacificator
of Kingdoms—Triple Address of the Chinese
Ambassador—Picturesque adieu between the Ly-Kouo-Ngun and
his Wife—Departure from Lha-Ssa for Canton—Crossing a
river in a leathern boat
                       CHAPTER VIII.
Chinese account of Thibet—Mountain of Loumma-Ri—Arrival at         232
Ghiamda—Visit of two Military Mandarins—Accident on a
wooden bridge—The Unicorn—Passage of a Glacier—Appearance
of Lha-Ri—Ascent of Chor-Kon-La—Frightful Road to
Alan-To—Village of Lang Ki-Tsoung—Famous Mountain of
Tanda—Catastrophe of Kia-Yu-Kiao—Passage of the celebrated
Plateau of Wa-Ho—Arrival at Tsiamdo
                        CHAPTER IX.
Glance at Tsiamdo—War between two Living Buddhas—We meet a         268
small Caravan—Calcareous Mountains—Death of the Mandarin
Pey—The great chief Proul-Tamba—Visit to the Castle of
Proul-Tamba—Buddhist Hermit—War among the tribes—Halt at
Angti—Thibetian Museum—Passage of the Mountain Angti—Town
of Djaya—Death of the son of the Mandarin Pey—Musk
Deer—River with Gold Sands—Plain and Town of Bathang—Great
Forest of Ta-So—Death of Ly-Kouo-Ngan—Interview with the
Mandarins of Lithang—Various bridges of Thibet—Arrival on
the frontiers of China—Residence at Ta-Tsien-Lou—Departure
for the capital of the Province of Sse-Tchouen

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                           PAGE
Frontispiece, Mausoleum of a Grand Lama of Thibet
Title-page, Buddha
Khalkha Tartars                                              13
Tartars                                                      13
Ceremony of Reception                                        17
Pawnbroker’s Shop                                            29
Accident on the Ice                                          33
The Grand Lama of Kounboum                                   43
The Great Wall of China                                      46
The Tree of Ten Thousand Images                              53
Buddhic Prayer                                               59
Sending Horses to Travellers                                 67
Lamasery of Tchogortan                                       72
The Long-haired Ox                                           80
The Pyramid of Peace                                         92
The Leaf of the Tree of Ten Thousand Images                  97
The Blue Sea                                                 98
The Tchanak-Kampo, and the Caravan                          106
Wild Mules of Tartary                                       121
Fire in the Camp                                            130
View of Na-Ptchu                                            132
Chinese and Tartar Male Head-dresses                        136
View of Lha-Ssa                                             137
Thibetian Cup Shop                                          145
Insurrection of the Thibetians at Lha-Ssa                   151
Chinese Mandarin and his Wife                               153
The Spies                                                   166
The Governor of Katchi                                      177
Carrying Goods to the Tribunal                              180
The Regent of Lha-Ssa                                       188
Portrait of Ki-Chan                                         192
Chinese and Tartar Female Head-dresses                      200
Thibetian Theatre                                           201
The Tortché, or Sanctifying Instrument                      220
Adieu of Ki-Chan                                            227
Parting of Ly-Kouo-Ngan with his Wife                       229
Scene on the River Bo-Tchou                                 231
Bridge of Ghiamda                                           232
Chinese Musical Instruments                                 234
The Unicorn                                                 245
The Defile of Alan-To                                       255
Pagoda of Tanda                                             261
Chinese Hand, Foot, Shoes, etc.                             267
Proul-Tamba, a celebrated Thibetian Chief                   268
Thibetian Travellers                                        272
The Hermit of the Mountain                                  281
Iron Chain Bridge                                           301
Chinese Ornamental Ware                                     304

                        [Picture: Khalka Tartars]




CHAPTER I.


Caravan of Khalkha-Tartars—Son of the King of Koukou-Noor—Sandara the
Bearded—Two thousand Oxen are stolen from the Houng-Mao-Eul, or Long
Hairs—Fearful Tumult at Tang-Keou-Eul—Description and character of the
Long Hairs—Feasts of the First Day of the Year—Departure for the Lamasery
of Kounboum—Arrival at Night—Old Akayé—The Kitat-Lama—The
Stammerer—Pilgrims at Kounboum—Description of the Feast of Flowers.

The Houses of Repose are very numerous in [Picture: Khalkas] the small
town of Tang-Keou-Eul, by reason of the great number of strangers, who
are drawn thither from all quarters by commerce.  It was in one of these
establishments, kept by a family of Mussulmen, that we went to lodge.  As
we had nothing to do with trade, we felt called upon candidly to
communicate the fact to the host, and to arrange the terms of our living
in his house; it was agreed that we should be there as in a common hotel.
All this was very well; but the question was, what we were to do
afterwards: what was to become of us?  This question incessantly
engrossed our minds, and tormented us not a little.

As far as Tang-Keou-Eul we had followed, with sufficient continuity, the
route we had traced out for ourselves; we might even say that this
portion of our journey had been successful beyond all expectations.  Now
the business was to carry out our plan, and to penetrate to Lha-Ssa, the
capital of Thibet; an undertaking which appeared bristling with almost
insuperable difficulties.  Tang-Keou-Eul was our columns of Hercules,
with their depressing _ne plus ultra_ (No farther shalt thou go).
However, we had already vanquished too many obstacles, to be easily
overcome by discouragement.  We heard that almost every year caravans
proceeded from Tang-Keou-Eul, and penetrated into the very heart of
Thibet.  We wanted nothing more to confirm our determination.  Whatever
other people had undertaken and executed, we assumed also to undertake
and to execute, as not being, probably, beyond our power.  It was
therefore settled that the journey should be carried out to the end, and
that no one should say that Catholic missionaries had less courage for
the interest of the faith, than merchants for a little profit.  The
possibility of departure being thus determined we had nothing to seek but
the opportunity.

Our great business, therefore, was to collect all possible information
respecting this famous route into Thibet.  We heard terrible things about
it; we should have to travel for four months through a country absolutely
without inhabitants, and should have, accordingly, to lay in before our
departure all the necessary provisions.  In the season of winter, the
cold was so horrible that it often happened that travellers were frozen
to death or buried beneath the avalanches of snow; while, in summer, a
great number were drowned, for they had to cross large streams, without
bridge or boat, without other aid than that of animals, which themselves
often could not swim.  Moreover, there were hordes of brigands, who at
certain periods of the year prowled about the desert and stripped
travellers and abandoned them, without clothes or food, amidst these
frightful plains; in short, there was no end of stories, enough to make
our hair stand on end; and these stories, fabulous as they seemed, or, at
least, much exaggerated, were the same on every tongue,—were all of a
frightful uniformity.  Besides, there were to be seen and questioned in
the streets of Tang-Keou-Eul, some Tartar-Mongols, who were standing
evidence of the truth of these long narratives, being the remnants of a
large caravan, which had been attacked in the preceding year by a troop
of brigands.  These had contrived to escape, but their companions had
been left to the mercy of the _Kolo_ (brigands).  This information, while
ineffectual to shake our resolution, induced us to remain where we were,
until a favourable opportunity for departure should present itself.

We had been six days at Tang-Keou-Eul, when a small caravan of
Tartar-Khalkhas arrived at our House of Repose.  It came from the
frontiers of Russia, and was on its way to Lha-Ssa to offer up its
adorations to a young child, which, the people were informed, was the
famous Guison-Tamba newly transmigrated.  When the Tartars learned that
we were awaiting a favourable opportunity for proceeding towards Thibet,
they were delighted, fully appreciating the fact that their troop, in
this unexpected accession of three pilgrims, received an accession, also,
of three combatants in the event of a fight with the Kolo.  Our beards
and mustachios inspired them with an exalted idea of our valour, and we
were forthwith decorated by them with the title of _Batourou_ (braves).
This was all exceedingly honourable and seductive; but still, before we
finally decided upon joining the cavalcade, we thought it expedient to
consider the various aspects of the matter gravely and maturely.

The caravan which occupied the great court-yard of the House of Repose,
counted only eight men; the rest was camels, horses, tents, baggage, and
kitchen utensils; but then the eight men, according to their own account,
were perfect war dragons.  At all events, they were armed up to the
teeth, and made a grand display before us of their matchlocks, lances,
bows and arrows, and above all, of a piece of artillery, in the shape of
a small cannon, of the size of one’s arm; it had no carriage, but mounted
between the two humps of a camel, it produced a very formidable effect.
All this warlike apparatus failed to inspire us with confidence, and, on
the other hand, we placed but slight reliance upon the moral effect of
our long beards.  It was necessary, however, to adopt a decided course;
the Tartar-Khalkhas urged us pressingly, assuring us of complete success.
Of the lookers on, disinterested in the matter one way or the other, some
told us that the opportunity was altogether eligible, and that we ought
by all means to avail ourselves of it; while others assured us that it
would be the extreme of imprudence to proceed, for that so small a party
would be inevitably eaten up by the Kolo; and that it would be far
better, as we were in no immediate hurry, to wait for the great Thibetian
embassy.

Now this embassy having only just quitted Peking, would not reach
Tang-Keou-Eul for fully eight months, a delay which it seemed absolutely
ruinous for us to undergo.  How, with our modest means, were we to
maintain ourselves and our five animals for so long a time in an inn?
After maturely calculating and weighing everything: let us confide in the
protection of God, said we, and go forth.  We announced our resolution to
the Tartars, who were highly delighted.  We immediately requested the
host of the House of Repose to purchase for us four months’ provision of
meal.  “What do you want with four months meal?” asked the Tartars.
“They say the journey is of at least three months’ duration, and it is
expedient, therefore, to provide for four months, to meet the chance of
accidents.”  “Ay, the Thibetian embassy occupies a long time on the
journey, but we Tartars travel in quite a different manner; we do the
distance in a moon and a-half at the very outside; we gallop the whole
way, so that we get over nearly 200 (twenty leagues) a day.”  This
intimation at once caused us to change our resolution.  It was manifestly
quite impossible for us to keep up with this caravan.  In the first
place, as to ourselves, never having been accustomed, like the Tartars,
to forced marches, we should have been dead in three days; and as to our
animals, weary and worn with four months incessant toil, they could not
have for any length of time borne up against the pace of our proposed
companions.  The Tartars having forty camels could afford to knock up
one-half of them.  Indeed, they themselves admitted that with our three
camels, it was impossible for us to undertake the journey with them, and
they accordingly advised us to buy a dozen others.  The advice, excellent
in itself, was, with reference to the state of our exchequer, absolutely
absurd.  Twelve good camels would have cost us three hundred ounces of
silver; now the total amount of our funds was under two hundred ounces.

The eight Tartar-Khalkhas were all of princely blood, and, accordingly,
on the evening preceding their departure, they received a visit from the
son of the King of Koukou-Noor, who was then at Tang-Keou-Eul.  As the
room we occupied was the handsomest in the establishment, it was arranged
that the interview should take place there.  The young Prince of
Koukou-Noor surprised us by his noble mien and the elegance of his
manners; it was obvious that he spent considerably more of his time at
Tang-Keou-Eul than in the Mongol tent.  He was attired in a handsome robe
of light blue cloth, over which was a sort of jacket of violet cloth,
with a broad border of black velvet.  His left ear was decorated, in
Thibetian fashion, with a gold earring from which hung several trinkets;
his complexion was almost as fair as our own, and his countenance
admirably gentle in its expression: in utter contradistinction from
ordinary Tartars, his garments were exquisitely clean.  As the visit of a
Prince of Koukou-Noor was quite an event, we determined to be wholly
regardless of expense in celebrating it; and Samdadchiemba received,
accordingly, orders to prepare a banquet for his royal highness, that is
to say, a great pitcher of good, hot tea, with milk.  His royal highness
deigned to accept a cup of this beverage, and the remainder was
distributed among his staff, who were in waiting outside.  The
conversation turned upon the journey into Thibet.  The prince promised
the Tartar-Khalkhas an escort throughout his estates.  “Beyond that
point,” said he, “I can answer for nothing; you must take your chance,
good or bad, as shall happen.”  Then addressing us, he advised us by all
means to wait for the Thibetian embassy, in whose company we should be
able to travel with greater ease and security.  On taking leave, the
royal visitor drew from a purse elegantly embroidered, a small agate
snuff-box, and graciously offered to each of us a pinch.

                     [Picture: Ceremony of Reception]

Next morning the Tartar-Khalkhas proceeded on their journey.  When we saw
them depart, a feeling of sorrow came over us, for we would gladly have
accompanied them had it been at all practicable; but the sentiment soon
subsided, and we applied our thoughts to the best use we should make of
our time while we remained at Tang-Keou-Eul.  It was at last determined
that we should procure a master, and devote ourselves entirely to the
study of the Thibetian language and of the Buddhist books.

At eleven leagues from Tang-Keou-Eul there is, in the land of the Si-Fan,
or Eastern Thibetians, a Lamasery, whose fame extends not merely
throughout Tartary, but even to the remotest parts of Thibet.  Thither
pilgrims flock from all quarters, venerating; for there was born
Tsong-Kaba-Remboutchi, the famous reformer of Buddhism.  The Lamasery
bears the name of Kounboum, and its Lama population numbers no fewer than
4,000 persons, Si-Fan, Tartars, Thibetians, and Dchiahours.  It was
determined that one of us should visit this place, and endeavour to
engage a Lama to come and teach us for a few months the Thibetian
language.  M. Gabet, accordingly, departed on this mission, accompanied
by Samdadchiemba, while M. Huc remained at Tang-Keou-Eul, to take care of
the animals and of the baggage.

After an absence of five days, M. Gabet returned to the House of Repose,
eminently successful, having secured at the Lamasery of Kounboum a
perfect treasure in the person of a Lama who had passed ten of the
thirty-two years of his life in a grand Lamasery at Lha-Ssa itself.  He
spoke pure Thibetian perfectly, wrote it with facility, and was very
learned in the Buddhist books; moreover, he was quite familiar with
several other idioms, Si-Fan, Mongol, Chinese, and Dchiahour; in a word,
he was a philologist of the first water.  This young Lama was a Dchiahour
by birth, and a cousin-german of Samdadchiemba; his name was Sandara, and
in the Lamasery he was called Sandara the Bearded, by reason of the
remarkable length of that appendage in which he luxuriated.

The devotion which Samdadchiemba’s cousin forthwith manifested in our
favour made us rejoice that we had not adventured with the Tartar-Khalkha
caravan, for here we were placed in the precise position for procuring
every requisite information about Thibet, and of making ourselves
acquainted at the same time with the language and religion of that
celebrated region.

We applied ourselves to study with perfect enthusiasm.  First, we
composed in Mongol two dialogues, comprehending the most familiar
conversational phrases.  These Sandara translated into Thibetian with
scrupulous attention.  Every morning he wrote out a page in our presence,
giving us a grammatical commentary upon each expression, as he proceeded;
this was our lesson for the day, which we first transcribed several
times, in order to break our hand into the Thibetian writing, and then
chanted, in the manner of the Lamaseries, until the whole page was
thoroughly impressed upon the memory.  In the evening our master heard us
recite the portion of dialogue he had written for us in the morning, and
rectified our defects of pronunciation.  Sandara acquitted himself of his
task with talent and amiability.  From time to time in the course of the
day he would, by way of recreation, give us details full of interest
respecting Thibet and the Lamaseries he had visited.  It was impossible
to listen to the descriptions given by this young Lama without
admiration; nowhere had we heard a person express himself with greater
facility or a more winning manner; the simplest, commonest things became
in his mouth picturesque and full of charm; he was especially remarkable
when he sought to induce upon others any particular view of his own upon
some subject in which he really felt an interest.  His eloquence was then
really powerful.

After having surmounted the first difficulties of the Thibetian language,
and familiarized ourselves with the expressions in ordinary use, we
proceeded to give our studies an altogether religious direction.  We got
Sandara to translate for us into the sacred style of his language some of
the leading Catholic forms, such as the Lord’s Prayer, the Salutation,
the Apostles’ Creed, the Commandments: and thereupon we took occasion to
explain to him the general truths of the Christian religion.  He seemed
all at once struck with this new doctrine, so different from the vague,
incoherent propositions of Buddhism.  Before long he attached so much
importance to the study of the Christian religion that he entirely laid
aside the Lama books he had brought with him, and applied himself to the
acquisition of our prayers with an ardour that made us truly joyful.
From time to time in the course of the day he would interrupt what he was
about in order to make the sign of the cross, and he practised this
religious act in a manner so grave and respectful that we thoroughly
believed him to have become a Christian at heart.  The excellent
tendencies he manifested filled us with the most lively hopes, and we
gratefully viewed in Sandara an incipient apostle, destined one day to
labour with success in converting the sectaries of Buddha.

While we three, master and pupils, were thus absorbed in studies so
important, Samdadchiemba, who had no sort of vocation for things
intellectual, passed his time lounging about the streets of Tang-Keou-Eul
and drinking tea.  Not at all pleased with this occupation of his time,
we devised to withdraw him from his idleness, and to utilise him in his
special character of cameleer.  It was accordingly arranged that he
should take the three camels and pasture them in a valley of Koukou-Noor,
noted for the excellence and the abundance of its pasturage.  A Tartar of
the locality promised to receive him into his tent, and we rejoiced in
the arrangement, as effecting the double advantage of supplying
Samdadchiemba with an occupation in conformity with his tastes, and of
giving our camels better and less costly fodder.

By degrees, all the fine things that we had imagined in Sandara, vanished
like a dream.  This young man, apparently of devotion so pure and
disinterested, was in reality a dissipated knave, whose only aim was to
ease us of our sapeks.  When he thought he had rendered himself essential
to us, he threw aside the mask, and placed himself undisguisedly before
us in all the detestability of his character: he became insolent,
haughty, overbearing.  In his Thibetian lessons, he substituted for the
mild, gentle, insinuating tone of his former instruction, manners the
most insufferably harsh and brutal, such as the worst tempered pedagogue
would not betray towards the poorest of his pupils.  If we asked him for
an explanation which perhaps he had previously given, he would assail us
with such amenities as these: “What! you learned fellows want to have the
same thing told you three times over!  Why, if I were to tell a donkey
the same thing three times over, he’d remember it.”  We might easily, no
doubt, have cut short these impertinences by sending the man back to his
Lamasery; and, more than once, we were strongly inclined to adopt this
course, but, upon the whole, we thought it better to undergo a little
humiliation, than to deprive ourselves of the services of a Lama whose
talents were indisputable, and who, therefore, might be of the greatest
utility to us.  His very rudeness, we considered, would aid our progress
in acquiring the Thibetian language, for we were sure that he would not
pass over the most trivial fault in grammar or pronunciation, but, on the
contrary, would rate us for any such defects, in a style eminently
calculated to produce an abiding impression.  This system, though
somewhat tedious, and decidedly displeasing to one’s self-love, was
incomparably superior to the method practised by the Chinese Christians
towards the European missionaries in giving them Chinese lessons.  Partly
from politeness, partly from religious respect, they affect to be in
ecstasies with whatever their spiritual father-pupil says; and, instead
of frankly correcting the faults which naturally occur in his
expressions, they are rather disposed to imitate his defective language,
so that he may, with the less trouble to himself, understand them, the
result of which excessive complaisance is, that the missionaries are put
to grave inconvenience when they seek to converse with pagans who, not
having the same devotion towards them, do not admit in them a fine
pronunciation, or a masterly knowledge of words.  Upon such occasions,
how one regrets that one had not for a teacher some Sandara the Bearded!
Upon such considerations, we resolved to keep our master with all his
defects, to endure his abuse, and to make the best and most we could of
him.  As we found that our sapeks were his object, it was agreed that we
should pay him handsomely for his lessons; and, moreover, we made up our
minds to wink at his little knaveries, and to affect to have no idea that
he had an understanding with the people who sold us our daily provisions.

Samdadchiemba had not been gone many days before he suddenly re-appeared
amongst us.  He had been robbed by brigands who had taken from him his
entire provision of meal, butter, and tea.  For the last day and a half
he had eaten nothing whatever, and, of consequence, his voice was hollow,
and his face pale and haggard.  Only seeing one camel in the court-yard,
we imagined that the two others had become the prey of the brigands, but
Samdadchiemba relieved us by the assurance that he had confided them to
the Tartar family who had granted him their hospitality.  Upon hearing
this statement, Sandara knitted his brows.  “Samdadchiemba,” said he,
“you are my younger brother, as it were; I have therefore a right to ask
you a few questions.”  And thereupon he submitted the cameleer to an
interrogatory characterised by all the depth and subtlety of an able
advocate cross-examining some cunning offender.  He demanded the minutest
details, and applied himself with infinite ingenuity to work up the
contradictions into which he involved the questioned party, and to put
forward in prominent relief the apparent improbability of his story.  How
was it, he asked, that the robbers had stolen the butter, yet left the
bag in which the butter was carried?  How was it they had respected the
little snuff-bottle, yet carried off the embroidered purse which served
it as a cover.  When he had finished his inquiries, he added, with a
malicious smile: “I have put these few questions to my brother out of
pure curiosity; I attach no importance to them.  It is not I who have to
disburse the wherewithal to buy him fresh provisions.”

Samdadchiemba, meantime, was dying with hunger, so we gave him some
sapeks, and he went to dinner in a neighbouring eating-house.  As soon as
he had quitted the room, Sandara proceeded: “Nobody shall ever persuade
me that my brother has been robbed.  The brigands in this part of the
country don’t do their work in the way he wants to make out.  The fact
is, that Samdadchiemba, when he got among the Tartars, wanted to show
off, and distributed his provisions right and left in order to make
friends.  He had no reason to fear being lavish; what he gave away cost
him nothing.”  The probity of Samdadchiemba was a fact so thoroughly
impressed upon our convictions, that we altogether repudiated this wicked
insinuation, which we clearly saw proceeded at once from Sandara’s
jealous annoyance at the confidence we reposed in his cousin, and from a
cunning desire, in giving us the idea that he was warmly attached to our
interest, to divert our attention from his own petty peculations.  We
gave Samdadchiemba, who did not at all perceive his relative’s treachery,
some more provisions, and he returned to the pastures of Koukou-Noor.

Next day, the town of Tang-Keou-Eul was the scene of terrible disorder.
The brigands had made their appearance in the vicinity, and had driven
off 2000 head of cattle belonging to the tribe called _Houng-Mao-Eul_
(Long Hairs).  These Eastern Thibetians quit once a-year the slopes of
the Bayan-Khara mountains in large caravans, and come to Tang-Keou-Eul to
sell furs, butter, and a kind of wild fruit that grows in their district.
While they are engaged in these commercial operations, they leave their
large herds in the vast prairies that abut upon the town, and which are
under the jurisdiction of the Chinese authorities.  There was no example,
we heard, of the brigands having ventured to approach so close as this to
the frontiers of the Empire.  This present audacity of theirs, and more
especially the known violence of character of the Long Hairs, contributed
to throw the whole town into utter dismay and confusion.  Upon hearing of
their loss the Long Hairs had tumultuously rushed to the Chinese
tribunal, and, their long sabres in their hands, lightning in their eyes,
and thunder in their mouths, had demanded justice and vengeance.  The
terrified Mandarin instantly despatched 200 soldiers in pursuit of the
robbers.  But the Long Hairs, seeing that these foot soldiers could never
overtake the brigands, who were well mounted, threw themselves into their
saddles, and dashed off in search of the thieves.  They returned next day
with no other result attained than that their fury was redoubled.
Altogether destitute of foresight, these half-savages had gone off
without any provisions whatever, never thinking that, in the desert, they
would find nothing to eat.  Accordingly, after a day’s forced march,
hunger had compelled them to return.  Not so the Chinese soldiers.  These
worthies, knowing much better what they were about, had provided
themselves for their warlike expedition with infinite asses and oxen
laden with apparatus for the kitchen, and with ammunition for the mouth.
As they felt no sort of desire to go and fight for 2000 cattle that did
not belong to them, after a very brief military progress they halted on
the bank of a river, where they spent several days, eating, drinking, and
amusing themselves, and giving no more heed to the brigands than though
there had never been such personages in the world.  When they had
consumed all their provisions they returned quietly to Tang-Keou-Eul, and
declared to the Mandarin that they had scoured the desert without being
able to come up with the robbers; that once, indeed, these had seemed
within their grasp, but that, availing themselves of their magic powers,
they had vanished.  At Tang-Keou-Eul everybody is persuaded that the
brigands are all more or less sorcerers, and that in order to render
themselves invisible, all they have to do is to exhale in a particular
manner, or to throw some sheep’s treddles behind them.  It is probably
the Chinese soldiers who have brought these fables into vogue; at all
events they certainly make excellent use of them in all their
expeditions.  The Mandarins, doubtless, are not their dupes; but provided
the victims of the robbers are content with these tales, that is all the
Chinese authorities care about.

For several days the Houng-Mao-Eul were perfectly furious.  They ran
about the streets like madmen, flourishing their sabres and vociferating
a thousand imprecations against the brigands.  All the townspeople got
carefully out of their way, respecting their anger with entire
veneration.  The appearance of these fellows even at their very best,
when they are perfectly calm and good humoured, is sufficiently alarming.
They are clothed at all seasons of the year in a great sheepskin robe,
rudely drawn up round the waist by a thick camel-hair rope.  Left to
itself this robe would drag along the ground, so that when raised by the
cord above the knees it communicates to the chest a most rotund, stuffed,
and awkward appearance.  They have great leather boots, which come up to
just below the knee, so that, as they wear no trousers, their legs are
always half bare.  Their hair, black and greasy, hangs in long matted
locks down their shoulders, and, in fact, falling over the brow, half
conceals the face.  The right arm is always bare, the sleeve being thrown
quite back.  A long, broad sabre is passed through their girdle just
below the chest, and the right hand scarcely ever quits its hilt.  The
manners and movements of these inhabitants of the desert are abrupt and
jerking, their speech brief and energetic.  The tones of their voice have
something about them metallic and deafening.  Many of them are wealthy,
and with these display consists in decorating the sheath of the sword
with precious stones, and their own robes with borders of tiger-skin.
The horses which they bring to Tang-Keou-Eul are remarkably beautiful,
vigorous, well made, and of great grandeur in the step: in all respects
far superior to those of Tartary, and fully justifying the Chinese
phrase, _Sima_, _Toung-nieou_ (Western horses—eastern oxen.)

The Houng-Mao-Eul, being famous for their bravery and for an independence
which amounts to the ferocious, it is they who give the _ton_ to the
people of Tang-Keou-Eul, who all essay to catch their air and gait, and
to acquire a reputation for valour and devil-may-carishness.  The result
is, that Tang-Keou-Eul bears a strong family resemblance to a great den
of thieves.  Everybody there makes it his business to have his hair and
clothes in utter disorder, everybody bawls at everybody, everybody pushes
against everybody, everybody fights everybody, so that everybody from
time to time draws everybody’s blood.  In the depth of winter, though the
winter here is desperately cold, people go about with their arms and half
their legs bare.  To wear clothing adapted to the icy season would be
considered a mark of pusillanimity.  A good brave fellow, they say,
should fear nothing, neither men nor elements.  At Tang-Keou-Eul the
Chinese themselves have lost much of their urbanity and of the polished
forms of their language, having involuntarily undergone the influence of
the Houng-Mao-Eul, who converse together in much the same style that we
can imagine tigers in the woods to converse.  On the day of our arrival
at Tang-Keou-Eul, a few minutes before we entered the town, we met a Long
Hair who had been giving his horse drink in the River Keou-Ho.
Samdadchiemba, who was always attracted by anything having an eccentric
air, cautiously approached the man, and saluted him in the Tartar
fashion, saying, “Brother, art thou at peace?”  The Houng-Mao-Eul turned
fiercely towards him: “What business of thine is it, tortoise-egg,” cried
he, with the voice of a Stentor, “whether I am at peace or at war?  And
what right hast thou to address as thy brother a man who knows nothing
about thee?”  Poor Samdadchiemba was taken all aback at this reception,
yet he could not help admiring, as something very fine, this haughty
insolence of the Long Hair.

Tang-Keou-Eul, in consequence of its dirt and its excessive population,
is a very unwholesome place to live in.  There is an universal odour of
grease and butter about, that is enough to make you sick.  In certain
quarters, more particularly where the especial poor and the especial
vagabonds congregate, the stench is insupportable.  Those who have no
house wherein to shelter themselves, collect in the nooks of streets and
squares, and there they lie, higgledy-piggledy, and half naked, upon
filthy straw, or rather, dung-heaps.  There are stretched together the
sick young, and the infirm old, the dying man, sometimes the dead, whom
no one takes the trouble to bury, until, at length, putrefaction
manifesting itself, the bodies are dragged into the middle of the street,
whence the authorities remove them, and have them thrown into some
general pit.  From amid this hideous misery there pullulates into the
bosom of the population, a crowd of petty thieves and swindlers, who, in
their address and audacity, leave far behind the Robert Macaires of the
western world.  The number of these wretched creatures is so great, that
authority, weary of contending with them, has left them to take their own
course, and the public to guard their own sapeks and goods.  These
worthies work, as a matter of preference, in the houses of repose and the
inns.  Their _modus operandi_ is this: Two of them, associated together
for the purpose, hawk about various articles of merchandise, boots,
skin-coats, bricks of tea, and what not.  They offer these for sale to
travellers.  While one of them engages the attention of the destined
victim, by displaying his goods and bargaining, the other ferrets about
and pockets whatever he can lay his hands on.  These rascals have
inconceivable skill in counting your sapeks for you, in such a way as to
finger fifty or a hundred or more of them without your having the
slightest notion as to what is going on.  One day, two of these little
thieves came to offer for our purchase a pair of leathern boots.
Excellent boots! said they; boots such as we could not find in any shop
in the whole town; boots that would keep out the rain for days; and as to
cheapness, perfectly unexampled.  If we missed this opportunity, we
should never have such another.  Only just before they had been offered
1200 sapeks for them!  As we did not want boots, we replied that we would
not have them at any price.  Thereupon the acting merchant assumed a
lofty tone of generosity.  We were foreigners; we should have them for
1000 sapeks, 900, 800, 700.  “Well,” said we, “we certainly don’t want
any boots just now, yet, doubtless, as you say, these are very cheap, and
it will be worth while to buy them as a reserve.”  The bargain was
accordingly concluded; we took our purse, and counted out 700 sapeks to
the merchant, who counted them over himself, under our very eyes,
pronounced the amount correct, and once more laid the coin before us.  He
then called out to his companion who was poking about in the court-yard:
“Here, I’ve sold these capital boots for 700 sapeks.”  “Nonsense,” cried
the other, “700 sapeks! I won’t hear of such a thing.”  “Very well,” said
we; “come, take your boots and be off with you.”  He was off, and so
quickly, that we thought it expedient to count our sapeks once more;
there were a hundred and fifty of them gone, and that was not all; while
one of these rascals had been pocketing our money under our very nose,
the other had bagged two great iron pins that we had driven into the
court-yard for the purpose of our camels.  Therefore we took a
resolution—better late than never—to admit, in future, no merchant
whatever into our room.

The House of Repose, as we have already indicated, was kept by Musselmen.
One day, their Mufti, who had recently arrived from Lan-Tcheu, the
capital of Kan-Sou, attended at the house, in order to preside over some
religious ceremony, the nature and object of which they would not explain
to us.  Sandara the Bearded, however, had an explanation of his own,
which was, that the Grand Lama of the Hoei-Hoei attended on these
occasions to teach his sectaries the latest improvements in the art of
cheating in trade.  For two days, the principal Mussulmen of the town
assembled in a large apartment, contiguous to our own.  There they
remained for a long time, squatting on the ground, with their heads
resting on their knees.  When the Mufti appeared, all sent forth groans
and sobs.  After they had sufficiently lamented in this fashion, the
Mufti recited, with a perfectly alarming volubility of tongue, several
Arabic prayers; then everybody had another turn at lamenting, after which
the cheerful assembly separated.  This doleful ceremony was performed
thrice in each of the two first days.  On the morning of the third day,
all the Mussulmen ranged themselves in the court-yard round the Mufti,
who was seated on a stool, covered with a fine red carpet.  Then the host
of the House of Repose brought in a fine sheep, adorned with flowers and
ribbons.  The sheep was laid on its side, the host held it by its head,
and two other Mussulmen by the legs, while a fourth presented to the
Mufti a knife on a silver dish.  He took the knife with great gravity,
and approaching the victim, thrust the weapon up to the hilt into its
neck.  Thereupon cries and groans once more resounded on all sides.
These ceasing, the sheep was skinned, cut up, and taken into the kitchen
to be cooked, and, by-and-by, a grand entertainment of boiled mutton,
presided over by the Mufti, closed the ceremony.

The Mussulmen, or Hoei-Hoei, are very numerous in China.  It is said that
they penetrated thither under the dynasty of the Thang, which began in
618, and terminated in 907.  They were received by the Emperor, who at
that period resided at Si-Ngan-Fou, the present capital of Chan-Si.  They
were kindly entertained, and the Emperor, struck with their fine features
and forms, loaded them with favours, and entreated them to settle in his
dominions.  At first, it is stated, they were only 200 in number, but
they have since so multiplied, that they now constitute a large
population, eminently formidable to the Chinese.  Kan-Sou, Yun-Nan,
Sse-Tchouan, Chan-Si, Chen-si, Chang-Toung, Pe-Tche-Ly, and Liao-Toung
are the provinces in which they are most numerous.  In some particular
localities, indeed, they form the majority of the population, as compared
with the Chinese.  They have, however, become so mingled, so fused with
the native people, that it would be difficult now-a-days to recognise
them, were it not for the small blue cap which they all constantly wear,
to distinguish themselves from the Chinese.  Their physiognomy has
retained no vestige of its original type.  Their nose has become flat,
their eyes have sunk in, their cheek bones started out.  They do not know
a single word of Arabic—a language which their priests alone are bound to
learn, and this only so as to read it.  Chinese has become their
stepmother tongue; yet they have preserved a certain energy of character
which you seldom find among the Chinese.  Though few in number, as
compared with the enormous general population of the empire, they have
ensured for themselves the fear and respect of all about them.  Closely
united among themselves, the entire community always takes up any matter
affecting one of its members.  It is to this spirit of association that
they owe the religious liberty which they enjoy throughout all the
provinces of the empire.  No person would venture, in their presence, to
cavil at their religious creed, or their religious practices.  They
abstain from smoking, from drinking wine, from eating pork, from sitting
at table with pagans; and no one presumes to find fault with these
peculiarities.  They do not even hesitate to contravene the laws of the
empire, if these contravene their freedom of worship.  In 1840, while we
were on our mission to Tartary, the Hoei-Hoei of the town of Hada, built
a mosque, or Li-Pai-Sse, as the Chinese call it.  When it was completed,
the Mandarins of the place wanted to demolish it, because, contrary to
the law, it rose higher than the Tribunal of Justice.  Upon this
intention becoming known, all the Mussulmen of the locality rose in arms,
assembled, swore to prosecute in common a suit against the Mandarins, to
impeach them at Peking, and never to lay down their arms until they had
effected the removal of the offending dignitaries.  As in China, money
has the preponderant influence in all matters of this kind, the Mussulmen
of Hada raised a subscription among all their co-religionists in the
empire, and by its means defeated the Mandarins, who had desired to
demolish their mosques, and effected their deposition and banishment.  We
have often asked each other how it was that the Christians in China live
in a state of oppression, wholly at the arbitrary disposition of the
tribunals, while the Mussulmen march about with heads erect, and
constrain the Chinese to respect their religion.  It certainly is not
because the religion of Mahomet is, more than Christianity, in harmony
with Chinese manners; quite the contrary, for the Chinese may, without
any compromise of their religious duties, live in intimacy with the
Pagans, eat and drink with them, interchange presents with them, and
celebrate in common with them the Festival of the New Year, all which
things are forbidden to the Hoei-Hoei by the despotic and exclusive
spirit of their religion.  No: that the Christians are everywhere
oppressed in China is to be attributed to the great isolation in which
they live.  If one of them is taken before a tribunal, all his brethren
in the locality get out of the way, instead of coming in a body to his
aid and awing by their numbers the aggressive Mandarins.  Now, more
especially, that imperial decrees have been issued favourable to
Christianity, if the Christians were to rise simultaneously in all parts
of the empire, were energetically to assume possession of their rights,
giving publicity to their worship, and exercising fearlessly, and in the
face of day, their religious practices, we are satisfied that no one
would venture to interfere with them.  In China, as everywhere else, men
are free who manifest the will to be so; and that will can only be
effectively developed by the spirit of association.

We were now approaching the first day of the Chinese year, and in every
direction people were preparing for its celebration.  The sentences,
written on red paper, which decorate the fronts of houses, were renewed;
the shops were filled with purchasers; there was redoubled activity of
operations in every quarter, while the children, ever eager to anticipate
holidays and entertainments, were discharging, each evening, preliminary
fireworks in the streets.  Sandara informed us that he could not pass the
Festival of the New Year at Tang-Keou-Eul, being obliged to return to the
Lamasery, where he had duties to fulfil towards his masters and
superiors.  He added, that on the third day of the new moon, when he had
satisfied all his obligations, he would come back and resume his
services.  He spoke in a tone of intense kindliness, in order to make us
forget the daily impertinences he had been guilty of towards us.  We did
not at all urge him to return.  Though delighted at the prospect of
renewing our studies with him, we were determined not to seem anxious
about the matter, lest we should raise still higher the already
preposterous estimate he had of his own importance.  We told him that
since propriety recalled him to the Lamasery for the first day of the
year, he ought by all means to obey the call.  We then offered him three
rolls of sapeks, saying, according to the custom in such cases, that it
was to enable him to drink with his friends a cup of high-coloured tea.
For some minutes he feigned that he would not accept the coin, but at
last we overcame his exquisite delicacy, and he consented to put the
sapeks in his pocket.  We then lent him Samdadchiemba’s mule, and he left
us.

The last days of the year are ordinarily, with the Chinese, days of anger
and of mutual annoyance; for having at this period made up their
accounts, they are vehemently engaged in getting them in; and every
Chinese being at once creditor and debtor, every Chinese is just now
hunting his debtors and hunted by his creditors.  He [Picture:
Pawnbroker’s Shop] who returns from his neighbour’s house, which he has
been throwing into utter confusion by his clamorous demands for what that
neighbour owes him, finds his own house turned inside out by an
uproarious creditor, and so the thing goes round.  The whole town is a
scene of vociferation, disputation, and fighting.  On the last day of the
year disorder attains its height; people rush in all directions with
anything they can scratch together, to raise money upon, at the broker’s
or pawnbroker’s, the shops of which tradespeople are absolutely besieged
throughout the day with profferers of clothes, bedding, furniture,
cooking utensils, and moveables of every description.  Those who have
already cleared their houses in this way, and yet have not satisfied the
demands upon them, post off to their relations and friends to borrow
something or other which they vow shall be returned immediately, but
which immediately takes its way to the Tang-Pou, or pawnbroker’s.  This
species of anarchy continues till midnight; then, calm resumes its sway.
No one, after the twelfth hour has struck, can claim a debt, or even make
the slightest allusion to it.  You now only hear the words of peace and
good-will; everybody fraternizes with everybody.  Those who were just
before on the point of twisting their neighbour’s neck, now twine their
friendly arms about it.

The new year is celebrated in much the same way as in Europe.  Everybody
dresses as fine as he possibly can; formal and informal visits are
exchanged; presents circulate; dinners and parties are given; people go
to see the play, the jugglers, and so on.  Fireworks startle you at every
turn; there is nothing going on but merry-making.  After a few days, the
shops are once more opened, and business imperceptibly resumes its
course; at least with those who can carry it on: those who can’t, declare
themselves bankrupt, or, as the Chinese phrase it, leave the door open.

The Hoei-Hoei do not keep the new year at the same time with the Chinese,
for in their special calendar they observe the Hegira of Mahomet.  Owing
to this circumstance, we passed these days of disorder and tumult in the
greatest tranquillity.  The epoch assigned for the recovery of debts was,
in the place where we lodged, indicated merely by a few disputes,
followed immediately by profound quiet.  The House of Repose was not even
disturbed by fire-works.  We availed ourselves of this tranquillity, and
of the absence of Sandara, to go thoroughly over our Thibetian lessons.
The two dialogues we possessed were analysed, decomposed, subjected to
the intellectual alembic, in every way and in every detail.  Housekeeping
cares occupied, indeed, a portion of our day time; but we made up for
this by borrowing a few hours from the night, an arrangement which did
not at all suit our host, who, finding that it involved him in an extra
outlay for light, not only cut off our supplies, by removing the oil
bottle, but, like the regular Turk he was, put on a charge per diem for
light.  As we did not choose to be condemned to darkness in this way, we
bought a packet of candles, and constructed, with a long nail and the
half of a carrot, a candlestick, not remarkable, indeed, for elegance or
costliness, but which perfectly fulfilled its office.  When the Turk’s
dole of oil was consumed, we lighted our candle, and we were thus able to
give free course to the ardour of our Thibetian studies.  Sometimes we
would interrupt our labours to indulge in the relaxation of talking about
France; and after this, rambling for awhile in spirit, over our dear
native land, it was with a certain amount of difficulty only, that we
could resume the realities of our position.  It seemed strange,
impossible almost, that we two should be seated there, amid the silent
night, poring over Thibetian characters, in a country well nigh at the
extremity of the world, and practically unknown to Europeans.

On the third day of the first moon, Sandara the Bearded reappeared.
During his absence we had enjoyed such delightful calm, that his aspect
occasioned within us a very painful sensation; we felt like schoolboys
alarmed at the approach of a severe preceptor.  Sandara, however, was
charmingly amiable.  After gracefully wishing us a happy new year, in the
most paternal, the most sentimental of phraseology, he proceeded to
discourse upon the little mule we had lent him.  First, on their way out,
the little mule had thrown him a dozen times, so that at last he had
resolved to walk; but then the creature was so droll, so fantastic in its
ways, had so amused him, that he had not had time to grow tired.  After
this and similar small talk, we proceeded to business.  Sandara said,
that since we were determined to wait for the Thibetian embassy, he
invited us to go and reside meanwhile in the Lamasery at Kounboum; and
thereupon, with his accustomed eloquence, he descanted upon the
advantages presented by a Lamasery to men of study and prayer.  The
proposition met the very wish of our hearts; but we took care not to
manifest any enthusiasm in the matter, contenting ourselves with
replying, coldly: “Well, we’ll see how we like it.”

The next day was devoted to the preparations for departure.  Not having
our camels with us, we hired a car, on which to transport our baggage.
In announcing our departure to the host of the House of Repose, we
claimed our tent, which we had lent him twelve days before, for a picnic
party that he said he had formed with some friends into the Land of
Grass; he replied, that he would send for it immediately to the friend’s
house, where it was carefully stowed away.  We waited, but in vain; night
came, the tent did not.  At last, the host told us that his friend had
left home for a day or two, and that the tent was locked up; but that it
should be sent after us so soon as his friend returned.  Sandara had
hitherto said nothing; but when night came, and he found that we were not
ready, he could no longer restrain his impatience.  “It’s quite obvious,”
said he to us, “that you are people altogether of another world; why
don’t you understand that your tent is at the pawnbroker’s?”  “At the
pawnbroker’s?  Impossible!”  “It is not at all impossible; it is
considerably more than probable; the Hoei-Hoei wanted money wherewith to
pay his debts at the end of the twelfth moon; he was delighted to find
you with him in the emergency; he borrowed your tent, and he took it
straight—not to the Land of Grass, but to the House of Pledges; and now
he hasn’t got the money to redeem it with.  Just have him up: I’ll put
the matter to him, and you’ll see.”  We requested the host to come to us.
As soon as he entered the chamber, Sandara the Bearded commenced his
interrogatory with imposing solemnity.  “Listen to me,” said he; “this
evening I have a few words to say to you.  You are a Turk—I a Lama, yet
the laws of reason are the same for both of us.  You have taken our tent,
and you have carried it to the pawnbroker’s; if you were in an
embarrassed position, you did quite right; we do not reproach you; but we
depart to-morrow, and our tent is not yet here.  Which of us has reason
on his side? we in claiming our property, or you in not restoring it?  Do
not tell us that the tent is at a friend’s: I tell you that it is at the
pawnbroker’s.  If, by the time we have drunk this jug of tea, our tent is
not brought back, I will myself go to the magistrate to demand that it be
given up to us, and we shall see whether a Lama-Dchiahour is to be
oppressed by a Turk.”  By way of peroration to this harangue, Sandara
gave such a thump with his fist upon the table, that our three cups
performed a caper in the air.  The Turk had nothing to say, and it was
manifest that our tent was really at the pawnbroker’s.  After a moment’s
pause, the host assured us that we should have our property immediately,
and he entreated us earnestly not to mention the matter abroad, lest it
should compromise his establishment.  We had scarcely quitted our room,
before there arose a grand confusion in the court-yard; the attendants
were collecting everything they could lay their hands upon, saddles, bed
clothes, candlesticks, kitchen utensils, wherewith to redeem the tent,
which, before we slept, we saw securely packed on the car which was to
convey it to the Lamasery.

Next morning, at daybreak, we proceeded on our journey.  The country
through which we passed is occupied here by the Si-Fan, who lead a nomad
life, and merely use the land as pasturage for their cattle,—whereas the
Chinese, as in Eastern Tartary, are gradually encroaching upon the
desert, building houses, and bringing into cultivation portions of the
Land of Grass.  Our brief voyage presented nothing remarkable, except,
indeed, that in crossing a small river upon the ice, the car turned over
and went to pieces.  In France, in order to continue our journey, we
should have needed a wheelwright and a smith to repair the damage; but
fortunately our Phaeton was a Chinese, that is to say, a man who is never
at a loss; and, accordingly, with a large stone, some bits of stick, and
some ends of rope, he soon put everything to rights, and we merely lost a
little time.

At the distance of a li from the Lamasery we found four Lamas, friends of
Sandara, who had come to meet us.  Their religious costume, the red scarf
that enveloped them, their mitre-shaped yellow caps, their modest mien,
the low, grave tones of their voices, all this produced a marked
impression upon us, and we felt as though a perfume of religious and
cenobitic life was diffused around us.  It was past nine in the evening
when we reached the first [Picture: Accident on the Ice] dwellings of the
Lamasery.  To avoid disturbing the profound silence which reigned
everywhere about, the Lamas made the carman stop, and filled with straw
the interior of the bells which hung from the horses’ necks.  We then
advanced slowly, and without saying a word, along the calm deserted
streets of this great Lamanesque city.  The moon was not present; but the
sky was so clear, so pure, and the stars were so brilliant, that we could
perfectly distinguish the cottages of the Lamas spread over the sides of
the mountain, and the grand, though fantastic outlines of the Buddhist
temples, standing out in the air like gigantic phantoms.  That which most
struck us at the moment, was the majestic and solemn silence which
prevailed throughout the Lamasery, and which was interrupted only by the
short sleepy bark of some half-wakened dog, like the scream of the
sea-eagle, or the melancholy sound of a marine shell marking, at
intervals, the watches of the night.  We at length reached Sandara’s
cottage.  As it was too late for us to seek a suitable lodging, our
teacher gave us up his own habitation, and himself sought the hospitality
of a neighbour.  The Lamas who had accompanied us did not withdraw until
they had made for us some tea with milk, and set before us some mutton,
some fresh butter, and some exquisite rolls.  We supped with excellent
appetite, for we were thoroughly hungry, and, moreover, we experienced in
our inmost heart a feeling of peculiar contentment, for which it seemed
difficult to account.

We attempted to sleep, but it was in vain; slumber would not come near
us; our minds, indeed, were too full of the strange position in which we
now found ourselves.  The whole thing appeared quite inconceivable.
There were we, in this land of Amdo, unknown to Europe; in this great
Lamasery of Kounboum, so famous, so venerated among Buddhists, in the
cell of one of its ablest Lamas, amidst conventual manners altogether new
to us; all these and analogous considerations whirled through and about
the brain, like the vague intangible forms of a dream.  We passed the
night framing all sorts of plans.

As soon as day began to dawn we were on foot.  Around us all was still
silent.  We offered up our morning prayer, our hearts agitated with
sentiments altogether new to us in their peculiar character; with mingled
joy and pride that it had been thus vouchsafed to us to invoke the true
God in this famous Lamasery, consecrated to a lying and impious worship.
It seemed to us as though we were about to grasp universal Buddhism
within the paternal arms of the Christian faith.

Sandara soon made his appearance, and prepared for our breakfast some tea
with milk, raisins, and cakes fried in butter.  While we were occupied
with our meal, he opened a small cupboard, and took out a wooden plate,
highly polished, and decorated with gilding and flowers, upon a red
ground.  After wiping it carefully with his scarf, he placed upon it a
broad sheet of pink paper, then, upon the paper, he symmetrically
arranged four fine pears, which he had directed us to buy at
Tang-Keou-Eul, and then he covered the whole with a silk handkerchief, of
oblong form, called in these countries Khata.  “With this,” said he, “we
will go and borrow a lodging for you.”

The Khata, or Scarf of Blessings, is so prominent a feature in Thibetian
manners, that we may as well give an account of it.  The Khata, then, is
a piece of silk, nearly as fine as gauze, and of so very pale a blue as
to be almost white.  Its length about triples its breadth, and the two
extremities are generally fringed.  There are Khatas of all sizes and all
prices, for a Khata is an object with which neither poor nor rich can
dispense.  No one ever moves unless provided with a supply.  When you go
to pay a visit, when you go to ask a favour, or to acknowledge one, you
begin with displaying the Khata; you take it in both hands, and offer it
to the person whom you desire to honour.  When two friends, who have not
seen each other for a long time, meet, their first proceeding is to
interchange a Khata; it is as much a matter of course as shaking hands in
Europe.  When you write, it is usual to enclose a Khata in the letter.
We cannot exaggerate the importance which the Thibetians, the Si-Fan, the
Houng-Mao-Eul, and all the people who dwell towards the western shores of
the Blue Sea, attach to the ceremony of the Khata.  With them, it is the
purest and sincerest expression of all the noblest sentiments.  The most
gracious words, the most magnificent presents go for nothing, if
unaccompanied with the Khata; whereas, with the Khata, the commonest
objects become of infinite value.  If any one comes, Khata in hand, to
ask you a favour, to refuse the favour would be a great breach of
propriety.  This Thibetian custom is very general among the Tartars, and
especially in their Lamaseries; and Khatas accordingly form a very
leading feature of commerce with the Chinese at Tang-Keou-Eul.  The
Thibetian embassy never passes through the town without purchasing a
prodigious number of these articles.

When we had finished our modest breakfast, we issued forth in search of a
lodging.  Sandara the Bearded preceded us, bearing gravely on both hands
the famous dish of four pears.  This proceeding seemed to us so strange,
that we were altogether confused, imagining that the entire population
would have their eyes fixed upon us.  Nothing of the sort: the Lamas,
whom we met, passed silently on, without even turning their heads, or
paying the slightest attention to us in any way.  The little chabis,
harum-scarum rogues in common with schoolboys all over the world, alone
seemed to notice our presence.  At last we entered a house.  The master
was in the court-yard, drying horse droppings in the sun.  Upon
perceiving us, he immediately enveloped himself in his scarf, and entered
his cell.  We followed him thither, and Sandara presented to him the
Khata and the plate of pears, accompanying the present with an harangue
in the East Thibetian tongue, of which we did not understand one single
word.  Meanwhile, we stood humbly apart, like poor wretches incapable
even of soliciting a favour for themselves.  When the harangue was
completed, the host invited us to seat ourselves on the carpet, presented
to each a cup of tea with milk, and told us, in Mongol, that he was
rejoiced that strangers, come from such a distance, that Lamas of the
Western Heaven, should deign to cast their eyes upon his poor dwelling.
Had he understood our European idioms, our answer would have been: Pray
don’t mention it; but as we had to speak in Mongol, we told him that we
had, indeed, come from a great distance, but that, in great measure, we
seemed once more at home, when we had the good fortune to meet with
hospitality such as his.  After having sipped the tea, and conversed for
a while about France, Rome, the Pope, and the cardinals, we got up, in
order to visit the place destined for us, which, for poor wanderers like
us, seemed perfectly magnificent.  Our host assigned to us a large room,
with an ample kang, a separate kitchen, with stove, kettle, and other
utensils, and, lastly, a stable for the horse and the mule.  We almost
wept with joy, and infinitely regretted that we had not another Khata at
hand, wherewith at once to express our warm gratitude to the excellent
Lama.

How potent is the empire of religion over the heart of man, even though
that religion be false, and ignorant of its true object!  How great was
the difference, for example, between these Lamas, so generous, so
hospitable, so fraternal towards strangers, and the Chinese, that
thorough nation of shopkeepers, with hearts dry as a ship-biscuit, and
grasping as a monkey, who will not give a traveller even a cup of water
except for money or money’s worth.  The reception given to us in the
Lamasery of Kounboum at once recalled to our thoughts those monasteries,
raised by the hospitality of our religious ancestors, in which travellers
and the poor ever found refreshment for the body and consolation for the
soul.

We moved into our new dwelling the same day, the Lamas, more immediately
neighbours of Sandara, cordially giving us their assistance.  It was
obviously with genuine pleasure that they carried for us, on their
shoulders, the various articles composing our baggage; that they swept
the room, lighted the fire, and arranged the stable for the reception of
the animals.  When all these matters were completed, the master of the
house had, according to the rules of hospitality, to prepare an
entertainment for us, since people, who are moving, are supposed to have
no time for anything else.

Our readers will probably not be displeased at our giving them here a
sketch of our new house and of its inhabitants.  Immediately within the
entrance gate was an oblong court, surrounded with stables commodiously
arranged.  On the left of the gate, a narrow passage led to a second
square court, the four sides of which were occupied with the cells of
Lamas.  The side opposite the corridor constituted the abode of the
master of the house, named _Akayé_ (old brother.)  Akayé was a man of
sixty odd years, tall, and so very thin and dry that he seemed a living
skeleton.  His long face was a mere framework of bones, covered with a
baked, wrinkled skin.  When he threw aside his scarf, and showed his
arms, blackened with the sun, you might very well have taken them for two
old bare vine sticks.  Though he still managed to keep himself tolerably
straight upon his legs, his step itself was tottering.  Altogether he
looked like some antique piece of mechanism, convulsively put in motion
from time to time by the operation of a piston.  For thirty-eight years
Akayé had been employed in the temporal administration of the Lamasery.
He had in this occupation amassed a tolerable fortune, but it had all
gone in charitable gifts and in charity-loans never returned, so that he
was now reduced to great poverty, nothing remaining to him but this
house, which he had built in the time of his prosperity, and which no one
would purchase from him.  To let it was against the rules of the
Lamasery, which admit no medium between absolute sale or absolute gift,
except gratuitous loan.  To complete his misfortunes, Akayé was unable to
profit by the extraordinary offerings which from time to time are
distributed among the Lamas who have attained certain grades in the
hierarchy.  Having been completely occupied throughout life with temporal
matters, he had had no time for study, so that he was altogether
illiterate, and could neither read nor write.  This did not, however,
prevent him from praying, morning, noon, and night; he had his chaplet
constantly in his hand, and pass him when you might, you would hear him
mumbling various forms of prayer.  This man was a creature of excellent
heart, but nobody seemed to take any heed to him—he was old and
penniless.

To the right of Akayé, in another side of the court, lodged a Lama of
Chinese origin, who was accordingly called the _Kitat-Lama_ (Chinese
Lama).  Though seventy years old, he was in far better condition than
poor Akayé; for though his frame was somewhat bent, it was still
comfortably filled out; his face, replete with animation, was adorned
with a fine white beard, somewhat yellowish towards the extremity.  The
Kitat-Lama was a man eminent among the Lama _savans_; he wrote and spoke
perfectly Chinese, Mongol, and Thibetian.  During a long residence in
Thibet and in several kingdoms of Tartary, he had amassed a large
fortune; it was said that in his cell were several chests full of silver
ingots; yet his avarice continued of the most sordid character; he lived
wretchedly, and clothed himself in rags; he was always turning his head
about on one side or the other, like a man in perpetual fear of being
robbed.  In Tartary he had been considered a Grand Lama, but in Kounboum,
where Lamanesque notables abound, he was merely one of the crowd.  The
Kitat-Lama had with him a _Chabi_ (pupil) eleven years old, a sharp,
mischievous little vagabond, though with a good heart at bottom.  Every
evening we heard him at high words with his master, who regularly
reproached him at night for the monstrous extravagances of the day, in
respect of too much butter, too much tea, too much oil, too much
everything.

Opposite the dwelling of the Kitat-Lama was the lodging of the two French
missionaries; and beside their apartment was a small cell, wherein
modestly dwelt a young student of medicine, in his second year.  This
young Lama was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow of twenty-four, whose
dull, lead-coloured, fat face convicted him of effecting in his small
abode a very considerable consumption of butter.  We never saw him poking
his nose from his hole without thinking of Fontaine’s rat, which, out of
devotion, had retired into a great Dutch cheese.  This young man was
afflicted with a convulsive stammering, which sometimes almost choked him
when he talked, and this infirmity, in rendering him timid and reserved,
had also, perhaps, contributed to develop in him a certain amiability of
manner and readiness to oblige.  His great horror was the little Chabi,
who took a malicious pleasure in imitating his manner of speaking.

The portion of the court which faced the residence of old Akayé was
composed of a range of small kitchens, quite separate the one from the
other.  The master of the house, the Kitat-Lama, the stutterer, the
missionaries, each had a kitchen of his own.  In the phrase of the
Lamasery, we were four distinct families in the house.  Notwithstanding
the collection of several families within one enclosure, there prevails
throughout the most perfect order and silence; the inmates seldom
interchange visits, and each attends to his own affairs without in the
smallest degree interfering with those of his neighbour.  In the house
where we were located, we never saw our co-dwellers except on very fine
days.  It being now the depth of winter, whenever the sun favoured our
court-yard with its rays, the four families forthwith issued from their
respective apartments, and sat themselves down before their doors on
their felt carpets.  The Kitat-Lama, whose eyes were still very good,
would occupy himself in mending his wretched garments with bits of old
rags, Akayé would murmur his prayers, scratching all the while his arms,
the skin of which was so rough that it almost resounded to the touch.
The student in medicine would chant, in order to avoid stammering, his
lesson of therapeutics.  As to ourselves, it was no easy matter to divert
our attention from the singular spectacle around us; we had, indeed, on
our knees our book of Thibetian dialogues, but our eyes were more
frequently directed to the three families basking in the sun.

The Lamasery of Kounboum contains nearly 4,000 Lamas; its site is one of
enchanting beauty.  Imagine in a mountain’s side a deep, broad ravine,
adorned with fine trees, and harmonious with the cawing of rooks and
yellow-beaked crows, and the amusing chattering of magpies.  On the two
sides of the ravine, and on the slopes of the mountain, rise, in an
amphitheatrical form, the white dwellings of the Lamas of various sizes,
but all alike surrounded with a wall, and surmounted by a terrace.
Amidst these modest habitations, rich only in their intense cleanliness
and their dazzling whiteness, you see rising, here and there, numerous
Buddhist temples with gilt roofs, sparkling with a thousand brilliant
colours, and surrounded with elegant colonnades.  The houses of the
superiors are distinguished by streamers floating from small hexagonal
turrets; everywhere the eye is attracted by mystic sentences, written in
large Thibetian characters, red or black, upon the doors, upon the walls,
upon the posts, upon pieces of linen floating like flags, from masts upon
the tops of the houses.  Almost at every step you see niches in form
resembling a sugar-loaf, within which are burning incense, odoriferous
wood, and cypress leaves.  The most striking feature of all, however, is
to see an exclusive population of Lamas walking about the numerous
streets of the Lamasery, clothed in their uniform of red dresses and
yellow mitres.  Their face is ordinarily grave; and though silence is not
prescribed, they speak little, and that always in an under tone.  You see
very few of them at all about the streets, except at the hours appointed
for entering or quitting the schools, and for public prayer.  During the
rest of the day, the Lamas for the most part keep within doors, except
when they descend by narrow, tortuous paths to the bottom of the ravines,
and return thence, laboriously carrying on their shoulders a long barrel
containing the water required for domestic purposes.  At intervals you
meet strangers who come to satisfy a devotional feeling, or to visit some
Lama of their acquaintance.

The Lamasery of Kounboum, indeed, enjoys so high a reputation, that the
worshippers of Buddha resort thither in pilgrimage from all parts of
Tartary and Thibet, so that not a day passes in which there are not
pilgrims arriving and departing.  Upon the great festivals, the
congregation of strangers is immense, and there are four of these in the
year, the most famous of all being the Feast of Flowers, which takes
place on the fifteenth day of the first moon.  Nowhere is this festival
celebrated with so much pomp and solemnity as at Kounboum.  Those which
take place in Tartary, in Thibet, and even at Lha-Ssa itself, are not at
all comparable with it.  We were installed at Kounboum on the sixth of
the first moon, and already numerous caravans of pilgrims were arriving
by every road that led to the Lamasery.  The festival was in every one’s
mouth.  The flowers, it was said, were this year of surpassing beauty;
the Council of the Fine Arts, who had examined them, had declared them to
be altogether superior to those of preceding years.  As soon as we heard
of these marvellous flowers, we hastened, as may be supposed, to seek
information respecting a festival hitherto quite unknown to us.  The
following are the details with which we were furnished, and which we
heard with no little curiosity:—

The flowers of the fifteenth of the first moon consist of
representations, profane and religious, in which all the Asiatic nations
are introduced with their peculiar physiognomies and their distinguishing
costumes.  Persons, places, apparel, decorations—all are formed of fresh
butter.  Three months are occupied in the preparations for this singular
spectacle.  Twenty Lamas, selected from among the most celebrated artists
of the Lamasery, are daily engaged in these butter-works, keeping their
hands all the while in water, lest the heat of the fingers should
disfigure their productions.  As these labours take place chiefly in the
depth of the winter, the operators have much suffering to endure from the
cold.  The first process is thoroughly to knead the butter, so as to
render it firm.  When the material is thus prepared, the various portions
of the butter work are confided to various artists, who, however, all
alike work under the direction of a principal who has furnished the plan
of the flowers for the year, and has the general superintendence of their
production.  The figures, etc., being prepared and put together, are then
confided to another set of artists, who colour them, under the direction
of the same leader.  A museum of works in butter seemed to us so curious
an idea, that we awaited the fifteenth of the moon with somewhat of
impatience.

On the eve of the festival, the arrival of strangers became perfectly
amazing.  Kounboum was no longer the calm, silent Lamasery, where
everything bespoke the grave earnestness of spiritual life, but a mundane
city, full of bustle and excitement.  In every direction you heard the
cries of the camels and the bellowing of the long-haired oxen on which
the pilgrims had journeyed thither; on the slopes of the mountain
overlooking the Lamasery arose numerous tents wherein were encamped such
of the visitors as had not found accommodation in the dwellings of the
Lamas.  Throughout the 14th, the number of persons who performed the
pilgrimage round the Lamasery was immense.  It was for us a strange and
painful spectacle to view that great crowd of human creatures prostrating
themselves at every step, and reciting in under tones their form of
prayer.  There were among these Buddhist zealots a great number of
Tartar-Mongols, all coming from a great distance.  They were remarkable,
alike, for their heavy, awkward gait, and for the intense devotion and
scrupulous application with which they fulfilled the exact rules of the
rite.  The Houng-Mao-Eul, or Long Hairs, were there too, and, their
manners being in no degree better here than at Tang-Keou-Eul, the haughty
uncouthness of their devotion presented a singular contrast with the
fervent, humble mysticism of the Mongols.  They walked proudly, with
heads erect, the right arm out of the sleeve and resting on their sabre
hilts, and with fusils at their backs.  The Si-Fan of the Amdo country
formed the majority of the pilgrims.  Their physiognomy expressed neither
the rough recklessness of the Long Hairs, nor the honest good faith and
good nature of the Tartars.  They accomplished their pilgrimage with an
air of ease and nonchalance which seemed to say, “We are people of the
place; we know all about the matter, and need not put ourselves at all
out of the way.”

The head-dress of the Amdo women occasioned us an agreeable surprise; it
was a little bonnet of black or grey felt, the form of which was
identical with that of the bonnets which were once all the fashion in
France, and which were called, if we remember aright, _Chapeaux à la
trois pour cent_.  The only difference was, that the riband by which the
bonnet was tied under the chin, instead of being black, was red or
yellow.  The hair was allowed to fall from under the bonnet over the
shoulders, in a number of minute braids, decorated with mother-of-pearl
and coral beads.  The rest of the costume was like that of the Tartar
women, the weighty effect of the great sheepskin robe being, however,
mightily modified by the little _Chapeaux à la trois pour cent_, which
communicates a most coquettish air.  We were greatly surprised to find
among the crowd of pilgrims several Chinese who, chaplet in hand, were
executing all the prostrations just like the rest.  Sandara the Bearded
told us they were Khata merchants, who, though they did not believe in
Buddha at all, pretended intense devotion to him, in order to conciliate
custom among his followers.  We cannot say whether this was calumny on
Sandara’s part; but certainly his representation concurred altogether
with our knowledge of the Chinese character.

On the 15th, the pilgrims again made the circuit of the Lamasery, but by
no means in such numbers as on the preceding days.  Curiosity impelled
the great majority rather towards the points where preparations were
making for the Feast of Flowers.  When night fell, Sandara came and
invited us to go and see the marvellous butter works of which we had
heard so much.  We accordingly proceeded with him, accompanied by the
Stutterer, the Kitat-Lama, and the Chabi, leaving old Akayé to take care
of the house.  The flowers were arranged in the open air, before the
various Buddhist temples of the Lamasery, and displayed by illuminations
of the most dazzling brilliancy.  Innumerable vases of brass and copper,
in the form of chalices, were placed upon slight frame-work, itself
representing various designs; and all these vases were filled with thick
butter, supporting a solid wick.  The illuminations were arranged with a
taste that would have reflected no discredit on a Parisian decorator.

The appearance of the flowers themselves quite amazed us.  We could never
have conceived that in these deserts, amongst a half savage people,
artists of such eminent merit could have been found.  From the paintings
and sculptures we had seen in various Lamaseries, we had not in the
slightest degree been led to anticipate the exquisite finish which we had
occasion to admire in the butter works.  The flowers were bas-reliefs, of
colossal proportions, representing various subjects taken from the
history of Buddhism.  All the personages were invested with a truth of
expression that quite surprised us.  The features were full of life and
animation, the attitudes natural, and the drapery easy and graceful.  You
could distinguish at a glance the nature and quality of the materials
represented.  The furs were especially good.  The various skins of the
sheep, the tiger, the fox, the wolf, etc., were so admirably rendered,
that you felt inclined to go and feel them with the hand, and ascertain
whether, after all, they were not real.  In each bas-relief you at once
recognised Buddha, his face, full of nobleness and majesty, appertained
to the Caucasian type; the artists conforming therein to the Buddhist
traditions, which relate that Buddha, a native of the Western Heaven, had
a complexion fair, and slightly tinged with red, broad, full eyes, a
large nose, and long, curling, soft hair.  The other personages had all
the Mongol type, with the Thibetian, Chinese, Si-Fan, and Tartar
shadings, so nicely discriminated that, without any reference whatever to
the costume, you recognised at once to what particular tribe each
individual belonged.  There were a few heads of Hindoos and negroes,
excellently represented.  The latter excited a good deal of curiosity
among the spectators.  These large bas-reliefs were surrounded with
frames, representing animals and flowers, all in butter, and all
admirable, like the works they enclosed, for their delicacy of outline
and the beauty of their colouring.  On the road which led from one temple
to another, were placed, at intervals, small bas-reliefs representing, in
miniature, battles, hunting incidents, nomadic episodes, and views of the
most celebrated Lamaseries of Thibet and Tartary.  Finally, in front of
the principal temple, there was a theatre, which, with its personages and
its decorations, were all of butter.  The _dramatis personæ_ were a foot
high, and represented a community of Lamas on their way to solemnize
prayer.  At first, the stage is empty, then, a marine conch is sounded,
and you see issuing from two doors, two files of minor Lamas, followed by
the superiors in their state dresses.  After remaining, for a moment,
motionless on the stage, the procession disappears at the sides, and the
representation is over.  This spectacle excited general enthusiasm; but,
for ourselves, who had seen rather better mechanism, we regarded these
mannikins, that moved on the stage and then moved off it without stirring
a limb, as decidedly flat.  One representation of the play, therefore,
amply sufficed for us, and we went about admiring the bas-reliefs.

                  [Picture: The Grand Lama of Kounboum]

Whilst we were examining a group of devils, as grotesque, at all events,
as those of Callot, we heard behind us a tremendous flourish of trumpets
and marine conchs, and, upon inquiry, were informed that the Grand Lama
was issuing forth from his sanctuary to visit the flowers.  We desired
nothing better, for the Grand Lama of Kounboum was a great object of
curiosity with us.  He soon reached the place where we stood.  He walked
in the centre of the principal dignitaries of the Lamasery, preceded by
minor Lamas, who cleared the way with great black whips.  This Living
Buddha appeared to us to be, at the outside, forty years old, he was of
ordinary size, with a very flat and very common face, and of a very dark
complexion.  As he passed on he gave a vague glance at the bas-reliefs;
when he saw that fine face of Buddha so repeatedly presented to his
observation, he must, we thought, have said to himself that by dint of
transmigrations he had dolefully degenerated from his original type.  If
the person of the Grand Lama, however, did not particularly strike us,
his costume did, for it was strictly that of our own bishops: he bore on
his head a yellow mitre, a long staff in the form of a cross was in his
right hand, and his shoulders were covered with a mantle of purple
coloured silk, fastened on the chest with a clasp, and in every respect
resembling a cope.  Hereafter we shall have occasion to point out
numerous analogies between the Roman Catholic worship and the Lamanesque
ceremonies.

The spectators generally appeared to give very slight heed to their
Living Buddha, their attention being much more closely applied to the
Buddhas in butter, which, in truth, were much better worth looking at.
The Tartars alone manifested any tokens of devotion; they clasped their
hands, bowed their heads in token of respect, and seemed quite afflicted
that the pressure of the crowd prevented them from prostrating themselves
at full length.

When the Grand Lama had made his circuit, he returned to his sanctuary, a
proceeding which was adopted by all the spectators as a signal for
abandoning themselves without reserve to transports of the most frantic
joy.  They sang themselves out of breath, they danced themselves out of
breath, they pushed one another about, they shouted and bawled loud
enough to frighten the desert itself, they seemed all at once to have
become a collection of lunatics.  As, with all this disorder, there was
risk of the illuminations and the butter works being overturned, Lamas
armed with great lighted torches were stationed, at intervals, to stay
the waves of the immense mass that rolled to and fro like a sea beaten by
the tempest.  We could not long endure the pressure, and the Kitat-Lama,
perceiving the oppression under which we laboured, invited us to return
home.  We adopted the proposition all the more readily, that the night
was far advanced, and we felt the need of repose.

Next morning, when the sun rose, not a trace remained of the Feast of
Flowers.  All had disappeared; the bas-reliefs bad been demolished, and
the immense collection of butter had been thrown down a ravine to feed
the crows withal.  These grand works, on which so much pains, so much
time, we may also say, so much genius had been expended, had served
merely as a spectacle for a single evening.  Every year they make new
flowers, and every year upon a new plan.

With the flowers disappeared also the pilgrims.  Already, at daybreak,
you saw them slowly ascending the tortuous paths of the mountain,
returning to their homes in the desert sorrowfully and silently; for the
heart of man can endure so little of joy in this world that the day
succeeding a festival is generally full of bitterness and melancholy.

                       [Picture: Chapter Tailpiece]

                    [Picture: The Great Wall of China]




CHAPTER II.


Marvellous birth of Tsong-Kaba—His preparation for the Apostleship—He
departs for the West—His interview with the Grand Lama of Thibet—He
reforms the Lamanesque worship—Numerous analogies between the Catholic
religion and reformed Buddhism—Origin of these analogies—Tree of the Ten
Thousand Images—Lamanesque Teaching—Faculty of Prayer—Government of the
Lamasery of Kounboum—Offerings of the Pilgrims—Industry of the Lamas—The
adventures of Sandara the Bearded—Favourable disposition of the Lamas
towards Christianity—Singular practice for the relief of
Travellers—Nocturnal Prayers—Departure for the Lamasery of Tchogortan.

The country of Amdo, situate south of Koukou-Noor, is inhabited by
Eastern Thibetians, who, like the Mongol Tartars, lead a pastoral and
nomadic life.  The aspect of the country is wild and dismal.  In all
directions the eye discerns nothing but mountains of red and yellow
ochre, almost destitute of vegetation, and intersected by deep ravines.
It is only here and there, in this sterile and desolate region, that you
find valleys tolerably supplied with pasturage, and hither the nomad
tribes lead their flocks.

According to the Lamanesque chronicles, towards the middle of the
fourteenth century of our era, a shepherd of the land of Amdo, named
Lombo-Moke, had set up his black tent at the foot of a mountain, near the
entrance to a deep ravine, through which, over a rocky bed, meandered an
abundant stream.  Lombo-Moke shared with his wife, Chingtsa-Tsio, the
cares of pastoral life.  They possessed no numerous flocks; some twenty
goats and a few sarligues or long-haired cattle, constituted all their
wealth.  For many years they had lived alone and childless in these wild
solitudes.  Each day Lombo-Moke led his animals to the neighbouring
pastures, while Chingtsa-Tsio, remaining alone in her tent, occupied
herself with the various preparations of milk, or with weaving, after the
manner of the women of Amdo, a coarse linen with the long hair of the
sarligues.

One day, Chingtsa-Tsio having descended to the bottom of the ravine to
draw water, experienced a faintness, and fell senseless on a large stone
which bore inscribed on it various characters in honour of the Buddha
Chakdja-Mouni.  When Chingtsa-Tsio came to herself, she felt a pain in
the side, and at once comprehended that the fall had rendered her
fruitful.  In the year of the Fire Hen (1357), nine months after this
mysterious event, she brought into the world a son, whom Lombo-Moke named
Tsong-Kaba, from the appellation of the mountain, at whose feet his tent
had stood for several years past.  The marvellous child had, at his
birth, a white beard, and his face wore an air of extraordinary majesty.
There was nothing childlike about his manners.  So soon as he saw the
light, he was capable of expressing himself with clearness and precision
in the language of Amdo.  He spoke little, indeed, but his words always
developed a profound appreciation of the nature and destiny of man.

At the age of three, Tsong-Kaba resolved to renounce the world, and to
embrace the religious life.  Chingtsa-Tsio, full of respect for the holy
project of her son, herself shaved his head, and threw his fine long
flowing hair outside the tent.  From this hair, there forthwith sprung a
tree, the wood of which dispensed an exquisite perfume around, and each
leaf of which bore, engraved on its surface, a character in the sacred
language of Thibet.  Tsong-Kaba himself withdrew into the most absolute
retirement, avoiding even the presence of his parents.  He took up his
position on the summits of the wildest mountains, or in the depths of the
profoundest ravines, and there passed whole days and nights in prayer and
in the contemplation of eternal things.  His fastings were long and
frequent.  He respected the life even of the humblest insect, and
rigorously interdicted himself the consumption of any sort of flesh
whatever.

While Tsong-Kaba was thus engaged in purifying his heart by assiduity and
prayer, and the practices of an austere life, a Lama, from one of the
most remote regions of the West, casually visited the land of Amdo, and
received the hospitality of Lombo-Moke’s tent.  Tsong-Kaba, amazed at the
science and the sanctity of the stranger, prostrated himself at his feet,
and conjured him to become his instructor.  The Lamanesque traditions
relate that this Lama of the western regions was remarkable not only for
his learning, the profundity of which was unfathomable, but for the
singularity of his appearance.  People especially remarked his great
nose, and his eyes that gleamed as with a supernatural fire.  The
stranger being, on his part, not less struck with the marvellous
qualities of Tsong-Kaba, did not hesitate to adopt him as his disciple,
and for this purpose took up his abode in the land of Amdo, where,
however, he only lived a few years.  After having initiated his pupil in
all the doctrines recognised by the most renowned saints of the West, he
fell asleep one day, on a stone, on the summit of a mountain, and his
eyes opened not again.

Tsong-Kaba, deprived of the holy stranger’s lessons, became all the more
eager for religious instruction, and ere long he formed the resolution of
abandoning his tribe, and of going to the further west, to drink at their
very source the pure precepts of sacred science.  He departed, staff in
hand, alone, and without a guide, but his heart filled with superhuman
courage.  He first proceeded due south, and reached, after long and
laborious journeying, the frontiers of the province of Yun-Nan, quite at
the extremity of the Chinese empire.  Then, instead of pursuing the
previous direction, he turned towards the north-west, along the banks of
the great river Yarou-Dsangbo.  He reached, at length, the sacred town of
the kingdom of Oui. {48}  As he was about to continue on his way, a _Lha_
(spirit), all radiant with light, stayed him, and prohibited his further
progress.  “Oh, Tsong-Kaba,” said he, “all these vast regions belong to
the great empire which has been granted to thee.  It is here thou art
ordained to promulgate the rites of religion and its prayers.  It is here
will be accomplished the last evolution of thy immortal life.”
Tsong-Kaba, docile to the supernatural voice, entered the _Land of
Spirits_ (Lha-Ssa), and selected an humble dwelling, in the most solitary
quarter of the town.

The monk of the tribe of Amdo soon attracted disciples; and before long,
his new doctrine and the innovations which he introduced into the
Lamanesque ceremonies, created considerable excitement.  At length,
Tsong-Kaba resolutely put himself forward as a reformer, and began to
make war upon the ancient worship.  His partisans increased from day to
day, and became known as the Yellow Cap Lamas, in contradistinction to
the Red Cap Lamas, who supported the old system.  The king of the country
of Oui, and the Chakdja, the Living Buddha, and chief of the local
Lamanesque hierarchy, became alarmed at this new sect that was
introducing confusion into religious ceremonies.  The Chakdja sent for
Tsong-Kaba, in order to ascertain whether his knowledge was so profound,
so marvellous, as his partisans pretended; but the reformer refused to
accept the invitation.  Representing a religious system which was to
supersede the old system, it was not his business, he considered, to
perform an act of submission.

Meantime the Yellow Caps became, by degrees, the predominant sect, and
the homage of the multitude was turned towards Tsong-Kaba.  The Buddha
Chakdja, finding his authority repudiated, made up his mind to go and
visit the little Lama of the province of Amdo, as he contumeliously
designated the reformer.  At this interview, he proposed to have a
discussion with his adversary, which he flattered himself would result in
the triumph of the old doctrine.  He repaired to the meeting with great
pomp, surrounded with all the attributes of his religious supremacy.  As
he entered the modest cell of Tsong-Kaba, his high red cap struck against
the beam of the door, and fell to the ground, an accident which everybody
regarded as a presage of triumph for the Yellow Cap.  The reformer was
seated on a cushion, his legs crossed, and apparently took no heed to the
entrance of the Chakdja.  He did not rise to receive him, but continued
gravely to tell his beads.  The Chakdja, without permitting himself to be
disconcerted either by the fall of his cap, or by the cold reception that
was given him, entered abruptly upon the discussion, by a pompous
eulogium of the old rites, and an enumeration of the privileges which he
claimed under them.  Tsong-Kaba, without raising his eyes, interrupted
him in these terms: “Let go, cruel man that thou art, let go the louse
thou art crushing between thy fingers.  I hear its cries from where I
sit, and my heart is torn with commiserating grief.”  The Chakdja, in
point of fact, while vaunting his own virtues, had seized a louse under
his vest, and in contempt of the doctrine of transmigration, which
forbids men to kill anything that has life in it, he was endeavouring to
crack it between his nails.  Unprovided with a reply to the severe words
of Tsong-Kaba, he prostrated himself at his feet, and acknowledged his
supremacy.

Thenceforward, the reforms proposed by Tsong-Kaba encountered no
obstacle; they were adopted throughout Thibet, and afterwards became, by
imperceptible degrees, established in all the kingdoms of Tartary.  In
1409, Tsong-Kaba, then 52 years old, founded the celebrated monastery of
Kaldan, three leagues from Lha-Ssa; it still flourishes, containing
upwards of 8,000 Lamas.  In 1419, the soul of Tsong-Kaba, who had become
Buddha, quitted the earth and returned to the Celestial Realm, where it
was admitted into the Heaven of Rapture.  His body, which remained in the
Lamasery of Kaldan, preserves to this day, it is alleged, all its
original freshness, and, moreover, by a perennial miracle, lies a little
above the earth, without being supported or raised upon anything.  It is
added, that the mouth still, from time to time, addresses words of
encouragement to those Lamas who have made marked progress towards
perfection—words altogether inaudible for the less eminent of the
community.

Besides the reformation which Tsong-Kaba introduced into the liturgy, he
rendered himself further famous by a new edition of the “Body of
Doctrine,” left by Chakdja-Mouni.  The most important of his other works
is entitled _Lam-Rim-Tsien-Bo_ (the Progressive Path to Perfection).

Upon the most superficial examination of the reforms and innovations
introduced by Tsong-Kaba into the Lamanesque worship, one must be struck
with their affinity to Catholicism.  The cross, the mitre, the dalmatica,
the cope, which the Grand Lamas wear on their journeys, or when they are
performing some ceremony out of the temple, the service with double
choirs, the psalmody, the exorcisms, the censer, suspended from five
chains, and which you can open or close at pleasure; the benedictions
given by the Lamas by extending the right hand over the heads of the
faithful; the chaplet, ecclesiastical celibacy, spiritual retirement, the
worship of the saints, the fasts, the processions, the litanies, the holy
water, all these are analogies between the Buddhists and ourselves.  Now,
can it be said that these analogies are of Christian origin?  We think
so.  We have indeed found, neither in the traditions nor in the monuments
of the country, any positive proof of their adoption, still it is
perfectly legitimate to put forward conjectures which possess all the
characteristics of the most emphatic probability.

It is known that, in the fourteenth century, at the time of the
domination of the Mongol emperors, there existed frequent relations
between the Europeans and the peoples of Upper Asia.  We have already, in
the former part of our narrative, referred to those celebrated embassies
which the Tartar conquerors sent to Rome, to France, and to England.
There is no doubt that the barbarians who thus visited Europe must have
been struck with the pomp and splendour of the ceremonies of Catholic
worship, and must have carried back with them into the desert enduring
memories of what they had seen.  On the other hand, it is also known
that, at the same period, brethren of various religious orders undertook
remote pilgrimages for the purpose of introducing Christianity into
Tartary; and these must have penetrated at the same time into Thibet,
among the Si-Fan, and among the Mongols on the Blue Sea.  Jean de
Montcorvin, Archbishop of Peking, had already organized a choir of Mongol
monks, who daily practised the recitation of the psalms, and the
ceremonies of the Catholic faith.  Now, if one reflects that Tsong-Kaba
lived precisely at the period when the Christian religion was being
introduced into Central Asia, it will be no longer matter of astonishment
that we find, in reformed Buddhism, such striking analogies with
Christianity.

And may we not proceed to lay down a proposition of a more positive
character?  This very legend of Tsong-Kaba, which we heard in the very
place of his birth, and from the mouth of several Lamas, does it not
materially strengthen our theory?  Setting aside all the marvellous
features which have been added to the story by the imagination of the
Lamas, it may be fairly admitted that Tsong-Kaba was a man raised above
the ordinary level by his genius, and also, perhaps, by his virtue; that
he was instructed by a stranger from the West; that after the death of
the master the disciple, proceeding to the West, took up his abode in
Thibet, where he diffused the instruction which he himself had received.
May it not be reasonably inferred that this stranger with the great nose
was an European, one of those Catholic missionaries who at the precise
period penetrated in such numbers into Upper Asia.  It is by no means
surprising that the Lamanesque traditions should have preserved the
memory of that European face, whose type is so different from that of the
Asiatics.  During our abode at Kounboum, we, more than once, heard the
Lamas make remarks upon the singularity of our features, and say,
roundly, that we were of the same land with the master of Tsong-Kaba.  It
may be further supposed that a premature death did not permit the
Catholic missionary to complete the religious education of his disciple,
who himself, when afterwards he became an apostle, merely applied
himself, whether from having acquired only an incomplete knowledge of
Christian doctrine, or from having apostatized from it, to the
introduction of a new Buddhist Liturgy.  The feeble opposition which he
encountered in his reformation, would seem to indicate that already the
progress of Christian ideas in these countries had materially shaken the
faith of Buddha.  We shall by-and-by inquire whether the numerous
analogies between the Buddhists and the Catholics are an obstacle or an
aid to the propagation of the faith in Tartary and Thibet.

The reformation of Tsong-Kaba triumphed in all the regions comprised
between the Himalaya mountains, the frontiers of Russia, and the Great
Wall of China.  It even made its way into some provinces of the Celestial
Empire, into Kan Sou, for example, Chan-Si, Petche-Li, and all
Mantchouria.  The bonzes have retained the ancient rites, with the
exception only of a few innovations which have been adopted in particular
localities.  There is now a regular distinction understood between the
two classes of Lamas, the yellow and the grey; that is to say, those who
follow the reformation and those who persist in the elder worship.  These
two sects, which no doubt at one time treated each other as rivals, and
made war upon each other, now live in perfect harmony.  The Bonzes and
the Lamas regard themselves as all of the same family.

The tribe of Amdo, previously altogether obscure and of no importance
whatever, has, since the reformation of Buddhism, acquired a prodigious
celebrity.  The mountain at the foot of which Tsong-Kaba was born, became
a famous place of pilgrimage.  Lamas assembled there from all parts to
build their cells, and thus by degrees was formed that flourishing
Lamasery, the fame of which extends to the remotest confines of Tartary.
It is called Kounboum, from two Thibetian words signifying Ten Thousand
Images, and having allusion to the tree which, according to the legend,
sprang from Tsong-Kaba’s hair, and bears a Thibetian character on each of
its leaves.

It will here be naturally expected that we say something about this tree
itself.  Does it exist?  Have we seen it?  Has it any peculiar
attributes?  What about its marvellous leaves?  All these questions our
readers are entitled to put to us.  We will endeavour to answer as
categorically as possible.

Yes, this tree does exist, and we had heard of it too often during our
journey not to feel somewhat eager to visit it.  At the foot of the
mountain on which the Lamasery stands, and not far from the principal
Buddhist temple, is a great square enclosure, formed by brick walls.
Upon entering this we were able to examine at leisure the marvellous
tree, some of the branches of which had already manifested themselves
above the wall.  Our eyes were first directed with earliest curiosity to
the leaves, and we were filled with an absolute consternation of
astonishment at finding that, in point of fact, there were upon each of
the leaves well-formed Thibetian characters, all of a green colour, some
darker, some lighter than the leaf itself.  Our first impression was a
suspicion of fraud on the part of the Lamas; but, after a minute
examination of every detail, we could not discover the least deception.
The characters all appeared to us portions of the leaf itself, equally
with its veins and nerves; the position was not the same in all; in one
leaf they would be at the top of the leaf; in another, in the middle; in
a third, at the base, or at the side; the younger leaves represented the
characters only in a partial state of formation.  The bark of the tree
and its branches, which resemble that of the plane tree, are also covered
with these characters.  When you remove a piece [Picture: The Tree of Ten
Thousand Images] of old bark, the young bark under it exhibits the
indistinct outlines of characters in a germinating state, and, what is
very singular, these new characters are not unfrequently different from
those which they replace.  We examined everything with the closest
attention, in order to detect some trace of trickery, but we could
discern nothing of the sort, and the perspiration absolutely trickled
down our faces under the influence of the sensations which this most
amazing spectacle created.  More profound intellects than ours may,
perhaps, be able to supply a satisfactory explanation of the mysteries of
this singular tree; but as to us, we altogether give it up.  Our readers
possibly may smile at our ignorance; but we care not, so that the
sincerity and truth of our statement be not suspected.

The Tree of the Ten Thousand Images seemed to us of great age.  Its
trunk, which three men could scarcely embrace with outstretched arms, is
not more than eight feet high; the branches, instead of shooting up,
spread out in the shape of a plume of feathers, and are extremely bushy;
few of them are dead.  The leaves are always green, and the wood, which
is of a reddish tint, has an exquisite odour, something like that of
cinnamon.  The Lamas informed us that in summer, towards the eighth moon,
the tree produces large red flowers of an extremely beautiful character.
They informed us also that there nowhere else exists another such tree;
that many attempts have been made in various Lamaseries of Tartary and
Thibet to propagate it by seeds and cuttings, but that all these attempts
have been fruitless.

The Emperor Khang-Hi, when upon a pilgrimage to Kounboum, constructed, at
his own private expense, a dome of silver over the Tree of the Ten
Thousand Images; moreover, he made a present to the Grand Lama of a fine
black horse, capable of travelling a thousand lis a day, and of a saddle
adorned with precious stones.  The horse is dead, but the saddle is still
shown in one of the Buddhist temples, where it is an object of special
veneration.  Before quitting the Lamasery, Khang-Hi endowed it with a
yearly revenue, for the support of 350 Lamas.

The fame of Kounboum, due in the first instance to the celebrity of
Tsong-Kaba, is now maintained by the excellent discipline of the
Lamasery, and the superiority of its teaching.  Its Lamas are deemed
students throughout their lives, for religious knowledge is reputed
inexhaustible.  The students are distributed into four sections, or
faculties, according to the nature of the special studies to which they
desire to apply themselves.  1. The Faculty of Mysticism, which
comprehends the rules of contemplative life, and the examples exhibited
in the career of the Buddhist saints.  2. The Faculty of Liturgy,
comprising the study of religious ceremonies, with the expounding of all
that appertains to Lamanesque worship.  3. The Faculty of Medicine, which
applies itself to the four hundred and forty maladies of the human frame,
to medical botany, and to the pharmacopœia.  4. The Faculty of Prayers,
the most esteemed of all, the best paid, and, as a matter of course, the
most numerous.

The voluminous works which serve as the basis of instruction in prayers,
are divided into thirteen series, which represent, as it were, so many
degrees in the hierarchy.  The place which each student occupies in the
schoolroom and the temple service, depends upon the series of theological
works through which he has passed.  Among the Lamas, you see old men
proclaiming, by their low position in the hierarchy, their idleness or
incapacity; and, on the other hand, mere youths elevated, by their
application and their ability, to the highest ranks.

In order to obtain a degree in the Faculty of Prayers, all that is
required from the student is to recite, without stopping, the books he
has been directed to study.  When he believes himself quite up, he gives
intimation of this belief to the Grand Lama of prayers, in the form of a
rich khata, a dish of raisins, and some ounces of silver, in ingots, the
amount depending upon the degree at which he aims; he also makes presents
to the Lama examiners.  Although it is, of course, perfectly understood
that the judges are incorruptible, yet at Kounboum, as elsewhere, people
do say that a few offerings to the academy are not without their effect
at an examination.  Men are men everywhere!

Before the principal temple of the Lamasery, there is a large square
court, paved with broad stones, and surrounded with twisted columns,
covered with coloured sculptures.  It is in this enclosure that the Lamas
of the Faculty of Prayers assemble at the lecture hour, which is
announced to them by the sound of a marine conch; here they sit,
according to their rank, upon the bare stones, undergoing, in winter, the
cold, the frost, and the snow; and in summer, the rain and the sun’s
heat.  The professors alone are under shelter; they sit upon a sort of
platform, covered with a tent.  It is a singular spectacle to see all
these Lamas with their red scarfs and great yellow mitres, so huddled
together that you cannot see the flagstones on which they sit.  After
some of the students have given out the lesson of the day, the
professors, in turn, give commentaries, vague and incomprehensible as the
text itself, but nobody makes any objection; the explanation is quite
near enough.  Besides, the universal conviction is that the sublimity of
a doctrine is in exact proportion to its obscurity and its
unintelligibility.

The lesson generally concludes with a thesis, supported by a student
previously named for that purpose, and whom the other students are
entitled to question, upon whatever subject comes into their heads at the
time.  There is nothing more preposterous than these theses, which nearly
remind one of those famous discussions of the schools in the middle ages,
where there were such furious argumentations _de omni re scibili_.  At
Kounboum the rule is for the conqueror to mount on the shoulders of the
conquered, and to be carried by him in triumph right round the walls of
the school.  One day Sandara the Bearded came home from lecture, his face
radiant with unwonted smiles.  We soon learned that he had been the hero
of the theses: he had defeated his competitor upon the important question
why poultry and other winged creatures are destitute of one of the vital
functions common to all other animals.  We mention this particular
instance, because it will give an idea of the elevation and grandeur of
Lamanesque education.

At certain periods of the year, the Living Buddha, the Grand Superior of
the Lamasery, himself appears in person, and gives, in state, official
expoundings of the Sacred Books.  These commentaries, though not a bit
more learned or more lucid than those of the professors, are received as
authority.  The Thibetian language is alone used in the schools.

The discipline of the Lamasery is vigilant and severe.  In the Faculties,
during the lectures, and in the temples, during the recitation of
prayers, you see Lama censors leaning upon long iron rods, and
maintaining order and silence among the students.  The least infraction
of the rules is at once visited with a reprimand and, if necessary, with
blows of the iron rod, the old Lamas being equally liable to both the one
and the other, with the young Chabis.

A certain number of Lamas form the police of the Lamasery; they are
attired in the same manner as the other Lamas, only their dress is grey,
and their mitre black.  Day and night they perambulate the streets of the
city, armed with a great whip, and re-establish order wherever their
interposition has become necessary.  Three tribunals, presided over by
Lama judges, have jurisdiction in all matters that are above the
immediate authority of the police.  Those who are guilty of theft, to
however trifling an amount, are first branded on the forehead and on each
cheek with a hot on, and then expelled from the Lamasery.

The Buddhist monasteries, though similar in many respects to our own,
exhibit essential differences.  The Lamas are subject, it is true, to one
same rule, and to one same discipline, but it cannot be said that they
live in community.  You find among them all the graduated shades of
poverty and wealth that you see in mundane cities.  At Kounboum we often
observed Lamas clothed in rags, begging, at the doors of their rich
brethren, a few handfuls of barley meal.  Every third month the
authorities make a distribution of meal to all the Lamas of the
Lamaseries, without distinction, but the quantity is altogether
inadequate.  The voluntary offerings of the pilgrims come in aid, but,
besides that these offerings are uncertain, they are divided among the
Lamas according to the position which each occupies in the hierarchy, so
that there are always a great many who never receive any thing at all
from this source.

Offerings are of two sorts, tea offerings and money offerings.  The first
is operated in this fashion: the pilgrim who proposes to entertain the
brotherhood, waits upon the superiors of the Lamasery, and, presenting to
them a khata, announces that he shall have the devotion to offer to the
Lamas a general or special tea.  The tea-general is for the whole
Lamasery without distinction; the tea-special is given only to one of the
four faculties, the selection being with the pilgrim.  On the day filed
for a tea-general, after the repetition of morning prayer, the presiding
Lama gives a signal for the company to retain their seats.  Then forty
young Chabis, appointed by lot, proceed to the great kitchen, and soon
return, laden with jars of tea with milk; they pass along the ranks, and
as they come to each Lama, the latter draws from his bosom his wooden
tea-cup, and it is filled to the brim.  Each drinks in silence, carefully
placing a corner of his scarf before his cup, in order to modify the
apparent anomaly of introducing so material a proceeding as tea-drinking
into so spiritual a spot.  Generally there is tea enough presented to go
round twice, the tea being stronger or weaker according to the generosity
of the donor.  There are some pilgrims who add a slice of fresh butter
for each Lama, and magnificent Amphytrions go the length, further, of
oatmeal cakes.  When the banquet is over, the presiding Lama solemnly
proclaims the name of the pious pilgrim, who has done himself the immense
credit of regaling the holy family of Lamas; the pilgrim donor prostrates
himself on the earth; the Lamas sing a hymn in his favour, and then march
out in procession past their prostrate benefactor, who does not rise
until the last of the Lamas has disappeared.

Offerings of this sort are very little for each individual Lama; but when
you reflect that on such occasions there are assembled together more than
4,000 tea-drinkers, you may easily estimate that the aggregate expense
becomes a very serious affair.  In the Lamasery at Kounboum, one single
tea-general, without either butter or cakes, costs fifty ounces of
silver, or about twenty pounds.

Money offerings are still more expensive, for they are always accompanied
with a tea-general.  The money is not distributed at service time.  After
prayers, the presiding Lama announces that such a pilgrim, of such a
place, has offered so many ounces of silver to the holy family of Lamas,
and that the whole sum equally divided produces such a quotient.  In the
course of the day, the Lamas proceed to the Offering-office, where their
respective proportion is scrupulously delivered to them.

There is no particular period or day fixed for the reception of
offerings: they are always welcome; however, at the four great festivals
of the year, they are more numerous and more important than at other
times, on account of the greater number of pilgrims.  After the Feast of
Flowers, the King of Souniout, who was at Kounboum, made an offering,
before he returned into Tartary, of six hundred ounces of silver, and a
tea-general for eight days! with butter and cakes; the total expense
amounted to six hundred pounds!  When the offering is made by a
distinguished personage, it is customary for the Living Buddha to be
present at the ceremony, and he receives for his especial share an ingot
of silver weighing fifty ounces, a piece of red or yellow silk, a pair of
boots, and a mitre, arranged in a basket decorated with flowers and
ribands, and covered with a rich khata.  The pilgrim prostrates himself
on the steps of the altar, where the Living Buddha is seated, and places
the basket at his feet.  A Chabi takes it up, and in return, presents to
the pilgrim a khata in the name of the Living Buddha, whose business
throughout is to preserve the impassibility and dignity befitting his
assumed divinity.

Besides the distributions and the offerings the Lamas of Kounboum employ
various means of improving their temporal condition.  Some of them keep
cows, and sell to their colleagues the milk and butter which help to
season their tea and oatmeal.  Others form themselves into a joint stock
company, and undertake the preparation of the teas-general which the
pilgrims present to the community: others are tailors, dyers, bootmakers,
hatters, and so on, and make up, for a fixed remuneration, the clothes of
the Lamas.  Lastly, a few of the number have shops, wherein they sell, at
enormous profit, various goods, which they procure from Tang-Keou-Eul or
Si-Ning-Fou.

In the class of industrial Lamas there is, however, a certain number who
derive their livelihood from occupations which seem more comformable with
the spirit of a religious life, namely, the printing and transcribing the
Lamanesque books.  Our readers are, perhaps, aware that the Thibetian
writing proceeds horizontally, and from left to right.  Though the idiom
of the Lamas is alphabetical, much in the manner of our European
languages, yet they make no use of moveable type; stereotype printing on
wood is alone practised.  The Thibetian books resemble a large pack of
cards; the leaves are moveable, and printed on both sides.  As they are
neither sewn nor bound together, in order to preserve them, they are
placed between two thin boards, which are fastened together with yellow
bands.  The editions of the Thibetian books printed at Kounboum are very
rude, the letters are sprawling and coarse, and in all respects very
inferior to those which emanate from the imperial printing press at
Peking.  The manuscript editions, on the contrary, are magnificent; they
are enriched with illustrative designs, and the characters are elegantly
traced.  The Lamas do not write with a brush like the Chinese, but use
little sticks of bamboo cut in the form of a pen; their inkstand is a
little copper box, resembling a jointed snuff-box, and which is filled
with cotton saturated with ink.  The Lamas size their paper, in order to
prevent its blotting; for this purpose, instead of the solution of alum
used by the Chinese, they sprinkle the paper with water mixed with
one-tenth part of milk, a simple, ready, and perfectly effective process.

                        [Picture: Buddhic Prayer]

Sandara the Bearded did not belong to any of the classes of industrials
that we have enumerated; he had a business of his own, namely, that of
_taking_ in the strangers whom devotion or other motives brought to the
Lamasery.  The Mongol-Tartars in particular afforded him profitable
employment in this way.  On their arrival he would introduce himself in
the character of _cicerone_, and, thanks to the easy, seductive elegance
of his manners and conversation, he always managed to get engaged as
their man of business during their stay.  At Kounboum itself Sandara’s
reputation was by no means unequivocal.  The better Lamas shunned him,
and some of them went so far as to give us a charitable hint not to
confide too much in his fine words, and always to keep an eye upon our
purse when in his company.  We learned that, compelled to quit Lha-Ssa
for some knavery, he had vagabondized for three years through the
provinces of Sse-Tchouen and Kan-Sou, as a strolling player and
fortune-teller.  We were not at all surprised at this information.  We
had ourselves remarked that whenever Sandara became frankly himself, his
manner was always that of an actor.

One evening, when he seemed in a more amiable humour than ordinary, we
thought we would extract from him some of his old adventures.  “Sandara,”
said we, “the chattering Lamas here pretend that on your way from Thibet,
you remained three years in China.”  “The words are truth.”  “They say,
too, that you are a capital hand at stage recitations.”  Sandara rose,
clacked a sort of prelude with his fingers, threw himself into a
theatrical attitude, and recited, with emphasis, some Chinese verses.  “A
Lama comedian!” said we, laughingly; “this is a marvel indeed!”  “No,
no!” cried he; “I was first a Lama, then a comedian, and now I am a Lama
again.  Come,” continued he, resuming his accustomed seat, “since the
chatterers have spoken to you of my adventures, I will give you the real
history of them.

“After remaining for ten years at Lha-Ssa, in the Lamasery of Sera, a
longing for my country took possession of my thoughts; the Three Vales
occupied my soul.  The malady at length became so powerful, that I could
not resist it.  I accordingly departed; having as my travelling
companions four Lamas of Amdo, who were also returning home.  Instead of
pursuing the eastern route we proceeded southwards, for in that direction
the desert is not wholly uninhabited.  We journeyed, pack on back, and
staff in hand.  If on our way we came to a black tent, we sought its
hospitality, otherwise we had to pass the night in the depths of some
ravine, or beneath some rock.  You know that Thibet is a country covered
with great mountains; we had accordingly a continuous series of
ascendings and descendings.  Although it was summer, we frequently
encountered heavy falls of snow.  The nights were very cold, but during
the day, especially in the valleys, we were almost killed with the heat.

“We walked on merrily, however.  We were all in good health and in good
humour, more particularly when the shepherds had made us a present of a
kid, or a good lump of butter.  In the country through which we passed,
we saw some very singular animals; they were not so big as an ordinary
cat, and they were covered with a sort of hair as hard as iron needles.
Whenever one of these creatures perceived us, it immediately rolled
itself up, so that you could no longer distinguish head, tail, or feet,
and became, as it were, a great ball, all bristling with long, hard
thorns.  At first these beasts frightened us; we could not comprehend at
all what they were, for the books of prayer say not a word about them.
However, by degrees we got courage enough to examine them closely.  As
these balls were too prickly to be touched with the hand, we placed a
stick horizontally across one of them, and then pressed down both ends,
until we made the ball open itself a little, and then there came out a
little face, like a man’s, that looked at us fixedly.  We cried out in
great terror, and ran away as hard as we could.  At last, however, we
grew accustomed to the little animals, and they even served us for an
amusement, for it was good fun to turn them over and over down the hills,
with the iron ends of our staves.

“We also met with worms of a very surprising kind.  One day when it was
very hot, we were journeying along a little stream that meandered through
a valley, in which the grass grew very high.  Towards noon, after
drinking tea, we lay down and slept on the edge of the stream.  You know
that, according to the rule of Tsong-Kaba, the yellow-mitred Lamas do not
wear trousers.  When we woke up, we found a number of worms sticking to
our legs; they were of a grey colour, and as big as one’s finger.  We
tried to get them off, but could not; and as we did not experience any
pain from them, we waited to see what would be the end of the affair.
By-and-by the beasts swelled, and when they had become quite round and
large, they dropped off themselves.  Oh! Thibet is a singular country.
You see animals there that are found nowhere else.  Lamas who have not
travelled in the country won’t believe what we tell them about it.”
“They are wrong, then,” said we, “for what you have just said is in
perfect conformity with the truth.  These curious animals that you
describe are not inhabitants of Thibet only; they are very common in our
country.  Those which are enveloped with sharp thorns, we call hedgehogs;
and the great worms we call leeches.”  “What! have you seen animals of
the kind?”  “Often.”  “I’m glad to hear it, for you’ll be able to confirm
what we say to any Lamas that don’t believe us.”

“Well, we went on quite comfortably, till we came to the Eul Mountain.
This mountain is very lofty, and covered with a great forest of pine and
holly; we rested at the foot of it during a whole day, in a black tent.
When night came, two of our number said: ‘The evening is fine, the moon
bright; we can’t do better than cross the mountain in the cool of the
night.  In the morning it will grow hot, and we shall find it much more
laborious to climb the mountain then.’  ‘No,’ objected the others, ‘night
is for wild beasts; men should only travel by day.’  Thus, you see, we
disagreed about the matter.  The two first persisted; they took up their
iron-pointed staves, fastened their packs on their shoulders, and went on
their way.  This, you will admit, was an ill step to take.  When pilgrims
have said: ‘Let us journey together,’ they should not part company.

“Well, when day broke, we also went on our way—we three who remained of
the five.  Just as we were reaching the summit of the Eul Mountain,
‘Tsong-Kaba,’ cried I, ‘here is an iron-pointed staff on the ground.’
‘Why,’ said one of my companions, looking at the staff, ‘this is Lobzan’s
staff.’  We examined it closely, and clearly recognised it.  ‘This,’ said
we, ‘is what people get by travelling at night.  They drop something or
other, and there is not light enough for them to find it again.’  We went
on.  After a short further and very rugged ascent, we stepped on the
plateau of the mountain.  We had no sooner done so, than all three sent
forth a cry of terror; for we saw before us another iron-pointed staff,
Lama’s clothes torn in pieces, pieces of human flesh, and bones broken
and gnawed.  The earth torn up, and the grass trodden down, indicated
that a severe struggle had taken place on the spot.  It was obvious at
once that some wild beasts, tigers or wolves, had killed and devoured our
companions.  I stood for a moment panic-struck at the horrible spectacle.
Then I wept like a child.  We rushed down the other side of the mountain
with fear-impelled speed.  From that moment our journey was a sad and
silent one.  Only, when we came to a black tent, we would recount to the
shepherds the awful catastrophe of our poor comrades, and the relation
afforded some slight alleviation of our grief.

“Three moons after our departure from Lha-Ssa, we arrived at the frontier
of China.  There we separated; the two Lamas of Amdo turned to the north,
towards their own country; while I, crossing the Wall of Ten Thousand
Lis, entered the province of Sse-Tchouen.  After a few days’ march, I
found in an inn, a company of comedians.  All night, these people did
nothing but sing, joke, and drink rice-wine.  ‘In this country of
Sse-Tchouen,’ said the manager of the company to me, ‘there are no Lamas.
What do you propose to do with that red robe and that yellow hat of
yours?’  ‘You are quite right,’ said I; ‘in a country of Lamas, to be a
Lama is well; but in a land of comedians, one must be a comedian.  Will
you take me into your company?’  ‘Bravo! bravo!’ cried everybody; ‘you
shall be one of us.’  And so saying, each made me a low bow, which I
returned by putting my tongue in my cheek, and scratching my ear,
according to the Thibetian manner of saluting.  At first, I took the
matter as a joke; but by-and-by upon reflecting that I had no means left,
I thought I might as well take the manager at his word, and accordingly I
became a member of the corps.

“Next day I packed up my religious costume, and assumed a mundane suit.
As my memory had been long disciplined by the study of prayers, I found
little trouble in learning a part in a play, and in a few days I became
quite a first-rate comedian.  We gave representations, during upwards of
a year, in all the towns and villages of Sse-Tchouen.  The company then
resolving to visit the province of Yun-Nan, I quitted them, because that
expedition would have carried me too far from my native Three Vallies.
After the feast of separation, accordingly I proceeded on my way to the
paternal roof.  The journey occupied nearly two years.  At every place I
came to, I stopped a few days and gave representations, practising as a
merry-andrew, and making a comfortable thing enough of it, for one always
gets more by performing on one’s own account.  I entered my native
village in grand style, mounted on a magnificent ass I had bought at
Lan-Tcheou, and with twelve ounces of silver in my pocket.  I gave a few
representations to my countrymen, who were amazed at my skill; but I had
soon to give up my new profession.

“One evening when the family were assembled to hear some of my Thibetian
stories, my mother maintained profound silence and her face manifested
utter grief; soon I observed the tears trickling down her cheeks.
‘Mother,’ asked I, ‘why do you weep?  In my story was there anything to
excite your tears?’  ‘Thy story,’ she replied, ‘produces upon me no
impression whatever, agreeable or disagreeable; it strikes upon my ears,
but makes no way to my heart.  That which moves, that which afflicts me,
is the thought that when thou left us, fourteen years ago, to visit the
Land of Saints, thou wert clothed in the sacred habit of the Lamas, and
that now thou art a layman and a buffoon.’  These words confounded me.
After a moment’s silence I rose and cried emphatically: ‘It is written in
the Holy Doctrine, that it is better to honour one’s father and mother
than to serve the spirits of heaven and earth.  Therefore, mother, say
what you would have me do, and your son will reverentially obey you.’
‘Throw aside those mundane clothes,’ said my mother, ‘cut off that tress
of hair, and re-enter the family of the saints.’  I had nothing to say in
reply, but prostrated myself thrice on the ground, in token of
submission.  When a mother speaks, one must obey; filial piety is the
basis of all good doctrine.  In translating for you the ten great
commandments of Jehovah, I remember that the fourth said: ‘Thou shalt
honour thy father and thy mother.’

“Next morning I resumed my Lama dress, and a few days after proceeded to
Kounboum, where I am labouring to sanctify myself.”

These last words of Sandara the Bearded clearly merited to be received
with a horse laugh, but we restrained ourselves by dint of biting our
lips, for we had experienced that, notwithstanding his immense zeal for
sanctification, our worthy tutor had not as yet attained any very great
results in the matter of patience and mildness.

This summary of the adventures of Sandara, at once explained to us how it
was that upon all occasions he manifested such marked predilection for
the men and things of China.  The rules bequeathed by Tsong-Kaba
interdicted to the Lamas the use of garlic, brandy, and tobacco; garlic
being prohibited because it is unbecoming to present one’s self before
the image of Buddha with bad breath, offensive in itself, and capable of
infecting the perfume of the incense; brandy, because this fatal liquor
disturbs the reason and excites the passions; and tobacco, because it
engenders idleness, and absorbs precious hours that ought to be devoted
to the study of prayers and of doctrine.  Despite these prohibitions, so
soundly based, the Lamas—such of them, at least, as sanctify themselves
after the manner of Sandara—do not hesitate to smoke, to drink, and to
season their oatmeal with garlic.  All this, however, is done secretly,
and without the knowledge of the police.  In the Lamasery of Kounboum,
Sandara was the patron and introducer of the Chinese hawkers who deal in
these contraband articles, and aided them in the sale of their goods, for
a small commission.

A few days after the Feast of Flowers, we vigorously resumed our
Thibetian studies under the direction of Sandara, who came every morning
to work with us.  We occupied ourselves in the translation of an
abridgment of Sacred History from the creation to the preaching of the
Apostles.  We gave to this work the dialogue form; the two interlocutors
being a Lama of Jehovah and a Lama of Buddha.  Sandara fulfilled his
functions altogether as a matter of business.  The favourable tendencies
which he at first manifested, when we were at Tang-Keou-Eul, his
crossings, his admiration of the Christian doctrine, had been all a mere
farce.  Religious feelings had no hold upon his grasping, hardened heart.
He had acquired, by his long abode among the Chinese, a sneering,
cold-blooded, carping incredulity, which he seemed to delight in parading
upon all occasions.  In his estimation, all religions were so many
devices invented by the wise for the more facile and effective
despoilment of the witless.  Virtue, with him, was a vain word, and the
man of merit, he who made the most of his fellow men.

Despite, however, these sceptical and impious opinions, Sandara could not
prevent himself from feeling high admiration of the Christian doctrine.
He was especially struck with the concatenation of the historical facts
which he translated for us.  He found in them a character of
authenticity, of which the fables accumulated in the Buddhist books are
wholly destitute; he admitted this, not unfrequently, but always in an
unguarded moment, for his aim was to support in our presence his
melancholy part of a free-thinker.  When he was with the Lamas, he was
more at his ease; and there he did not hesitate to declare that as to
religious doctrine, we knew more about it than all the living Buddhas put
together.

After some time, we began to make a certain sensation in the Lamasery;
the Lamas talked a good deal to one another about the two Lamas of
Jehovah, and the new doctrine they taught.  It was remarked that we were
never seen to prostrate ourselves before Buddha; that, thrice a day, we
said prayers which were not Thibetian prayers; that we had a language of
our own, which nobody else understood, but that with other people we
talked Tartarian, Chinese, and a little Thibetian.  Here was more than
enough to excite the curiosity of the Lamanesque public.  Every day we
had visitors, and the conversation with them always and altogether turned
upon religious questions.  Among all the Lamas who visited us, we did not
find one of the same incredulous stamp with Sandara the Bearded; they
all, on the contrary, seemed sincerely religious and full of faith; many
of them attached the utmost importance to the study and knowledge of
truth; and we found the same men coming again and again to seek
instruction from us in our holy religion.

The instruction we communicated was altogether historical in its plan,
everything being carefully excluded which could suggest dispute, or
arouse the spirit of contention; we gave our friends a simple and concise
outline of our religion, leaving them to derive thence, for themselves,
conclusions against Buddhism.  Proper names and dates, precisely set
forth, produced more effect upon them than the most logical reasoning.
When they had thoroughly mastered the names of Jesus, of Jerusalem, of
Pontius Pilate, the date of four thousand years since the creation of the
world, and the names of the twelve Apostles, they had no longer any
doubts as to the Redemption, or as to the Preaching of the Gospel.  The
connection which they observed between the history of the Old Testament
and that of the New, amounted, in their eyes, to demonstration.  The
mysteries and the miracles created no difficulty in their minds.

After all we have seen in our long peregrination, and especially during
our abode in the Lamasery of Kounboum, we are persuaded that it is by
instruction, and not by controversy, that the conversion of the heathen
is to be efficaciously operated.  Polemics may reduce an adversary to
silence, may often humiliate him, may sometimes irritate him, but they
will never convince him.  When Jesus Christ sent forth his disciples, he
said to them: Go forth and teach all nations, which does not mean: go
forth and hold controversies with all nations.  In our days, two schools
of philosophy, the one recognising Descartes for its head, the other
Lamennais, have much disputed the question whether paganism is a crime or
an error; it appears to us to be neither the one nor the other, but
simply the effect of ignorance.  The spirit of a pagan is enveloped in
darkness.  Carry light within that darkness, and the darkness will
disappear: the pagan needs neither the thesis of the Cartesians, nor the
requisitory of the Lamennaisians: all he wants is instruction.

The eagerness of the Lamas to visit us, and especially their favourable
tendencies towards Christianity, gave, after a while, umbrage to the
zealous tenacity of Sandara; he turned desperately sulky, and after going
through the lesson of the day, in the driest and briefest manner
possible, he would say not another word to us for the rest of the
twenty-four hours, but observe towards us the most contumelious silence.
If we asked him in the humblest manner the Thibetian name of some object,
or the meaning of some particular phrase in the Dialogues, he would not
condescend to a word of reply.  In this extremity we usually had recourse
to our neighbour, the young student in medicine, who always gave us the
information we needed with the most frank cordiality; and although he was
not very learned in Thibetian, we found him of very great utility.  His
open, good-natured character, moreover, encouraged us to ask him many
questions respecting some of the Lama practices, which we desired to
understand.  In return for these services, we aided, with all our hearts,
his desire to become acquainted with the Christian religion.  Far
different from Sandara, he was full of respect for the truths we
announced to him; but his timid, irresolute temperament kept him from
openly abjuring Buddhism.  His idea was, that he could be, at one and the
same time, a good Christian and a fervent Buddhist; in his prayers, he
invoked alternately Tsong-Kaba and Jehovah, and he carried his simplicity
so far as to ask us sometimes to take part in his religious practices.

                 [Picture: Sending Horses to Travellers]

One day he proposed to us a service of devotion in favour of all the
travellers throughout the whole world.  “We are not acquainted with this
devotion,” said we; “will you explain it to us?”  “This is it: you know
that a good many travellers find themselves, from time to time, on
rugged, toilsome roads.  Some of these travellers are holy Lamas on a
pilgrimage; and it often happens that they cannot proceed by reason of
their being altogether exhausted; in this case we aid them by sending
horses to them.”  “That,” said we, “is a most admirable custom, entirely
conformable with the principles of Christian charity; but you must
consider that poor travellers such as we are not in a position to
participate in the good work; you know that we possess only a horse and a
little mule, which require rest, in order that they may carry us into
Thibet.”  “Tsong-Kaba!” ejaculated the Lisper, and then he clapped his
hands together, and burst into a loud laugh.  “What are you laughing at?
What we have said is the simple truth: we have only a horse and a little
mule.”  When his laughter at last subsided: “It was not that I was
laughing at,” said he; “I laughed at your misconceiving the sort of
devotion I mean; what we send to the travellers are paper horses.”  And
therewith he ran off to his cell, leaving us with an excellent occasion
for laughing in our turn at the charity of the Buddhists, which we thus
learned consisted in giving paper horses to travellers.  We maintained
our gravity, however, for we had made it a rule never to ridicule the
practices of the Lamas.  Presently the Lisper returned, his hands filled
with bits of paper, on each of which was printed the figure of a horse,
saddled and bridled, and going at full gallop.  “Here!” cried the Lisper,
“these are the horses we send to the travellers.  To-morrow we shall
ascend a high mountain, thirty lis from the Lamasery, and there we shall
pass the day, saying prayers and sending off horses.”  “How do you send
them to the travellers?”  “Oh! the means are very easy.  After a certain
form of prayer, we take a packet of horses which we throw up into the
air, the wind carries them away, and by the power of Buddha they are then
changed into real horses, which offer themselves to travellers.”  We
candidly told our dear neighbour what we thought of this practice, and
explained to him the grounds upon which we declined to take any part in
it.  He seemed to approve of our sentiments on the subject; but this
approval did not prevent him from occupying a large portion of the night
in fabricating, by means of the press, a prodigious number of horses.

Next morning, before daybreak, he went off, accompanied by several
colleagues, full, like himself, of devotion for poor travellers.  They
carried with them a tent, a boiler, and some provisions.  All the morning
the wind blew a hurricane; when, towards noon, this subsided, the sky
became dark and heavy, and the snow fell in thick flakes.  We awaited,
with anxious impatience, the return of the Stutterer.  The poor wretch
returned in the evening, quite worn out with cold and fatigue.  We
invited him to rest for awhile in our tent, and we gave him some tea with
milk, and some rolls fried in butter.  “It has been a dreadful day,” said
he.  “Yes, the wind blew here with great violence.”  “I’ll venture to
affirm it was nothing here to what we found it on the top of the
mountain: the tent, the boiler—everything we had with us was carried away
by a regular whirlwind, and we were obliged to throw ourselves flat on
the ground in order to save ourselves from being carried away too.”
“It’s a sad pity you’ve lost your tent and boiler.”  “It is, indeed, a
misfortune.  However, it must be admitted that the weather was very
favourable for conveying horses to the travellers.  When we saw that it
was going to snow, we threw them all up into the air at once, and the
wind whisked them off to the four quarters of the world.  If we had
waited any longer, the snow would have wetted them, and they would have
stuck on the sides of the mountain.”  Altogether this excellent young man
was not dissatisfied with his day’s work.

The twenty-fifth of each moon is the day devoted to the transmission of
horses to poor travellers.  The practice is not a general rule; but is
left to the devotion of individuals.  The twenty-eighth of the moon is
set apart for another species of religious exercise, in which all the
Lamas are required to participate.  On the twenty-seventh the Stammerer
gave us notice of the ceremony in these words: “To-morrow night we shall,
perhaps, prevent your sleeping, for we shall have to celebrate our
nocturnal prayers.”  We paid no special attention to this intimation,
conceiving that it simply meant that in the course of the night, the
Lamas would recite prayers in their cells, as they not unfrequently did.
We accordingly retired to rest at our usual hour, and fell asleep.

Conformably with the warning of the Stammerer, our slumbers did not
remain long uninterrupted.  First we seemed to dream that we heard a sort
of concert by a great multitude of voices up in the air.  Imperceptibly
these vague, confused sounds became loud and distinct.  We awoke and
heard clearly enough the chanting of Lamanesque prayers.  In the
twinkling of an eye, we were up and dressed and out in the courtyard,
which was illumined with a pale light that appeared to descend from
above.  In his wonted corner sat old Akayé telling his beads.  “Akayé,”
asked we, “what is this strange noise?”  “The nocturnal prayers.  If you
want to see more of them you had better go on to the terrace.”  There was
a ladder resting in the most accommodating manner against the wall.  We
hastily ascended it, and became spectators of a most singular sight.  The
terraces were illuminated by red lanterns suspended from long poles, and
all the Lamas, attired in their state mantles and yellow mitres, were
seated on the roofs of their houses chanting their prayers with a slow
and monotonous voice.  On the roof of our own house we found the
Stammerer, the Kitat-Lama, and his Chabi, wholly absorbed with the
ceremony.  We took care not to disturb them, and contented ourselves with
merely looking on and listening.  Those innumerable lanterns, with their
red, fantastic glare, the buildings of the Lamasery vaguely illumined by
the reflection of their trembling light, the four thousand voices
combining in one immense concert, accompanied from time to time by the
sound of trumpets and marine conchs—all this produced an effect that
agitated the soul with a sort of vague terror.

After having gazed for awhile at this strange spectacle, we descended
into the courtyard, where we found old Akayé still in the same place and
the same position.  “Well,” said he, “you have seen the ceremony of
nocturnal prayers?”  “Yes, but we don’t understand what they precisely
mean.  Would it be troubling you too much to ask from you some
explanation of the matter?”  “Not at all.  These prayers were instituted
for the purpose of driving away demons.  You must know that this country
was once fearfully infested with demons, who caused maladies in the herds
and spoiled the milk of the cows; they often invaded the cells of the
Lamas, and at times carried their audacity to the excess of penetrating
into the temple in the hour of general prayer, their presence being
indicated by the confusion and discordance which immediately prevailed in
the psalmody.  During the night they assembled in large numbers in the
ravine, where they frightened everybody with cries and howlings so
strange in their character that no man could imitate them.  A Lama, full
of learning and piety, invented the nocturnal prayers, and the demons
have since almost entirely disappeared from the district.  A few come
here occasionally, but they don’t do any mischief as they used to do.”
“Akayé,” asked we, “have you ever chanced to see any of these demons?”
“No, never; and I’m sure you have not seen any of them.”  “What makes you
suppose so?”  “Because the demons only appear to wicked Lamas, and the
good Lamas never see them.”  At this moment the prayer of the Lamas on
the house-tops ceased, the trumpets, the bells, the drums, and the marine
conchs sounded all at once three different times; the Lamas, then, all
sent forth together hideous cries and yells, like those of wild beasts,
and the ceremony terminated.  The lanterns were extinguished, and silence
resumed its sway.  We bade old Akayé good night, and once more went to
sleep.

We had been residing at Kounboum more than three months, enjoying the
friendly sympathies of the Buddhist monks and the protection of the
authorities.  But for some time past we had been in flagrant opposition
to a leading rule of the Lamasery.  Strangers who pass through Kounboum,
or who merely reside there for a short time, may dress as they please.
Those persons, on the contrary, who are connected in any way with the
Lamasery, or who are making any stay in the place, are required to wear
the sacred dress of the Lamas, that is to say, a red gown, a small
dalmatica without sleeves and showing the arm, a red scarf, and a yellow
mitre.  This rule of uniformity is very strictly enforced; and
accordingly, one fine morning, the Grand Discipline-Lama sent an official
formally to request that we would observe the statutes of the Lamasery.
We replied that, not being of the religion of Buddha, we could not adopt
the sacred dress of the Lama, without insulting our own holy religion;
but that as we did not wish to create the slightest confusion in the
establishment, we were ready to quit it, if we could not obtain a
dispensation in the matter of costume.

Several days passed without any thing further being said on this
unpleasant subject.  Meantime Samdadchiemba arrived with the three
camels, which he had been pasturing in a valley of Koukou-Noor.  If we
had to remove, it was clear that his return was most opportune.
By-and-by, the Lamanesque government once more sent us their envoy, to
say that the rule of the Lamasery was inflexible; that they grieved that
our sublime and sacred religion did not permit us to comply with it; but
that although we could not remain in the Lamasery of Kounboum, they would
gladly retain us in the neighbourhood, and that to this end they invited
us to go and take up our abode at Tchogortan, where we might wear what
dress we pleased.

We had heard a great deal about the little Lamasery of Tchogortan, which
serves as a sort of country house and botanical garden for the Faculty of
Medicine.  It stands within half-an-hour’s walk of Kounboum.  The Grand
Lamas and students of the medical section proceed thither every year,
towards the close of summer, and remain generally for about a fortnight,
collecting medicinal plants on the surrounding hills.  During the
remainder of the year most of the houses are empty, and you scarcely see
a single soul, except a few contemplative Lamas who have hollowed out
cells for themselves in the most rugged declivities of the mountain.

The proposition of the Lamanesque government appeared to us altogether
eligible, for the fine weather was just setting in; winter in town,
spring in the country—this was admirable!  Our three months abode at
Kounboum had made us tolerably conversant with Lama manners; we
accordingly purchased a khata and a small dish of raisins, with which we
repaired to the Lama administrator of Tchogortan, who received us in the
most affable manner, and promised at once to give orders for the
preparation of a suitable abode for us.  After giving a splendid Feast of
Farewell to old Akayé, the Kitat-Lama, and the Stammerer, we loaded our
camels with our baggage and gaily proceeded on our way to the little
Lamasery.

                       [Picture: Chapter Tailpiece]

                    [Picture: Lamasery of Tchogortan]




CHAPTER III.


Aspect of the Lamasery of Tchogortan—Contemplative Lamas—Lama
Herdsmen—The “Book of the Forty-two Points of Instruction, delivered by
Buddha”—Extract from the Chinese Annals, with relation to the preaching
of Buddhism in China—The Black Tents—Manners of the Si-Fan—Long-haired
Oxen—Adventures of a stuffed Karba—Lamanesque Chronicle of the Origin of
Nations—Alimentary Diet—Valuable Discoveries in the Animal
Kingdom—Manufacture of Camel-hair Cord—Frequent visits to
Tchogortan—Classification of Argols—Brigand Anecdote—Elevation of the
Pyramid of Peace—The Faculty of Medicine at Tchogortan—Thibetian
Physicians—Departure for the Blue Sea.

A half hour sufficed for us to effect our removal from Kounboum to
Tchogortan.  After skirting for some time the arid sides of a lofty
mountain, we descended into a broad valley, through which flowed a
rivulet, the banks of which were still covered with ice.  The place
seemed full of good pasturage, but in consequence of the coldness of the
climate, vegetation is very slow and very late in the locality.  Although
it was near the month of May, the nascent germs scarcely as yet coloured
the surface of the soil.

A Lama, with red, round face, came to meet us, and conducted us to the
habitation which the administrator of the Lamasery had prepared for our
reception.  We were installed in a large apartment which, only the
evening before, had served as the abode of sundry juvenile calves, too
young and too weak to follow the parent cows to the mountains.  Every
pains had been taken to clean the apartment, but the success had not been
so perfect as to preclude our distinguishing on the floor many traces of
the late occupants; however, the authorities had assigned to us the best
accommodation that the Lamasery afforded.

Tchogortan is, as we have before stated, the country house of the Faculty
of Medicine of Kounboum: its aspect is tolerably picturesque, especially
in summer.  The habitations of the Lamas, constructed at the foot of a
mountain, that terminates in a peak, are shaded by ancient trees, the
great branches of which afford a retreat to infinite kites and crows.
Some feet below these cottages, runs an abundant stream, interrupted by
various dams which the Lamas have constructed for the purpose of turning
their tchukor, or praying mills.  In the depths of the valley, and on the
adjacent hills, you see the black tents of the Si-Fan, and a few herds of
goats and long-haired cattle.  The rocky and rugged mountain which backs
the Lamasery, serves as an abode for five contemplative monks, who, like
the eagles, have selected as the site of their aeries the most elevated
and most inaccessible points.  Some have hollowed out their retreat in
the living rock; others dwell in wooden cells, stuck against the mountain
like enormous swallows’ nests; a few pieces of wood, driven into the
rock, form the staircase by which they ascend or descend.  One of these
Buddhist hermits, indeed, who has entirely renounced the world, has
voluntarily deprived himself of these means of communication with his
fellows; a bag, tied to a long string, served as the medium for conveying
to him the alms of the Lamas and shepherds.

We had frequent conversations with these contemplative Lamas, but we
could never exactly ascertain what it was they contemplated up there in
their nests.  They themselves could give nothing like a clear idea of the
matter; they had embraced this manner of life, they told us, because they
had read in their books that Lamas of very great sanctity had lived in
that way.  However, they were worthy folks, of peaceful, simple, easy
temperaments, who passed their waking hours in prayer, and when they were
tired of praying relaxed with sleep.

Besides these five hermits, who always dwelt in the rocks above, there
were, below, several Lamas who had charge of the unoccupied houses of the
Lamasery.  These by no means, like the former, looked at life in its
refined and mystical aspect; they were, on the contrary, absorbed in the
realities of this world; they were, in fact, herdsmen.  In the great
house where we were installed, there were two big Lamas who poetically
passed their time in herding some twenty cattle, in milking the cows,
making butter and cheese, and looking after the juvenile calves.  These
bucolics seemed little to heed contemplation or prayer: they sent forth,
indeed, frequent invocations to Tsong-Kaba, but this was always on
account of their beasts, because their cows mutinied and would not be
milked, or because the calves capered out of bounds over the valley.  Our
arrival afforded them a little diversion from the monotony of pastoral
life.  They often paid us a visit in our chamber, and always passed in
review the volumes of our small travelling library, with that timid and
respectful curiosity which simple and illiterate persons ever manifest
towards the productions of the intellect.  When they found us writing,
they forgot cows, and calves, and milk, and cheese, and butter, and would
stand for hours together motionless, their eyes fixed upon our crow-quill
as it ran over the paper, and left impressed there characters, the
delicacy and novelty of which were matters of ecstatic amazement to these
simple creatures.

The little Lamasery of Tchogortan pleased us beyond our hopes.  We never
once regretted Kounboum any more than the prisoner regrets his dungeon
after he has attained liberty.  The reason was that we, too, felt
ourselves emancipated.  We were no longer under the ferule of Sandara the
Bearded, of that hard and pitiless taskmaster, who, while giving us
lessons of Thibetian, seemed to have undertaken also to discipline us in
patience and humility.  The desire to attain knowledge had made us submit
to his ill-treatment, but our departure from Kounboum afforded a joyful
opportunity of throwing off this leech which had, for five whole months,
obstinately remained stuck to our existence.  Besides, the success we had
already achieved in the study of the Thibetian tongue, exempted us from
the future necessity of having a master at our shoulder; we were quite
strong enough now to walk alone and unaided.

Our hours of labour were employed in revising and analysing our
dialogues, and in translating a small Thibetian work, entitled, the
“Forty-two Points of Instruction, delivered by Buddha.”  We possessed a
magnificent edition of this work, in four languages, Thibetian, Mongol,
Mantchou, and Chinese; so that, thus aided, we had no occasion to recur
to the learning of the Lamas.  When the Thibetian version presented any
difficulty, all we had to do, in order to remove it, was to consult the
three other versions, with which we were familiarly acquainted.

The book in question, which is attributed to Chakya-Mouni, is a
collection of precepts and sentences, urging men, and especially
religious persons, to the practice of piety.  In order to give our
readers an idea of the morality of the Buddhists, we will extract a few
passages from this work, which is of high authority in Lamanism.

                                      I.

    “Buddha, the Supreme of Beings, manifesting his doctrine, pronounced
    these words: There are, in living creatures, ten species of acts
    which are called good, and there are also ten species of acts which
    are called evil.  If you ask, what are the ten evil acts; there are
    three which appertain to the body: murder, theft, and impurity.  The
    four appertaining to speech are: words sowing discord, insulting
    maledictions, impudent lies, and hypocritical expressions.  The three
    appertaining to the will are: envy, anger, and malignant thoughts.

                                     II.

    “Buddha, manifesting his doctrine, pronounced these words: The wicked
    man, who persecutes the good man, is like a madman, who, throwing
    back his head, spits against heaven; his spittle, incapable of
    sullying heaven, merely falls back upon himself.  And, again, he is
    like one who, the wind opposing him, throws dust at men; the dust
    does not touch the men at whom it was aimed, but flies back into the
    eyes of him who threw it.  Beware of persecuting good men lest
    calamities exterminate you.

                                     III.

    “Buddha, etc.  Beneath heaven there are twenty difficult things.  1,
    Being poor and indigent, to grant benefits is difficult.  2, Being
    rich and exalted, to study doctrine, is difficult.  3, Having offered
    up the sacrifice of one’s life, to die veritably, is difficult.  4,
    To obtain a sight of the prayers of Buddha, is difficult.  5, To have
    the happiness to be born in the world of Buddha, is difficult.  6, To
    compound with voluptuousness and to be delivered from one’s passions,
    is difficult.  7, To behold an agreeable object, and not to desire
    it, is difficult.  8, To resist a tendency for the lucrative and the
    exalting, is difficult.  9, To be insulted, and abstain from anger,
    is difficult.  10, In the whirlwind of business to be calm, is
    difficult.  11, To study much and profoundly, is difficult.  12, Not
    to scorn a man who has not studied, is difficult.  13, To extirpate
    pride from the heart, is difficult.  11, To find a virtuous and able
    master, is difficult.  15, To penetrate the secrets of nature and the
    profundities of science, is difficult.  16, Not to be excited by
    prosperity, is difficult.  17, To leave wealth for wisdom, is
    difficult.  18, To induce men to follow the dictates of conscience,
    is difficult.  19, To keep one’s heart always in equal motion, is
    difficult.  20, Not to speak ill of others, is difficult.

                                     IV.

    “The man who seeks riches, is like a child that, with the sharp point
    of a knife, attempts to eat honey; ere he has time to relish the
    sweetness that has but touched his lips, nothing remains to him but
    the poignant pain of a cut in the tongue.

                                      V.

    “There is no passion more violent than voluptuousness!  No thing
    exceeds voluptuousness!  Happily, there is but one passion of this
    kind; were there two, not a man in the whole universe could follow
    the truth.

                                     VI.

    “Buddha pronounced these words in the presence of all the Charmanas:
    {76}  ‘Beware of fixing your eyes upon women!  If you find yourselves
    in their company, let it be as though you were not present.  Take
    care how you speak with women.  If you talk with them, guard well
    your hearts; let your conduct be irreproachable, and keep ever saying
    to yourselves: we who are Charmanas, residing in this world of
    corruption, must be like the flower of the water-lily, which, amid
    muddy water, contracts no stain.’

                                     VII.

    “The man who walks in the path of piety must look upon the passions
    as dry grass near a great fire.  The man who is jealous of his
    virtue, should flee on the approach of the passions.

                                    VIII.

    “A Charmana who passed whole nights chanting prayers, manifested one
    morning, by his sad suppressed voice, great depression and the desire
    to withdraw from his calling.  Buddha sent for this Charmana, and
    said to him, ‘When you were with your family, what used you to do?’
    ‘I was always playing on the guitar.’  Buddha said to him, ‘If the
    strings of the guitar became loose, what happened?’  ‘I obtained no
    sound from them.’  ‘If the strings were too tight, what happened
    then?’  ‘The sounds were broken.’  ‘When the strings obtained the
    exact equilibrium between tension and flexibility, what happened
    then?’  ‘All the sounds accorded in perfect harmony.’  Hereupon
    Buddha pronounced these words: ‘It is the same with the study of
    doctrine; after you shall have achieved dominion over your heart, and
    regulated its movements to harmony, it will attain the acquisition of
    the truth.’

                                     IX.

    “Buddha put this question to a Charmana: ‘How long a time is fixed
    for the life of man?’  He replied: ‘It is limited to a few days.’
    Buddha pronounced these words: ‘You have not yet acquired the
    knowledge of the doctrine.’  Then addressing himself to another
    Charmana, he put this question: ‘How long a time is fixed for the
    life of man?’  He replied: ‘It is limited to the time that suffices
    for a meal.’  Buddha pronounced these words: ‘So neither hast thou,
    as yet, the knowledge of the doctrine.’  Then addressing himself to a
    third Charmana, he put to him this question: ‘How long a time is
    fixed for the life of man?’  He replied: ‘It is limited to the time
    that suffices to emit a breath.’  After he had thus spoken, Buddha
    pronounced these words: ‘’Tis well: thou mayest be said to have
    acquired the knowledge of the doctrine.’

                                      X.

    “The man who, practising piety, applies himself to extirpate the
    roots of his passions, is like a man passing between his fingers the
    beads of a chaplet.  If he proceeds by taking them, one after the
    other, he easily attains the end; so, by extirpating, one after the
    other, one’s evil tendencies one attains perfection.

                                     XI.

    “The Charmana who practises piety, may compare himself with the
    long-haired ox, which, laden with baggage, is making its way through
    a marsh; it dares look neither to the right nor to the left, but goes
    straight on, hoping to get clear of the mud and to reach a place of
    rest.  The Charmana, regarding his passions as more terrible than
    this mud, if he never diverts his eyes from virtue, will assuredly
    attain the height of felicity.”

We will not prolong these extracts.  The few we have given will suffice
to convey an idea of the matter and manner of this book, which is
accepted as an authority alike by the Bonzes and the Lamas.  It was
conveyed from India to China, in the 65th year of the Christian era, at
the epoch when Buddhism was beginning to make its way in the Celestial
Empire.  The Chinese annals relate this event in the following terms:—

    “In the 24th year of the reign of Tchao-Wang, of the dynasty of the
    Tcheou (which corresponds to the year 1029 B.C.), on the eighth day
    of the fourth moon, a light, coming from the south-west, illumined
    the palace of the king.  The monarch, beholding this splendour,
    interrogated concerning it the sages who were skilled in predicting
    the future.  These presented to him the books wherein it was written,
    that this prodigy would announce that a great saint had appeared in
    the west, and that in a thousand years after his birth, his religion
    would spread into those parts.

    “In the 53rd year of the reign of Mou-Wang, which is that of the
    Black Ape (951 B.C.), on the fifteenth day of the second moon, Buddha
    manifested himself (_i.e._ died.)—A thousand and thirteen years
    afterwards, under the dynasty of Ming-Ti, of the dynasty of the Han,
    in the seventh year of the reign of Young-Ping (A.D. 64), on the
    fifteenth day of the first moon, the king saw in a dream, a man of
    the colour of gold, glittering like the sun, and whose stature was
    more than ten feet.  Having entered the palace of the king, this man
    said, ‘My religion will spread over these parts.’  Next day, the king
    questioned the sages.  One of these, named Fou-Y, opening the annals
    of the time of the Emperor Tchao-Wang, of the dynasty of the Tcheou,
    pointed out the connection between the dream of the king and the
    narrative in the annals.  The king consulted the ancient books, and
    having found the passage corresponding with the reign of Tchao-Wang,
    of the dynasty of the Tcheou, was filled with gladness.  Thereupon he
    dispatched the officers Tsa-In and Thsin-King, the man-of-letters,
    Wang-Tsun, and fifteen other persons, into the west, to obtain
    information respecting the doctrine of Buddha.

    “In the 10th year (A.D. 67), Tsa-In and the rest, having arrived in
    Central India, among the great Youei-Tchi, met with Kas’yamatanga and
    Tcho-Fa-Lan, and procured a statute of Buddha, and books in the
    language of Fan (Fan-Lan-Mo, or Brahma, that is to say, in Sanscrit),
    and conveyed them on a white horse to the city Yo-Lang.
    Kas’yamatanga and Tcho-Fa-Lan, paid a visit to the emperor, attired
    as religious persons, and were lodged in the Hong-Lon-Ssé, called
    also Sse-Pin-Ssé (Hotel of the Strangers).

    “In the 11th year (A.D. 68), the emperor ordered the construction of
    the monastery of the White Horse, outside the gate Yong-Mon, west of
    the city of Lo-Yang.  Matanga there translated the ‘Sacred Book of
    Forty-two Articles.’  Six years after, Tsa-In and Tcho-Fa-Lan
    converted certain Tao-Ssé to Buddhism.  Rising afterwards into
    celestial space, they caused the king to hear the following verses:—

    “‘The fox is not of the race of the lions.  The lamp has not the
    brightness of the sun or moon.  The lake cannot be compared with the
    sea; the hills cannot be compared with the lofty mountains.

    “‘The cloud of prayer spreading over the surface of the earth, its
    beneficial dew fecundating the germs of happiness, and the divine
    rites operating everywhere marvellous changes, all the nations will
    advance according to the laws of reintegration.’”

Our first days at Tchogortan were entirely devoted to the translation of
the “Book of Buddha;” but we soon found ourselves compelled to devote a
portion of our time to the occupations of pastoral life.  We had remarked
that every evening our animals had returned half-starved, that instead of
growing fatter and fatter, they were daily becoming leaner and leaner:
the simple reason was that Samdadchiemba took no sort of pains to find
pasturage for them.  After driving them out somewhere or other, he cared
not whither, he would leave them to themselves on some arid hillside, and
himself go to sleep in the sun, or stroll about chattering and
tea-drinking in the black tents.  It was to no purpose we lectured him;
he went on, just the same as before, his reckless, independent character
having undergone no modification whatever.  Our only mode of remedying
the evil, was to turn herdsmen ourselves.

Moreover, it was impossible to remain pertinaciously and exclusively men
of letters when all around seemed inviting us to make some concessions to
the habits of this pastoral people.  The Si-Fan, or Eastern Thibetians,
are nomads, like the Tartar-Mongols, and pass their lives solely occupied
in the care of their flocks and herds.  They do not live, however, like
the Mongol tribes, in huts covered with felt.  The great tents they
construct with black linen, are ordinarily hexagonal in form; within you
see neither column nor woodwork supporting the edifice; the six angles
below are fastened to the ground with nails, and those above are
supported by cords which, at a certain distance from the tent, rest
horizontally on strong poles, and then slope to the ground, where they
are attached to large iron rings.  With all this strange complication of
sticks and strings, the black tent of the Thibetian nomads bears no
slight resemblance to a great spider standing motionless on its long
lanky legs, but so that its great stomach is resting on the ground.  The
black tents are by no means comparable with the tents of the Mongols;
they are not a whit warmer or more solid than ordinary travelling tents.
They are very cold, on the contrary, and a strong wind knocks them down
without the least difficulty.

                      [Picture: The Long-Haired Ox]

It may be said, however, that in one respect the Si-Fan seem more
advanced than the Mongols, and to have a tendency for approximating to
the manners of sedentary nations.  When they have selected an encampment,
they are accustomed to erect around it, a wall of from four to five feet
high, and within their tents they construct furnaces, which are destitute
neither of taste nor of solidity.  These arrangements, however, do not
create in them any attachment to the soil which they have thus occupied.
Upon the slightest caprice they decamp, pulling down their walls and
other masonry work, and carrying the principal stones with them to their
next settlement, as part of their furniture.  The herds of the Eastern
Thibetians consist of sheep, goats, and long-haired cattle; they do not
breed as many horses as the Tartars, but those which they do breed are
stronger and better formed; the camels we find in their country, belong,
for the most part, to the Tartar-Mongols.

The long-haired cattle, in Chinese Tchang-Mao-Nieou, is called _yak_ by
the Thibetians, _sarligue_ by the Tartars, and _bœuf grognant_ by the
French naturalists.  The cry of this animal does, in fact, resemble the
grunting of a hog; but louder in tone, and longer in duration.  The yak
is short and thick, and not so big as an ordinary ox; its hair is long,
fine, and shining, that under the belly actually trailing on the around.
Its hoofs are meagre, and crooked, like those of goats; and, like the
goats, it delights in clambering up rocks, and impending over the most
rugged precipices.  When at play, it twists and turns about its tail,
which terminates in a broad tuft, like a plume of feathers.  The flesh is
excellent; the milk delicious, and the butter made of that milk beyond
all praise.  Malte-Brun, indeed, says, that the milk of this animal
smacks of tallow.  Matters of taste are generally open questions, but in
this particular instance we may anticipate that the presumption will be
somewhat in favour of our opinion, since, as we believe, the learned
geographer has not had the same opportunities with ourselves of drinking
the milk in the black tents, and appreciating its savour at leisure.

Among the herds of the Si-Fan, you find some yellow cattle, which are of
the same family with the ordinary cattle of France, but in general poor
and ugly.  The calf of a long-haired cow and a yellow bull is called
Karba; these seldom live.  The long-tailed cows are so restive and so
difficult to milk, that to keep them at all quiet, the herdsman has to
give them a calf to lick meanwhile.  But for this device, not a single
drop of milk could be obtained from them.

One day, a Lama herdsman, who lived in the same house with ourselves,
came, with a long, dismal face, to announce that one of his cows had
calved during the night, and that unfortunately the calf was a karba.
The calf died in the course of the day.  The Lama forthwith skinned the
poor beast, and stuffed it with hay.  This proceeding surprised us at
first, for the Lama had by no means the air of a man likely to give
himself the luxury of a cabinet of natural history.  When the operation
was completed, we remarked that the hay-calf had neither feet nor head;
hereupon it occurred to us that, after all, it was merely a pillow that
the Lama contemplated.  We were in error, but the error was not
dissipated until the next morning, when our herdsman went to milk his
cow.  Seeing him issue forth, his pail in one hand, the hay-calf under
the other arm, the fancy occurred to us to follow him.  His first
proceeding was to put the hay-karba down before the cow; he then turned
to milk the cow herself.  The mamma at first opened enormous eyes at her
beloved infant; by degrees, she stooped her head towards it, then smelt
at it, sneezed three or four times, and at last proceeded to lick it with
the most delightful tenderness.  This spectacle grated against our
sensibilities; it seemed to us that he who first invented this parody
upon one of the most touching incidents in nature, must have been a man
without a heart.  A somewhat burlesque circumstance occurred one day to
modify the indignation with which this trickery inspired us.  By dint of
caressing and licking her little calf, the tender parent one fine morning
unripped it; the hay issued from within, and the cow, manifesting not the
smallest surprise or agitation, proceeded tranquilly to devour the
unexpected provender.

The Si-Fan nomads are readily distinguishable from the Mongols by a more
expressive physiognomy and by a greater energy of character; their
features are not so flat, and their manners are characterised by an ease
and vivacity that form a strong contrast with the heavy uncouthness of
the Tartars.  Merry-makings, noisy songs, and joyous laughter animate
their encampments, and banish melancholy; but with this turn for gaiety
and pleasure, the Si-Fan are at the same time indomitably brave, and
exceedingly addicted to warfare.  They accordingly manifest the most
profound contempt for the Chinese authority and authorities, and though
inscribed in the imperial list of tributary nations, they absolutely
refuse to render either obedience or tribute.  There are among them,
indeed, several tribes that constantly exercise their brigandage up to
the very frontiers of the empire, the Chinese mandarins never venturing
to encounter them.  The Si-Fan are good horsemen, though not equal to the
Tartars.  The care of their herds does not prevent them from carrying on
a little trade in the hair of their cattle and the wool of their sheep.
They weave a sort of coarse linen, of which they make tents and clothing.
When they are assembled round their great pot of milk-tea, they give
themselves up, like the Tartars, to their gossiping humour, and their
passion for narratives of the adventures of Lamas and brigands.  Their
memory is full of local anecdotes and traditions; once put them on the
track, and they will go on with an interminable series of tales and
legends.

One day, while our camels were tranquilly browsing some thorny shrubs in
the depths of the valley, we sought an asylum from the north wind in a
small tent, whence issued a thick smoke.  We found in it an old man who,
knees and hands on the ground, was puffing with all his might at a heap
of argols which he had just placed on the fire.  We seated ourselves on a
yak skin.  The old man crossed his legs, and held out his hand to us.  We
gave him our tea-cups, which he filled with milk tea, saying, “Temouchi”
(drink in peace).  He then gazed at us, alternately, with an air of some
anxiety.  “_Aka_ (brother),” said we, “this is the first time we have
come to seat ourselves in your tent.”  “I am old,” he replied; “my legs
will scarce sustain me; otherwise, I should have come to Tchogortan to
offer you my khata.  According to what the shepherds of the black tents
have told me, you are from the farther Western Heaven.”  “Yes, our
country is far hence.”  “Are you from the kingdom of the Samba, or from
that of the Poba?”  “From neither; we come from the kingdom of the
French.”  “Ah, you are Franba?  I never before heard of them.  ’Tis such
a great place, that West!  The kingdoms there are so numerous.  But,
after all, it matters not: we are all of the same family, are we not?”
“Yes; assuredly all men are brothers, in whatever kingdom each is born.”
“That is true: what you say is founded on reason; all men are brothers.
Yet we know that, under heaven, there exist three great families: we men
of the west are all of the great Thibetian family, as I have heard.”
“Aka, do you know whence come the three great families that are beneath
the heaven?”  “This is what I have heard about it from Lamas learned in
the things of antiquity.  In the beginning, there was on the earth but
one single man; he had neither house nor tent; for in those days, winter
was not cold nor summer hot; the wind did not blow with violence, and
there fell neither rain nor snow; tea grew of itself on the mountains,
and the cattle had nothing to fear from maleficent animals.  This man had
three children, who lived a long time with him, feeding upon milk and
fruits.  After attaining a very great age, this man died.  The three
children consulted what they should do with the body of their father;
they could not agree on the point, for each had a different opinion.  One
of them wanted to put him in a coffin, and bury him; the second proposed
to burn him; the third said it would be better to expose him on the top
of a mountain.  In the end, they resolved to cut the body into three
pieces, to take each of them one piece, and then to separate.  The eldest
had the head and arms for his share: he was the ancestor of the great
Chinese family; and this is why his descendants have become celebrated in
arts and industry, and remarkable for their intelligence, and for the
devices and stratagems they can invent.  The youngest, who was the father
of the great Thibetian family, had the chest and stomach for his share,
and this is why the Thibetians are full of heart and courage, fearing not
to encounter death, and ever having among them indomitable tribes.  The
middle son, from whom descend the Tartar peoples, received as his
inheritance the lower part of the body.  You who have travelled much in
the deserts of the East, must know that the Mongols are simple and timid,
without head and without heart; their only merit consisting in keeping
themselves firm on their stirrups, and solid on their saddles.  This is
how the Lamas explain the origin of the three great families that are
beneath heaven, and the difference of their character.  This is why the
Tartars are good horsemen, the Thibetians good soldiers, and the Chinese
good traders.”  As a return to the old man for his interesting chronicle,
we related to him the history of the first man, Adam, of the Deluge, and
of Noah and his three children.  He was at first extremely pleased to
find in our story also his three great families; but his surprise was
immense, when he heard us state that the Chinese, the Tartars, and the
Thibetians were all children of Shem, and that besides these, there were
innumerable nations who composed the two other families of Cham and
Japhet.  He looked at us fixedly, his mouth half open, and his head, from
time to time, thrown up in amazement, as much as to say: I never thought
the world was so big.

The time had passed rapidly during this archæological sitting; so, after
saluting the old man, we went to our camels, which we drove home to
Tchogortan, where, fastening them to a stake at the door of our
residence, we proceeded into our humble kitchen to prepare our evening
meal.

Culinarily speaking, we were far better off at Tchogortan than at
Kounboum.  In the first place, we had milk, curds, butter, and cheese, _à
discretion_.  Then we had discovered a perfect mine, in a hunter of the
vicinity.  A few days after our arrival, this Nimrod entered our room,
and taking a magnificent hare from a bag he carried at his back, asked us
whether the Goucho {84} of the Western Heaven ate the flesh of wild
animals.  “Certainly,” said we; “and we consider hares very nice.  Don’t
you eat them?”  “We laymen do, sometimes, but the Lamas, never.  They are
expressly forbidden by the Book of Prayers to eat black flesh.”  “The
sacred law of Jehovah has prescribed no such prohibition to us.”  “In
that case keep the animal; and, as you like hares, I will bring you as
many of them every day as you please; the hills about Tchogortan are
completely covered with them.”

Just at this point, a Lama chanced to enter our apartment.  When he saw,
stretched at our feet, the still warm and bleeding form of the hare,
“Tsong-Kaba!  Tsong-Kaba!” exclaimed he, starting back, with a gesture of
horror, and veiling his eyes with both hands.  Then, after launching a
malediction against the poor hunter, he asked us whether we should dare
to eat that black flesh?  “Why not,” rejoined we, “since it can injure
neither our bodies nor our souls?”  And thereupon, we laid down certain
principles of morality, to the purport that the eating of venison is, in
itself, no obstacle to the acquisition of sanctity.  The hunter was
highly delighted with our dissertation: the Lama was altogether
confounded.  He contented himself with saying, by way of reply, that in
us, who were foreigners and of the religion of Jehovah, it might be no
harm to eat hares; but that the Lamas must abstain from it, because, if
they failed to observe the prohibition and their dereliction became known
to the Grand Lama, they would be pitilessly expelled from the Lamasery.

Our thesis having been thus victoriously sustained, we next proceeded to
entertain the proposition of the hunter, to provide us every day with as
many hares as we pleased.  First, we asked him whether he was in earnest.
Upon his replying in the affirmative, we told him that every morning he
might bring us a hare, but on the understanding that we were to pay him
for it.  “We don’t sell hares here,” replied he; “but since you will not
accept them gratuitously, you shall give me for each the value of a
gun-charge.”  We insisted upon a more liberal scale of remuneration, and,
at last, it was arranged that for every piece of game he brought us, we
should give him forty sapeks, equivalent to about four French sous.

We decided upon eating hares for two reasons.  First, as a matter of
conscience, in order to prevent the Lamas from imagining that we
permitted ourselves to be influenced by the prejudices of the sectaries
of Buddha; and, secondly, upon a principle of economy; for a hare cost us
infinitely less than our insipid barley-meal.

One day, our indefatigable hunter brought us, instead of a hare, an
immense roebuck, which is also black flesh and prohibited.  In order not
to compound in the least degree with Buddhist superstitions, we purchased
the roebuck, for the sum of three hundred sapeks (thirty French sous.)
Our chimney smoked with venison preparations for eight consecutive days,
and all that time Samdadchiemba was in a most amiable frame of mind.

Lest we should contract habits too exclusively carnivorous, we resolved
to introduce the vegetable kingdom into our quotidian alimentation.  In
the desert, this was no easy matter.  However, by dint of industry,
combined with experience, we ultimately discovered some wild plants,
which, dressed in a particular manner, were by no means to be despised.
We may be permitted to enter into some details on this subject.  The
matter in itself is of slight interest; but it may have its use, in
relation to travellers who at any future time may have to traverse the
deserts of Thibet.

When the first signs of germination begin to manifest themselves, if you
scratch up the ground to the depth of about an inch, you will find
quantities of creeping roots, long and thin like dog-grass.  This root is
entirely covered with little tubercles, filled with a very sweet liquid.
In order to make an extremely nice dish of this vegetable, you have only
to wash it carefully and then fry it in butter.  Another dish, not less
distinguished in our esteem than the preceding, was furnished by a plant
very common in France, and the merit of which has never yet been
adequately appreciated: we refer to the young stems of fern; when these
are gathered quite tender, before they are covered with down, and while
the first leaves are bent and rolled up in themselves, you have only to
boil them in pure water to realize a dish of delicious asparagus.  If our
words were of any effect, we would earnestly recommend to the attention
of the Minister of Agriculture this precious vegetable, which abounds, as
yet to no purpose, on our mountains and in our forests.  We would also
recommend to him the nettle (_urtica urens_), which, in our opinion,
might be made an advantageous substitute for spinage; indeed, more than
once, we proved this by our own experience.  The nettle should be
gathered quite young when the leaves are perfectly tender.  The plant
should be pulled up whole, with a portion of the root.  In order to
preserve your hands from the sharp biting liquid which issues from the
points, you should wrap them in linen of close texture.  When once the
nettle is boiled, it is perfectly innocuous, and this vegetable, so rough
in its exterior, then becomes a very delicate dish.

We were able to enjoy this delightful variety of esculents for more than
a month.  Then, the little tubercles of the fern became hollow and horny,
and the stems themselves grew as hard as wood; while the nettles, armed
with a long white beard, presented only a menacing and awful aspect.
Later in the year, when the season was more advanced, the perfumed
strawberry of the mountain and the white mushroom of the valley, became
invaluable substitutes for fern and nettle.  But we had to wait a long
time for these luxuries, the cold in these countries being of protracted
duration, and the vegetation, of consequence, exceedingly late.
Throughout June there is snow still falling, and the wind is so cold that
you cannot, without imprudence, throw aside your fur coats.  With the
first days of July, the warmth of the sun begins to be felt, and the rain
falls in heavy showers; no sooner has the sky cleared up, than a warm
vapour rises from the earth, in surprising abundance.  You see it first
skimming the surface of the valleys and the low hills; then it condenses,
and oscillates about somewhat above the surface, becoming, by degrees, so
thick that it obscures the light of day.  When this vapour has ascended
high enough in the air to form great clouds, the south wind rises, and
the rain again pours down upon the earth.  Then the sky becomes clear
once more, and once more the vapour rises and rises, and so it goes on.
These atmospheric revolutions continue for a fortnight.  Meanwhile, the
earth is in a sort of fermentation: all the animals keep crouching on the
ground, and men, women, and children feel, in every limb, vague,
indescribable discomfort and disability.  The Si-Fan call this period the
season of land vapours.

Immediately that the crisis is past, the grass in the valley grows
visibly, and the mountains and hills around are covered, as by
enchantment, with flowers and verdure.  The period was also one of
palingenesis for our camels.  They became wholly divested of their hair,
which fell from them in large flakes, like rags, and for a few days they
were as bare as though they had been closely shaved from the muzzle of
the nose to the tip of the tail.  In this condition, they were perfectly
hideous.  In the shade they shook with cold in every limb, and at night
we were obliged to cover them with great pieces of felt to keep them from
dying with cold.  After four days had elapsed, the hair began to
re-appear.  First, it was merely a red down, extremely fine and curling,
like lamb’s wool.  The intense ugliness of the animals during their state
of nudity, made them appear perfectly beautiful in their new attire,
which was completed in a fortnight.  Thus new dressed, they rushed with
ardour to the pasturages, in order to get up respectable dimensions and
adequate strength for their autumnal journey.  To sharpen their
appetites, we had purchased some sea salt, of which we gave them a large
dose every morning, before they went into the valley: and every evening,
on their return, we gave them another dose, to aid them to ruminate,
during the night, the immense mass of forage which they had amassed in
their stomachs during the day.

The new coating of our camels had enriched us with an immense quantity of
hair; we exchanged one-half of it for barley-meal, and the question then
arose, what was the best use we could make of the remainder?  A Lama, who
was a skilful ropemaker, suggested an excellent idea: he pointed out that
during the long journey through Thibet, we should need a large supply of
cord wherewith to fasten the luggage, and that ropes made of camel’s hair
were, on account of their flexibility, the best for cold countries.  The
suggestion, so full of wisdom, was at once adopted.  The Lama gave us,
gratuitously, a few lessons in his art, and we set to work.  In a very
short time, we were able to twist our material tolerably well, so as to
give it a form approximately, at least, resembling rope.  Every day when
we went out to tend our cattle, each of us took under his arm a bundle of
camel’s hair, which on his way he twisted into the smaller strings, that,
on our return, we combined into larger cords.

Samdadchiemba contented himself with looking on as we worked, and with an
occasional smile at our slips.  Partly through idleness, partly through
vanity, he abstained from lending us a hand.  “My spiritual fathers,”
said he, one day, “how can people of your quality demean yourselves by
rope-making?  Would it not be much more proper to buy what ropes you
require, or to give the materials out to be made by persons in the
trade?”  This question afforded us an opportunity of giving our cameleer
a sound rating.  After having emphatically impressed upon him that we
were in no position to play the fine gentlemen, and that we must closely
study economy, we cited to him the example of St. Paul, who had thought
it no derogation from his dignity to labour with his hands, in order to
avoid being of charge to the faithful.  So soon as Samdadchiemba learned
that St. Paul had been at the same time a currier and an apostle, he
forthwith abdicated his idleness and his self-sufficiency, and applied
himself with ardour to rope-making.  What was our astonishment, on seeing
the fellow at work, to find that he was a first-rate braider, for not an
inkling had he ever given us to that effect!  He selected the finest
wool, and with it wove bridles and halters, that were really quite
masterpieces of art.  It is almost unnecessary to add that he was
forthwith placed at the head of our rope-making establishment, and that
we submitted ourselves altogether to his directorship.

The fine weather brought to Tchogortan a great number of visitors from
Kounboum, who sought at once change of air, and temporary relaxation from
their studies.  Our apartment now became a point of pilgrimage, for no
one thought of spending a day at Tchogortan without paying a visit to the
Lamas of the Western Heaven.  Those Lamas, with whom we had formed a more
intimate acquaintance at Kounboum, and who had begun there to inform
themselves as to the truths of the Christian religion, were attracted by
a far higher motive than curiosity; they desired to discourse further of
the holy doctrine of Jehovah, and to seek from us explanations of
difficulties which had occurred to them.  Oh! how our hearts were
penetrated with ineffable joy when we heard these Buddhist monks
pronounce with respect the sacred names of Jesus and of Mary, and recite,
with manifest devotion, the prayers we had taught them.  The great God,
we doubt not, will place to their favourable account, these first steps
in the path of salvation, and will not fail to send shepherds to bring
quite home to the fold these poor wandering sheep.

Among the Lamas who came to recreate for awhile at Tchogortan, we
remarked especially a number of Tartar-Mongols, who, bringing with them
small tents, set them up in the valley along the stream, or upon the
sides of the most picturesque hills.  There they passed whole days
revelling in the delight of the independent life of the nomads,
forgetting for awhile, the constraint and confinement of the Lamanesque
life, in the enjoyment of the free life of the tent.  You saw them
running and frolicking about the prairie like children, or wrestling and
exercising the other sports which recalled the days and the land of their
boyhood.  The reaction with many of these men became so strong, that even
fixity of tent became insupportable, and they would take it down and set
it up again in some other place, three or four times a day; or they would
even abandon it altogether, and taking their kitchen utensils and their
pails of water and their provisions on their shoulders, would go, singing
and dancing as they went, to boil their tea on the summit of some
mountain, from which they would not descend till nightfall.

We observed, also, flocking to Tchogortan, another class of Lamas not
less interesting than the Mongols; they always arrived at daybreak; their
garments were tucked up to the knees, and on their backs were large osier
baskets; all day long they would traverse the valley and the adjacent
hills, collecting, not strawberries and mushrooms, but the dung which the
herds of the Si-Fan deposit in all directions.  On account of this
particular occupation, we named these Lamas Lama-Argoleers, from the
Tartar word argol, which designates animal excrement, when dried and
prepared for fuel.  The Lamas who carry on this class of business, are in
general idle, irregular persons, who prefer vagabondizing about on the
hills to study and retirement; they are divided into several companies,
each working under the direction of a superintendent, who arranges and is
responsible for their operations.  Towards the close of the day, each man
brings the portion he has collected to the general depot, which is always
situate at the foot of some well, or in the hollow of some valley.  There
the raw material is carefully elaborated; it is pounded and moulded into
cakes, which are placed to dry in the sun, and when completely
dessicated, are symmetrically piled, one on the other, the stack, when
formed, being covered with a thick layer of dung, to protect it from the
dissolving action of the rain.  In the winter, this fuel is conveyed to
Kounboum, and there sold.

The luxurious variety of combustibles which the civilized nations of
Europe enjoy, have exempted us from the necessity of making any very
profound researches into the divers qualities of argols.  Such has not
been the case with the shepherd and nomadic peoples.  Long experience has
enabled them to classify argols, with a perspicuity of appreciation which
leaves nothing to be desired in that particular respect.  They have
established four grand divisions, to which future generations will
scarcely be able to apply any modification.

In the first rank are placed the argols of goats and sheep; a glutinous
substance that enters largely into its composition, communicates to this
combustible an elevation of temperature that is truly astonishing.  The
Thibetians and Tartars use it in the preparation of metals; a bar of
iron, placed in a fire of these argols, is soon brought to white heat.
The residuum deposited by the argols of goats and sheep after combustion,
is a sort of green vitreous matter, transparent, and brittle as glass,
which forms a mass full of cavities and very light; in many respects,
closely resembling pumice stone.  You don’t find in this residuum any ash
whatever, unless the combustion has been mixed with foreign matter.  The
argols of camels constitute the second class; they burn easily, and throw
out a fine flame, but the heat they communicate is less vivid and less
intense than that given by the preceding.  The reason of this difference
is, that they contain in combination a smaller proportion of glutinous
substance.  The third class comprehends the argols appertaining to the
bovine species; these, when thoroughly dry, burn readily, and produce no
smoke whatever.  This is almost the only fuel you find in Tartary and
Thibet.  Last come the argols of horses and other animals of that family.
These argols not having, like the others, undergone the process of
rumination, present nothing but a mass of straw more or less triturated;
they throw out a great smoke when burning, and are almost immediately
consumed.  They are useful, however, for lighting a fire, filling the
office of tinder and paper to the other combustibles.

We perfectly understand that this rapid and incomplete essay on argols is
not of a character to interest many readers; but we did not feel
justified in either omitting or abridging it, because it has been an
object with us to neglect no document that might be of assistance to
those who, after us, may venture upon nomadic life for awhile.

The inhabitants of the valley of Tchogortan, though in the apparent
enjoyment of profound peace, are, nevertheless, an incessant prey to the
fear of the brigands, who, they informed us, make periodical incursions
from the mountains, and carry off all the cattle they can find.  It was
stated that in 1842, these had come in a large body, and devastated the
whole of the surrounding country.  At a moment when they were least
expected, they issued from all the outlets of the mountain, and spread
over the valley, sending forth fearful cries, and discharging their
matchlocks.  The shepherds, terror-struck by this unforeseen attack, had
not even thought of the slightest resistance, but had fled in disorder,
carrying with them only that which they happened to lay their hands upon
at the moment.  The brigands, profiting by this panic fear, burned the
tents, and collected, in one large enclosure, formed with ropes, all the
cattle and sheep they found in and about the place.  They then proceeded
to the little Lamasery of Tchogortan.  But the Lamas had already
disappeared, with the exception of the hermits, who remained perched on
their nests on the rocks.  The brigands carried off or demolished
everything they came to: they burned the idols of Buddha, and broke down
the dams that had been constructed for the purpose of turning the
praying-mills.  Three years after the event, we still saw the marked
traces of their ferocious devastations.  The Buddhist temple, which had
stood at the foot of the mountain, had not been rebuilt.  Its ruins,
blackened with their conflagrations, and some calcined portions of the
idols lay strewed upon the grass.  The Lama hermits were spared, indeed;
but this, no doubt, was simply because the brigands saw it would be too
protracted and too arduous a labour to achieve the tormenting them in
their lofty and almost inaccessible abodes.  The excesses which they
perpetrated against the black tents and against the temple of Buddha
itself, showed that, if they left the poor recluses unscathed, it was by
no means from respect or compassion.

So soon as the news of the arrival of the brigands reached Kounboum, the
whole Lamasery was afoot, and in commotion.  The Lamas rushed to arms
with loud vociferations.  They caught up whatever in the shape of a
weapon first came to hand, and dashed off, confusedly, towards the
Lamasery of Tchogortan.  But they arrived there too late; the brigands
had disappeared, carrying off all the flocks and herds of the Si-Fan, and
leaving behind them in the valley nothing but smoking ruins.

The shepherds who, since this event, had returned and set up their tents
amidst the pasturages of Tchogortan, were always on the watch, fearful of
a new aggression.  From time to time some of them, armed with lances and
guns, would patrol the neighbourhood; a precaution which, though it would
certainly have by no means intimidated the brigands, had at least the
advantage of communicating a certain degree of fancied security to the
population.

Towards the end of August, while we were quietly occupied in the
manufacture of our ropes, sinister rumours began to circulate; by degrees
they assumed all the character of certain intelligence [Picture: The
Pyramid of Peace] and no doubt was entertained that we were threatened
with a new and terrible invasion of brigands.  Every day we were alarmed
with some fresh fact of a formidable nature.  The shepherds of such a
place had been surprised, their tents burned, and their flocks driven
off.  Elsewhere there had been a tremendous battle, in which a number of
persons had been killed.  These rumours became so substantially alarming,
that the administrators of the Lamasery felt bound to adopt some measures
on the subject.  They dispatched to Tchogortan a Grand Lama and twenty
students of the Faculty of Prayers, charged with the task of preserving
the locality from any unpleasant occurrence.  On their arrival, these
Lamas convoked the chiefs of the Si-Fan families, and announced that now
they were come, the people had nothing to fear.  Next morning, they all
ascended the highest mountain in the neighbourhood, set up some
travelling tents there, and proceeded to recite prayers to the
accompaniment of music.  They remained in this encampment two whole days,
which they occupied in praying, in exorcising, and in constructing a
small pyramid of earth, whitened with lime, and above which floated, at
the end of a mast, a flag on which were printed various Thibetian
prayers.  This modest edifice was entitled the Pyramid of Peace.  These
ceremonies completed, the Lamas, great and small, folded their tents,
descended from the mountain, and quietly returned to Kounboum, fully
persuaded that they had opposed to the brigands an impassable barrier.

The Pyramid of Peace did not appear, however, to have infused equal
confidence into the hearts of the herdsmen; for, one fine morning, they
all decamped together, bag and baggage, and went with their herds and
flocks to seek a less dangerous position elsewhere.  They invited us to
follow their example, but we preferred to remain where we were, for in
the desert there is scarcely one place more secure than another.  The
flight of the shepherds, besides, seemed to us a guarantee that our
tranquillity would not be disturbed, for we considered that the brigands,
when they learned that no flocks remained in the valley of Tchogortan,
would feel no interest in paying us a visit.  We therefore, in our turn,
raised up in our hearts a Pyramid of Peace, in the form of a firm
reliance on the divine protection; and, thus fortified, we abode calmly
and fearlessly in our adopted home.

For some days we enjoyed the most profound solitude.  Since the
disappearance of the herds and flocks, the argoleers, having nothing to
do, had kept away.  We were alone with a Lama, left in charge of the
Lamasery.  Our animals profited by the change, for now all the pasturages
of the valley were theirs; they could browse wherever they liked over the
valley, fearless of meeting a single competitor.

The desert, however, became after a time, once more alive, and towards
the commencement of September, the Lamas of the Faculty of Medicine
repaired to Tchogortan, for the purpose of botanizing.  The disposable
houses received all they could contain, and the rest dwelt in tents,
sheltered by the great trees of the Lamasery.  Every morning, after they
have recited their prayers in common, drunk their buttered tea, and eaten
their barley-meal, all the students in medicine tuck up their garments,
and go forth on the mountains, under the guidance of one of their
professors.  They are each provided with a long iron-pointed stick, and a
small pick-axe; a leathern bag, filled with meal, is suspended from the
girdle, and some carry at their backs great tea-kettles, for the Faculty
spend the entire day on the mountain.  Before sunset, the Lama physicians
return laden with perfect faggots of branches, and piles of plants and
grasses.  As you see them weariedly descending the mountains, supported
by their long staves and bearing these burdens, they look more like
poaching woodcutters than like future doctors in medicine.  We were often
obliged to escort in person those of the number who had special charge of
the aromatic plants; for our camels, which, attracted by the odour,
always put themselves in pursuit of these personages, would otherwise
inevitably, and without the smallest scruple, have devoured those
precious simples, destined for the relief of suffering humanity.  The
remainder of the day is occupied in cleaning and spreading out on mats
these various products of the vegetable kingdom.  The medical harvest
lasted eight whole days.  Five other days are devoted to the selection
and classification of the various articles.  On the fourteenth day, a
small portion is given to each student, the great bulk remaining the
property of the Faculty of Medicine.  The fifteenth day is kept as a
festival, in the form of a grand banquet of tea with milk, barley-meal,
little cakes fried in butter, and boiled mutton.  Thus terminates this
botanico-medical expedition, and the illustrious Faculty gaily returns to
the Grand Lamasery.

The drugs collected at Tchogortan are deposited in the general drug-room
of Kounboum.  When they have been thoroughly dried in the heat of a
moderate fire, they are reduced to powder, and then divided into small
doses, which are neatly enveloped in red paper, and labelled with
Thibetian characters.  The pilgrims who visit Kounboum, buy these
remedies at exorbitant prices.  The Tartar-Mongols never return home
without an ample supply of them, having an unlimited confidence in
whatever emanates from Kounboum.  On their own mountains and prairies
they would find exactly the same plants, the same shrubs, the same roots,
the same grasses; but then how different must be the plants, shrubs,
roots, and grasses that grow and ripen in the birth-place of Tsong-Kaba!

The Thibetian physicians are as empirical as those of other
countries—possibly somewhat more so.  They assign to the human frame
forty hundred and forty maladies, neither more nor less.  The books which
the Lamas of the Faculty of Medicine are obliged to study and to learn by
heart, treat of these four hundred and forty maladies, indicating their
characteristics, the means of identifying them, and the manner of
combating them.  These books are a hotch-potch of aphorisms, more or less
obscure, and of a host of special recipes.  The Lama physicians have not
so great a horror of blood as the Chinese physicians have—they bleed
sometimes, and cup often.  In the latter operation, they first subject
the skin of the part to slight excoriations; and afterwards place over it
a bullock’s horn, open at the point.  They exhaust the air within, and
when a sufficient vacuum is obtained, stop up the hole with a pellet of
chewed paper.  When they wish to remove the cup they have only to remove
this mastic.

The Lama physicians attach extreme importance to the inspection of the
patient’s water.  They always require various specimens of it, collected
at different hours of the day and night.  They examine it with the most
minute attention, and take the greatest heed to all the changes undergone
by its colour.  They whip it, from time to time, with a wooden spatula,
and then put it up to the ear to ascertain what degree, if any, of noise
it makes; for in their view, a patient’s water is mute or silent,
according to his state of health.  A Lama physician, to attain the
character of thorough ability in his profession, must be able to treat
and cure a patient without having ever seen him, the inspection of the
water sufficing as a guide in the preparation of his prescriptions.

As we have said elsewhere, in speaking of the Tartar-Mongols, the Lamas
introduce many superstitious practices into medicine.  Yet,
notwithstanding all this quackery, there is no doubt that they possess an
infinite number of very valuable recipes, the result of long experience.
It were, perhaps, rash to imagine that medical science has nothing to
learn from the Tartar, Thibetian, and Chinese physicians, on the pretext
that they are not acquainted with the structure and mechanism of the
human body.  They may, nevertheless, be in possession of very important
secrets, which science alone, no doubt, is capable of explaining, but
which, very possibly, science itself may never discover.  Without being
scientific, a man may very well light upon extremely scientific results.
In China, Tartary, and Thibet, everybody can make gunpowder; yet it may
be safely propounded that not one of these powder-makers can explain
scientifically this chemical operation; each man has a good receipt for
making the powder, and he makes it.

Towards September, we received the joyful intelligence that the Thibetian
embassy had arrived at Tang-Keou-Eul, where it was to remain for several
days, in order to lay in a stock of provisions, and arrange its order of
march.  Thus, then, after long and annoying delay, we were about to
proceed to the capital of Thibet.  We made, without loss of time, all our
necessary preparations.  First we had to pay a visit to Kounboum, in
order to purchase provisions for four months, since, on the whole route,
there was not the least hope of finding any thing to buy that we might
want.  Upon a careful calculation, we found that we should require five
bricks of tea, two sheep’s paunches of butter, two sacks of flour, and
eight sacks of tsamba.  Tsamba is the name given here to barley-meal, the
insipid article which constitutes the ordinary food of the Thibetians.
They take a tea-cup half filled with boiling tea; to this they add some
pinches of tsamba, and then mix these materials together with the finger,
into a sort of wretched paste, neither cooked nor uncooked, hot nor cold,
which is then swallowed, and is considered breakfast, dinner, or supper,
as the case may be.  If you desire to cross the desert to Lha-Ssa, you
must perforce resign yourself to tsamba; ’tis to no avail the French
traveller sighs for his accustomed knife and fork, and his accustomed
knife and fork dishes: he must do without them.

Persons, full of experience and philanthropy, counselled us to lay in a
good store of garlic, and every day to chew several cloves of it, unless
we wished to be killed on our way by the deleterious vapours, that
emanated from certain elevated mountains.  We did not discuss the merits
of this hygeianic advice, but adopted it with absolute confidingness.

Our residence in the valley of Tchogortan had been in a high degree
advantageous to our animals, which had become fatter than we had ever
before known them; the camels, in particular, were magnificently stout;
their humps, made firm with solid flesh, rose proudly on their backs, and
seemed to defy the fatigues and privations of the desert.  Still, even in
their improved condition, three camels were not enough to carry our
provisions and our baggage.  We accordingly added to our caravan a
supplementary camel and horse, which lightened our exchequer to the
extent of twenty-five ounces of silver; moreover, we hired a young Lama
of the Ratchico mountains, with whom we had become acquainted at
Kounboum, and who was admitted into our party in the capacity of
pro-cameleer.  This appointment, while it raised the social condition of
Samdadchiemba, diminished also the fatigues of his functions.  According
to this new arrangement, the little caravan was disposed in the following
order: the pro-cameleer, Charadchambeul, went on foot, and led after him
the four camels, who marched in Indian file, the one fastened to the tail
of the other; Samdadchiemba, cameleer-in-chief, rode his little black
mule beside the camels, and the two missionaries closed the procession,
each mounted on a white horse.  After having exchanged infinite khatas
with our acquaintance and friends at Kounboum and Tchogortan, we
proceeded on our route, directing our march towards the Blue Sea, where
we were to await the Thibetian embassy.

From Tchogortan to the Koukou-Noor was four days’ march.  We passed on
our way a small Lamasery, called Tansan, containing at most two hundred
Lamas; its site is perfectly enchanting; rocky mountains, covered with
shrubs and tall firs, form for it a circular enclosure, in the centre of
which rise the habitations of the Lamas.  A stream, bordered with willows
and fine longwort, after tranquilly encircling the Lamasery, dashes over
a rocky fall, and continues its course in the desert.  The Buddhist
monastery of Tansan is, they say, very rich, being largely endowed by the
Mongol princes of Koukou-Noor with annual contributions.

On leaving the Lamasery of Tansan, we entered an extensive plain, where
numerous Mongol tents and flocks of every kind picturesquely variegated
the verdure of the pastures.  We met two Lamas on horseback, who were
seeking contributions of butter from the wealthy shepherds of the
locality.  Their course is this: they present themselves at the entrance
of each tent, and thrice sound a marine conch.  Thereupon, some member of
the family brings out a small roll of butter, which, without saying a
word, he deposits in a bag, suspended from the saddle of each Lama’s
horse.  The Lamas never once alight, but content themselves with riding
up to each tent, and announcing their presence to the inmates by the
sound of the shell.

As we advanced, the country became more fertile and less mountainous,
until at length, we reached the vast and magnificent pasturage of
Koukou-Noor.  There vegetation is so vigorous, that the grass rose up to
the stomachs of our camels.  Soon we discovered, far before us, quite in
the horizon, what seemed a broad silver riband, above which floated light
vapours that, rising, became lost in the azure of the heavens.  Our
pro-cameleer informed us that this was the Blue Sea.  His words filled us
with a tremulous joy; we urged on our animals, and the sun had not set
when we planted our tent within a hundred paces of the waters of the
great Lake.

            [Picture: Leaf of the Tree of Ten Thousand Images]

                         [Picture: The Blue Sea]




CHAPTER IV.


Aspect of the Koukou-Noor—Tribes of Kolos—Chronicle of the Origin of the
Blue Sea—Description and March of the Great Caravan—Passage of the
Pouhain Gol—Adventures of the Altère-Lama—Character of our
pro-cameleer—Mongols of Tsaidam—Pestilential Vapours of the
Bourhan-Bota—Ascent of the Chuga and Bayen-Kharat mountains—Wild
Cattle—Wild Mules—Men and Animals killed with the Cold—Encounter with
Brigands—Plateau of Tant-La—Hot Springs—Conflagration in the
Desert—Village of Na-Ptchu—Sale of Camels, and Hiring of Long-tailed
Oxen—Young Chaberon of the Kingdom of Khartchin—Cultivated Plains of
Pampou—Mountain of the Remission of Sins—Arrival at Lha-Ssa.

The Blue Lake, in Mongol Koukou-Noor, in Thibetian Tsot-Ngon-Po, was
anciently called by the Chinese Si-Haï (Western Sea); they now call it
Tsing-Haï (Blue Sea).  This immense reservoir of water, which is more
than a hundred leagues in circumference, seems, in fact, to merit the
title of sea, rather than merely that of lake.  To say nothing of its
vast extent, it is to be remarked that its waters are bitter and salt,
like those of the ocean, and undergo, in a similar manner, flux and
reflux.  The marine odour which they exhale is smelt at a great distance,
far into the desert.

Towards the western portion of the Blue Sea there is a small island,
rocky and bare, inhabited by twenty contemplative Lamas, who have built
thereon a Buddhist temple, and some modest habitations, wherein they pass
their lives, in tranquil retirement, far from the distracting
disquietudes of the world.  No one can go and visit them, for, throughout
the entire extent of the lake, there is not a single boat of any kind to
be seen; at all events we saw none, and the Mongols told us that among
their tribes no one ever thought of occupying himself in any way or
degree with navigation.  In the winter, indeed, at the time of the more
intense cold, the water is frozen solidly enough to enable the shepherds
around to repair in pilgrimage to the Lamasery.  They bear to the
contemplative Lamas their modest offerings of butter, tea, and tsamba,
and receive in exchange, benedictions and prayers for good pasturage and
prosperous flocks.

The tribes of the Koukou-Noor are divided into twenty-nine banners,
commanded by three Kiun-Wang, two Beïlé, two Beïssé, four Koung, and
eighteen Taï-Tsi.  All these princes are tributaries of the Chinese
emperor, and, every second year, repair to Peking, whither they carry, as
tribute, furs and gold-dust, which their subjects collect from the sands
of their rivers.  The vast plains which adjoin the Blue Sea are of very
great fertility and of a most agreeable aspect, though entirely destitute
of trees; the grass is of prodigious height, and the numerous streams
which fertilize the soil, afford ample means to the numerous herds of the
desert for satiating their thirst.  The Mongols, accordingly, are very
fond of setting up their tents in these magnificent pastures.  The hordes
of brigands harass them in vain; they will not quit the country.  They
content themselves with a frequent change of encampment, in order to
baffle their enemies, but when they can no longer avoid the danger they
encounter it with great bravery, and fight gallantly.  The necessity
under which they permanently exist of defending their property and their
lives from the attacks of the Si-Fan, has, at length, rendered them
intrepidly courageous.  At any hour of the day or night they are ready
for battle: they tend their cattle on horseback, lance in hand, fusil in
sling, and sabre in belt.  What a difference between these vigorous
shepherds, with their long moustaches, and the languishing fiddle-fuddles
of Virgil, eternally occupied in piping on a flute, or in decorating with
ribands and flowers their pretty straw hats.

The brigands, who keep the Mongol tribes of the Koukou-Noor always on the
alert, are hordes of Si-Fan, or Eastern Thibetians, dwelling in the
Bayen-Kharat mountains, towards the sources of the Yellow River.  In this
part of the country they are known under the generic appellation of Kolo.
Their peculiar haunt, it is said, are the deep gorges of the mountain,
whither it is impossible to penetrate without a guide, for all the
approaches are guarded by impassable torrents and frightful precipices.
The Kolos never quit these abodes except to scour the desert on a mission
of pillage and devastation.  Their religion is Buddhism; but they have a
special idol of their own, whom they designate the Divinity of
Brigandism, and who, assuredly, enjoys their most intense devotion, their
most genuine worship.  The chief business of their Lamas is to pray and
offer up sacrifices for the success of their predatory expeditions.  It
is said that these brigands are in the revolting habit of eating the
hearts of their prisoners, in order to fortify their own courage; but,
for that matter, there is no monstrous practice which the Mongols of the
Koukou-Noor do not unhesitatingly attribute to these people.

The Kolos are divided into several tribes, each bearing a particular name
of its own; and it was only in the nomenclature of these tribes that we
ever, in this part of the world, heard of the Khalmouks, or Calmucks.
That which we, in Europe, ordinarily conceive to be Khalmoukia, is a
purely imaginary distinction; the Khalmouks are very far indeed from
enjoying, in Asia, the importance which our books of geography assign to
them.  In the Khalmoukia of our imagining, no one ever heard of the
Khalmouks.  It was a long time before we could even discover the
existence of the name at all; but, at last, we were lucky enough to meet
with a Lama who had travelled extensively in Eastern Thibet, and he told
us that among the Kolo, there is a small tribe called Kolo-Khalmouki.  It
is just possible that at some former period the Khalmouks may have
enjoyed great importance, and have occupied a large extent of country;
but the great probability, at least, is, that it was the travellers of
the thirteenth century, who, relying upon some vague notions they had
picked up, represented this petty tribe to be a great nation.

Neither does the Koukou-Noor country itself merit the importance given to
it in our geographies: it occupies, in the maps, a far greater space than
it really possesses.  Though comprising twenty-nine banners, its limits
are restricted: on the north it is bordered by Khilian-Chan, on the south
by the Yellow River, on the east by the province of Kan-Sou, on the west
by the river Tsaidam, where begins another Tartar country, inhabited by
tribes who bear the designation of Mongols of the Tsaidam.

According to the popular traditions of the Koukou-Noor, the Blue Sea did
not always occupy its present site: that great mass of water originally
covered, in Thibet, the place where the city of Lha-Ssa now stands.  One
fine day it abandoned its immense reservoir there, and, by a subterranean
march, travelled to the place which now serves as its bed.  The following
is the narrative of this marvellous event that was related to us.

In ancient times the Thibetians of the kingdom of Oui resolved to build a
temple in the centre of the great valley which they inhabited; they
collected, at vast expense, the richest materials, and the edifice rose
rapidly; but, just on the point of completion, it suddenly crumbled to
pieces, without any one having the least idea as to the cause of this
disaster.  Next year they made new preparations, and laboured upon the
construction of the temple with equal ardour; the second temple, when
just completed, fell to pieces as the first had done; a third attempt was
made, the only result of which was a third catastrophe, exactly the same
with the two preceding.  Every body was plunged in utter despair, and
there was talk of abandoning the enterprize.  The king consulted a famous
diviner of the country, who replied that it had not been given to him to
know the cause which opposed the construction of the temple, but this he
knew: that there was a great saint in the East who possessed a certain
secret, which secret, being once extracted from him, the obstacle would
forthwith disappear.  He could, however, give no exact information as to
who the great saint was, or where he lived.  After protracted
deliberation, a Lama, of excellent address and great courage, was sent on
a mission of inquiry.  He traversed all the districts east of the kingdom
of Oui; he visited the Tartar tribes, stopping for awhile wherever he
heard speak of any man especially noted for his sanctity and knowledge.
All his inquiries were fruitless: it was to no purpose he discoursed of
the valley of the kingdom of Oui, and of the temple which it had been
attempted to raise there: nobody comprehended at all what he was talking
about.  He was returning home, depressed and disappointed, when, in
crossing the great plains which separate Thibet from China, the girth of
his saddle broke, and he fell from his horse.  Perceiving, near at hand,
beside a small pond, a poor, dilapidated tent, he proceeded thither to
get his saddle repaired.  Having fastened his horse to a stake at the
door of the tent, he entered and found within a venerable old man,
absorbed in prayer.  “Brother,” said the traveller, “may peace be ever in
thy dwelling.”  “Brother,” replied the old man, without moving, “seat
thyself beside my hearth.”  The Thibetian Lama fancied he saw that the
old man was blind.  “I perceive, with grief,” said he, “that thou hast
lost the use of thy eyes.”  “Yes; ’tis now many years since I was
deprived of the happiness of contemplating the brightness of the sun, and
the verdure of our beautiful plains; but prayer is a great consolation in
my affliction.  Brother, it seems to me that thy tongue has a peculiar
accent: art thou not a man of our tribes?”  “I am a poor Lama of the
East.  I made a vow to visit the temples that have been raised in the
Mongol countries, and to prostrate myself before the sainted personages I
should meet on my way.  An accident has happened to me near this spot; I
have broken the girth of my saddle, and I have come to thy tent to mend
it.”  “I am blind,” said the old man; “I cannot myself help thee; but
look round the tent, there are several straps, and thou canst take that
which will best answer thy purpose.”  While the stranger was selecting a
good strap, wherewith to make a new girth, the old man spoke: “O Lama of
eastern lands; happy art thou to be able to pass thy days visiting our
sacred monuments!  The most magnificent temples are in the Mongol
countries; the Poba (Thibetians) will never attain anything like them:
’tis in vain they apply their utmost efforts to build such in their
beautiful valley; the foundations they put will always be sapped by the
waves of a subterranean sea, of which they do not suspect the existence.”
After a moment’s silence the old man added: “I have uttered these words
because thou art a Mongol Lama; but thou must lock them up in thy heart,
and never communicate them to a single person.  If, in thy pilgrimages,
thou meetest a Lama of the kingdom of Oui, guard well thy tongue, for the
revealing my secret will cause the ruin of our country.  When a Lama of
the kingdom of Oui shall know that in his valley there exists a
subterranean sea, the waters of that sea will forthwith depart thence,
and inundate our prairies.”

He had scarcely uttered the last word, when the stranger rose and said to
him, “Unfortunate old man, save thyself, save thyself in haste: the
waters will speedily be here, for I am a Lama of the kingdom of Oui.”  So
saying, he jumped on his horse, and disappeared over the desert.

These words struck like a thunderbolt upon the poor old man.  After a
moment of dull stupor he gave way to cries and groans.  While yielding to
this excess of grief his son arrived, bringing home from pasture a small
herd of cattle.  “My son,” cried the old man, “saddle thy horse on the
instant, take thy sabre, and gallop off towards the West: thou wilt
overtake a foreign Lama, whom thou must kill, for he has stolen from me
my strap.”  “How!” exclaimed the young man, terror-struck, “wouldst thou
have me commit a murder?  Wouldst thou, my father, whom all our tribes
venerate for thy great sanctity, order me to kill a poor traveller,
because he took from thy tent a strap of which he had, doubtless, need?”
“Go, go, my son, hasten, I conjure thee,” cried the old man, throwing his
arms about in despair; “go and immolate that stranger, unless thou
wouldst have us all buried beneath the waves.”  The young man, believing
that his father laboured under a temporary fit of insanity, would not
contradict him, lest he should exasperate him still more; he therefore
mounted his horse and galloped after the Lama of the kingdom of Oui.  He
came up with him before the evening: “Holy personage,” said he, “pardon
me, that I interrupt your progress; this morning you rested in our tent,
and you took thence a strap, which my father is making a great outcry
for; the fury of the old man is so excessive, that he has ordered me to
put you to death; but it is no more permissible to execute the orders of
a raving old man than it is to fulfil those of a child.  Give me back the
strap, and I will return to appease my father.”  The Lama of the kingdom
of Oui dismounted, took off the girth of his saddle, and gave it to the
young man, saying, “Your father gave me this strap, but, since he regrets
the gift, carry it back to him; old men are fanciful, but we must,
nevertheless, respect them, and carefully avoid occasioning them any
annoyance.”  The Lama took off his own girdle, made a saddle-girth of it,
and departed, the young man returning in all haste to his tent.

He arrived in the night time, and found his dwelling surrounded by a
multitude of shepherds, who, unable to comprehend the lamentations of the
great saint of their district, were awaiting, in much anxiety, the return
of his son.  “My father, my father,” cried the young man, dismounting,
“be calm, here is what thou wantedst.”  “And the stranger?” asked the old
man, “hast thou put him to death?”  “I let him depart in peace for his
own country.  Should I not have committed a great crime, had I murdered a
Lama who had done you no evil?  Here is the strap he took from you.”
And, so saying, he put the strap into his father’s hands.  The old man
shuddered in every limb, for he saw that his son had been overreached:
the same word in Mongol signifies both strap and secret.  The old man had
meant that his son should kill the man who had stolen his secret from
him: but when he saw that his son brought back to him a strap, he cried
“The West triumphs; ’tis the will of heaven!”  He then told the shepherds
to flee with their cattle and sheep in all haste, unless they desired to
be swallowed up by the waters.  As to himself, he prostrated himself in
the centre of his tent and there resignedly awaited death.

Day had scarce dawned when there was heard underground a rumbling but
majestic sound, similar to the tumult of torrents rolling their waves
over the mountain sides.  The sound advanced with fearful rapidity, and
the water of the pond, beside which the old man lived, was seen to be in
great commotion: then the earth opened with terrible shocks, and the
subterranean waters rose impetuously, and spread, like a vast sea, over
the plain, destroying infinite numbers of men and beasts who had not time
to escape.  The old man was the first who perished beneath the waves.

The Lama, who bore the secret of this great catastrophe, upon arriving in
the kingdom of Oui, found his countrymen in utter consternation at
fearful sounds they had heard beneath them in the valley, and the nature
and cause of which no one could explain.  He related the story of the
blind old man, and all immediately comprehended that the uproar which had
so alarmed them had been occasioned by the subterranean sea, on its
removal to the East.  They resumed, with enthusiasm, the labours of
construction they had abandoned, and raised a magnificent temple, which
is still standing.  An immense number of families settled around the
temple, and, by degrees, there was created a great city, which took the
name of Lha-Ssa (Land of Spirits).

This singular chronicle of the origin of the Blue Sea was first related
to us in Koukou-Noor; it was afterwards repeated to us at Lha-Ssa, in
almost precisely the same terms; but we could nowhere discover traces of
any historical fact with which the singular fable might be supposed to
correspond.

We abode in Koukou-Noor for nearly a month.  Continual rumours of the
brigands compelled us to move our encampment five or six times, in order
to follow the Tartar tribes, who, at the least suggestion of approaching
assailants, change their quarters, taking care, however, never to remove
altogether from the rich pastures which border the Blue Sea.

Towards the end of October, the Thibetian embassy arrived, and we joined
the immense body, already swollen on its previous way by a great number
of Mongol caravans, which, like ourselves, availed themselves of this
favourable escort to Lha-Ssa.  Formerly, the Thibetian government sent an
embassy every year to Peking.  That of 1840 was attacked on its journey
by a large body of Kolos.  The engagement lasted a whole day, but, in the
end, the Thibetians were victorious over their assailants, and continued
their journey.  Next morning, however, it was discovered that they had no
longer amongst them the Tchanak-Kampo, {104} a Grand Lama, who
accompanies these embassies to Peking, in the character of representative
of the Talé-Lama.  For several days he was sought all around, but to no
effect, and the only conclusion was that during the fight he had been
taken prisoner by the Kolos, and carried off.  The embassy, however,
proceeded on its way, and arrived at Peking without its official head.
The emperor, of course, was tremendously afflicted.

In 1841, there was another battle with the brigands, and another
catastrophe.  This time, the Tchanak-Kampo was not carried off by the
brigands, but he received from them a gash in the chest, of which he died
in a few days afterwards.  The emperor, on hearing these melancholy
tidings, was, it is affirmed, altogether inconsolable, and forthwith sent
dispatches to the Talé-Lama, setting forth that, considering the
difficulties and dangers of the journey, he would henceforth require the
compliment of an embassy only once in three years.  Accordingly, the
present embassy was the first which had been dispatched from Lha-Ssa
since 1841.  On its journey out it had been fortunate enough to encounter
no brigands, and, consequently, its Tchanak-Kampo had been neither stolen
nor stabbed.

Next day, after our departure from Koukou-Noor, we placed ourselves at
the van of the caravan, and then halted on one side, in order to see the
immense procession defile before us, and so make acquaintance with our
travelling companions.  The men and animals composing the caravan might
be thus estimated: 1500 long-haired oxen, 1200 horses, 1200 camels, and
2000 men, Thibetians and Tartars, some on foot, some on ox-back, but most
of them on horses and camels.  All the cavalry were armed with lances,
sabres, bows and arrows, and matchlocks.  The foot-men, designated Lakto,
were charged with the conduct of the files of camels and of the
capricious and disorderly march of the cattle.  The Tchanak-Kampo
travelled in a large litter, carried by two mules.  Besides this
multitude, whose journey extended to Lha-Ssa, there was an escort of 300
Chinese soldiers, furnished by the province of Kan-Sou, and 200 brave
Tartars, charged by the princes of Koukou-Noor, with the protection of
the holy embassy of the Talé-Lama, to the frontiers of Thibet.

The soldiers of the province of Kan-Sou fulfilled their functions like
thorough Chinese.  In order to avoid any disagreeable encounter, they
carefully kept at the rear of the caravan, where they sang, smoked, and
joked at their ease, giving no sort of heed to any possible brigands.
Every day they exhibited the remarkable peculiarity of waiting until the
rest of the caravan had filed off, when they carefully searched all over
the night’s encampment in order to pick up anything that might have been
left behind, and, of course, travelling somewhat in the rear of the rest,
they were further able to realize any matters that those preceding them
might drop during the progress of the day.  The Tartar soldiers pursued a
conduct precisely the reverse: they were ever in the van, and at the
sides of the caravan, dashing about to the tops of the hills and the
depths of the valleys to see that no ambush of brigands lay in wait
there.

              [Picture: The Tchanak-Kampo, and the Caravan]

The general march and particular movements of the caravan were executed
with tolerable order and precision, especially at the outset.  Generally,
we started every morning two or three hours before sunrise, in order that
we might encamp about noon, and give the animals full time to feed during
the remainder of the day; the reveillé was announced by a cannon shot;
forthwith, everybody rose, the fires were lighted, and while some of each
particular party loaded the beasts of burden, the others boiled the
kettle and prepared breakfast; a few cups of tea were drunk, a few
handfuls of tsamba eaten, and then the tent was taken down, and packed.
A second cannon-shot gave the signal for departure.  A few of the more
experienced horsemen took the lead as guides; these were followed by long
files of camels, and then came the long-haired cattle, in herds of two or
three hundred beasts each, under the care of several lakto.  The horsemen
had no fixed place in the procession; they dashed here and there, up and
down, just as their caprice suggested.  The plaintive cries of the
camels, the roaring of the bulls, the lowing of the cows, the neighing of
the horses, the talking, bawling, laughing, singing of the travellers,
the whistling of the lakto to the beasts of burden, and, above all, the
innumerable bells tinkling from the necks of the yaks and the camels,
produced together an immense, undefinable concert, which, far from
wearying, seemed, on the contrary, to inspire everybody with fresh
courage and energy.

The caravan went on thus across the desert, stopping each day in plains,
in valleys, and on the mountain sides, improvising, with its tents, so
numerous and so varied in form and colour, a large town, which vanished
each morning, to reappear further on each evening.  What an astonishing
thing it must have been for these vast and silent deserts, to find
themselves, all of a sudden, traversed by so numerous and so noisy a
multitude!  When we viewed those infinite travelling tents, those large
herds, and those men, in turns shepherds and warriors, we could not help
frequently reflecting upon the march of the Israelites, when they went in
search of the Promised Land, through the solitudes of Median.

On quitting the shore of the Blue Sea, we directed our steps towards the
west, with a slight inclination, perhaps, southward.  The first days of
our march were perfect poetry; everything was just as we could have
wished; the weather was magnificent, the road excellent, the water pure,
the pastures rich and ample.  As to brigands, we lost all thought of
them.  In the night, it was, indeed, rather cold; but this inconvenience
was easily obviated by the aid of our sheep-skin coats.  We asked one
another what people could mean by representing this Thibet journey as
something so formidable; it seemed to us impossible for any one to travel
more comfortably, or more agreeably.  Alas! this enchantment was not of
long duration.

Six days after our departure, we had to cross the Pouhain-Gol, a river
which derives its source from the slopes of the Nan-Chan mountains, and
throws itself into the Blue Sea.  Its waters are not very deep, but being
distributed in some dozen channels, very close to one another, they
occupy altogether a breadth of more than a league.  We had the misfortune
to reach the first branch of the Pouhain-Gol long before daybreak; the
water was frozen, but not thickly enough to serve as a bridge.  The
horses which arrived first grew alarmed and would not advance; they
stopped on the bank, and gave the cattle time to come up with them.  The
whole caravan thus became assembled at one point, and it would be
impossible to describe the disorder and confusion which prevailed in that
enormous mass, amid the darkness of night.  At last, several horsemen,
pushing on their steeds and breaking the ice, actually and figuratively,
the whole caravan followed in their train: the ice cracked in all
directions, the animals stumbled about and splashed up the water, and the
men shouted and vociferated; the tumult was absolutely fearful.  After
having traversed the first branch of the river, we had to manœuvre, in
the same way, over the second, and then over the third, and so on.  When
day broke, the Holy Embassy was still dabbling in the water: at length,
after infinite fatigue and infinite quaking, physical and moral, we had
the delight to leave behind us the twelve arms of the Pouhain-Gol, and to
find ourselves on dry land; but all our poetical visions had vanished,
and we began to think this manner of travelling perfectly detestable.

And yet everybody about us was in a state of jubilation, exclaiming that
the passage of the Pouhain-Gol had been admirably executed.  Only one man
had broken his legs, and only two animals had been drowned.  As to the
articles lost or stolen, during the protracted disorder, no one took any
heed to them.

When the caravan resumed its accustomed march, it presented a truly
ludicrous appearance.  Men and animals were all, more or less, covered
with icicles.  The horses walked on, very dolefully, evidently much
incommoded by their tails, which hung down, all in a mass, stiff and
motionless, as though they had been made of lead instead of hair.  The
long hair on the legs of the camels had become magnificent icicles, which
knocked one against the other, as the animals advanced, with harmonious
discord.  It was very manifest, however, that these fine ornaments were
not at all to the wearers’ taste, for they endeavoured, from time to
time, to shake them off by stamping violently on the ground.  As to the
long-haired oxen, they were regular caricatures; nothing can be conceived
more ludicrous than their appearance, as they slowly advanced, with legs
separated to the utmost possible width, in order to admit of an enormous
system of stalactites which hung from their bellies to the ground.  The
poor brutes had been rendered so perfectly shapeless by the agglomeration
of icicles with which they were covered, that they looked as though they
were preserved in sugar-candy.

During the first few days of our march we were somewhat isolated and
lonely amid the multitude; without friends or even acquaintance.
However, we soon acquired companions, for there is nothing like
travelling to bring men together.  The companions whom we entered into
association with, and beside whose tent we each day set up our own, were
neither merchants, nor pilgrims, nor members of the embassy itself, nor
simple travellers, like ourselves; they were four Lamas, who constituted
a category altogether apart.  Two of them were from Lha-Ssa, one from
Further Thibet, and the fourth from the kingdom of Torgot.  On our way,
they related to us their long and picturesque history, of which the
following is an outline.

The three Thibetian Lamas had become the disciples of a Grand Lama, named
Altère, who proposed to erect, in the vicinity of Lha-Ssa, a Buddhist
temple, which, in extent and magnificence, was to surpass all those
previously existing.  One day he announced to his three disciples that
all his plans were formed, and that they must all now proceed upon a
grand quest for subscriptions wherewith to defray the enormous expenses
of the sacred construction.  They accordingly all four set forth, with
hearts full of zeal and devotion.  They first directed their steps
towards the north, and traversing all Central Asia, reached the kingdom
of Torgot, close to the Russian frontier.  On their way, they called at
all the Lamaseries, and at the abode of all the Thibetian and Tartar
princes that lay near the route.  Everywhere, they received considerable
offerings, for, besides that their object was of itself calculated to
excite the warmest interest in well-disposed minds, Altère-Lama had
letters of recommendation from the Talé-Lama, from the
Bandchan-Remboutchi, and from the heads of all the most famous Lamaseries
of Thibet.  In Torgot, a rich Mongol Lama, touched with the devotion of
these intrepid collectors, offered them all his herds, and entreated
Altère-Lama to admit him among his disciples, so that he might aid them
in their mission through the countries of Tartary.  Altère-Lama, on his
part, moved with a zeal so pure, a disinterestedness so entire, consented
to accept both his offerings and himself.  The Lama collectors thus
became five in number.

From Torgot they directed their march towards the east, going from one
tribe to another, and everywhere augmenting their herds of cattle, sheep,
and horses.  On their way they passed through the country of the
Khalkhas, where they stayed for some time in the Lamasery of the Great
Kouren, the offerings of the Tartar pilgrims flowing in abundantly.
Hence, they turned south, to Peking, where they converted into gold and
silver the innumerable animals which they had collected together from all
parts.  After an extended residence in the capital of the Chinese empire,
they resumed their operations in the deserts of Tartary, and still
seeking subscriptions, and still receiving them, arrived at Kounboum.  In
this famous and sainted Lamasery, capable of appreciating the merit of
good Lamas, the zeal and devotion of the celebrated questors attained a
colossal reputation; they became the objects of the public veneration,
and the professors, who aimed at perfection in their pupils, proposed to
them these five men as models.

Altère-Lama, after three years of so meritorious a quest, now only sighed
for the hour when he should return to Lha-Ssa and consecrate to the
construction of his temple all the rich offerings he had succeeded in
collecting.  Great, therefore, was his joy, when he heard the
intelligence that the Thibetian embassy was at hand.  He resolved to
avail himself of its escort, on its return from Peking, so as securely to
convey his gold and his silver through the dangerous district of the
Kolo.  Meanwhile, he announced, he would apply all his attention to the
preparations required for this important journey.

But, alas! the projects of men are often frustrated at the very moment
when they seem on the point of succeeding in the most triumphant manner.
One fine day there arrived at Si-Ning-Fou an imperial courier
extraordinary, bearing dispatches by which the Grand Mandarin of that
town was ordered to arrange with the superior of the Lamasery of
Kounboum, for the immediate arrest of Altère-Lama, charged with having,
during the past three years, committed the most comprehensive swindling,
by means of certain letters of recommendation, falsely attributed to the
Talé-Lama.  The orders of his imperial majesty were executed.  One may
easily imagine the stupifaction, on the occasion, of the poor
Altère-Lama, and especially of his four disciples, who throughout the
affair, had acted with the most entire good faith.  The very embassy, on
the protection of which Altère-Lama had so relied, was directed by the
Thibetian government to take charge of the Grand Questor, whose
marvellous successes had been published at Lha-Ssa, by the indiscreet
laudations of the pilgrims.

Altère-Lama, having been arrested on the spot, was immediately forwarded,
under safe escort, to Lha-Ssa, the route taken by his guard being that of
the imperial couriers, through the province of Sse-Tchouan.  Upon his
arrival in the capital of Thibet, his case was to be investigated by his
natural judges.  Meanwhile, his prodigious receipts were confiscated to
the benefit of the Talé-Lama; for, obviously, nothing could be more just
than that he should be placed in possession of the gold and the silver
which had been raised under the all-potent influence of his name.  As to
the Grand Questor’s four disciples, it was arranged that they should
await the return of the Thibetian embassy, and proceed with it to
Lha-Ssa, taking with them fifty-eight magnificent camels which the
Altère-Lama had procured, and which were to be at the disposal of the
Thibetian government.

These four unfortunate disciples were the travelling companions whom good
fortune had thrown in our way.  The recollection of their fallen master
was ever in their minds, but the sentiments which that recollection
excited in them were not always the same.  Sometimes they regarded their
master as a saint, sometimes as a swindler; one day they would pronounce
his name with veneration, raising their clasped hands to their forehead;
another day, they would curse him, and spit in the air, to show their
contempt for him.  The Lama of Torgot, however, always made the best of
the matter.  He reproached himself, sometimes, for having made an
offering of all his herds to a man who now developed, pretty manifestly,
every appearance of a rogue; but still he consoled himself that after all
the man’s knavery had been the occasion of his seeing a good deal of the
world, and visiting the most celebrated Lamaseries.  These four young men
were excellent fellows, and capital travelling companions.  Every day
they gave us some fresh details of their varied adventures, and their
narratives frequently contributed to make us forget, for awhile, the
fatigues and miseries of the journey.

A permanent cause of the sufferings we had to endure was our pro-cameleer
Charadchambeul.  At first, this young Lama appeared to us a budding
saint, but before long, we found that we had got amongst us a complete
little demon with a human face.  The following adventure opened our eyes
to his character, and showed us what we should have to endure on his
account.

The day after the passage of the Pouhain-Gol, when we had been marching
for a part of the night, we remarked, on one of our camels, two great
packages, carefully enveloped in wrappers, which we had not before seen.
We thought, however, that some traveller, who had not been able to find
room for them on his own sumpter animal, had asked Charadchambeul to take
charge of them during the journey; and we, accordingly, quietly pursued
our way, without, at the time, recurring to the circumstance.  When we
reached our encampment for the night, so soon as the baggage was taken
down, we saw, to our great surprise, our Lama of the Ratchico mountains
take the two packets, envelope them mysteriously in a piece of felt, and
hide them in a corner of the tent.  There was evidently something here
which required explanation; and we accordingly desired Charadchambeul to
inform us what was this new luggage that we saw in the tent.  He
approached us, and in a whisper as though fearing to be heard, told us
that during the night Buddha had bestowed on him a special grace, in
enabling him to find on the road a good thing, and then he added, with a
knavish smile, that at Lha-Ssa, this good thing would sell for at least
ten ounces of silver.  We frowned, and required to see this same good
thing.  Charadchambeul, having first carefully closed the door of the
tent, uncovered, with infinite emotion, his pretended godsend.  It
consisted of two great leathern jars, full of a sort of brandy, that is
distilled in the province of Kan-Sou, and which is sold at a high price.
On these two jars were Thibetian characters indicating the well known
name of the proprietor.  We had the charity to reject the thought that
Charadchambeul had stolen these jars, during the night; and preferred to
suppose that he had picked them up on the road.  But our pro-cameleer was
a casuist of very loose morality.  He pretended that the jars belonged to
him, that Buddha had made him a present of them, and that all which now
required to be done was carefully to conceal them, lest the previous
proprietor should discover them.  Any attempt to reason such a worthy as
this into morality and justice, would have been simply lost labour and
time.  We therefore emphatically declared to him that the jars were
neither our’s nor his, that we would neither receive them into our tent
nor place them on our camels during the journey, and that we had no
desire whatever to arrive at Lha-Ssa with the character of being thieves.
And in order that he might labour under no sort of misconception as to
our feelings, we added, that unless he forthwith removed the jars from
our tent, we should instantly proceed and give information of the
circumstance to the proprietor.  He seemed somewhat shaken by this
intimation, and in order effectually to induce him to restitution, we
advised him to carry what he had “found” to the ambassador, and request
him to return it to the owner.  The Tchanak-Kampo, we said, would not
fail to be affected by his probity, and even if he did not give him a
reward in hand, would bear him in mind, and when we reached Lha-Ssa would
doubtless benefit him in some way.  After an animated opposition, this
advice was adopted.  Charadchambeul presented himself before the
Tchanak-Kampo, who said to him, on receiving the jars: “Thou art a good
Lama.  A Lama who has justice in his heart, is acceptable to the
spirits.”  Charadchambeul returned perfectly furious, vehemently
exclaiming that we had induced him to commit an imbecility in giving up
the jars to the ambassador, who had presented him with nothing in return
but empty words.  From that moment he vowed an implacable hatred towards
us.  He did his work how and when he pleased; he took a delight in
wasting our provisions; every day he loaded us with abuse, and in his
rage often turning upon the poor animals, he would beat them about the
head till he had half killed them.  To discharge the wretch there, amid
the desert, was impossible.  We were fain therefore to arm ourselves with
patience and resignation, and to avoid irritating still more the man’s
untamed ferocity.

Five days after the passage of the Pouhain-Gol, we reached Toulain-Gol, a
narrow, shallow river, which we crossed without any difficulty.  The
caravan halted shortly afterwards near a Lamasery, which had the
appearance of former prosperity, but which was, at present, wholly
deserted.  The temples and the Lamas cells, all tumbling in pieces, had
become the abode of bats and of enormous rats.  We heard that this
Buddhist monastery, after having been besieged for three days by the
brigands, had been taken by them, the greater portion of the inmates
massacred, and the place itself plundered and demolished.  From that time
forth, no Lama had ventured to settle in the spot.  The vicinity,
however, was not so entirely uninhabited as we at first supposed.  In
walking over some rocky hills close by, we found a herd of goats and
three miserable tents, concealed in a ravine.  The poor inmates came out
and begged for a few leaves of tea and a little tsamba.  Their eyes were
hollow, and their features pale and haggard.  They knew not, they said,
where to take refuge, so as to live in peace.  The fear of the brigands
was so powerful over them, that it divested them even of the courage to
flee away.

Next day the caravan continued its route, but the Chinese escort remained
encamped on the bank of the river; its task was completed, and after a
few days rest, it would return home.  The Thibetian merchants, so far
from being distressed at the circumstance, said that now the Chinese
soldiers were no longer with them, they should be able to sleep at night,
freed from the fear of thieves.

On the 15th November, we quitted the magnificent plains of the
Koukou-Noor, and entered upon the territory of the Mongols of Tsaidam.
Immediately after crossing the river of that name, we found the aspect of
the country totally changed.  Nature becomes all of a sudden savage and
sad; the soil, arid and stony, produces with difficulty a few dry,
saltpetrous bushes.  The morose and melancholy tinge of these dismal
regions seems to have had its full influence upon the character of its
inhabitants, who are all evidently a prey to the spleen.  They say very
little, and their language is so rude and guttural that other Mongols can
scarcely understand them.  Mineral salt and borax abound on this arid and
almost wholly pastureless soil.  You dig holes two or three feet deep,
and the salt collects therein, and crystallizes and purifies of itself,
without your having to take any trouble in the matter.  The borax is
collected from small reservoirs, which become completely full of it.  The
Thibetians carry quantities of it into their own country, where they sell
it to the goldsmiths, who apply it to facilitate the fusion of metals.
We stayed two days in the land of Tsaidam, feasting upon tsamba and some
goats which the shepherds gave in exchange for some bricks of tea.  The
long-tailed oxen and the camels regaled themselves with the nitre and
salt which they had every where about for the picking up.  The grand
object with the whole caravan was to get up its strength as much as
possible, with a view to the passage of the Bourhan-Bota, a mountain
noted for the pestilential vapours in which, as we were informed, it is
constantly enveloped.

We started at three in the morning, and after infinite sinuosities and
meanderings over this hilly country, we arrived, by nine o’clock, at the
foot of the Bourhan-Bota.  There the caravan halted for a moment, as if
to poise its strength; everybody measured, with his eyes, the steep and
rugged paths of the lofty ascent, gazed with anxiety at a light, thin
vapour, which we were told was the pestilential vapour in question, and
for awhile the entire party was completely depressed and discouraged.
After having taken the hygeianic measures prescribed by tradition, and
which consist in masticating two or three cloves of garlic, we began to
clamber up the side of the mountain.  Before long, the horses refused to
carry their riders, and all, men as well as animals, advanced on foot,
and step by step; by degrees, our faces grew pale, our hearts sick, and
our legs incapable of supporting us; we threw ourselves on the ground,
then rose again to make another effort; then once more prostrated
ourselves, and again rose to stumble on some paces farther; in this
deplorable fashion was it that we ascended the famous Bourhan-Bota.
Heavens! what wretchedness it was we went through; one’s strength seemed
exhausted, one’s head turning round, one’s limbs dislocated; it was just
like a thoroughly bad sea-sickness; and yet, all the while, one has to
retain enough energy, not only to drag one’s self on, but, moreover, to
keep thrashing the animals which lie down at every step, and can hardly
be got to move.  One portion of the caravan, as a measure of precaution,
stopped half way up the mountain, in a gully where the pestilential
vapours, they said, were not so dense; the other portion of the caravan,
equally as a measure of precaution, exerted their most intense efforts in
order to make their way right up to the top, so as to avoid being
asphyxiated by that dreadful air, so completely charged with carbonic
acid.  We were of the number of those who ascended the Bourhan-Bota at
one stretch.  On reaching its summit, our lungs dilated at their ease.
The descent of the mountain was mere child’s play, and we were soon able
to set up our tent far from the murderous air we had encountered on the
ascent.

The Bourhan-Bota mountain has this remarkable particularity, that the
deleterious vapour for which it is noted, is only found on the sides
facing the east and the north; elsewhere, the air of the mountain is
perfectly pure and respirable.  The pestilential vapours themselves would
appear to be nothing more than carbonic acid gas.  The people attached to
the embassy told us that when there is any wind, the vapours are scarcely
perceptible, but that they are very dangerous when the weather is calm
and serene.  Carbonic acid gas being, as the reader is aware, heavier
than the atmospheric air, necessarily condenses on the surface of the
ground, and remains fixed there until some great agitation of the air
sets it in movement, disperses it in the atmosphere, and neutralizes its
effects.  When we crossed the Bourhan-Bota, the weather was rather calm
than otherwise.  We remarked, that when we were lying on the ground,
respiration was much more difficult; when, on the contrary, we raised
ourselves on horseback, the influence of the gas was scarcely felt.  The
presence of the carbonic acid rendered it very difficult to light a fire;
the argols burned without flame, and threw out great quantities of smoke.
As to the manner in which the gas is formed, or as to whence it comes, we
can give no sort of idea.  We will merely add, for the benefit of those
who are fond of seeking explanations of things in their names, that
Bourhan-Bota means Kitchen of Bourhan; Bourhan being a synonyme of
Buddha.

During the night we passed on the other side of the mountain, there fell
a frightful quantity of snow.  Our companions, who had not ventured to
ascend the entire mountain at once, rejoined us in the morning; they
informed us that they had effected the ascent of the upper portion of the
mountain easily enough, the snow having dispersed the vapour.

The passage of the Bourhan-Bota was but a sort of apprenticeship.  A few
days after, Mount Chuga put our strength and courage to a still more
formidable test.  The day’s march being long and laborious, the cannon
shot, our signal for departure, was heard at one o’clock in the morning.
We made our tea with melted snow, ate a good meal of tsamba, seasoned
with a clove of garlic, cut up into small bits, and started.  When the
huge caravan first set itself in motion, the sky was clear, and a
brilliant moon lit up the great carpet of snow with which the whole
country was covered.  Mount Chuga being not very steep in the direction
where we approached it, we were able to attain the summit by sunrise.
Almost immediately afterwards, however, the sky became thickly overcast
with clouds, and the wind began to blow with a violence which grew
constantly more and more intense.  The opposite sides of the mountain we
found so encumbered with snow, that the animals were up to their girths
in it; they could only advance by a series of convulsive efforts, which
threw several of them into gulfs from which it was impossible to
extricate them, and where they accordingly perished.  We marched in the
very teeth of a wind so strong and so icy, that it absolutely at times
choked our respiration, and despite our thick furs, made us tremble lest
we should be killed with the cold.  In order to avoid the whirlwinds of
snow which the wind perpetually dashed in our faces, we adopted the
example of some of our fellow travellers, who bestrode their horses’
backs with their faces to the tail, leaving the animals to follow the
guidance of their instinct.  When we reached the foot of the mountain,
and could use our eyes, we found that more than one face had been frozen
in the descent.  Poor M. Gabet, among the rest, had to deplore the
temporary decease of his nose and ears.  Everybody’s skin was more or
less chapped and cut.

The caravan halted at the foot of Mount Chuga, and each member of it
sought refuge for awhile in the labyrinths of a number of adjacent
defiles.  Exhausted with hunger, and our limbs thoroughly benumbed, what
we wanted to bring us to, was a good fire, a good supper, and a good
well-warmed bed; but the Chuga is far from possessing the comfortable
features of the Alps; no Buddhist monks have as yet bethought themselves
of taking up their abode there for the solace and salvation of poor
travellers.  We were, consequently, fain to set up our tent amid the
snow, and then to go in search of what argols we could burn.  It was a
spectacle worthy of all pity to see that multitude, wandering about in
all directions, and rummaging up the snow, in the hope of lighting upon
some charming thick bed of argols.  For ourselves, after long and
laborious research, we managed to collect just enough of the article to
melt three great lumps of ice, which we extracted by aid of a hatchet,
from an adjacent pond.  Our fire not being strong enough to boil the
kettle, we had to content ourselves with infusing our tsamba in some
tepid water, and gulping it down in order to prevent its freezing in our
hands.  Such was all the supper we had after our frightful day’s journey.
We then rolled ourselves up in our goat-skins and blankets, and,
crouching in a corner of the tent, awaited the cannon-shot that was to
summon us to our delightful _Impressions de Voyage_.

We left in this picturesque and enchanting encampment, the Tartar
soldiers who had escorted us since our departure from Koukou-Noor; they
were no longer able to extend to us their generous protection, for, that
very day, we were about to quit Tartary, and to enter the territory of
Hither Thibet.  The Chinese and Tartar soldiers having thus left us, the
embassy had now only to rely upon its own internal resources.  As we have
already stated, this great body of 2,000 men was completely armed, and
everyone, with the merest exception, had announced himself prepared to
show himself, upon occasion, a good soldier.  But some how or other the
whilome so martial and valorous air of the caravan had become singularly
modified since the passage of the Bourhan-Bota.  Nobody sang now, nobody
joked, nobody laughed, nobody pranced about on his horse; everybody was
dull and silent; the moustaches which heretofore had been so fiercely
turned up, were now humbly veiled beneath the lamb-skins with which all
our faces were covered up to the eyes.  All our gallant soldiers had made
up their lances, fusils, sabres, bows and arrows, into bundles, which
were packed upon their sumpter animals.  For that matter, the fear of
being killed by the brigands scarcely occurred now to any one: the point
was to avoid being killed by the cold.

It was on Mount Chuga that the long train of our real miseries really
began.  The snow, the wind, and the cold there set to work upon us, with
a fury which daily increased.  The deserts of Thibet are certainly the
most frightful country that it is possible to conceive.  The ground
continuing to rise, vegetation diminished as we advanced, and the cold
grew more and more intense.  Death now hovered over the unfortunate
caravan.  The want of water and of pasturage soon destroyed the strength
of our animals.  Each day we had to abandon beasts of burden that could
drag themselves on no further.  The turn of the men came somewhat later.
The aspect of the road was of dismal auspice.  For several days, we
travelled through what seemed the excavations of a great cemetery.  Human
bones, and the carcases of animals presenting themselves at every step,
seemed to warn us that, in this fatal region, amidst this savage nature,
the caravans which had preceded us, had preceded us in death.

To complete our misery, M. Gabet fell ill, his health abandoning him just
at the moment when the frightful difficulties of the route called for
redoubled energy and courage.  The excessive cold he had undergone on the
passage of Mount Chuga, had entirely broken up his strength.  To regain
his previous vigour, he needed repose, tonic drinks, and a substantial
nourishment, whereas all we had to give him was barley-meal, and tea made
with snow water; and, moreover, notwithstanding his extreme weakness, he
had every day to ride on horseback, and to struggle against an iron
climate.  And we had two months more of this travelling before us, in the
depth of winter.  Our prospect was, indeed, sombre!

Towards the commencement of September, we arrived in sight of the
Bayen-Kharat, a famous chain of mountains, extending from south-east to
north-west, between the Hoang-Ho and the Kin-Cha-Kiang.  These two great
rivers, after running a parallel course on either side of the
Bayen-Kharat, then separate and take opposite directions, the one towards
the north, the other towards the south.  After a thousand capricious
meanderings in Tartary and Thibet, they both enter the Chinese empire;
and after having watered it from west to east, they approach each other,
towards their mouths, and fall into the Yellow Sea very nearly together.
The point at which we crossed the Bayen-Kharat is not far from the
sources of the Yellow River; they lay on our left, and a couple of days’
journey would have enabled us to visit them; but this was by no means the
season for pleasure trips.  We had no fancy for a tourist’s excursion to
the sources of the Yellow River: how to cross the Bayen-Kharat was ample
occupation for our thoughts.

From its foot to its summit the mountain was completely enveloped in a
thick coat of snow.  Before undertaking the ascent, the principal members
of the embassy held a council.  The question was not whether they should
pass the mountain: if they desired to reach Lha-Ssa, the passage of the
mountain was an essential preliminary; nor was it the question, whether
they should await the melting of the snow; the point was simply whether
it would be more advantageous to ascend the mountain at once or to wait
till next day.  The fear of avalanches filled every one’s mind, and we
should all have gladly subscribed to effect an assurance against the
wind.  After the example of all the councils in the world, the council of
the Thibetian embassy was soon divided into two parties, the one
contending that it would be better to start forthwith, the other
insisting that we ought, by all means, to wait till the morrow.

To extricate themselves from this embarrassment, they had recourse to the
Lamas, who had the reputation of being diviners.  But this expedient did
not combine all minds in unity.  Among the diviners there were some who
declared that this day would be calm, but that the next day there would
be a terrible wind, and there were others who announced an exactly
contrary opinion.  The caravan thus became divided into two camps, that
of movement and that of non-movement.  It will at once be understood that
in our character of French citizens, we instinctively placed ourselves in
the ranks of the progressists; that is to say, of those who desired to
advance, and to have done with this villainous mountain as soon as
possible.  It appeared to us, moreover, that reason was altogether on our
side.  The weather just then was perfectly calm; but we knew not what it
might be on the morrow.  Our party, therefore, proceeded to scale these
mountains of snow, sometimes on horseback, but more frequently on foot.
In the latter case, we made our animals precede us, and we hung on to
their tails, a mode of ascending mountains which is certainly the least
fatiguing of all.  M. Gabet suffered dreadfully, but God, of his infinite
goodness, gave us strength and energy enough to reach the other side.
The weather was calm throughout, and we were assailed by no avalanche
whatever.

Next morning, at daybreak, the party who had remained behind, advanced
and crossed the mountain with entire success.  As we had had the
politeness to wait for them, they joined us, and we entered together a
valley where the temperature was comparatively mild.  The excellence of
the pasturage induced the caravan to take a day’s rest here.  A deep
lake, in the ice of which we dug wells, supplied us with abundance of
water.  We had plenty of fuel, too, for the embassies and pilgrimages
being in the habit of halting in the valley, after the passage of the
Bayen-Kharat, one is always sure to find plenty of argols there.  We all
kept up great fires throughout our stay, burning all the burnable things
we could find, without the smallest consideration for our successors,
leaving it to our 15,000 long-haired oxen to supply the deficit.

We quitted the great valley of Bayen-Kharat, and set up our tents on the
banks of the Mourouï-Oussou, or, as the Thibetians call it, Polei-Tchou
(river of the Lord.)  Towards its source, this magnificent river bears
the name of Mourouï-Oussou (tortuous river); further on it is called
Kin-Cha-Kiang (river of golden sand), and arrived in the province of
Sse-Tchouan, it becomes the famous Yang-Dze-Kiang (blue river.)  As we
were passing the Mourouï-Oussou, on the ice, a singular spectacle
presented itself.  We had previously, from our encampment, observed dark,
shapeless masses, ranged across this great river; and it was not until we
came quite close to these fantastic islets that we could at all make head
or tail of them.  Then we found out that they were neither more nor less
than upwards of fifty wild cattle, absolutely encrusted in the ice.  They
had no doubt attempted to swim across the river, at the precise moment of
the concretion of the waters, and had been so hemmed in by the flakes as
to be unable to extricate themselves.  Their fine heads, surmounted with
great horns, were still above the surface; the rest of the bodies was
enclosed by the ice, which was so transparent as to give a full view of
the form and position of the unlucky animals, which looked as though they
were still swimming.  The eagles and crows had pecked out their eyes.

Wild cattle are of frequent occurrence in the deserts of Hither Thibet.
They always live in great herds, and prefer the summits of the mountains.
During the summer, indeed, they descend into the valleys in order to
quench their thirst in the streams and ponds; but throughout the long
winter season, they remain on the heights feeding on snow, and on a very
hard rough grass they find there.  These animals, which are of enormous
size, with long black hair, are especially remarkable for the immense
dimensions and splendid form of their horns.  It is not at all prudent to
hunt them, for they are said to be extremely ferocious.  When, indeed,
you find two or three of them separated from the main herd, you may
venture to attack them; but the assailants must be numerous, in order to
make sure of their game, for if they do not kill the animal at once there
is decided danger of his killing them.  One day we perceived one of these
creatures licking up the nitre in a small place encircled with rocks.
Eight men, armed with matchlocks, left the caravan, and posted themselves
in ambush, without being detected by the bull.  Eight gun-shots were
fired at once; the bull raised his head, looked round with fiery eyes in
search of the places whence he had been assailed, and then dashed over
the rocks into the plain, where he tore about furiously, roaring awfully.
The hunters affirmed that he had been wounded, but that, intimidated by
the appearance of the caravan, he had not ventured to turn upon his
assailants.

Wild mules are also very numerous in Hither Tartary.  After we had passed
the Mourouï-Oussou we saw some almost every day.  This animal, which our
naturalists call _cheval hémione_, a horse half-ass, is of the size of an
ordinary mule; but its form is finer and its movements more graceful and
active; its hair, red on the back, grows lighter and lighter down to the
belly, where it is almost white.  The head, large and ugly, is wholly at
variance with the elegance of its body; when in slow motion, it carries
its head erect, and its long ears extended; when it gallops, it turns its
head to the wind, and raises its tail, which exactly resembles that of
the ordinary mule; its neigh is ringing, clear, and sonorous, and its
speed so great that no Thibetian or Tartar horseman can overtake it.  The
mode of taking it, is to post oneself in ambush near the places that lead
to the springs where they drink, and to shoot it with arrows or bullets:
the flesh is excellent, and the skins are converted into boots.  The
hémiones are productive, and their young, from generation to generation,
are always of the same species.  They have never been tamed to domestic
purposes.  We heard of individuals having been taken quite young, and
brought up with other foals; but it has always been found impracticable
to mount them or to get them to carry any burden.  With the first
opportunity, they run away, and resume their wild state.  It did not,
however, appear to us that they were so extremely fierce as they were
represented: we have seen them frolicking about with the horses of our
caravan, when pasturing; and it was only on the approach of man, whom
they see and scent at a great distance, that they took to flight.  The
lynx, the chamois, the reindeer, and the wild goat abound in Hither
Tartary.

                     [Picture: Wild mules of Tartary]

Some days after the passage of the Mourouï-Oussou, the caravan began to
break up; those who had camels, went on a-head, refusing to be any longer
delayed by the slow progress of the long-haired oxen.  Besides, the
nature of the country no longer permitted so large a body to encamp on
one spot.  The pasturages became so scarce and meagre, that the animals
of the caravan could not travel all together, without the danger of
starving all together.  We joined the camel party, and soon left behind
us the long-haired oxen.  The camel party itself was before long fain to
subdivide; and the grand unity once broken, there were formed a number of
petty caravans, which did not always concur, either as to the place of
encampment or the hour of departure.

We were imperceptibly attaining the highest point of Upper Asia, when a
terrible north wind, which lasted fifteen days, combined with the fearful
severity of the temperature, menaced us with destruction.  The weather
was still clear; but the cold was so intense that even at mid-day we
scarcely felt the influence of the sun’s rays, and then we had the utmost
difficulty in standing against the wind.  During the rest of the day, and
more especially during the night, we were under constant apprehension of
dying with cold.  Everybody’s face and hands were regularly ploughed up.
To give something like an idea of this cold, the reality of which,
however, can never be appreciated, except by those who have felt it, it
may suffice to mention a circumstance which seemed to us rather striking.
Every morning, before proceeding on our journey, we ate a meal, and then
we did not eat again until the evening, after we had encamped.  As tsamba
is not a very toothsome affair, we could not get down, at a time, as much
as was required for our nourishment during the day; so we used to make
three or four balls of it, with our tea, and keep these in reserve, to be
eaten, from time to time, on our road.  The hot paste was wrapped in a
piece of hot linen, and then deposited in our breast.  Over it, were all
our clothes; to wit, a thick robe of sheepskin, then a lamb-skin jacket,
then a short fox-skin cloak, and then a great wool overall; now, upon
every one of the fifteen days in question, our tsamba cakes were always
frozen.  When we took them out, they were merely so many balls of ice,
which, notwithstanding, we were fain to devour, at the risk of breaking
our teeth, in order to avoid the greater risk of starvation.

The animals, overcome with fatigue and privation, had infinite difficulty
in at all resisting the intensity of the cold.  The mules and horses,
being less vigorous than the camels and long-haired oxen, required
especial attention.  We were obliged to pack them in great pieces of
carpet, carefully fastened round the body, the head being enveloped in
rolls of camel’s hair.  Under any other circumstances this singular
costume would have excited our hilarity, but just then, we were in no
laughing mood.  Despite all these precautions, the animals of the caravan
were decimated by death.

The numerous rivers that we had to pass upon the ice were another source
of inconceivable misery and fatigue.  Camels are so awkward and their
walk is so uncouth and heavy, that in order to facilitate their passage,
we were compelled to make a path for them across each river, either by
strewing sand and dust, or by breaking the first coat of ice with our
hatchets.  After this, we had to take the brutes, one by one, and guide
them carefully over the path thus traced out; if they had the ill-luck to
stumble or slip, it was all over with them; down they threw themselves on
the ice, and it was only with the utmost labour they could be got up
again.  We had first to take off their baggage, then to drag them with
ropes to the bank, and then to stretch a carpet on which they might be
induced to rise; sometimes all this labour was lost: you might beat the
obstinate animals, pull them, kick them; not an effort would they make to
get on their legs; in such cases, the only course was to leave them where
they lay, for it was clearly impossible to wait, in those hideous
localities, until the pig-headed brute chose to rise.

All these combined miseries ended in casting the poor travellers into a
depression bordering on despair.  To the mortality of the animals, was
now added that of the men, who, hopelessly seized upon by the cold, were
abandoned, yet living, on the road.  One day, when the exhaustion of our
animals had compelled us to relax our march, so that we were somewhat
behind the main body, we perceived a traveller sitting on a great stone,
his head bent forward on his chest, his arms pressed against his sides,
and his whole frame motionless as a statue.  We called to him several
times, but he made no reply, and did not even indicate, by the slightest
movement, that he heard us.  “How absurd,” said we to each other, “for a
man to loiter in this way in such dreadful weather.  The wretched fellow
will assuredly die of cold.”  We called to him once more, but he remained
silent and motionless as before.  We dismounted, went up to him, and
recognised in him a young Mongol Lama, who had often paid us a visit in
our tent.  His face was exactly like wax, and his eyes, half-opened, had
a glassy appearance; icicles hung from his nostrils and from the corners
of his mouth.  We spoke to him, but obtained no answer; and for a moment
we thought him dead.  Presently, however, he opened his eyes, and fixed
them upon us with a horrible expression of stupifaction: the poor
creature was frozen, and we comprehended at once that he had been
abandoned by his companions.  It seemed to us so frightful to leave a man
to die, without making an effort to save him, that we did not hesitate to
take him with us.  We took him from the stone on which he had been
placed, enveloped him in a wrapper, seated him upon Samdadchiemba’s
little mule, and thus brought him to the encampment.  When we had set up
our tent, we went to visit the companions of this poor young man.  Upon
our informing them what we had done, they prostrated themselves in token
of thanks, and said that we were people of excellent hearts, but that we
had given ourselves much labour in vain, for that the case was beyond
cure.  “He is frozen,” said they, “and nothing can prevent the cold from
getting to his heart.”  We ourselves did not participate in this
despairing view of the case, and we returned to our tent, accompanied by
one of the patient’s companions, to see what further could be done.  When
we reached our temporary home, the young Lama was dead.

More than forty men of the caravan were abandoned still living, in the
desert, without the slightest possibility of our aiding them.  They were
carried on horseback and on camelback so long as any hope remained, but
when they could no longer eat, or speak, or hold themselves up, they were
left on the way-side.  The general body of the caravan could not stay to
nurse them, in a barren desert, where there was hourly danger of wild
beasts, of robbers, and, worse than all, of a deficiency of food.  Yet,
it was a fearful spectacle to see these dying men abandoned on the road!
As a last token of sympathy, we placed beside each, a wooden cup and a
small bag of barley-meal, and then the caravan mournfully proceeded on
its way.  As soon as the last straggler had passed on, the crows and
vultures that incessantly hovered above the caravan, would pounce down
upon the unhappy creatures who retained just enough of life to feel
themselves torn and mangled by these birds of prey.

The north wind greatly aggravated M. Gabet’s malady.  From day to day his
condition grew more alarming.  His extreme weakness would not permit him
to walk, and being thus precluded from warming himself by means of a
little exercise, his feet, hands, and face were completely frozen; his
lips became livid, and his eyes almost extinct; by-and-by he was not able
to support himself on horseback.  Our only remedy was to wrap him in
blankets, to pack him upon a camel, and to leave the rest to the merciful
goodness of Divine Providence.

One day, as we were following the sinuosities of a valley, our hearts
oppressed with sad thoughts, all of a sudden we perceived two horsemen
make their appearance on the ridge of an adjacent hill.  At this time, we
were travelling in the company of a small party of Thibetian merchants,
who, like ourselves, had allowed the main body of the caravan to precede
them, in order to save their camels the fatigue of a too hurried march.
“Tsong-Kaba,” cried the Thibetians, “see, there are horsemen yonder, yet
we are in the desert, and every one knows that there are not even
shepherds in this locality.”  They had scarcely uttered these words, when
a number of other horsemen appeared at different points on the hills,
and, to our extreme alarm, dashed down towards us at a gallop.  What
could these horsemen be doing in so barren a region?  What could they
want with us?  The case was clear: we had fallen into the hands of
thieves.  Their appearance, as they approached, was anything but
reassuring: a carbine slung at the saddle bow, two long sabres in the
girdle, thick black hair falling in disorder over the shoulders, glaring
eyes, and a wolf’s skin stuck on the head by way of cap; such was the
portrait of each of the gentlemen who now favoured us with their company.
There were twenty-seven of them, while we numbered only eighteen, of
which eighteen all were by no means practised warriors.  However, both
armies alighted, and a valorous Thibetian of our party advanced to parley
with the chief of the brigands, who was distinguished from his men by two
red pennants which floated from his saddle back.  After a long and
somewhat animated conversation; “Who is that man?” asked the chief of the
Kolo, pointing to M. Gabet, who, fastened upon his camel, was the only
person who had not alighted.  “He is a Grand Lama of the western sky,”
replied the Thibetian merchant; “the power of his prayers is infinite.”
The Kolo raised his clasped hands to his forehead, in token of respect,
and looked at M. Gabet, who, with his frozen face, and his singular
envelope of many-coloured wrappers, was by no means unlike those alarming
idols that we see in pagan temples.  After contemplating for awhile the
famous Lama of the western sky, the brigand addressed some further words,
in an under tone, to the Thibetian merchant; then, making a sign to his
companions, they all jumped into their saddles, set off at a gallop, and
soon disappeared behind the mountains.  “Do not let us go any further
to-day,” said the Thibetian merchant; “but set up our tents where we are;
the Kolo are robbers, but they have lofty and generous souls; when they
see that we place ourselves without fear in their hands, they will not
attack us.  Besides,” added he, “I believe they hold in much awe the
power of the Lamas of the western sky.”  We adopted the counsel of the
Thibetian merchants, and proceeded to encamp.

The tents were scarcely set up, when the Kolo reappeared on the crest of
the mountain, and once more galloped down upon us with their habitual
impetuosity. The chief alone entered the encampment, his men awaiting him
at a short distance outside.  The Kolo addressed the Thibetian who had
previously conversed with him.  “I have come,” said he, “for an
explanation of a point that I don’t at all understand.  You know that we
are encamped on the other side of the mountain, yet you venture to set up
your tents here, close by us.  How many men, then, have you in your
company?”  “We are only eighteen; you, I believe, are twenty-seven in
number; but brave men never run away.”  “You’ll fight, then?”  “If there
were not several invalids amongst us, I would answer, Yes; for I have
already shown the Kolo that I am not afraid of them.”  “Have you fought
with the Kolo?  When was it?  What’s your name?”  “It’s five years ago,
at the affair of the Tchanak-Kampo, and here’s a little reminiscence of
it;” and, throwing back the sleeve of his right arm, he showed the
cicatrice of a great sabre cut.  The brigand laughed, and again requested
his interlocutor’s name.  “I am called Rala-Tchembe,” said the merchant;
“you ought to know the name.”  “Yes, all the Kolos know it; it is the
name of a brave man.”  So saying, he dismounted, and taking a sabre from
his girdle, presented it to the Thibetian.  “Here,” said he, “accept this
sabre; ’tis the best I have; we have fought one another before; in
future, when we meet, it shall be as brothers.”  The Thibetian received
the brigand’s present, and gave him, in return, a handsome bow and quiver
which he had bought at Peking.

The Kolo, who had remained outside the camp, upon seeing their chief
fraternize with the chief of the caravan, dismounted, fastened their
horses to each other, two and two, by the bridles, and came to drink a
friendly cup of tea with the travellers, who now, at length, began to
breathe freely.  All these brigands were extremely affable, and they
asked us various questions about the Tartar-Khalkhas, whom, they said,
they were particularly anxious to see, by reason that, in the preceding
year, these warriors had killed three of their companions, whom they were
eager to avenge.  We had a little chat about politics too.  The brigands
affirmed that they were warm friends of the Talé-Lama, and irreconcilable
enemies to the Emperor of China; on which account they seldom failed to
pillage the embassy on its way to Peking, because the Emperor was
unworthy to receive gifts from the Talé-Lama, but that they ordinarily
respected it on its return, because it was altogether fitting that the
Emperor should send gifts to the Talé-Lama.  After having done honour to
the tea and tsamba of the caravan, the brigands wished us a good journey,
and returned to their own encampment.  All these fraternal manifestations
did not prevent our sleeping with one eye open; our repose, however, was
not disturbed, and in the morning we resumed our way in peace.  Of the
many thousands of pilgrims who have performed the journey to Lha-Ssa,
there are very few who can boast of having had so close a view of the
robbers, at so small a cost.

We had escaped one great danger; but another awaited us, we were
informed, far more formidable in its character, though different in kind.
We were beginning to ascend the vast chain of the Tant-La mountains; on
the plateau of which, our travelling companions assured us, the invalids
would die, and those who were now well would become invalids, with but a
small chance of living.  The death of M. Gabet was considered quite a
matter of certainty.  After six days laborious ascent of several
mountains, placed amphitheatrically, one above another, we at length
reached the famous plateau, the most elevated point, perhaps, on the
earth’s surface.  The snow there appeared an incrustation, an ordinary
portion of the soil.  It cracked beneath our feet, but the feet left
scarcely any impression upon it.  The entire vegetation consisted of an
occasional tuft of a low, sharp-pointed, smooth grass, ligneous within,
and as hard as iron, but not brittle; so that it might very well be
converted into mattress needles.  The animals were, however, so
famishing, that they were fain to attack even this atrocious forage,
which absolutely cracked between their teeth, and could be realized at
all only by vigorous efforts and at the cost of infinite lip bleeding.

From the brow of this magnificent plateau, we could see below us the
peaks and needles of numerous ridges, the ramifications of which were
lost in the horizon.  We had never witnessed anything at all comparable
with this grand, this gigantic spectacle.  During the twelve days that we
were journeying along the heights of Tant-La, we enjoyed fine weather;
the air was calm, and it pleased God to bless us each day with a warm,
genial sunshine, that materially modified the ordinary coldness of the
atmosphere.  Still the air, excessively rarified at that enormous
altitude, was very piercing, and monstrous eagles, which followed the
track of the caravan, were daily provided with a number of dead bodies.
The small caravan of the French mission itself paid its tribute to death;
but, happily, that tribute was only in the shape of our little black
mule, which we abandoned at once with regret and with resignation.  The
dismal prophecy that had been announced with reference to M. Gabet was
falsified.  The mountains, which were to have been fatal to him, proved,
on the contrary, highly favourable, restoring to him, by degrees, health
and strength.  This blessing, almost unexpected by us, even at the hands
of the God of Mercy, made us forget all our past miseries.  We resumed
all our courage, and firmly entertained the hope that the Almighty would
permit us to accomplish our journey.

The descent of Tant-La, though long in duration, was rapid in itself.
Throughout four whole days, we were going down, as it seemed, a gigantic
staircase, each step of which consisted of a mountain.  At the bottom, we
found some hot springs, of an extremely magnificent description.  Amongst
huge rocks, you see a great number of reservoirs, hollowed out by the
hand of nature, in which the water boils and bubbles, as in a vast
cauldron over a fierce fire.  Sometimes the active fluid escapes through
the fissures of the rocks, and leaps, in all directions, by a thousand
capricious jets.  Every now and then the ebullition, in particular
reservoirs, grows so furious, that tall columns of water rise into the
air, as though impelled by some tremendous pumping machinery.  Above
these springs, thick vapours, collecting in the air, condense into white
clouds.  The water is sulphureous.  After bubbling and dashing about in
its huge granite reservoirs, it boils over, and quitting the rocks, which
had seemed to wish to keep it captive, pours down by various currents
into a small valley below, where it forms a large stream flowing over a
bed of flints, yellow as gold.  These boiling waters do not long preserve
their fluidity.  The extreme rigour of the atmosphere cools them so
rapidly, that within a mile and a half from its source, the stream they
have thus formed is almost frozen through.  These hot springs are of
frequent occurrence in the mountains of Thibet, and the Lama physicians,
who attribute to them considerable medicinal virtue, constantly prescribe
their use, both internally and externally.

From the Tant-La mountains to Lha-Ssa, the ground constantly declines.
As you descend, the intensity of the cold diminishes, and the earth
becomes clothed with more vigorous and more varied vegetation.  One
evening, we encamped in a large plain, where the pasturage was
marvellously abundant, and as our cattle had been for some time past on
very short commons indeed, we determined to give them the full benefit of
the present opportunity, and to remain where we were for two days.

Next morning, as we were quietly preparing our tea, we perceived in the
distance a troop of horsemen galloping towards our encampment at full
speed.  The sight seemed to freeze the very blood in our veins; we stood
for a moment perfectly petrified.  After the first moment of stupor, we
rushed out of our tent, and ran to Rala-Tchembé.  “The Kolo! the Kolo!”
cried we; “here’s a great body of Kolo advancing against us.”  The
Thibetian merchants, who were boiling their tea and mixing their tsamba,
laughed at our alarm, and told us to sit down quite at our ease.  “Take
breakfast with us,” said they; “there are no Kolo to fear here; the
horsemen you see yonder are friends.  We are now entering upon an
inhabited country; behind the hill there, to the right, are a number of
black tents, and the horsemen, whom you take to be Kolo, are shepherds.”
These words restored our equanimity, and with our equanimity returned our
appetite, so that we were very happy to accept the invitation to
breakfast with which we had been favoured.  We had scarcely taken up a
cup of buttered tea before the horsemen made their appearance at the door
of the tent.  So far from being brigands, they were worthy fellows who
came to sell us butter and fresh meat; their saddles were regular
butchers’ stalls hung with joints of mutton and venison, which rested on
the sides of their horses.  We purchased eight legs of mutton, which,
being frozen, were easily susceptible of transport.  They cost us an old
pair of Peking boots, a Peking steel, and the saddle of our defunct mule,
which luckily could also boast of Peking origin.  Everything coming from
Peking is highly prized by the Thibetians, more especially by that
portion of the population which has not advanced beyond the pastoral and
nomadic life.  The merchants who accompany the caravan take care,
accordingly, to label every package “Goods from Peking.”  Snuff is
especially an object of earnest competition among the Thibetians.  All
the shepherds asked us whether we had not snuff from Peking.  M. Huc, who
was the only snuff-taker of our party, had formerly possessed a quantity
of the precious commodity, but it had all departed, and for the last
eight days he had been reduced to the necessity of filling his snuff-box
and his nose with a frightful mixture of dust and ashes.  Those who are
devotees of snuff, will at once comprehend all the horrors to poor M. Huc
of this deplorable position.

Condemned for the last two months to live upon barley-meal, moistened
with tea, the mere sight of our legs of mutton seemed to fortify our
stomachs and invigorate our emaciated limbs.  The remainder of the day
was occupied in culinary preparations.  By way of condiment and
seasoning, we had only a little garlic, and that little so frozen and
dried that it was almost imperceptible in its shell.  We peeled, however,
all we had, and stuck it into two legs of mutton, which we set to boil in
our great cauldron.  The argols, which abounded in this blessed plain,
supplied ample materials for cooking our inestimable supper.  The sun was
just setting, and Samdadchiemba, who had been inspecting one of the legs
of mutton with his thumb-nail, had triumphantly announced that the mutton
was boiled to a bubble, when we heard in all directions, the disastrous
cry, “Fire! fire!” (_Mi yon! mi yon_!)  At one bound we were outside our
tent, where we found that the flame, which had caught some dry grass, in
the interior of the encampment, and menaced to assail also our linen
tents, was spreading about, in all directions, with fearful rapidity.
All the travellers, armed with their felt carpets, were endeavouring to
stifle the flame, or at all events to keep it from reaching the tents,
and in this latter effort they were quite successful.  The fire, repulsed
on all sides, forced an issue from the encampment, and rushed out into
the desert, where, driven by the wind, it spread over the pasturages,
which it devoured as it went.  We thought, however, that we had nothing
further to fear; but the cry, “Save the camels! save the [Picture: Fire
in the camp] camels!” at once reminded us how little we knew of a
conflagration in the desert.

We soon perceived that the camels stolidly awaited the flame, instead of
fleeing from it, as the horses and oxen did.  We hereupon hastened to the
succour of our beasts, which, at the moment, seemed tolerably remote from
the flame.  The flame, however, reached them as soon as we did, and at
once surrounded us and them.  It was to no purpose we pushed and beat the
stupid brutes; not an inch would they stir; but there they stood
phlegmatically gaping at us with an air that seemed to ask us, what right
we had to come and interrupt them at their meals.  We really felt as if
we could have killed the impracticable beasts.  The fire consumed so
rapidly the grass it encountered, that it soon assailed the camels, and
caught their long, thick hair; and it was with the utmost exertion that,
by the aid of the felt carpets we had brought with us, we extinguished
the flame upon their bodies.  We got three of them out of the fire, with
only the end of their hair singed, but the fourth was reduced to a
deplorable condition; not a bristle remained on its entire body; the
whole system of hair was burned down to the skim, and the skin itself was
terribly charred.

The extent of pasturage consumed by the flame might be about a mile and a
quarter long by three quarters of a mile broad.  The Thibetians were in
ecstasies at their good fortune in having the progress of conflagration
so soon stayed, and we fully participated in their joy, when we learned
the full extent of the evil with which we had been menaced.  We were
informed that if the fire had continued much longer it would have reached
the black tents, in which case the shepherds would have pursued and
infallibly massacred us.  Nothing can equal the fury of these poor
children of the desert when they find the pastures, which are their only
resource, reduced to ashes, no matter whether by malice or by mischance.
It is much the same thing to them as destroying their herds.

When we resumed our journey the broiled camel was not yet dead, but it
was altogether incapable of service; the three others were fain to yield
to circumstances, and to share among them the portion of baggage which
their unlucky travelling companion had hitherto borne.  However, the
burdens of all of them had very materially diminished in weight since our
departure from Koukou-Noor; our sacks of meal had become little better
than sacks of emptiness; so that, after descending the Tant-La mountains
we had been compelled to put ourselves upon an allowance of two cups of
tsamba per man, per diem.  Before our departure we had made a fair
calculation of our reasonable wants, _in prospectu_; but no such
calculation could cover the waste committed upon our provender by our two
cameleers; by the one through indifference and stupidity, by the other
through malice and knavery.

Fortunately we were now approaching a large Thibetian station, where we
should find the means of renewing our stores.

After following, for several days, a long series of valleys, where we
saw, from time to time, black tents and great herds of yaks, we at last
encamped beside a large Thibetian village.  It stands on the banks of the
river Na-Ptchu, indicated on M. Andriveau-Goujon’s map, by the Mongol
name of Khara-Oussou, both denominations equally signifying black waters.
The village of Na-Ptchu is the first Thibetian station of any importance
that you pass on this route to Lha-Ssa.  The village consists of
mud-houses and a number of black tents.  The inhabitants do not cultivate
the ground.  Although they always live on the same spot, they are
shepherds like the nomadic tribes, and occupy themselves solely with the
breeding of cattle.  We were informed that at some very remote period, a
king of Koukou-Noor made war upon the Thibetians, and having subjugated
them to a large extent, gave the district of Na-Ptchu to the soldiers
whom he had brought with him.  Though these Tartars are now fused with
the Thibetians, one may still observe among the black tents, a certain
number of Mongol huts.  This event may also serve to explain the origin
of a number of Mongol expressions which are used in the country, having
passed within the domain of the Thibetian idiom.

                       [Picture: View of Na-Ptchu]

The caravans which repair to Lha-Ssa, are necessitated to remain several
days at Na-Ptchu, in order to arrange a fresh system of conveyance; for
the difficulties of an awfully rocky road do not permit camels to proceed
further.  Our first business, therefore, was to sell our animals; but
they were so wretchedly worn that no one would look at them.  At last, a
sort of veterinary surgeon, who, doubtless, had some recipe for restoring
their strength and appearances, made us an offer, and we sold him the
three for fifteen ounces of silver, throwing in the grilled one into the
bargain.  These fifteen ounces of silver just sufficed to pay the hire of
six long-haired oxen, to carry our baggage to Lha-Ssa.

A second operation was to discharge the Lama of the Ratchico mountains.
After having settled with him on very liberal terms, we told him that if
he proposed to visit Lha-Ssa, he must find some other companions, for
that he might consider himself wholly freed from the engagements which he
had contracted with us; and so, at last, we got rid of this rascal, whose
misconduct had fully doubled the trouble and misery that we had
experienced on the way in his company.

Our conscience imposes upon us the duty of here warning persons whom any
circumstances may lead to Na-Ptchu, to be carefully on their guard there
against thieves.  The inhabitants of this Thibetian village are
remarkable for their peculations, robbing every Mongol or other caravan
that comes to the place, in the most shameful manner.  At night, they
creep into the travellers’ tents, and carry off whatever they can lay
hands upon; and in broad day itself they exercise their deplorable
ingenuity in this line, with a coolness, a presence of mind, and an
ability which might arouse envy in the most distinguished Parisian
thieves.

After having laid in a supply of butter, tsamba, and legs of mutton, we
proceeded on our way to Lha-Ssa, from which we were now only distant
fifteen days’ march.  Our travelling companions were some Mongols of the
kingdom of Khartchin, who were repairing in pilgrimage to Mouhe-Dehot
(the Eternal Sanctuary) as the Tartars call Lha-Ssa, and who had with
them their Grand Chaberon; that is to say, a Living Buddha, the superior
of their Lamasery.  This Chaberon was a young man of eighteen, whose
manners were agreeable and gentlemanly, and whose face, full of ingenuous
candour, contrasted singularly with the part which he was constrained
habitually to enact.  At the age of five he had been declared Buddha and
Grand Lama of the Buddhists of Khartchin, and he was now about to pass a
few years in one of the Grand Lamaseries of Lha-Ssa, in the study of
prayers and of the other knowledge befitting his dignity.  A brother of
the King of Khartchin and several Lamas of quality were in attendance to
escort and wait upon him.  The title of Living Buddha seemed to be a dead
weight upon this poor young man.  It was quite manifest that he would
very much have liked to laugh and chat and frolic about at his ease; and
that, _en route_, it would have been far more agreeable to him to have
dashed about on his horse, whither he fancied, than to ride, as he did,
solemnly between two horsemen, who, out of their extreme respect, never
once quitted his sides.  Again, when they had reached an encampment,
instead of remaining eternally squatted on cushions, in a corner of his
tent, apeing the idols in the Lamasery, he would have liked to have
rambled about the desert, taking part in the occupations of nomadic life;
but he was permitted to do nothing of the sort.  His business was to be
Buddha, and to concern himself in no degree with matters which
appertained to mere mortals.

The young Chaberon derived no small pleasure from an occasional chat in
our tent; there, at all events, he was able to lay aside, for a time, his
official divinity, and to belong to mankind.  He heard with great
interest what we told him about the men and things of Europe; and
questioned us, with much ingenuity, respecting our religion, which
evidently appeared to him a very fine one.  When we asked him, whether it
would not be better to be a worshipper of Jehovah than a Chaberon, he
replied that he could not say.  He did not at all like us to interrogate
him respecting his anterior life, and his continual incarnations; he
would blush when any such questions were put to him, and would always put
an end to the conversation by saying that the subject was painful to him.
The simple fact was that the poor lad found himself involved in a sort of
religious labyrinth, the meanderings of which were perfectly unknown to
him.

The road which leads from Na-Ptchu to Lha-Ssa is, in general, rocky and
very laborious, and when it attains the chain of the Koïran mountains it
becomes fatiguing in the highest degree.  Yet, as you advance, your heart
grows lighter and lighter, at finding yourself in a more and more
populous country.  The black tents that speckle the background of the
landscape, the numerous parties of pilgrims repairing to Lha-Ssa, the
infinite inscriptions engraved on the stones erected on each side of the
way, the small caravans of long-tailed oxen that you meet at
intervals—all this contributes to alleviate the fatigues of the journey.

When you come within a few days’ march of Lha-Ssa, the exclusively
nomadic character of the Thibetians gradually disappears.  Already, a few
cultivated fields adorn the desert; houses insensibly take the place of
black tents.  At length, the shepherds vanish altogether, and you find
yourself amidst an agricultural people.

On the fifteenth day after our departure from Na-Ptchu, we arrived at
Pampou, which, on account of its proximity to Lha-Ssa is regarded by the
pilgrims as the vestibule of the holy city.  Pampou, erroneously
designated Panctou on the map, is a fine plain watered by a broad river,
a portion of whose stream, distributed in canals, diffuses fertility all
around.  There is no village, properly so called; but you see, in all
directions, large farm houses with handsome terraces in front, and
beautifully white with lime-wash.  Each is surrounded with tall trees,
and surmounted with a little tower, in the form of a pigeon-house, whence
float banners of various colours, covered with Thibetian inscriptions.
After travelling for more than three months through hideous deserts,
where the only living creatures you meet are brigands and wild beasts,
the plain of Pampou seemed to us the most delicious spot in the world.
Our long and painful journeying had so nearly reduced us to the savage
state, that any thing in the shape of civilization struck us as
absolutely marvellous.  We were in ecstasies with everything: a house, a
tree, a plough, a furrow in the ploughed field, the slightest object
seemed to us worthy of attention.  That, however, which most forcibly
impressed us, was the prodigious elevation of the temperature which we
remarked in this cultivated plain.  Although it was now the end of
January, the river and its canals were merely edged with a thin coat of
ice, and scarcely any of the people wore furs.

At Pampou, our caravan had to undergo another transformation.  Generally
speaking, the long-haired oxen are here replaced by donkeys, small in
size, but very robust, and accustomed to carry baggage.  The difficulty
of procuring a sufficient number of these donkeys to convey the baggage
of the Khartchin-Lamas, rendered it necessary for us to remain two days
at Pampou.  We availed ourselves of the opportunity to arrange our
toilet, as well as we could.  Our hair and beards were so thick, our
faces so blackened with the smoke of the tent, so ploughed up with the
cold, so worn, so deplorable, that, when we had here the means of looking
at ourselves in a glass, we were ready to weep with compassion at our
melancholy appearance.  Our costume was perfectly in unison with our
persons.

The people of Pampou are for the most part in very easy circumstances,
and they are always gay and frolicsome accordingly.  Every evening they
assemble, in front of the different farms, where men, women, and children
dance to the accompaniment of their own voices.  On the termination of
the _bal champétre_, the farmer regales the company with a sort of sharp
drink, made with fermented barley, and which, with the addition of hops,
would be very like our beer.

After a two days’ hunt through all the farms of the neighbourhood, the
donkey-caravan was organized, and we went on our way.  Between us and
Lha-Ssa there was only a mountain, but this mountain was, past
contradiction, the most rugged and toilsome that we had as yet
encountered.  The Thibetians and Mongols ascend it with great unction,
for it is understood amongst them that whoever attains its summit,
attains, _ipso facto_, a remission of all his or her sins.  This is
certain, at all events, that whoever attains the summit has undergone on
his way a most severe penance: whether that penance is adequate to the
remission of sins, is another question altogether.  We had departed at
one o’clock in the morning, yet it was not till ten in the forenoon that
we reached this so beneficial summit.  We were fain to walk nearly the
whole distance, so impracticable is it to retain one’s seat on horseback
along the rugged and rocky path.

The sun was nearly setting when, issuing from the last of the infinite
sinuosities of the mountain, we found ourselves in a vast plain, and saw
on our right Lha-Ssa, the famous metropolis of the Buddhic world.  The
multitude of aged trees which surround the city with a verdant wall; the
tall white houses, with their flat roofs and their towers; the numerous
temples with their gilt roofs, the Buddha-La, above which rises the
palace of the Talé-Lama—all these features communicate to Lha-Ssa a
majestic and imposing aspect.

At the entrance of the town, some Mongols with whom we had formed an
acquaintance on the road, and who had preceded us by several days, met
us, and invited us to accompany them to lodgings which they had been
friendly enough to prepare for us.  It was now the 29th January, 1846;
and it was eighteen months since we had parted from the Valley of Black
Waters.

             [Picture: Chinese and Tartar male head-dresses]

                        [Picture: View of Lha-Ssa]




CHAPTER V.


Lodgings in a Thibetian House—Appearance of Lha-Ssa—Palace of the
Talé-Lama—Picture of the Thibetians—Monstrous Toilet of the
Women—Industrial and Agricultural productions of Thibet—Gold and Silver
Mines—Foreigners resident at Lha-Ssa—The Pebouns—The Katchis—The
Chinese—Position of the relations between China and Thibet—Various
speculations of the public respecting us—We present ourselves to the
Authorities—Form of the Thibetian Govermnent—Grand Lama of
Djachi-Loumbo—Society of the Kalons—Thibetian Prophecy—Tragical Death of
three Talé-Lamas—Account of Ki-Chan—Condemnation of the Nomekhan—Revolt
of the Lamasery of Sera.

After eighteen months struggle with sufferings and obstacles of infinite
number and variety, we were at length arrived at the termination of our
journey, though not at the close of our miseries.  We had no longer, it
is true, to fear death from famine or frost in this inhabited country;
but trials and tribulations of a different character were, no doubt,
about to assail us, amidst the infidel populations, to whom we desired to
preach Christ crucified for the salvation of mankind.  Physical troubles
over, we had now to undergo moral sufferings; but we relied, as before,
on the infinite goodness of the Lord to aid us in the fight, trusting
that He who had protected us in the desert against the inclemency of the
seasons, would continue to us His divine assistance against the malice of
man, in the very heart and capital of Buddhism.

The morning after our arrival at Lha-Ssa, we engaged a Thibetian guide,
and visited the various quarters of the city, in search of a lodging.
The houses at Lha-Ssa are for the most part several stories high,
terminating in a terrace slightly sloped, in order to carry off the
water; they are whitewashed all over, except the bordering round the
doors and windows, which are painted red or yellow.  The reformed
Buddhists are so fond of these two colours, which are, so to speak,
sacred in their eyes, that they especially name them Lamanesque colours.
The people of Lha-Ssa are in the habit of painting their houses once a
year, so that they are always perfectly clean, and seem, in fact, just
built; but the interior is by no means in harmony with the fine outside.
The rooms are dirty, smoky, stinking, and encumbered with all sorts of
utensils and furniture, thrown about in most disgusting confusion.  In a
word, the Thibetian habitations are literally whited sepulchres; a
perfect picture of Buddhism and all other false religions, which
carefully cover, with certain general truths and certain moral
principles, the corruption and falsehood within.

After a long search, we selected two rooms, in a large house, that
contained in all fifty lodgers.  Our humble abode was at the top of the
house, and to reach it we had to ascend twenty-six wooden stairs, without
railing, and so steep and narrow that in order to prevent the
disagreeable incident of breaking our necks, we always found it prudent
to use our hands as well as our feet.  Our suite of apartments consisted
of one great square room and one small closet, which we honoured with the
appellation of cabinet.  The larger room was lighted, north-east, by a
narrow window, provided with three thick wooden bars, and above, by a
small round skylight, which latter aperture served for a variety of
purposes; first it gave entrance to the light, the wind, the rain, and
the snow: and secondly, it gave issue to the smoke from our fire.  To
protect themselves from the winter’s cold, the Thibetians place in the
centre of their rooms a small vessel of glazed earth, in which they burn
argols.  As this combustible is extremely addicted to diffuse
considerably more smoke than heat, those who desire to warm themselves,
find it of infinite advantage to have a hole in the ceiling, which
enables them to light a fire without incurring the risk of being stifled
by the smoke.  You do, indeed, undergo the small inconvenience of
receiving, from time to time, a fall of snow, or rain, on your back; but
those who have followed the nomadic life are not deterred by such
trifles.  The furniture of our larger apartment consisted of two
goat-skins spread on the floor, right and left of the fire dish; of two
saddles, our travelling tent, some old pairs of boots, two dilapidated
trunks, three ragged robes, hanging from nails in the wall, our night
things rolled together in a bundle, and a supply of argols in the corner.
We were thus placed at once on the full level of Thibetian civilization.
The closet, in which stood a large brick stove, served us for kitchen and
pantry, and there we installed Samdadchiemba, who, having resigned his
office of cameleer, now concentrated the functions of cook, steward, and
groom.  Our two white steeds were accommodated in a corner of the court,
where they reposed after their laborious but glorious campaign, until an
opportunity should present itself of securing new masters; at present the
poor beasts were so thoroughly worn down, that we could not think of
offering them for sale, until they had developed some little flesh
between the bone and the skin.

As soon as we were settled in our new abode, we occupied ourselves with
inspecting the capital of Thibet, and its population.  Lha-Ssa is not a
large town, its circuit being at the utmost two leagues.  It is not
surrounded like the Chinese towns with ramparts; formerly, indeed, we
were told it had walls, but these were entirely destroyed in a war which
the Thibetians had to sustain against the Indians of Boutan.  At present
not a trace of wall remains.  Around the suburbs, however, are a great
number of gardens, the large trees in which form, for the town, a
magnificent wall of verdure.  The principal streets of Lha-Ssa are broad,
well laid out, and tolerably clean, at least when it does not rain: but
the suburbs are revoltingly filthy.  The houses, as we have already
stated, are in general large, lofty, and handsome; they are built some
with stone, some with brick, and some with mud, but they are all so
elaborately covered with lime-wash that you can distinguish externally no
difference in the material.  In one of the suburban districts there is a
locality where the houses are built with the horns of oxen and sheep.
These singular constructions are of extreme solidity and look very well.
The horns of the oxen being smooth and white, and those of the sheep, on
the contrary, rough and black, these various materials are susceptible of
infinite combinations, and are arranged accordingly, in all sorts of
fantastic designs; the interstices are filled up with mortar.  These
houses are the only buildings that are not lime-washed; the Thibetians
having taste enough to leave the materials in their natural aspect,
without seeking to improve upon their wild and fantastic beauty.  It is
superfluous to add, that the inhabitants of Lha-Ssa consume an immense
quantity of beef and mutton; their horn-houses incontestably demonstrate
the fact.

The Buddhist temples are the most remarkable edifices in Lha-Ssa.  We
need not here describe them, for they all closely resemble those which we
have already had occasion to portray.  We will only remark, therefore,
that the temples of Lha-Ssa are larger, richer, and more profusely gilt
than those of other towns.

The palace of the Talé-Lama merits, in every respect, the celebrity which
it enjoys throughout the world.  North of the town, at the distance of
about a mile, there rises a rugged mountain, of slight elevation and of
conical form, which, amid the plain, resembles an islet on the bosom of a
lake.  This mountain is entitled Buddha-La (mountain of Buddha, divine
mountain), and upon this grand pedestal, the work of nature, the adorers
of the Talé-Lama have raised the magnificent palace wherein their Living
Divinity resides in the flesh.  This palace is an aggregation of several
temples, of various size and decoration; that which occupies the centre
is four stories high, and overlooks all the rest; it terminates in a
dome, entirely covered with plates of gold, and surrounded with a
peristyle, the columns of which are, in like manner, all covered with
gold.  It is here that the Talé-Lama has set up his abode.  From the
summit of this lofty sanctuary he can contemplate, at the great
solemnities, his innumerable adorers advancing along the plain or
prostrate at the foot of the divine mountain.  The secondary palaces,
grouped round the great temple, serve as residences for numerous Lamas,
of every order, whose continual occupation it is to serve and do honour
to the Living Buddha.  Two fine avenues of magnificent trees lead from
Lha-Ssa to the Buddha-La, and there you always find crowds of foreign
pilgrims, telling the beads of their long Buddhist chaplets, and Lamas of
the court, attired in rich costume, and mounted on horses splendidly
caparisoned.  Around the Buddha-La there is constant motion; but there
is, at the same time, almost uninterrupted silence, religious meditations
appearing to occupy all men’s minds.

In the town itself the aspect of the population is quite different; there
all is excitement, and noise, and pushing, and competition, every single
soul in the place being ardently occupied in the grand business of buying
and selling.  Commerce and devotion incessantly attracting to Lha-Ssa an
infinite number of strangers, render the place a rendezvous of all the
Asiatic peoples; so that the streets, always crowded with pilgrims and
traders, present a marvellous variety of physiognomies, costumes, and
languages.  This immense multitude is for the most part transitory; the
fixed population of Lha-Ssa consists of Thibetians, Pebouns, Katchis, and
Chinese.

The Thibetians belong to the great family which we are accustomed to
designate by the term Mongol race; they have black eyes, a thin beard,
small, contracted eyes, high cheek-bones, pug noses, wide mouths, and
thin lips; the ordinary complexion is tawny, though, in the upper class,
you find skins as white as those of Europeans.  The Thibetians are of the
middle height; and combine, with the agility and suppleness of the
Chinese, the force and vigour of the Tartars.  Gymnastic exercises of all
sorts and dancing are very popular with them, and their movements are
cadenced and easy.  As they walk about, they are always humming some
psalm or popular song; generosity and frankness enter largely into their
character; brave in war, they face death fearlessly; they are as
religious as the Tartars, but not so credulous.  Cleanliness is of small
estimation among them; but this does not prevent them from being very
fond of display and rich sumptuous clothing.

The Thibetians do not shave the head, but let the hair flow over their
shoulders, contenting themselves with clipping it, every now and then,
with the scissors.  The dandies of Lha-Ssa, indeed, have of late years
adopted the custom of braiding their hair in the Chinese fashion,
decorating the tresses with jewellery, precious stones, and coral.  The
ordinary head-dress is a blue cap, with a broad border of black velvet
surmounted with a red tuft; on high days and holidays, they wear a great
red hat, in form not unlike the Basquebarret cap, only larger and
decorated at the rim with long, thick fringe.  A full robe fastened on
the right side with four hooks, and girded round the waist by a red sash,
red or purple cloth boots, complete the simple, yet graceful costume of
the Thibetian men.  Suspended from the sash is a green taffeta bag,
containing their inseparable wooden cups, and two small purses, of an
oval form and richly embroidered, which contain nothing at all, being
designed merely for ornament.

The dress of the Thibetian women closely resembles that of the men; the
main difference is, that over the robe, they add a short many-coloured
tunic, and that they divide their hair into two braids, one hanging down
each shoulder.  The women of the humbler classes wear a small yellow cap,
like the cap of liberty that was in fashion in France at the time of our
first republic.  The head decoration of the ladies is a graceful crown
composed of pearls.  The Thibetian women submit, in their toilet, to a
custom, or rather rule, doubtless quite unique, and altogether incredible
to those who have not actually witnessed its operation: before going out
of doors, they always rub their faces over with a sort of black,
glutinous varnish, not unlike currant jelly; and the object being to
render themselves as ugly and hideous as possible, they daub this
disgusting composition over every feature, in such a manner as no longer
to resemble human creatures.  The origin of this monstrous practice was
thus related to us: Nearly 200 years ago, the Nomekhan, a Lama king, who
ruled over Hither Thibet, was a man of rigid and austere manners.  At
that period, the Thibetian women had no greater fancy for making
themselves ugly than other women; on the contrary, they were perfectly
mad after all sorts of luxury and finery, whence arose fearful disorders,
and immorality that knew no bounds.  The contagion, by degrees, seized
upon the holy family of the Lamas; the Buddhist monasteries relaxed their
ancient and severe discipline, and were a prey to evils which menaced
them with complete and rapid dissolution.  In order to stay the progress
of a libertinism which had become almost general, the Nomekhan published
an edict, prohibiting women from appearing in public otherwise than with
their faces bedaubed, in the manner we have described.  Lofty, moral, and
religious considerations were adduced in support of this strange law, and
the refractory were menaced with the severest penalties, and above all,
with the wrath of Buddha.  There needed, assuredly, more than ordinary
courage to publish such an edict as this; but the most extraordinary
circumstance of all is, that the women were perfectly resigned and
obedient.  Tradition has handed down not the least hint of any
insurrection, or the slightest disturbance even, on the subject, and
conformably with the law, the women have blackened themselves furiously
and uglified themselves fearfully, down to the present time.  In fact,
the thing has now come to be considered a point of dogma, an article of
devotion; the women who daub themselves most disgustingly being reputed
the most pious.  In the country places the edict is observed with
scrupulous exactitude, and to the entire approbation of the censors; but
at Lha-Ssa, it is not unusual to meet in the streets women, who, setting
law and decency at defiance, actually have the impudence to show
themselves in public with their faces unvarnished, and such as nature
made them.  Those, however, who permit themselves this license, are in
very ill odour, and always take care to get out of the way of the police.

It is said that the edict of the Nomekhan has been greatly promotive of
the public morality.  We are not in a position to affirm the contrary,
with decision, but we can affirm that the Thibetians are far indeed from
being exemplary in the matter of morality.  There is lamentable
licentiousness amongst them, and we are disposed to believe that the
blackest and ugliest varnish is powerless to make corrupt people
virtuous.  Christianity can alone redeem the pagan nations from the
shameful vices in which they wallow.

At the same time, there is one circumstance which may induce us to
believe that in Thibet there is less corruption than in certain other
pagan countries.  The women there enjoy very great liberty.  Instead of
vegetating, prisoners in the depths of their houses, they lead an active
and laborious life.  Besides fulfilling the various duties of the
household, they concentrate in their own hands all the petty trade of the
country, whether as hawkers, as stall-keepers in the streets, or in
shops.  In the rural districts, it is the women who perform most of the
labours of agriculture.

The men, though less laborious and less active than the women, are still
far from passing their lives in idleness.  They occupy themselves
especially with spinning and weaving wool.  The stuffs they manufacture,
which are called poulou, are of a very close and solid fabric;
astonishingly various in quality, from the coarsest cloths to the finest
possible Merino.  By a rule of reformed Buddhism, every Lama must be
attired in red poulou.  The consumption of the article in Thibet itself
is very large, and the caravans export considerable quantities of it to
Northern China and Tartary.  The coarser poulou is cheap, but the
superior qualities are excessively dear.

The pastile-sticks, so celebrated in China, under the name of Tsan-Hiang
(perfumes of Thibet), are an article of leading commerce with the people
of Lha-Ssa, who manufacture them with the ash of various aromatic trees
mixed with musk and gold dust.  Of these various ingredients, they
elaborate a pink paste, which is then moulded into small cylindrical
sticks, three or four feet long.  These are burned in the Lamaseries, and
before the idols which are worshipped in private houses.  When these
pastile-sticks are once lighted, they burn slowly, without intermission,
until they are completely consumed, diffusing all around a perfume of the
most exquisite sweetness.  The Thibetian merchants, who repair every year
to Peking in the train of the embassy, export considerable quantities of
it, which they sell at an exorbitant price.  The Northern Chinese
manufacture pastile-sticks of their own, which they sell equally under
the name of Tsan-Hiang; but they will sustain no comparison with those
which come from Thibet.

The Thibetians have no porcelain, but they manufacture pottery of all
sorts in great perfection.  As we have already observed, their own
breakfast, dinner, and tea service, consists simply and entirely of a
wooden cup, which each person carries either in his bosom, or suspended
from his girdle in an ornamental purse.  These cups are made of the roots
of certain fine trees that grow on the mountains of Thibet.  They are
graceful in form, but simple and without any sort of decoration, other
than a slight varnish which conceals neither their natural colour nor the
veins of the wood.  Throughout Thibet, every one, from the poorest
mendicant up to the Talé-Lama, takes his meals out of a wooden cup.  The
Thibetians, indeed, make a distinction of their own, unintelligible to
Europeans, between these cups, some of which are bought for a few small
coins, while others cost up to a hundred ounces of silver, or nearly £40.
If we were asked what difference we had discerned between these various
qualities of cups, we should reply, most conscientiously, that they all
appeared to us pretty nearly of the same value, and that with the best
disposition in the world to be convinced, we had utterly failed to
perceive any distinction of moment between them.  The first-quality cups,
however, according to the Thibetians, have the property of neutralizing
poisons.

Some days after our arrival at Lha-Ssa, desirous of renewing our
meal-service, which had become somewhat worn, we went into a cup-shop.  A
Thibetian dame, her face elaborately varnished with black, sat behind the
counter.  The lady, judging from our exotic appearance, probably, that we
were personages of distinction, opened a drawer and took out two small
boxes, artistically executed, each of which contained a cup, thrice
enveloped in soft paper.  After examining the goods with a certain degree
of suspense, we asked the price: “Tchik-la, gatse resi?”  (How much
a-piece?)  “Excellency, fifty ounces of silver each.”  The words came
upon us like a thunder-clap, that filled our ears with a buzzing noise,
and our eyes with a conviction that the shop was turning round.  Our
entire fortune would scarcely have purchased four of these wooden cups.
Upon coming somewhat to ourselves, we respectfully restored the two
precious bowls to their respective boxes, and passed in review the
numerous collection that was unceremoniously displayed on the shelves of
the shop.  “And these, how much are they each?”  “Excellency, two for an
ounce of silver.”  We forthwith disbursed the ounce of silver, and
carried off, in triumph, the two wooden cups, which appeared to us
precisely the same as those for which we had been asked £20 a-piece.  On
our return home, the master of the house, to whom we showed our purchase,
gratified us with the information, that for an ounce of silver we ought
to have had at least four such cups as the two we had received.

Poulou, pastile-sticks, and wooden-cups, are the three principal branches
of industry which the Thibetians successfully prosecute.  Their other
manufactures are so poor and coarse as to be unworthy [Picture: Thibetian
Cup-shop] of any special mention.  Their agricultural productions
scarcely merit notice.  Thibet, almost entirely covered with mountains,
or cut up with impetuous torrents, affords to its population very little
cultivable space.  It is only in the valleys that anything like a harvest
can be expected.  The Thibetians cultivate little wheat, and still less
rice.  The chief production is Tsing-Kou, or black barley, of which is
made the tsamba, that basis of the aliment of the entire Thibetian
population, rich and poor.  The town of Lha-Ssa itself is abundantly
supplied with sheep, horses, and oxen.  There is excellent fish, also,
sold there, and pork, of most exquisite flavour; but for the most part so
dear as to be quite out of the reach of the humbler classes.  In fact,
the Thibetians, as a rule, live very poorly.  Their ordinary repast is
buttered tea and tsamba, mixed coarsely together with the finger.  The
richest people observe the same diet; it is quite pitiable to see them
swallowing such miserable provender out of cups, some of which have cost
£40.  Meat, when eaten at all, is not eaten with the ordinary repasts,
but apart, as a luxurious specialty, in the same way that elsewhere
people eat costly fruit, or extra fine pastry, on these occasions.  There
are usually served up two plates, one with boiled meat, the other with
raw meat, which the Thibetians devour with equal appetite, unassisted by
any seasoning whatever.  They have, however, wit enough not to eat
without drinking.  From time to time they fill their dear wooden cups
with a sort of acid liquor, made of fermented barley, not at all
disagreeable to the palate.

Thibet, so poor in agricultural and manufacturing products, is rich,
beyond all imagination, in metals.  Gold and silver are collected there
so readily, that the common shepherds have become acquainted with the art
of purifying these precious metals.  You often see them, in the ravines,
or in the hollows of the mountains, seated round a fire of argols,
amusing themselves with purifying in a rude crucible the gold-dust they
have found while tending their herds.  The result of this abundance of
the precious metals is, that specie is of low value, and that,
consequently, goods always maintain a very high price.  The monetary
system of the Thibetians consists entirely of silver coins, which are
somewhat larger, but not so thick as our francs.  On one side they bear
inscriptions in Thibetian, Parsee, or Indian characters; on the other, a
crown composed of eight small, round flowers.  To facilitate commerce,
these coins are cut into pieces, the number of flowers remaining on each
piece determining its value.  The entire coin is called Tchan-Ka.  A
Tche-Ptche is one-half of the Tchan-Ka; or, in other words, is a piece of
four flowers only.  The Cho-Kan has five flowers, the Ka-Gan three.  In
the larger commercial operations, they employ silver ingots, which are
weighed in a Roman balance, upon the decimal system.  Generally speaking,
the Thibetians reckon up accounts upon their beads; some people, however,
and especially the merchants, use the Chinese Souan-pan, while the
learned employ the numerals which the Europeans call Arabic, and which
appear to have been of very ancient date in Thibet.  We have seen several
Lamanesque manuscripts, illustrated with astronomical figures and
diagrams, all of them represented by Arabic numerals, which were also
used in the paging of the volumes.  Some of these figures differed
slightly from the Arabic numerals used in Europe; the most marked
difference we noticed was that of the 5, which, in these manuscripts, was
turned upside down, thus: [Picture: Upside-down five]

From the few details we have thus given as to the productions of Thibet,
it may be concluded that this country is perhaps the richest, and, at the
same time, the poorest in the world; rich in gold and silver, poor in all
that constitutes the well-being of the masses.  The gold and silver
collected by the people is absorbed by the great people, and especially
by the Lamaseries, those immense reservoirs, into which flow, by a
thousand channels, all the wealth of these vast regions.  The Lamas,
invested with the major part of the currency, by the voluntary donations
of the faithful, centruple their fortunes by usury that puts even Chinese
knavery to the blush.  The offerings they receive are converted, as it
were, into hooks, with which they catch the purses out of every one’s
pocket.  Money being thus accumulated in the coffers of the privileged
classes, and, on the other hand, the necessaries of life being only
procurable at a very high price, it results from this capital disorder,
that a great proportion of the population is constantly plunged in the
most frightful destitution.  At Lha-Ssa the number of mendicants is very
considerable.  They go from door to door, soliciting a handful of tsamba,
and enter any one’s house, without the least ceremony.  Their manner of
asking charity is to hold out the closed hand, with the thumb raised.  We
must add, in commendation of the Thibetians, that they are generally very
kind and compassionate, rarely sending away the poor unassisted.

Among the foreigners settled at Lha-Ssa, the Pebouns are the most
numerous.  These are Indians from the vicinity of Boutan, on the other
side of the Himalaya mountains.  They are of slight frame, but very
vigorous, active, and animated; their features are rounder than those of
the Thibetians: the complexion very dark, the eyes small, black, and
roguish; the forehead is marked with a dark, cherry-coloured spot, which
they renew every morning.  They are all attired in a uniform robe of pink
poulou, with a small felt cap of the same colour, but of somewhat darker
tint.  When they go out, they add to their costume a long red scarf,
which twice encircles the neck like a great collar, and the two ends of
which are thrown back over the shoulders.

The Pebouns are the only workers in metals at Lha-Ssa.  It is in their
quarter that you must seek the iron-smiths, the braziers, the plumbers,
the tinmen, the founders, the goldsmiths, the jewellers, the machinists,
and even the physicians and chemists.  Their workshops and laboratories
are nearly underground.  You enter them by a low, narrow opening, down
three or four steps.  Over the doors of all their houses, you see a
painting representing a red globe, and below it a white crescent.  These
manifestly signify the sun and moon; but the particular allusions
conveyed we omitted to ascertain.

You find, among the Pebouns, artists very distinguished in metallurgy.
They manufacture all sorts of vases, in gold and silver, for the use of
the Lamaseries, and jewellery of every description that certainly would
reflect no discredit upon European artists.  It is they who construct for
the Buddhist temples those fine roofs of gilt plates, which resist all
the inclemencies of the seasons, and always retain a marvellous freshness
and glitter.  They are so skilful at this class of work, that they are
sent to the very interior of Tartary to decorate the great Lamaseries.
The Pebouns are also the dyers of Lha-Ssa.  Their colours are vivid and
enduring; stuffs upon which they have operated may wear out, but they
never lose their colour.  They are only permitted, however, to dye the
poulou.  All stuffs coming from foreign countries must be worn as they
are, the government absolutely prohibiting the dyers from at all
exercising their industry upon them.  The object of this prohibition is
probably the encouragement of the stuffs manufactured at Lha-Ssa.

The Pebouns are in disposition extremely jovial and child-like.  In their
hours of relaxation they are full of laughter and frolic; and even while
at work they are constantly singing.  Their religion is Indian Buddhism.
Although they have not adopted the reformation of Tsong-Kaba, they
respect the Lamanesque ceremonies and rites.  They never fail, on all the
more solemn occasions, to prostrate themselves at the feet of the
Buddha-La, and to offer their adorations to the Talé-Lama.

Next to the Peboun, you remark at Lha-Ssa, the Katchi, or Mussulmen, from
Cashmere—their turban, their large beard, their grave, solemn step, their
physiognomy full of intelligence and majesty, the neatness and richness
of their attire,—everything about them presents an emphatic contrast with
the peoples of inferior race, by whom they are surrounded.  They have at
Lha-Ssa a governor, to whom they are immediately subject, and whose
authority is recognised by the Thibetian government.  This officer is, at
the same time, the local head of the Mussulman religion; so that his
countrymen consider him, in this foreign land, at once their pacha and
their mufti.  The Katchi have been established at Lha-Ssa for several
centuries, having originally abandoned their own country, in order to
escape the persecutions of a certain pacha of Cashmere, whose despotism
had become intolerable to them; and the children of these first emigrants
found themselves so well off in Thibet, that they never thought of
returning to their own country.  The descendants still keep up a
correspondence with Cashmere, but the intelligence they receive thence is
little calculated to give them any desire to renounce their adopted
country.  The Katchi governor, with whom we got upon very intimate terms,
told us that the Pelings of Calcutta (the English), were now the real
masters of Cashmere.  “The Pelings,” said he, “are the most cunning
people in the world.  Little by little they are acquiring possession of
all the countries of India, but it is always rather by stratagem than by
open force.  Instead of overthrowing the authorities, they cleverly
manage to get them on their side, to enlist them in their interest.
Hence it is that, in Cashmere, the saying is: The world is Allah’s, the
land the Pacha’s; it is the company that rules.”

The Katchi are the richest merchants at Lha-Ssa.  All the establishments
for the sale of linen, and other goods for personal and other use, belong
to them.  They are also money-changers, and traffic in gold and silver:
hence it is that you almost always find Parsee characters on the
Thibetian coinage.  Every year, some of their number proceed to Calcutta
for commercial operations, they being the only class who are permitted to
pass the frontiers to visit the English.  On these occasions they are
furnished with a passport from the Talé-Lama, and a Thibetian escort
accompanies them to the foot of the Himalaya mountains.  The goods,
however, which they bring from Calcutta, are of very limited extent,
consisting merely of ribands, galloons, knives, scissors, and some other
articles of cutlery and ironmongery, and a small assortment of cotton
goods.  The silks and linens in their warehouses, and of which they have
a large sale at Lha-Ssa, come from Peking by the medium of the caravans;
the linen goods, being Russian, come to them much cheaper than they buy
them at Calcutta.

The Katchi have a mosque at Lha-Ssa, and are rigid observers of the law
of Mahomet—openly and even ostentatiously expressing their contempt for
all the superstitious practices of the Buddhists.  The first Katchi who
arrived at Lha-Ssa married Thibetian wives, whom they compelled to
renounce their own religion, and to embrace Mahometanism.  But now, the
rule with them is only to contract marriage alliances amongst themselves;
so that there has imperceptibly become formed, in the heart of Thibet, a
small nation apart, having neither the costume, nor the manners, nor the
language, nor the religion of the natives.  As they do not prostrate
themselves before the Talé-Lama, and do not pray in the Lamaseries,
everybody says they are infidels; but as, for the most part, they are
rich and powerful, people stand aside in the streets to let them pass,
and put out their tongues to them in token of respect.  In Thibet, when
you desire to salute any one, you take off your hat, put out your tongue,
and scratch the right ear, all three operations being performed
simultaneously.

The Chinese you find at Lha-Ssa are for the most part soldiers or
officers of the tribunals; those who fix their residence in this town are
very few in number.  At all times the Chinese and the Thibetians have had
relations more or less important: they frequently have waged war against
each other, and have tried to encroach upon one another’s rights.  The
Tartar-Mantchou dynasty, as we have already remarked elsewhere, saw from
the commencement of their elevation the great importance of conciliating
the friendship of the Talé-Lama, whose influence is all-powerful over the
Mongol tribes; consequently, they have never failed to retain at the
court of Lha-Ssa two Grand Mandarins invested with the title of
Kin-Tchai, which signifies ambassador, or envoy-extraordinary.  The
ostensible mission of these individuals is to present, under certain
fixed circumstances, the homage of the Chinese Emperor to the Talé-Lama,
and to lend him the aid of China in any difficulties he may have with his
neighbours.  Such, to all appearance, is the purport of this permanent
embassy; but in reality they are only in attendance to flatter the
religious belief of the Mongols, and to bind them to the reigning
dynasty, by making them believe that the government of Peking has great
veneration for the divinity of the Buddha-La.  Another advantage of this
embassy is, that the two Kin-Tchais can easily, at Lha-Ssa, watch the
movements of the people on the confines of the empire, and send
information of them to their government.

In the thirty-fifth year of the reign of Kien-Long, the court of Peking
had at Lha-Ssa two Kin-Tchai, or ambassadors, the one named Lo, the other
Pou; by a combination of the two names, these men were called the
Kin-Tchais (_Lo-Pou_).  The word Lo-Pou signifying in Thibetian “radish.”
This term was, to a certain extent, an insult, and the people of Lha-Ssa,
who had never regarded with a pleased eye the presence of the Chinese in
the country, were delighted to take up this denomination.  Besides, for
some time past, the two Chinese Mandarins had given, by their behaviour,
umbrage to the Thibetians; they interfered every day, more and more, in
the affairs of the state, and openly encroached on the rights of the
Talé-Lama.  At last, as a climax of annoyance, they ordered numerous
Chinese troops into Thibet, under the pretext of protecting the Talé-Lama
from certain Nepaulese tribes who were giving him uneasiness.  It was
easy to see that China sought to extend its empire and dominion into
Thibet.  The opposition of the Thibetian government was, they say,
terrible, and the Nomekhan exerted all his authority to check the
usurpation of the two Kin-Tchai.  One day, as he was going to the palace
of the Chinese ambassadors, a young Lama threw a note into his litter, on
which were written the words, _Lo Pou, ma, sa_, which signifies, Do not
eat radishes—abstain from radishes.  The Nomekhan clearly saw, that by
this play upon words, some one wished to advise him to be on his guard
against the Kin-Tchais (Lo-Pou); but as the warning was not clear or
precise, he went on.  Whilst he was in secret conversation with the two
delegates of the court of Peking, some satellites suddenly entered the
apartment, poinarded the Nomekhan, and cut off his head.  A Thibetian
cook, who was in an adjoining room, ran, on hearing the victim’s cries,
took possession of the bleeding head, stuck it on a pike, and [Picture:
Insurrection of the Thibetians at Lha-Ssa] ran through the streets of
Lha-Ssa, crying, “Vengeance—death to the Chinese!”  The whole town was
raised; all rushed to arms, and went tumultuously to the palace of the
Kin-Tchai, who were cut in pieces.  The fury of the people was so great,
that they attacked, indiscriminately, all the Chinese, and hunted them
down like wild beasts—not only at Lha-Ssa, but also at the other places
in Thibet, where they had established military stations, making a
ruthless butchery of them.  The Thibetians, it is said, did not lay down
their arms till they had pitilessly pursued and massacred all the Chinese
to the very frontiers of Sse-Tchouen and Yun-Nan.

The news of this frightful catastrophe having reached the court of
Peking, the Emperor Kien-Long immediately ordered large levies of troops
throughout the empire, and had them marched against Thibet.  The Chinese,
as in almost all the wars they have waged with their neighbours, were
worsted, but they were successful in negociation.  Matters were replaced
on their former footing, and since then, peace has never been seriously
disturbed between the two governments.

The military force which the Chinese keep up in Thibet is inconsiderable.
From Sse-Tchouen to Lha-Ssa, they have, at each stage, miserable
barracks, designed to facilitate the journeys of the imperial couriers.
In the town of Lha-Ssa, their garrison consists of a few hundred
soldiers, whose presence contributes to adorn and protect the position of
the ambassadors.  From Lha-Ssa, going towards the south as far as Boutan,
they have also a line of barracks, very badly kept.  On the frontiers,
they guard, conjointly with the Thibetian troops, the high mountains
which separate Thibet from the first English stations.  In the other
parts of Thibet there are no Chinese, their entrance thither being
strictly forbidden.

The soldiers and the Chinese Mandarins established in Thibet are in the
pay of the government of Peking; they generally remain three years in the
country.  When this time has elapsed others are sent to replace them, and
they return to their respective provinces.  There are some of them,
however, who, on the termination of their service, obtain leave to settle
at Lha-Ssa, or in the towns on the road to Sse-Tchouen.  The Chinese at
Lha-Ssa are very few in number; and it would be rather difficult to say
to what profession they attach themselves to make their living.
Generally speaking, they are jacks-of-all-trades, having a thousand ways
of transferring to their own purses the tchan-kas of the Thibetians.
Many of them take a wife in the country; but the bonds of marriage are
inadequate to fix them for life in their adopted country.  After a
certain number of years, when they consider they have accumulated enough,
they return to China, and leave behind them wife and children, excepting
the sons, whom they would scruple to abandon.  The Thibetians fear the
Chinese, the Katchi despise them, the Peboun laugh at them.

Of the several classes of strangers sojourning at, or merely visiting
Lha-Ssa, there was no one to which we seemed to belong; we resembled no
one.  Accordingly, from the first day of our arrival, we observed that
the strangeness of our physiognomy attracted general attention.  When we
passed along the streets the people looked at us with astonishment, and
then advanced, in an under tone, various hypotheses as to our nation.  At
one time, they took us for two Muftis lately come from Cashmere; at
another time for two Indian [Picture: Chinese Mandarin and his wife]
Brahmins; some said we were Lamas from the north of Tartary; others
maintained that we were merchants from Peking, and that we had disguised
ourselves in order to accompany the Thibetian embassy.  But all these
suppositions soon vanished, for we formally declared to the Katchi that
we were neither Mufti nor Cashmerians; to the Peboun, that we were
neither Indians nor Brahmins; to the Mongols, that we were neither Lamas
nor Tartars; to the Chinese, that we were neither merchants, nor from the
Central Kingdom.  When all were fully convinced that we did not belong to
any of these categories they began to call us White Azaras.  The
denomination was very picturesque, and rather pleased us; we were not,
however, inclined to adopt it before getting some information on the
point.  We therefore asked what they meant by White Azaras.  The answer
we got was that the Azaras were the most fervent of all the adorers of
Buddha, that they were a large tribe of Indians, and that out of devotion
they often made a pilgrimage to Lha-Ssa.  It was added, that as we were
neither Thibetians, nor Katchi, nor Peboun, nor Tartars, nor Chinese, we
must certainly be Azaras.  There was only this little difficulty in the
way, that the Azaras who had previously been at Lha-Ssa, were black; it
had become necessary, therefore, in order to solve the difficulty, to
call us White Azaras.  We again rendered homage to the truth, and
declared that we were not Azaras of any kind, white or black.  All these
doubts about our origin were at first amusing enough; but they soon
became serious.  Some ill-disposed persons went on to consider that we
must be Russians or English, and ultimately almost everybody honoured us
with the latter qualification.  It was set forth, without further
hesitation, that we were Pelings from Calcutta, that we had come to
investigate the strength of Thibet, to make maps, and to devise means to
get possession of the country.  All national prejudice apart, it was very
annoying to us to be taken for the subjects of her Britannic Majesty.
Such a _quid-pro-quo_ could not but render us very unpopular, and,
perhaps, end in our being cut to pieces; for the Thibetians, why, we know
not, have taken it into their heads that the English are an encroaching
people, who are not to be trusted.

To cut short the various chatter circulated about us, we resolved to
conform to a regulation in force at Lha-Ssa, and which commands all
strangers, who are desirous of staying in the town, to present themselves
to the authorities.  We went accordingly to the chief of police, and
declared to him that we belonged to the Western Heaven, to a great
kingdom called France, and that we had come to Thibet to preach the
Christian religion, of which we were the ministers.  The person to whom
we made this declaration was cold and impenetrable as became a
bureaucrat.  He phlegmatically drew his bamboo quill from behind his ear,
and began to write, without the slightest observation, what we had told
him.  He contented himself with repeating twice or thrice, between his
teeth, the words “France,” and “Christian religion,” like a man who does
not know what you mean.  When he had done writing, he wiped his pen,
still wet with ink, in his hair, and replaced it behind his right ear,
saying, “Yak poze” (very well); “Temou chu” (dwell in peace), we replied,
and putting out our tongues at him, we left him, delighted at having
placed ourselves on a proper footing with the police.  We then walked
about the streets of Lha-Ssa with a firmer and more assured step, and
regardless of the remarks that continually assailed our ears.  The lawful
position we had established raised us in our own eyes, and restored our
courage.  What a happiness at length to find ourselves in a hospitable
land, and to be able to breathe a free air, after living so long in
China; always in constraint, always outside the law, always occupied with
plans for tricking the government of his Imperial Majesty.

The sort of indifference with which our declaration was received by the
Thibetian authorities did not surprise us in the least.  From the
information we had received of the position of strangers at Lha-Ssa, we
were convinced we should have no difficulty in the matter.  The
Thibetians do not profess, in regard to other people, those principles of
exclusion which constitute the distinctive character of the Chinese
nation.  Everyone is allowed to enter Lha-Ssa; everyone can go and come,
and engage in commerce and industrial pursuits without the least
restraint.  If entrance into Thibet is forbidden to the Chinese, this
prohibition must be attributed to the government of Peking, which, to
show its complete adherence to its narrow and suspicious policy, forbids
its subjects to penetrate among other nations.  It is probable that the
English would not be excluded more than any other nation, had not their
invasive march into Hindostan inspired the Talé-Lama with a natural
terror.

We have already mentioned the many and striking analogies between the
Lamanesque worship and the Catholic rites—Rome and Lha-Ssa—the pope and
the Talé-Lama, {155} might furnish further analogies.  The Thibetian
government, being purely Lamanesque, seems in some sort framed upon the
ecclesiastical government of the Pontifical states.  The Talé-Lama is the
political and religious head of all the Thibetian countries; in his hands
is all the legislative, executive, and administrative power.  The common
law and some rules left by Tsong-Kaba, serve to direct him in the
exercise of his immense authority.  When the Talé-Lama dies, or, in the
language of the Buddhists, when he transmigrates, a child is selected who
is to continue the imperishable personification of the Living Buddha.
This election is made by the grand assembly of the Houtouktou Lamas,
whose sacerdotal dignity is only inferior to that of the Talé-Lama.
By-and-by we will enter more fully into the form and rules of this
singular election.  As the Talé-Lama is not only the religious and
political sovereign of the Thibetians, but also their visible deity, it
is obvious that he cannot, without seriously compromising his divinity,
descend from the height of his sanctuary, to meddle, on all occasions,
with human affairs.  He has, therefore, reserved to himself the matters
of primary importance, content to reign much, and to govern very little.
The exercise of his authority wholly depends on his will and pleasure.
There is no charter or constitution to regulate his conduct.

After the Talé-Lama, whom the Thibetians also call Kian-Ngan-Remboutchi
(sovereign treasure), comes the Nomekhan, or Spiritual Emperor.  The
Chinese give him the name of Tsan-Wang, king of Thibet.  This personage
is nominated by the Talé-Lama, and must be selected from the class of
Chaberon Lamas.  He retains office for life, and can only be overthrown
by some state stroke.  All the affairs of the government are managed by
the Nomekhan, and four ministers called Kalons.  The Kalons are chosen by
the Talé-Lama, from a list of candidates made out by the Nomekhan; they
do not belong to the sacerdotal tribe, and may marry; the duration of
their power is unlimited.  When they render themselves unworthy of their
office, the Nomekhan sends a report to the Talé-Lama, who dismisses them,
if he thinks proper.  The subaltern functionaries are selected by the
Kalons, and most frequently belong to the class of Lamas.

The provinces are divided into several principalities, which are governed
by Houtouktou Lamas.  These petty ecclesiastical sovereigns receive their
investiture from the Talé-Lama, and recognise his sovereign authority.
Generally they are of a warlike turn, and frequently engage with their
neighbours, in hostile skirmishes, which are always accompanied by
pillage and conflagration.

The most potent of these Lama sovereigns is the Bandchan-Remboutchi.  He
resides at Djachi-Loumbo (mountain of oracles), capital of Further
Thibet.  This town is situated south of Lha-Ssa, and is only eight days
journey from it.  The celebrity of the present Bandchan is prodigious;
his partisans assert that his spiritual power is as great as that of the
Talé-Lama, and that the sanctuary of Djachi-Loumbo does not yield in
sanctity to that of the Buddha-La.  It is generally, however, admitted,
that the temporal power of the Talé-Lama is superior to that of the
Bandchan-Remboutchi.  Great rivalry will not fail to manifest itself,
sooner or later, between Lha-Ssa and Djachi-Loumbo, and occasion dismal
dissensions among the Thibetians.

The present Bandchan-Remboutchi is sixty years of age; he is, they say,
of a fine and majestic frame, and astonishingly vigorous for his advanced
age.  This singular personage states himself to be of Indian origin, and
that it is already some thousands of years since his first incarnation
took place in the celebrated country of the Azaras.  The physiognomists
who, at our first coming to Lha-Ssa, took us for white Azaras, failed not
to urge us to go and offer our devotions to the Djachi-Loumbo, assuring
us, that in our quality of countrymen of the Bandchan-Remboutchi, we
should have a very good reception.  The learned Lamas, who occupy
themselves with Buddhic genealogies, explain how the Bandchan, after
numerous and marvellous incarnations in Hindostan, ended by appearing in
Further Thibet, and fixing his residence at Djachi-Loumbo.  Whatever may
be his biography, which, fortunately we are not bound to believe in, it
is certain that this able Lama has managed to establish an astonishing
reputation.  The Thibetians, the Tartars, and the other Buddhists call
him by no other name than the Great Saint, and never pronounce his name
without clasping their hands and raising their eyes to heaven.  They
pretend that his knowledge is universal.  He knows how to speak, they
say, all the languages of the universe without having ever studied them,
and can converse with pilgrims from all parts of the world.  The Tartars
have so strong a faith in his power, that they invoke him continually.
In dangers, in afflictions, in all matters of difficulty, they have in
their mouths the magic word bokte (saint).

The pilgrims who come to Thibet never fail to visit the Djachi-Loumbo, to
prostrate themselves at the feet of the saint of saints, and to present
to him their offerings.  No one can form a notion of the enormous sums
which the Tartar caravans bring him every year.  In return for the ingots
of gold and silver which he shuts up in his coffers, the Bandchan
distributes among his adorers shreds of his old clothes, bits of paper
printed with Mongol or Thibetian sentences, earthen statuettes, and red
pills of infallible efficaciousness against all sorts of maladies.  The
pilgrims receive with veneration these trifles, and deposit them
religiously in a bag which they always have hanging from their necks.

Those who make the pilgrimage to Djachi-Loumbo, seculars or Lamas, men or
women, all enrol themselves in the society of Kalons, instituted by the
Bandchan-Remboutchi.  Almost all the Buddhists aspire to the happiness of
becoming members of this association, which will give rise, some day, to
some important event in Upper Asia.  All minds, even now, are vividly
occupied with the presentiment of a grand catastrophe.  Here are some of
the strange prophecies that are current on this subject.

When the saint of Djachi-Loumbo, when the Bandchan-Remboutchi dies, he
will not transmigrate as heretofore, in Further Thibet.  His new
incarnation will take place to the north of Lha-Ssa, in the steppes
inhabited by the Ourianghai, in the country called Thien-Chan-Pé-Lou,
between the Celestial Mountains and the chains of the Altai.  While he
remains there, a few years incognito, preparing himself by retirement,
prayer, and good works, for the great events of the future, the religion
of Buddha will continue to grow weaker and weaker in all men’s hearts; it
will only exist in the bosoms of the brotherhood of the Kalons.  At this
disastrous epoch the Chinese will gain influence in Thibet; they will
spread themselves over the mountains and through the valleys, and will
seek to possess themselves of the empire of the Talé-Lama.  But this
state of things will soon pass away; there will he a general rise of the
people; the Thibetians will take up arms, and will massacre in one day
all the Chinese, young and old, and not one of them shall repass the
frontiers.

A year after this sanguinary day, the Chinese Emperor will raise
innumerable battalions, and will lead them against the Thibetians.  There
will be a terrible reaction; blood will flow in torrents, the streams
will be red with gore, and the Chinese will gain possession of Thibet.
But this triumph will not be of long duration.  Then it will be that the
Bandchan-Remboutchi will manifest his power.  He will summon all the
Kalons of the holy society.  Those who shall have already died will
return to life, and they will all assemble in a vast plain of
Thien-Chan-Pé-Lou.  There the Bandchan will distribute arrows and fusils
to all of them, and will form of this multitude a formidable army of
which he himself will take the command.  The society of Kalons will march
with the Saint of Saints, and will throw themselves on the Chinese, who
will be cut to pieces.  Thibet will be conquered, then China, then
Tartary, and finally, the vast empire of the Oros.  The Bandchan will be
proclaimed universal sovereign, and under his holy influence Lamanism
will be soon restored to its pristine vigour, superb Lamaseries will rise
everywhere, and the whole world will recognise the infinite power of
Buddhic prayers.

These predictions, of which we content ourselves with giving a mere
summary, are related by every one in most minute detail; but what is most
surprising is, that no one seems to entertain the least doubt of the full
accomplishment of the events they foretell.  Every one speaks of them as
of things certain and infallible.  The Chinese residing at Lha-Ssa seem
likewise to attach credit to the prediction, but they take good care not
to trouble their heads much about it; they hope that the crisis will not
come for a long while, that by that time they may be dead, or at least be
able to anticipate it.  As for the Bandchan-Remboutchi, they say he is
preparing himself vigorously for the grand revolution of which he is
destined to be the soul.  Although already advanced in years he often
practices military exercises: every moment which is not absorbed by his
high functions as Living Buddha he employs in making himself familiar
with his future position of generalissimo of the Kalons.  They affirm
that he shoots an arrow very skilfully, and that he handles with great
dexterity the lance and the matchlock.  He breeds large herds of horses
for his future cavalry, and packs of enormous dogs, which, combining
prodigious strength with superior intelligence, are destined to play an
important part in the grand army of the Kalons.

These absurd and extravagant ideas have so made their way with the
masses, and particularly with those who belong to the society of the
Kalons, that they are very likely, at some future day, to cause a
revolution in Thibet.  It is never without result that people thus
preoccupy their minds with the future.  After the death of the Grand Lama
of Djachi-Loumbo, a reckless adventurer will only have to proceed to
Thien-Chan-Pé-Lou, boldly proclaim himself Bandchan-Remboutchi, and
summon the Kalons together—nothing more will, probably, be required to
raise these fanatical people.

An actual and immediate result of this society of the Kalons is to give
the Bandchan-Remboutchi an importance which seems by slow degrees to be
compromising the supremacy of the Talé-Lama.  This result is the more
feasible, that the sovereign of Lha-Ssa is a child of nine years old, and
that his three predecessors have fallen victims to a violent death before
attaining their majority, which is fixed by the laws at twenty years of
age.  The Bandchan-Remboutchi, who seems to be an able and ambitious man,
will not have failed to take advantage of these four minorities to
confiscate to his own advantage a portion of the spiritual and temporal
power of the Talé-Lama.

The violent death of the three Talé-Lamas, the immediate predecessors of
the reigning sovereign, gave rise, in the year 1844, to an event which
occupied the attention of all Thibet, Tartary, and even China, and which,
on account of its importance, deserves, perhaps, a brief notice here.
The unprecedented phenomenon of three Talé-Lamas dying successively in
the flower of their age, had plunged the inhabitants of Lha-Ssa into a
state of mournful consternation.  Gradually, dark rumours began to
circulate, and soon the words “crime,” “assassination,” were heard.  The
thing went so far that they related in the streets of the town and the
Lamaseries all the circumstances of these dismal events.  It was said
that the first Talé-Lama had been strangled, the second crushed by the
roof of his sleeping apartment, and the third poisoned with his numerous
relations, who had come to settle at Lha-Ssa.  The superior Lama of the
Grand Lamasery of Kaldan, who was very much attached to the Talé-Lama,
had suffered the same fate.  The public voice denounced the Nomekhan as
the author of all these crimes.  The four ministers had no doubt about
the matter, knowing the whole truth; but they found themselves unable to
avenge the death of their sovereign; they were too weak to struggle with
the Nomekhan, who was supported by numerous and powerful friends.

This Nomekhan was a Si-Fan, a native of the principality of Yang-Tou-Sse,
in the province of Kan-Sou.  The supreme dignity of Tou-Sse was
hereditary in his family, and a great number of his relations, settled at
Lha-Ssa for several generations, exercised great influence over the
affairs of Thibet.  The Nomekhan of Yang-Tou-Sse was still very young
when he was invested with an authority inferior only to that of the
Talé-Lama.  They say that a few years after his elevation to power, he
manifested his ambitious sentiments and a boundless desire for
domination.  He used his own great wealth and the influence of his
relations, to surround himself with dependents wholly devoted to his
interest.  He took particular care to secure partisans among the Lamas;
and, to this end, he took under his immediate protection the famous
Lamasery of Sera, situated half a league from Lha-Ssa, and containing
upwards of 15,000 Buddhist monks.  He loaded it with presents, granted it
infinite privileges and revenues, and placed, in its different
departments, a great number of his creatures.  The Lamas of Sera failed
not to acquire great enthusiasm for the Nomekhan; they regarded him as a
saint of the first degree, and compiled an enumeration of his perfections
as extensive and pompous as that of the perfections of Buddha.  Supported
by the powerful party he had got together, the Nomekhan withdrew all
bounds from his projects of usurpation.  It was then that he caused the
three young Lamas to be murdered in succession, in order to keep for
himself the position of Regent.  Such was the Nomekhan of Yang-Tou-Sse,
or rather, such was he represented to us during our stay at Lha-Ssa.

It was not easy, as may be seen, to overthrow a personage whose power was
so solidly based.  The Kalon ministers, unequal to an open struggle with
the Nomekhan, resolved to dissimulate, and to work, meanwhile, in secret,
at the downfall of this execrable man.  The assembly of the Houtouktou
elected a new Talé-Lama, or rather indicated the child into whose body
the soul of the Living Buddha had transmigrated.  He was enthroned at the
summit of the Buddha-La.  The Nomekhan, like the other dignitaries,
proceeded to throw himself at his feet, worshipped him with all devotion,
but with the full resolution, doubtless, to make him undergo a fourth
transmigration, when he should think proper.

The Kalons secretly adopted measures to prevent a new catastrophe.  They
consulted with the Bandchan-Remboutchi of Djachi-Loumbo, and it was
determined that, to check the infamous projects of the Nomekhan, they
should call to their aid the irresistible power of the Emperor of China.
A request was accordingly drawn up and signed by the Bandchan and the
four Kalons, and privately sent to Peking by the embassy of 1844.  For
three special reasons the government of Peking could not dispense with
granting to the Thibetians the protection they demanded under these grave
circumstances.  In the first place the Tartaro-Mantchou dynasty had
solemnly declared itself protector of the Talé-Lama; in the second place,
the Nomekhan, as being a native of Yang-Tou-Sse, in the province of
Kan-Sou, was in some degree amenable to the Chinese Emperor; finally,
politically speaking, it was an excellent opportunity for the court of
Peking to establish its influence in Thibet, with a view to the
realisation of its protects of usurpation.

The request sent to Peking by the Bandchan-Remboutchi and the four
Kalons, was received with all the favour that could be desired, and the
government there determined to send to Lha-Ssa an ambassador of energy
and prudence, capable of overthrowing the power of the Nomekhan.  The
Emperor thought of the Mandarin Ki-Chan, and charged him with this
difficult mission.

Before proceeding further, it will not, perhaps, be superfluous to give a
sketch of this Ki-Chan, a very celebrated personage in China, who has
played an important part in the affair of the English at Canton.  Ki-Chan
is of Tartaro-Mantchou origin; he commenced his career as a scrivener in
one of the six grand tribunals of Peking.  His rare capacity was soon
remarked, and although he was still very young, he rapidly mounted all
the steps of the magistracy.  At the age of twenty-two he was governor of
the province of Ho-Nan; at the age of twenty-five he was its viceroy, but
he was dismissed from this charge for not having been able to foresee an
overflow of the Yellow River, which caused great disasters in the
province that was entrusted to him.  His disgrace did not last long; he
was reinstated in his former dignity, and sent, successively, in quality
of viceroy, to the provinces of Chan-Tong-Sse Tchouen, and Pe-Tche-Ly.
He was decorated with the red button, the peacock’s feather, and the
yellow tunic, with the title of Heou-Ye (imperial prince).  At length, he
was nominated Tchoung-Tang, the highest dignity to which a Mandarin can
ever aspire.  They have only eight Tchoung-Tangs in the empire; four
Mantchous and four Chinese; these compose the privy council of the
Emperor, and have the right of direct correspondence with him.

Towards the close of the year 1839, Ki-Chan was sent to Canton, as
viceroy of the province, and with the title of imperial commissioner he
had full powers to treat, in the name of his government, with the
English, and to re-establish the peace which had been disturbed by the
foolish and violent proceedings of his predecessor Lin.  That which most
emphatically proves the capacity of Ki-Chan is, that on his arrival at
Canton he recognised the infinite superiority of the Europeans over the
Chinese, and saw that war was impossible.  He, accordingly, forthwith
commenced negociations with Mr. Elliott, the English plenipotentiary, and
peace was concluded, on the consideration of the cession of the small
island of Hong-Kong.  To cement the good understanding that had been
established between the Emperor Tao-Kouang and Queen Victoria, Ki-Chan
gave the English authorities a magnificent banquet, at which was present
M. de Rosamel, the commander of the corvette _Danaide_, which had arrived
a few days before in the roads of Macao.  Every one was enchanted with
the graceful and affable manners of the commissioner-general.

A few days only elapsed before the intrigues worked at Peking by the
former imperial commissioner, Lin, occasioned the disallowance by the
Emperor of the treaty that had just been concluded at Canton.  Ki-Chan
was accused of having allowed himself to be corrupted by English gold,
and of having sold to the “sea devils” the territory of the Celestial
Empire.  The Emperor sent him a furious letter, declaring him worthy of
death, and ordering him to repair to Peking forthwith.  The poor imperial
commissioner had not his head cut off, as every one expected.  The
Emperor, in his paternal mildness, gave him his life, and merely degraded
him from all his titles, withdrew all his decorations, confiscated his
property, razed his house, sold his wives by public auction, and banished
him to the depths of Tartary.  The numerous and influential friends whom
Ki-Chan had at court, did not desert him in his reverses; they laboured
with courage and perseverance to reinstate him in the good graces of the
Emperor.  In 1841, he was, at length, recalled, and sent to Lha-Ssa as
envoy-extraordinary in the matter of the Nomekhan.  He departed,
decorated with the blue button, instead of the red one, which he wore
before his fall; they restored to him the peacock’s feather, but the
privilege of wearing the yellow tunic was still withheld.  His friends at
Peking clubbed together and built for him a magnificent house.  The post
of Kin-Tchai, amid the mountains of Thibet, was still considered
banishment; but it was a step towards a glorious and complete
reinstatement.  Immediately upon his arrival at Lha-Ssa, Ki-Chan
concerted with the Bandchan-Remboutchi, and had the Nomekhan arrested.
He then proceeded to examine all the persons attached to the service of
the accused, and, in order to facilitate their declaration of the truth,
he had long bamboo needles thrust under their nails; by this means, as
the Chinese phrase it, “truth was separated from falsehood,” and the
conduct of the Nomekhan was brought to light.  The wretched man avowed
his crimes voluntarily, in order to avoid the torture.  He acknowledged
himself guilty of taking away three lives from the Talé-Lama; of having
used violent means to make him transmigrate, the first time by
strangulation, the second time by suffocation, and the third by poison.
A confession was drawn up in the Tartar, Chinese, and Thibetian
languages; the Nomekhan and his accomplices signed it; the
Bandchan-Remboutchi, the four Kalons, and the Chinese ambassador set
their seals to it; and it was immediately forwarded to Peking by a
courier-extraordinary.  All this was done in secret.  Three months
afterwards, the capital of Thibet was thrown into a state of the greatest
agitation; there was seen placarded on the great gate of the Nomekhan’s
palace, and in the principal streets of the town, an imperial edict, in
three languages, on yellow paper, and with borders representing winged
dragons.  After a long flourish about the duties of kings, and of
sovereigns, great and small, and an exhortation to the potentates,
monarchs, princes, magistrates, and people of the four seas, to walk in
the paths of justice and virtue, under pain of incurring the wrath of
heaven and the indignation of the Grand Khan, the Emperor recounted the
crimes of the Nomekhan, and condemned him to perpetual banishment on the
banks of the Sakhalien-Oula, in the depths of Mantchouria.  At the end
was the usual formula: “Tremble and obey.”

The inhabitants of Lha-Ssa collected round these strange placards, which
they were unused to see on the walls of their town.  The report of the
condemnation of the Nomekhan spread rapidly among the people.  Numerous
groups began to form, who discussed the point with vehemence, but in
whispers.  All faces were animated, and from every quarter there rose a
deep murmur.  This agitation among the Thibetian people arose not so much
from the merited downfall of the Nomekhan, as from the interference of
the Chinese authorities, an interference which every one felt to be very
humiliating.

At the Lamasery of Sera, opposition manifested itself with an altogether
different sort of energy.  As soon as they had notice there of the
imperial edict, the insurrection was spontaneous and general.  Those
15,000 Lamas, who were all devoted to the cause of the Nomekhan, armed
themselves hastily with lances, fusils, sticks, whatever came first to
hand, and threw themselves into Lha-Ssa, which was only half a league
distant.  The thick clouds of dust which they raised in their disorderly
course, and the terrible shouts they sent forth, announced their arrival
to the inhabitants of Lha-Ssa—“The Lamas of Sera!  Here are the Lamas of
Sera!”  Such was the cry which resounded through the town, and inspired
all hearts with fear.  The Lamas burst like an avalanche upon the house
of the Chinese ambassador, and dashed in the door with shouts of “Death
to Ki-Chan! death to the Chinese!”  But they found no one upon whom they
could vent their rage.  The ambassador, forewarned in time of their
arrival, had run and concealed himself in the house of a Kalon, and the
people of his train were dispersed over the town.  The multitude of Lamas
then divided itself into several bands, some took their way to the palace
of the Nomekhan, and others besieged the dwellings of the Kalons,
demanding loudly that they should give up to them the Chinese ambassador.
There was, on this point, a long and fierce contest, in which one of the
four Thibetian ministers was torn to pieces, and the others received
wounds more or less dangerous.

Whilst they were contending with the Kalons for possession of the person
of Ki-Chan, the most numerous party of the Lamas had broken into the
prison where the Nomekhan was confined, and wanted to bear him in triumph
to the Lamasery of Sera.  The Nomekhan, however, strongly opposed this
intention, and exerted all his influence to calm the excitement of the
Lamas.  He told them that their inconsiderate revolt aggravated his
position instead of ameliorating it.  “I am,” said he, “the victim of a
conspiracy.  I will go to Peking; I will explain the whole affair to the
Emperor, and will return in triumph amongst you.  At present we have only
to obey the imperial decree.  I will depart, as I have been commanded.
Do you go back quietly to your Lamasery.”  These words did not shake the
resolution of the Lamas, but, night falling, they returned tumultuously
to Sera, promising themselves a better plan for the morrow.  When day
broke, the Lamas began to move about in their vast monastery, and to
prepare themselves for a fresh invasion of the town of Lha-Ssa, but, to
their great astonishment, they perceived in the plain, round about the
Lamasery, numerous tents and a multitude of Chinese and Thibetian
soldiers, armed to the teeth, and prepared to bar their passage.  At this
sight, all their valour evaporated: the marine conch was sounded, and
these extempore soldiers, throwing aside their arms, re-entered their
cells, took their books under their arms, and quietly proceeded to the
choir, to recite, as usual, their matins.

A few days afterwards, the Nomekhan, accompanied by a strong escort, took
the road to Sse-Tchouen, and proceeded like a sheep, to the place of
exile that had been assigned him.  They could never understand at Lha-Ssa
how the man, who had not hesitated to murder three Talé-Lamas, had not
chosen to take advantage of the insurrection of the Lamas of Sera.
Certain it is, that, with a single word, he might have annihilated all
the Chinese at Lha-Ssa, and most probably set all Thibet in a blaze; but
the Nomekhan was not formed to play such a part; he had the cowardly
energy of an assassin, but not the audacity of a revolutionist.

Ki-Chan, encouraged by his triumph, wanted to extend his power to the
Thibetian accomplices of the Nomekhan.  This claim, however, did not suit
the Kalons, who told him that to them alone belonged the right of judging
men who in no wise were subject to China, and against whom they had not
asked for the protection of the Emperor.  The Kin-Tchai did not press the
point; but, not to appear to yield to the Thibetian authorities, he
replied to them officially, “that he left to them these inferior
assassins, who were below the notice of the representative of the
Emperor.”

A new Nomekhan was elected in the place of the exile.  The person
selected for this important charge was the Chaberon of the Lamasery of
Ran-Tchan, a young man of eighteen years of age.  The Talé-Lama and the
new Nomekhan being minors, at the time that we arrived at Lha-Ssa, the
regency was entrusted to the first Kalon.  All the solicitude of the
Regent was applied to the erection of barriers against the encroachments
and usurpation of the Chinese ambassador, who sought, by all possible
means, to avail himself of the present feebleness of the Thibetian
government.

                       [Picture: Chapter Endpiece]

                           [Picture: The Spies]




CHAPTER VI.


Visit of Five Spies—Appearance before the Regent—Ki-Chan makes us undergo
an Examination—Supper at the expense of the Government—A night of
imprisonment with the Regent—Confidential communications of the Governor
of the Katchi—Domiciliary Visit—Seals affixed to all our
effects—Sinico-Thibetian Tribunal—Inquiry about the Geographical
Maps—Homage paid to Christianity, and to the French name—The Regent
assigns to us one of his Houses—Erection of a Chapel—Preaching of the
Gospel—Conversion of a Chinese Doctor—Religious Conferences with the
Regent—Recreation with a Magnifying Glass—Conversations with
Ki-Chan—Religious character of the Thibetians—Celebrated formula of the
Buddhists—Buddhist Pantheism—Election of the Talé-Lama—The Small-pox at
Lha-Ssa—Sepultures in use among the Thibetians.

As soon as we had presented ourselves to the Thibetian authorities,
declaring our characters and the object which had brought us to Lha-Ssa,
we availed ourselves of the semi-official position we had thus taken, to
enter into communication with the Thibetian and Tartar Lamas, and thus,
at last, to begin our work as missionaries.  One day, when we were
sitting beside our modest hearth, talking of religious questions with a
Lama who was well versed in Buddhist learning, a Chinese dressed in
exquisite style suddenly appeared before us, saying that he was a
merchant and very desirous of buying our goods.  We told him we had
nothing to sell.  “How, nothing to sell?”  “Not anything, except indeed
those two old saddles, which we do not want any longer.”  “Ah, exactly;
that is just what I am looking for; I want saddles.”  Then, while he
examined our poor merchandise, he addressed to us a thousand questions
about our country and the places we had visited before we came to
Lha-Ssa.  Shortly afterwards there arrives a second Chinese, then a
third, and at last two Lamas, in costly silk scarves.  All these visitors
insisted upon buying something from us; they overwhelmed us with
questions, and seemed, at the same time, to scrutinise with distrust all
the corners of our chamber.

We might say, as often as we liked, that we were not merchants—they
insisted.  In default of silk, drapery, or hardware, they would like our
saddles; they turned them round and round in every way, finding them now
perfectly magnificent, now abominable.  At last, after long haggling and
cross-questioning, they went off, promising to return.

The visit of these five individuals occasioned much serious reflection;
their manner of acting and speaking was not at all natural.  Although
they came one after the other, yet they seemed perfectly to understand
each other, and to aim at the same end by the same means.  Their desire
of buying something from us was evidently a mere pretext for disguising
their intentions: these people were rather swindlers or spies, than real
merchants.  “Well,” we said, “let us wait quietly; sooner or later we
shall see clearly into this affair.”

As it was dinner time, we sat down to table, or rather, we remained at
the fireside, contemplating the pot, in which a good cut of beef had been
boiling for some hours.  Samdadchiemba, in his quality of steward,
brought this to the surface of the liquid by means of a large wooden
spoon, seized it with his nails, and threw it on the end of a board,
where he cut it into three equal pieces; each then took his portion in
his cup, and with the aid of a few rolls baked in the ashes, we
tranquilly commenced our dinner without troubling ourselves very much
about swindlers or spies.  We were at our dessert—that is to say, we were
about to rinse our cups with some buttered tea, when the two Lamas, the
pretended merchants, made their re-appearance.  “The Regent,” they said,
“awaits you in his palace; he wants to speak to you.”  “But,” cried we,
“does the Regent, perchance, also want to buy our old saddles?”  “It is
not a question about either saddles or merchandise.  Rise at once, and
follow us to the Regent.”  The matter was now beyond a doubt; the
government was desirous of meddling with us—to what end?  Was it to do us
good or ill, to give us liberty, or to shackle us? to let us live or to
make us die?  This we could not tell.  “Let us go to the Regent,” we
said, “and trust for the rest to the will of our heavenly Father.”

After having dressed ourselves in our best, and put on our majestic caps
of fox-skin, we said to our apparitor, “We are ready.”  “And this young
man,” he said, pointing to Samdadchiemba, who had turned his eyes upon
him with no very affectionate expression.  “This young man, he is our
servant, he will take care of the house in our absence.”  “No, no, he
must come too; the Regent wishes to see all three of you.”  Samdadchiemba
shook, by way of making his toilet, his great robe of sheepskin, placed,
in a very insolent manner, a small black cap over his ear, and we
departed all together, after padlocking the door of our lodging.

We went at a rapid pace for about five or six minutes, and then arrived
at the palace of the First Kalon, the Regent of Thibet.  After having
crossed a large courtyard, where were assembled a great number of Lamas
and Chinese, who began to whisper when they saw us appear, we were
stopped before a gilt door, the folds of which stood ajar; our leader
passed through a small corridor on the left, and an instant after the
door was opened.  At the farther end of an apartment, simply furnished,
we perceived a personage sitting with crossed legs on a thick cushion
covered with a tiger’s-skin: it was the Regent.  With his right hand he
made us a sign to approach.  We went close up to him, and saluted him by
placing our caps under our arms.  A bench covered with a red carpet stood
on our right; on this we were invited to sit down—we complied
immediately.  Meantime the gilt door was closed, and there remained in
the saloon only the Regent and seven individuals, who stood behind
him—namely, four Lamas of a modest and composed bearing, two sly-looking,
mischievous-eyed Chinese, and a person whom, by his long beard, his
turban, and grave countenance, we recognised to be a Mussulman.  The
Regent was a man of fifty years of age; his large features, mild and
remarkably pallid, breathed a truly royal majesty; his dark eyes, shaded
by long lashes, were intelligent and gentle.  He was dressed in a yellow
robe, edged with sable; a ring, adorned with diamonds, hung from his left
ear, and his long, jet black hair was collected together at the top of
his head, and fastened by three small gold combs.  His large red cap, set
with pearls and surmounted by a coral ball, lay at his side on a green
cushion.

When we were seated, the Regent gazed at us for a long while in silence,
and with a minute attention.  He turned his head alternately to the right
and left, and smiled at us in a half mocking, half friendly manner.  This
sort of pantomime appeared to us at last so droll, that we could not help
laughing.  “Come,” we said in French, and in an undertone, “this
gentleman seems a good fellow enough; our affair will go on very well.”
“Ah!” said the Regent, in a very affable tone, “what language is that you
speak?  I did not understand what you said?”  “We spoke the language of
our country.”  “Well, repeat aloud what you said just now.”  “We said,
‘This gentleman seems a good-natured fellow enough.’”  The Regent,
turning to those who were standing behind him, said, “Do you understand
this language?”  They all bowed together, and answered that they did not
understand it.  “You see, nobody here understands the language of your
country.  Translate your words into the Thibetian.”  We said, that in the
physiognomy of the First Kalon there was expressed much kindliness.  “Ah!
you think I have much kindliness; yet I am very ill-natured.  Is it not
true that I am very ill-natured?” he asked his attendants.  They answered
merely by smiling.  “You are right,” continued the Regent; “I am kind,
for kindness is the duty of a Kalon.  I must be kind towards my people,
and also towards strangers.”  He then addressed to us a long harangue, of
which we could comprehend only a few sentences.  When he had finished, we
told him that, not being much accustomed to the Thibetian language, we
had not fully penetrated the sense of his words.  The Regent signed to a
Chinese, who, stepping forward, translated to us his harangue, of which
the following is the outline.  We had been summoned without the slightest
idea of being molested.  The contradictory reports that had circulated
respecting us since our arrival at Lha-Ssa, had induced the Regent to
question us himself, in order to know where we came from.  “We are from
the western sky,” we said to the Regent.  “From Calcutta?”  “No; our
country is called France.”  “You are, doubtless, Peling?”  “No, we are
Frenchmen.”  “Can you write?”  “Better than speak.”  The Regent, turning
round, addressed some words to a Lama, who disappearing, returned in a
moment with paper, ink, and a bamboo point.  “Here is paper,” said the
Regent; “write something.”  “In what language—in Thibetian?”  “No, write
some letters in your own country’s language.”  One of us took the paper
on his knees, and wrote this sentence: “What avails it to man to conquer
the whole world, if he lose his soul?”  “Ah, here are characters of your
country!  I never saw any like them; and what is the meaning of that?”
We wrote the translation in Thibetian, Tartar, and Chinese, and handed it
to him.  “I have not been deceived,” he said; “you are men of great
knowledge.  You can write in all languages, and you express thoughts as
profound as those we find in the prayer-books.”  He then repeated, slowly
moving his head to and fro, “What avails it to man to conquer the whole
world if he lose his own soul?”

While the Regent and his attendants were indulging in their raptures at
our wonderful knowledge, we heard on a sudden, in the courtyard of the
palace, the cries of the crowd and the sonorous noise of the Chinese
tamtam.  “Here is the ambassador of Peking,” said the Regent, “he wishes
to examine you himself.  Tell him frankly what concerns you, and rely on
my protection; it is I who govern the country.”  This said, he quitted
the saloon with his retinue through a small secret door, and left us
alone in this judgment-hall.

The idea of falling into the hands of the Chinese made at first a
disagreeable impression upon us; and the picture of those horrible
persecutions which at different times have afflicted the christendoms of
China, seized upon our imagination; but we soon recovered our spirits in
the reflection that we were alone, and isolated as we were in the midst
of Thibet, could not compromise any one.  This thought gave us courage.
“Samdadchiemba,” we said to our young neophyte, “now must we show that we
are brave men, that we are Christians.  This affair will perhaps proceed
to great lengths; but let us never lose sight of eternity.  If we are
treated well, we shall thank God for it; if we are maltreated, we shall
thank him nevertheless, for we shall have the happiness of suffering for
the faith.  If we are killed, the martyrdom will be a splendid crowning
of all our labours.  To arrive, after a journey of only eighteen months,
in heaven, were not that a good journey? were not that happiness?  What
do you say, Samdadchiemba?”  “I have never been in fear of death; if I am
asked whether I am a Christian, you will see if I tremble.”

This excellent frame of mind in Samdadchiemba filled our hearts with joy,
and completely dissipated the unpleasant impressions which this
misadventure had occasioned.  We thought for a moment of considering the
questions that would probably be put to us, and the answers we should
give; but we rejected this counsel of mere human prudence, reflecting
that the moment had come for us to keep strictly to the injunction which
our Saviour addressed to his disciples, that “when they were brought
before the synagogues, governors, and kings, they should take no thought
how or what they should speak;” only it was agreed that we should salute
the Mandarin in the French way, and that we should not kneel before him.
We thought that, having the honour to be Christians, missionaries, and
Frenchmen, we might very fairly insist on standing erect before any
Chinese whatsoever.

After waiting a few moments, a young Chinese, elegantly dressed, and of
very graceful manners, came to inform us that Ki-Chan, grand ambassador
of the grand Emperor of China, wished to examine us.  We followed our
amiable apparitor, and were ushered into a saloon decorated in the
Chinese style, where Ki-Chan was seated upon a sort of throne, about
three feet high, and covered with red cloth.  Before him was a small
table of black laque, upon which were an inkstand, some pens, some sheets
of paper, and a silver vase filled with snuff.  Below the throne were
four scribes, two on the right, and two on the left; the rest of the
saloon was occupied by a great number of Chinese and Thibetians, who had
put on their holiday dresses to attend the inquiry.

Ki-Chan, although sixty years old, seemed to us full of strength and
vigour.  His face is, without contradiction, the most noble, elegant, and
intellectual we have seen amongst the Chinese.  When we took off our caps
to him, and made him one of our best bows, “’Tis well, ’tis well,” he
said; “follow your own customs.  I have been told you speak correctly the
language of Peking.  I want to talk with you for a moment.”  “We make
many blunders in speaking, but your marvellous understanding will know
how to remedy the obscurity of our words.”  “Why, that is pure Pekinese.
You Frenchmen possess a great facility for all learning.  You are
Frenchmen, are you not?”  “Yes, we are Frenchmen.”  “Oh, I know the
French; there were formerly a great many of them at Peking; I used to see
some of them.”  “You must have known them, too, at Canton, when you were
imperial commissioner?”  This reminiscence furrowed the forehead of our
judge; he took an abundant pinch of snuff out of his box, and threw it up
his nose in a very bad humour.  “Yes, that is true; I have seen many
Europeans at Canton.  You are of the religion of the Lord of Heaven, are
you not?”  “Certainly we are; moreover, preachers of that religion.”  “I
know, I know; you have come hither, doubtless, to preach that religion?”
“We have no other object.”  “Have you already travelled over a great
number of countries?”  “We have travelled over all China, Tartary, and
now we are in the capital of Thibet.”  “With whom did you live when you
were in China?”  “We do not answer questions of that sort.”  “And if I
command you to do so?”  “We should not obey.”  Here the irritated judge
struck the table with his fist.  “You know,” we said, “that Christians
have no fear; why seek, then, to intimidate us?”  “Where did you learn
Chinese?”  “In China.”  “In what place?”  “A little everywhere.”  “And
the Tartar, you know it? where did you learn it?”  “In Mongolia, in the
Land of Grass.”

After some other trifling questions, Ki-Chan, telling us that we must be
tired, invited us to seat ourselves.  Then suddenly changing his tone and
manner, he addressed Samdadchiemba, who, with his hand on his hip, had
been standing a little behind us.  “And you,” he said, in a dry and angry
voice, “whence are you?”  “I am from Ki-Tou-Sse.”  “What is Ki-Tou-Sse?
who knows that?”  “Ki-Tou-Sse is in San-Tchouen.”  “Ah, you are from
San-Tchouen, in the province of Kan-Sou.  Son of the central nation, on
your knees!”  Samdadchiemba turned pale, his hand left his hip, and his
arm modestly glided down along his leg.  “On your knees,” repeated the
Mandarin, in a thundering voice.  Samdadchiemba fell on his knees,
saying, “On my knees, standing or sitting, ’tis all the same to me: a man
of labour and fatigue, as I am, is not accustomed to take his ease.”
“Ah, you are from Kan-Sou,” said the judge, taking large pinches of
snuff; “ah! you are from Kan-Sou; you are a child of the central nation!
Very well; in that case, it is within my province to deal with you.  Son
of the central nation, answer your father and mother, and take heed how
you tell lies.  Where did you meet with these two foreigners?  How did
you become attached to their service?”  Samdadchiemba gave, with perfect
self-confidence, a long history of his life, which seemed to interest the
auditory; he then related how he had made our acquaintance in Tartary,
and the reasons that had induced him to follow us.  Our young neophyte
spoke with dignity, and, moreover, with a prudence which we had not
expected.  “Why did you adopt the religion of the Lord of Heaven?  Don’t
you know that this is forbidden by the grand Emperor?”  “The _entirely
humble_ {172} adopted that religion, because it is the only true
religion.  How could I suppose that the grand Emperor proscribed a
religion which orders man to do good and to avoid evil?”  “That is true,
the religion of the Lord of Heaven is holy; I know it.  Why did you enter
the service of these foreigners?  Don’t you know that the laws forbid
that?”  “How should an ignorant man, as I am, know who is a foreigner,
and who not?  These men always showed kindness to me, always exhorted me
to practise virtue; why was I not to follow them?”  “How much wages do
they pay you?”  “If I accompany them, it is to save my soul, and not to
get money.  My masters have never let me want rice and clothes, and with
that I am satisfied.”  “Are you married?”  “As I was a Lama, before
entering the religion of the Lord of Heaven, I have never been married.”
The judge then laughingly addressed an indelicate question to
Samdadchiemba, who lowered his eyes and remained silent.  One of us
rising, said to Ki-Chan: “Our religion not only prohibits the commission
of impure actions, but also the thinking or speaking of them; it is even
not permitted to us to listen to indecent expressions.”  These words
pronounced with calmness and solemnity, raised a slight blush on the face
of his excellency the ambassador of China.  “I know,” he said, “I know
the religion of the Lord of Heaven is holy; I know it, for I have read
its books of doctrine; he who should strictly keep all its precepts would
be a man without reproach.”  He made a sign to Samdadchiemba to rise;
then, turning to us, he said: “It is night, you must be tired; it is time
to take supper; you may go; to-morrow, if I want you, I will send for
you.”

The ambassador Ki-Chan was quite right, it was very late, and the various
emotions which had been furnished to us in the course of the evening had
not by any means supplied the place of supper.  On leaving the
Sinico-Thibetian pretorium, we were accosted by a venerable Lama, who
informed us that the First Kalon awaited us.  We crossed the court,
illuminated by some red lanterns; turned on the right, to a perilous
staircase, which we ascended, prudently holding on by our conductor’s
robe; then, after traversing a long terrace, in the dubious light of the
stars, we were introduced to the Regent.  The large and lofty room was
splendidly lighted by butter-oil lamps, the walls, the ceiling, even the
floor, were all covered with gilding and brilliant colours.  The Regent
was alone; he bade us sit down near himself on a rich carpet, and
endeavoured to express by his words, and still more by his gestures, how
deep an interest he felt in us.  Above all, we clearly understood that he
was making arrangements to keep us from starving.  Our pantomime was
interrupted by the arrival of a person, who left, upon entering, his
slippers at the door; it was the governor of the Cashmerian Mussulmen.
After having saluted the company, by raising his hand to his forehead,
and pronouncing the formula, “Salamalek” he leant against a column, in
the centre of the room, which supported the ceiling.  The Mussulmen
governor spoke Chinese very well; and the Regent had accordingly sent for
him to act as interpreter.  Immediately upon his arrival, a servant
placed before us a small table, and supper was served up to us at the
expense of the Thibetian government.  We shall not say anything here as
to the Regent’s _cuisine_; firstly, because our keen appetite did not
permit us to pay sufficient attention to the quality of the dishes;
secondly, because that day our minds were more occupied with politics
than with gastronomy.  All of a sudden we missed Samdadchiemba; we asked
what had become of him: “He is with my servants,” answered the Regent;
“do not trouble yourselves on his account, he shall not want for
anything.”

During, and after the repast, there was much inquiry about France and the
countries we had visited.  Then the Regent, pointing to the pictures that
adorned his room, asked whether we could ourselves paint any such.  “We
cannot paint,” was our answer; “study, and the preaching of the doctrine
of Jehovah are our only occupations.”  “Oh, don’t tell me you cannot
paint; I know that the people of your country are very skilful in that
art.”  “Yes, those who make it their employment; but our clergymen are
not in the habit of exercising it.”  “Though you may not follow this art
specially, yet you are not quite unacquainted with it; you can,
doubtless, draw geographical maps?”  “No, we cannot.”  “How! on your
journey did you never sketch, did you never make a map?”  “Never.”  “Oh,
that is impossible!”  The pertinacity of the Regent in questioning us on
this subject, made us pause to reflect; presently we expressed the
surprise we felt at all these inquiries.  “I see,” he said, “that you are
straightforward, honest men; I will speak frankly to you.  The Chinese
are very suspicious, you are aware of that: you have been long enough in
China to know it as well as I do; well, they believe that you are
travelling through foreign kingdoms, on purpose to draw maps of them and
to explore them.  If you do draw, if you do make geographical maps, admit
it without fear; rely on my protection.”  Evidently the Regent was afraid
of an invasion; he fancied, perhaps, that we were charged with laying
down the route for some formidable army, ready to overwhelm Thibet.  We
endeavoured to dissipate his fears, and to assure him of the extremely
peaceful views of the French government.  We admitted, however, that
amongst our effects there was a great number of drawings and geographical
maps, and that we had even a map of Thibet.  At these words, the face of
the Regent was suddenly contracted; but we hastened to add, in order to
quiet him, that all our drawings and maps were printed, and that we were
not their authors.  We took the opportunity to speak to the Regent and
the Cashmerian governor, of the geographical knowledge of the Europeans.
They were greatly astonished when we told them that, with us, children of
ten and twelve years old possessed an exact and complete idea of all the
kingdoms of the world.

The conversation extended far into the night.  At last the Regent rose,
and asked us whether we did not feel in want of a little repose.  “We
only awaited,” we answered, “for the permission of the Kalon, to return
to our lodgings.”  “Your lodgings!  I have ordered an apartment to be
prepared for you in my palace; you will sleep here to-night: to-morrow,
you can return to your house.”  We sought to excuse ourselves from
accepting the kind offer of the Regent; but soon became aware that we
were not at liberty to refuse what we had been simple enough to consider
a compliment.  We were regular prisoners.  We took leave of the Regent
rather coolly, and followed an individual, who, after crossing a great
many rooms and corridors, ushered us into a sort of closet, which we
might fairly call a prison, as we were not permitted to leave it for any
other place.

There had been prepared for us two couches, which, no doubt, were
infinitely superior to our own beds; nevertheless, we regretted our poor
pallets, whereon we had so long enjoyed a free and independent sleep
throughout our travels in the desert.  Lamas and attendants of the Regent
came in great numbers to see us.  Those who had gone to bed got up, and
soon we heard, in this vast palace, lately so calm and silent, doors
opened and shut, and the rapid steps of the curious sounding in the
passages.  Crowds thronged around us and examined us with insupportable
avidity.  In all those eyes staring at us there was neither sympathy nor
ill-will; they simply expressed vapid curiosity.  To all these
individuals around us, we represented merely a kind of zoological
phenomenon.  Oh, how hard it is to be exposed thus to an indifferent
multitude!  When we thought that these troublesome people had
sufficiently stared and whispered, and ought now to be satisfied, we
informed them that we were going to bed, and that we should feel
extremely obliged if they would be kind enough to retire.  Everyone
bowed: some of them even were polite enough to put out their tongues at
us; but nobody stirred.  It was evident that they had a mind to know how
we should behave on going to bed.  This desire seemed to us somewhat
misplaced; but we thought we would submit to it up to a certain point.
Accordingly we knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and recited,
aloud, our evening prayer.  As soon as we commenced, the whispering
ceased, and a religious silence prevailed.  When the prayer was finished,
we once more invited the crowd to leave us, and, in order to add efficacy
to our words, we extinguished the light.  The crowd, thus plunged into
deep darkness, adopted the course of first having a hearty laugh, and
then retiring gropingly.  We closed the door of our prison and laid down
to rest.

When stretched on the beds of the First Kalon, we felt much more disposed
to talk than to sleep.  We experienced a certain pleasure in
recapitulating the adventures of the day.  The feigned merchants who
wanted to purchase our saddles, our appearance before the Regent, the
examination we had undergone by the ambassador, Ki-Chan, our supper at
the expense of the public treasury, our long conversation with the
Regent: all this appeared to us a phantasmagoria.  It seemed as though
our whole day had been a long nightmare.  Our journey itself, our arrival
at Lha-Ssa, everything seemed incredible.  We asked one another whether
it was true, that we, missionaries, Frenchmen, were really in the states
of the Talé-Lama, in the capital of Thibet, sleeping in the very palace
of the Regent.  All these events, past and present, clashed in our heads.
The future, especially, appeared to us enveloped in dark, thick clouds.
How was all this to end?  Would they say to us, “You are free; go
wherever you please?”  Would they keep us in this prison? or would they
strangle us?  These reflections were well calculated to chill the heart,
and to cause a head-ache.  But trust in God is a grand thing in such
trials!  How happy is one in feeling one’s-self supported by Providence,
when one is thus left alone, abandoned, and destitute of succour.  “Oh,”
said we to each other, “let us be prepared for the worst, relying upon
the protection of our Heavenly Father!  Not a single hair will fall from
our heads without his permission.”

We went to sleep amid these considerations, but our slumber was light and
disturbed.  As soon as dawn appeared, the door of our cell was gently
opened, and the governor of the Katchi entered.  He took a seat at our
side, between the two couches, and asked us in kind, affectionate tones,
whether we had spent a good night.  He then presented to us a basket of
cakes, made by his family, and some dried fruits from Ladak.  We were
deeply touched by this attention, which seemed to announce that we had
met with a sincere and devoted friend.

The governor of the Katchi was thirty-two years old; his face full of
nobleness and majesty, breathed at the same time, a kindness and candour
well calculated to arouse our confidence.  His looks, his words, his
deportment, everything about him, seemed to express that he felt a very
lively interest in us.  He had come to acquaint us with what would be
done during the day, with reference to us.  “In the morning,” he said,
“the Thibetian authorities will go with you to your lodgings.  They will
put a seal upon all your effects, which will then be brought before the
tribunal, and be examined by the Regent and the Chinese ambassador, in
your presence.  If you have no manuscript maps in your baggage you need
fear nothing; you will not be molested in any way.  If, on the contrary,
you have any such maps, you would do well to let me know beforehand, as
in this case, we may perhaps find some way to arrange the affair.  I am
very intimate with the Regent, (this we had, indeed, observed the night
before during our supper); and it is he himself who directed me to make
to you this confidential communication.”  He then added, in an under
voice, that all these [Picture: The Governor of Katchi] difficulties were
got up against us by the Chinese, against the will of the Thibetian
government.  We answered the governor of Katchi, that we had not a single
manuscript map; and we then gave him, in detail, a statement of all the
articles that were in our trunks.  “Since they are to be examined to-day,
you will judge for yourself whether we are people to be believed.”  The
countenance of the Mussulman brightened.  “Your words,” he said, “quite
reassure me.  None of the articles you have described can at all
compromise you.  Maps are feared in this country—extremely feared,
indeed; especially since the affair of a certain Englishman named
Moorcroft, who introduced himself into Lha-Ssa, under the pretence of
being a Cashmerian.  After a sojourn there of twelve years, he departed;
but he was murdered on his way to Ladak.  Amongst his effects they found
a numerous collection of maps and plans, which he had drawn during his
stay at Lha-Ssa.  This circumstance has made the Chinese authorities very
suspicious on this subject.  As you do not draw maps, that is all right;
I will now go and tell the Regent what I have heard from you.”

When the governor of Katchi had left us, we rose, for we had remained in
bed, without ceremony, during his long visit.  After having offered up
our morning prayer, and prepared our hearts to patience and resignation,
we ate the breakfast which had been sent to us by order of the Regent.
It consisted of a plate of rolls stuffed with sugar and minced meat, and
a pot of richly-buttered tea.  But we gave the preference to the cakes
and dried fruit, which the governor of Katchi had presented to us.

Three Lama ushers soon came and announced to us the order of the day;
viz., that our luggage was to be inspected.  We submitted respectfully to
the orders of the Thibetian authority, and proceeded to our lodgings,
accompanied by a numerous escort all the way.  From the palace of the
Regent to our habitation we observed great excitement; they were sweeping
the streets, removing the dirt, and decorating the fronts of the houses
with large strips of poulou, yellow and red.  We asked ourselves what all
this meant? for whom were all these demonstrations of honour and respect?
Suddenly we heard behind us loud acclamations, and turning round we saw
the Regent, who was advancing, mounted on a magnificent white charger,
and surrounded by numerous horsemen.  We arrived at our lodgings nearly
at the same time with him.  We opened the padlock by which the door was
fastened, and requested the Regent to honour us by entering the
apartments of the French missionaries.

Samdadchiemba, whom we had not seen since our audience with the Chinese
ambassador, was there too.  He was quite stupified, for he could not
comprehend these proceedings.  The servants of the Regent, with whom he
had passed the night, could not give him any information.  We said to him
some words of encouragement, giving him to understand that we were not
yet quite on the eve of martyrdom.

The Regent took a seat in the middle of our room on a gilded chair, which
had been brought from the palace for this purpose, and asked whether what
he saw in our room was all we possessed?  “Yes; that is all we possess;
neither more nor less.  These are all our resources for invading Thibet.”
“There is satire in your words,” said the Regent; “I never fancied you
such dangerous people.  What is that?” he added, pointing to a crucifix
we had fixed against the wall.  “Ah, if you really knew what that was,
you would not say that we were not formidable; for by that we design to
conquer China, Tartary, and Thibet.”  The Regent laughed, for he only saw
a joke in our words, which yet were so real and serious.

A scribe sat down at the feet of the Regent, and made an inventory of our
trunks, clothes, and kitchen implements.  A lighted lamp was brought, and
the Regent took from a small purse which hung from his neck, a golden
seal, which was applied to all our baggage.  Nothing was omitted; our old
boots, the very pins of our travelling tent, were all daubed with red
wax, and solemnly marked with the seal of the Talé-Lama.

When this long ceremony was completed, the Regent informed us that we
must now proceed to the tribunal.  Some porters were sent for, and found
in very brief time.  A Lama of the police had only to present himself in
the street and summon, in the name of the law, all the passers by, men,
women, and children, to come into the house immediately and assist the
government.  At Lha-Ssa, the system of enforced labour is in a most
prosperous and flourishing state; the Thibetians coming into it with
entire willingness and good grace.

When enough labourers were collected, all our goods were distributed
among them, and the room was completely cleared, and the procession to
the tribunal set out with great pomp.  A Thibetian horse soldier, his
drawn sword in hand, and his fusil at his side, opened the procession;
after him came the troop of porters, marching between two lines of Lama
satellites; the Regent, on his white charger, surrounded by a mounted
guard of honour, followed our baggage; and last, behind the Regent,
marched the two poor French missionaries, who had, by way of suite, a no
very agreeable crowd of gapers.  Our mien was not particularly imposing.
Led like malefactors, or, at least, like suspected persons, we could only
lower our eyes, and modestly pass through the numerous crowd that
thronged on our way.  Such a position was, indeed, very painful and
humiliating; but the remembrance of our holy Saviour, dragged to the
pretorium, through the streets of Jerusalem, was sufficient to mitigate
the bitterness with which we were afflicted.  We prayed to him to
sanctify our humiliations by his own, and to accept them in remembrance
of his Passion.

When we arrived at the tribunal, the Chinese ambassador [Picture:
Carrying goods to the Tribunal] attended by his staff, was already in his
place.  The Regent addressed him: “You want to examine the effects of
these strangers; here they are; examine them.  These men are neither
rich, nor powerful, as you suppose.”  There was vexation in the tone of
the Regent, and, at bottom, he was naturally enough annoyed at this part
of policeman which he had to play.  Ki-Chan asked us if we had no more
than two trunks.  “Only two; everything has been brought here; there
remains in our house not a rag, not a bit of paper.”  “What have you got
in your two trunks?”  “Here are the keys; open them, empty them, and
examine them at your pleasure.”  Ki-Chan blushed, and moved back.  His
Chinese delicacy was touched.  “Do these trunks belong to me?” he said,
with emotion.  “Have I the right to open them?  If anything should be
missed afterwards, what would you say?”  “You need not be afraid; our
religion forbids us rashly to judge our neighbour.”  “Open your trunks
yourselves; I want to know what they contain; it is my duty to do so; but
you alone have the right to touch what belongs to you.”

We broke the seal of the Talé-Lama, the padlock was removed, and these
two trunks, which had been pierced by all eyes for a long time past, were
at last opened to the general gaze.  We took out the contents, one after
another, and displayed them on a large table.  First came some French and
Latin volumes, then some Chinese and Tartar books, church linen,
ornaments, sacred vases, rosaries, crosses, medals, and a magnificent
collection of lithographs.  All the spectators were lost in contemplation
at this small European museum.  They opened large eyes, touched each
other with the elbow, and smacked their tongues in token of admiration.
None of them had ever seen anything so beautiful, so rich, so marvellous.
Everything white they considered silver, everything yellow, gold.  The
faces of all brightened up, and they seemed entirely to forget that we
were suspected and dangerous people.  The Thibetians put out their
tongues and scratched their ears at us; and the Chinese made us the most
sentimental bows.  Our bag of medals, especially, attracted attention,
and it seemed to be anticipated that, before we left the court, we should
make a large distribution of these dazzling gold pieces.

The Regent and Ki-Chan, whose minds were elevated above those of the
vulgar, and who certainly did not covet our treasure, nevertheless forgot
their character as judges.  The sight of our beautiful coloured pictures
transported them quite out of themselves.  The Regent kept his hands
joined, and preserved a continuous stare with his mouth open, whilst
Ki-Chan, showing off his knowledge, explained how the French were the
most distinguished artists in the world.  “At one time,” he said, “he
knew, at Peking, a French missionary, who painted portraits that were
quite alarmingly like.  He kept his paper concealed in the sleeve of his
robe, took the likeness as it were by stealth, and, in a whiff, all was
done.”  Ki-Chan asked us if we had not watches, telescopes,
magic-lanterns, etc. etc.  We thereupon opened a small box which no one
had hitherto remarked, and which contained a microscope.  We adjusted its
various parts, and no one had eyes but for this singular machine, in pure
gold, as they took it to be, and which, certainly, was about to perform
wondrous things.  Ki-Chan alone knew what a microscope was.  He gave an
explanation of it to the public, with great pretension and vanity.  He
then asked us to put some animalculæ on the glass.  We looked at his
excellency out of the corner of the eye, and then took the microscope to
pieces, joint by joint, and put it in the box.  “We thought,” said we to
Ki-Chan, with a formal air, “we thought, that we came here to undergo
judgment, and not to play a comedy.”  “What judgment!” exclaimed he,
abruptly; “we wished to examine your effects, ascertain really who you
were, and that is all.”  “And the maps: you do not mention them.”  “Oh,
yes—yes! that is the great point; where are your maps?”  “Here they are;”
and we displayed the three maps we had; a map of the world, the two
hemispheres upon the projection of Mercator, and a Chinese empire.

The appearance of these maps seemed to the Regent a clap of thunder; the
poor man changed colour three or four times in the course of a minute, as
if we had shown our death warrant.  “It is fortunate for us,” said we to
Ki-Chan, “that we have met with you in this country.  If, by ill luck,
you had not been here, we should have been utterly unable to convince the
Thibetian authorities that these maps are not our own drawing.  But an
instructed man like yourself, conversant with European matters, will at
once see that these maps are not our own work.”  Ki-Chan was evidently
much flattered by the compliment.  “Oh, it is evident,” said he, at the
first glance, “that these maps are printed.  Look here,” said he to the
Regent; “these maps were not drawn by these men; they were printed in the
kingdom of France.  You cannot distinguish that, but I have been long
used to objects, the productions of the Western Heaven.”  These words
produced a magical effect on the Regent.  His face became radiant, and he
looked at us with a look of satisfaction, and made a gracious movement
with his head, as much as to say, “It is well; you are honest people.”

We could not get off without a little geographical lecture.  We yielded
charitably to the wishes of the Regent and the Chinese ambassador.  We
indicated with our fingers on the map of Mercator, China, Tartary, and
Thibet, and all the other countries of the globe.  The Regent was amazed
at seeing how far we were from our native land, and what a long journey
we had been obliged to make, by land and water, to come and pay him a
visit in the capital of Thibet.  He regarded us with astonishment, and
then raised the thumb of his right hand, saying, “You are men like that,”
signifying, in the figurative language of the Thibetians; you are men of
a superlative stamp.  After recognising the principal points of Thibet,
the Regent inquired whereabouts was Calcutta?  “Here,” we said, pointing
to a little round speck on the borders of the sea.  “And Lha-Ssa: where
then is Lha-Ssa?”  “Here it is.”  The eyes and finger of the Regent went
from Lha-Ssa to Calcutta, and from Calcutta to Lha-Ssa.  “The Pelings of
Calcutta are very near our frontiers,” said he, making a grimace, and
shaking his head.  “No matter,” he added, “here are the Himalaya
mountains.”

The course of geography being ended, the maps were folded up again,
placed in their respective cases, and we passed on to religious subjects.
Ki-Chan had long since become acquainted with these matters.  When he was
viceroy of the province of Pe-Tche-Ly, he had sufficiently persecuted the
Christians, to have numerous opportunities of making himself familiar
with everything connected with the Catholic worship; and he accordingly
now displayed his knowledge.  He explained the images, the sacred vases,
the ornaments.  He even informed the company that in the box of holy oils
there was a famous remedy for people at death’s door.  During all these
explanations the Regent was thoughtful and abstracted; his eyes were
constantly turned towards a large host-iron.  These long pincers,
terminating in two large lips, seemed to act powerfully on his
imagination.  He gave us an inquiring look, seeming to ask us if this
frightful implement was not something like an infernal machine.  He was
only re-assured upon viewing some wafers that we kept in a box, for he
then comprehended the use of this strange object.

The worthy Regent was all joyous and triumphant, when he saw that we had
nothing in our possession calculated to compromise us.  “Well,” said he
to the Chinese ambassador with a sneer, “what do you think of these men?
What must we do with them?  These men are Frenchmen, they are ministers
of the religion of the Lord of Heaven, they are honest men; we must leave
them in peace.”  These flattering words were received in the saloon with
a murmur of approbation, and the two missionaries, said, from the bottom
of their hearts, _Deo gratias_.

The porters shouldered our luggage, and we returned to our lodging with
undoubtedly greater alacrity and lighter hearts than when we had left it.
The news of our reinstatement soon spread through the town, and the
Thibetian people hastened from all quarters to congratulate us.  They
saluted us heartily, and the French name was in every one’s mouth.
Thenceforward the white Azaras were entirely forgotten.

When we had refurnished our apartments we gave some Tchang-Ka to the
porters, in order that they might drink our health in a pot of Thibetian
small beer, and appreciate the magnanimity of the French, in not making
people work for nothing.

Every one having gone away, we resumed our accustomed solitude, and
solitude inducing reflection, we discovered two important things.  In the
first place, that we had not yet dined, and in the second, that our
horses were no longer in the stable.  Whilst we were considering how to
get something quickly cooked, and how to find where our horses were, we
saw at the threshold of our door the governor of the Katchi, who relieved
us from the double embarrassment.  This excellent man having foreseen
that our attendance at the court of inquiry would not allow us time to
make our pot boil, came, followed by two servants carrying a basket of
provisions, with an ovation he had prepared for us.  “And our horses—can
you give us any information about them?  We no longer see them in the
court?”  “I was going to tell you about them; they have been since
yesterday evening in the Regent’s stables.  During your absence they have
felt neither hunger nor thirst.  I heard you say you intended to sell
them—is it so?”  “Oh, quite so, these animals ruin us; and yet they are
so thin, no one will buy them.”  “The Regent wants to buy them.”  “The
Regent!”  “Yes, the Regent himself.  Do not smile, it is no jest.  How
much do you want for them?”  “Oh, whatever he likes to give.”  “Well,
then, your horses are purchased,” and so saying, the Cashmerian unrolled
a small packet he had under his arm, and laid upon the table two silver
ingots weighing ten ounces each.  “Here,” said he, “is the price of your
two horses.”  We thought our beasts, worn and attenuated as they were,
not worth the money, and we conscientiously said so to the governor of
the Katchi; but it was impossible to modify the transaction which had
been all settled and concluded beforehand.  The Regent made out that our
horses, although thin, were of an excellent breed, since they had not
succumbed beneath the fatigues of our long journey.  Besides, they had,
in his eyes, a special value, because they had passed through many
countries, and particularly because they had fed on the pastures of
Kounboum, the native place of Tsong-Kaba.  Twenty extra ounces of silver
in our low purse was almost a fortune.  We could be generous with it; so,
on the spot, we took one of the ingots and placed it on Samdadchiemba’s
knees.  “This is for you,” we said; “you will be able with it to clothe
yourself in holiday dress from head to foot.”  Samdadchiemba thanked us
coldly and awkwardly; then the muscles of his face became distended, his
nostrils swelled, and his large mouth assumed a smile.  At last, he could
not restrain his joy; he rose and made his ingot leap in the air twice or
thrice, crying, “This is a famous day!”  And Samdadchiemba was right.
This day, so sadly begun, had been fortunate beyond anything we could
have expected.  We had now, at Lha-Ssa, an honourable position, and we
were to be allowed to labour freely in the propagation of the gospel.

The next day was still more lucky for us than its predecessor; putting,
as it were, a climax to our prosperity.  In the morning we proceeded,
accompanied by the Cashmerian governor, to the palace of the Regent, to
whom we desired to express our gratitude for the manifestations of
interest with which he had honoured us.  We were received with kindness
and cordiality.  He told us, in confidence, that the Chinese were jealous
of our being at Lha-Ssa; but that we might count on his protection, and
reside freely in the country, without any one having a right to interfere
with us.  “You are very badly lodged,” added he; “your room seemed to me
dirty, small, and uncomfortable.  I would have strangers like you, men
come from so great a distance, well treated at Lha-Ssa.  In your country
of France, do they not treat strangers well?”  “They treat them
excellently.  Oh, if you could but go there some day, you would see how
our Emperor would receive you.”  “Strangers are guests; you must leave
your present abode; I have ordered a suitable lodging to be prepared for
you in one of my houses.”  We accepted this generous offer with grateful
thanks.  To be lodged comfortably and free of expense was not a thing for
men in our position to despise; but we appreciated, above all, the
advantage of residing in one of the Regent’s own houses.  So signal a
favour, such emphatic protection, on the part of the Thibetian
authorities, could not but give us with the inhabitants of Lha-Ssa great
moral influence, and facilitate our apostolic mission.

On leaving the palace, we proceeded, without loss of time, to visit the
house which had been assigned to us; it was superb—charming.  The same
evening we effected our removal, and took possession of our new dwelling.

Our first care was to erect in our house a small chapel.  We selected the
largest and best apartment; we papered it as neatly as possible, and we
then adorned it with holy images.  Oh! how our hearts flowed with joy,
when we were at length allowed to pray publicly at the foot of the cross,
in the very heart of the capital of Buddhism, which, perhaps, had never
before beheld the sign of our redemption.  What a comfort to us to be
able, at length, to announce the words of life to the ears of these poor
people, sitting for so many ages in the shadow of death.  This little
chapel was certainly poor, but it was to our minds that hundredfold which
God has promised to those who renounce all things for his service.  Our
hearts were so full, that we thought we had cheaply bought the happiness
we now enjoyed, by two years of suffering and tribulation in the desert.

Every one at Lha-Ssa visited the chapel of the French Lamas; many, after
satisfying themselves with asking us a few explanations as to the meaning
of the images they beheld, went away, putting off till some other time
further instruction in the holy doctrine of Jehovah; but several felt
inwardly struck, and seemed to attach a great importance to the study of
the truths we had come to announce.  Every day they came to us regularly,
they read with attention the summary of the Christian religion, which we
had composed at the Lamasery of Kounboum, and entreated us to tell them
the “true prayers.”

The Thibetians were not the only persons who seemed zealous to study our
holy religion.  Among the Chinese, the secretaries of the ambassador
Ki-Chan often came to visit us, to hear about the great doctrine of the
west; one of them, to whom we lent some works written in
Tartaro-Mantchou, was convinced of the truth of Christianity and of the
necessity of embracing it, but he had not courage enough to make an open
profession of faith, whilst he was attached to the embassy; he wished to
wait until he should be free to return to his country.  God grant that
his good intentions may not vanish.

A physician, a native of the province of Yun-Nan, displayed more courage.
This young man, since his arrival at Lha-Ssa, had led so strange a life,
that everyone called him the Chinese hermit.  He never went out, except
to visit his patients, and ordinarily he only visited the poor.  The
wealthy in vain solicited his attendance; he disdained to notice their
invitations, unless compelled by necessity to obtain some aid, for he
never took anything from the poor, to whose service he had devoted
himself.  The time not absorbed in visiting his patients, he consecrated
to study; he passed, indeed, the greater part of the night over his
books.  He slept little, and only took, throughout the day, one single
meal of barley-meal, never eating meat.  You needed, indeed, only to see
him to be convinced that he led a hard and self-denying life; his face
was extremely pale and thin, and although he was not more than thirty
years old, his hair was almost entirely white.

One day, he paid us a visit while we were repeating our breviary in our
little chapel; he stopped short a few steps from the door, and awaited in
grave silence.  A large coloured image, representing the Crucifixion, had
no doubt fixed his attention; for, as soon as we had finished our
prayers, he asked us abruptly and without staying to make the usual
salutations, to explain to him the meaning of that image.  When we had
answered his question, he crossed his arms upon his chest, and without
uttering a single word, remained motionless, his eyes fixed upon the
image of the Crucifixion; he retained this position for nearly
half-an-hour; at length his eyes were filled with tears.  He extended his
arms towards the Christ, fell on his knees, struck the earth thrice with
his forehead, and rose, exclaiming, “That is the only Buddha that men
ought to worship.”  He then turned to us, and after making a profound
bow, added, “You are my masters, accept me as your disciple.”

All this surprised us greatly.  We could not help believing that a
powerful impulse of grace had moved his heart.  We briefly explained to
him the principal points of the Christian religion, and to all we told
him, he simply replied with an expression of faith truly astonishing, “I
believe!”  We presented to him a small crucifix of gilt copper, and asked
him if he would accept it.  His only answer was an earnest inclination of
the head.  As soon as he had the crucifix in his hand, he solicited us to
give him a cord, and he immediately hung the cross round his neck; he
then asked what prayer he ought to recite before the cross?  “We will
lend you,” we said, “some Chinese books, wherein you will find
explanations of the doctrine, and numerous forms of prayer.”  “My
masters, that is well; but I wish to have a short and easy prayer, which
I can learn immediately, and repeat often and everywhere.”  We taught him
to say, “Jesus, Saviour of the world, have mercy on me.”  For fear of
forgetting these words, he wrote them on a piece of paper, which he
placed in a small purse, suspended from his girdle; he then went away,
assuring us that the recollection of this day would never be effaced from
his memory.

This young physician applied himself with ardour to learn the truths of
the Christian religion; but the most remarkable circumstance was, that he
took no pains to hide the faith he had in his heart.  When he came to
visit us, or when we met him in the streets, he always had the crucifix
glittering on his breast, and he never failed to approach us with the
words, “Jesus, Saviour of the world, have mercy on me.”  It was the form
of saluting us which he had adopted.

Whilst we were making efforts to spread the evangelical seed amongst the
population of Lha-Ssa, we did not neglect the endeavour to sow the divine
seed also in the very palace of the Regent, and this not without the hope
of reaping there one day a precious harvest.  Since our trial, so to
speak, our intercourse with the Regent had become frequent, and even
intimate.  Almost every evening, when he had finished his labours of
ministry, he invited us to partake with him his Thibetian repast, to
which he always added for ourselves some dishes cooked in the Chinese
fashion.  Our conversations generally extended far into the night.

The Regent was a man of extraordinary capacity; of humble extraction, he
had raised himself gradually, and by his own merits, to the dignity of
First Kalon.  This had occurred three years before.  Up to that time he
had always fulfilled arduous and laborious [Picture: The Regent of
Lha-Ssa] functions; he had frequently traversed, in all directions, the
immense regions of Thibet, either to make war or to negotiate with the
neighbouring states, or to inspect the conduct of the Houtouktou
governors of the various provinces.  So active, so busy a life, so
apparently incompatible with study, had not prevented him from acquiring
a profound knowledge of Lamanesque works.

Everyone concurred in saying that the knowledge of the most renowned
Lamas was inferior to that of the Regent.  The facility with which he
conducted public business was matter of especial admiration.  One day we
were with him, when they brought him a great many rolls of paper,
dispatches from the provinces; a sort of secretary unrolled them one
after the other, and gave them to him to read, bending on one knee.  The
Regent hastily ran his eye over them, without interrupting the
conversation with us.  As soon as he had gathered the contents of a
dispatch, he took his bamboo stile, and wrote his orders at the bottom of
the roll, and thus transacted all his affairs with promptitude, and as if
for amusement.  We are not competent to judge of the literary merit that
was attributed to the First Kalon.  We can only say that we never saw
Thibetian writing so beautiful as his.

The Regent was very fond of engaging in religious discussions, and they
most frequently formed the subject of our conversations.  At the
commencement, he said to us these remarkable words:—“All your long
journeys you have undertaken solely with a religious object.  You are
quite right, for religion is the thing most essential to man.  I see that
the French and the Thibetians have the same view on that subject.  We do
not at all resemble the Chinese, who hold the soul of no account; yet
your religion is not the same as ours.  It is important we should
ascertain which is the true one.  Let us, then, examine both carefully
and sincerely; if yours is right, we will adopt it; how could we refuse
to do so?  If, on the contrary, ours is the true religion, I believe you
will have the good sense to follow it.”  This arrangement seemed to us
excellent; we could not at the time desire better.

We commenced with Christianity.  The Regent, always amiable and polished
in his conversation with us, said that, as we were his guests, our belief
ought to have the honour of priority.  We successively reviewed the
dogmatical and moral truths.  To our great astonishment, the Regent did
not seem surprised at anything we said.  “Your religion,” he incessantly
repeated, “is conformable with ours; the truths are the same: we only
differ in the explanations.  Of what you have seen and heard in Tartary
and Thibet, there is, doubtless, much to blame; but you must not forget
that the numerous errors and superstitions you may have observed, were
introduced by ignorant Lamas, and that they are rejected by well-informed
Buddhists.”  He only admitted, between him and us, two points of
difference—the origin of the world, and the transmigration of souls.  The
belief of the Regent, though it here and there seemed to approximate to
the Catholic doctrine, nevertheless resulted in a vast pantheism; but he
affirmed that we also arrived at the same result, and he did his best to
convince us of this.

The Thibetian language, essentially religious and mystic, conveys with
much clearness and precision all the ideas respecting the human soul and
divinity.  Unfortunately, we were not sufficiently versed in this
language, and were compelled, in our conversations with the Regent, to
have recourse to the Cashmerian governor to interpret for us; but, as he
himself was not very skilful in rendering metaphysical ideas into
Chinese, it was often difficult to understand each other.  One day, the
Regent said to us, “The truth is clear in itself, but if you envelope it
in obscure words, one cannot perceive it.  So long as we are obliged to
communicate in Chinese, it will be impossible to make ourselves
intelligible to each other.  We shall never be able to discuss the matter
to advantage, till you speak the Thibetian language fluently.”  We quite
concurred in the justice of this observation.  We replied to the Regent,
that the study of the Thibetian tongue was a great object of solicitude
with us, and that we laboured hard at it every day.  “If you like,” said
he, “I will facilitate your acquisition of it.”  And thereupon he called
a servant and said to him a few words which we did not understand.

A youth, elegantly dressed, immediately came, and saluted us with much
grace.  “This is my nephew,” said the Regent; “I present him to you as at
once tutor and pupil; he will pass the whole day with you, and you will
thus have the opportunity of practising the Thibetian language; in
return, you will give him some lessons in Chinese and Mantchou.”  We
gratefully adopted this proposition, and were enabled, by this means, to
make rapid progress in the language of the country.  The Regent was very
fond of talking about France, during our long visits; he asked us a
number of questions about the manners, customs, and productions of our
country.  All we told him of the steam-boats, the railways, the balloons,
gas, telegraphs, the daguerrotype, our industrial productions, completely
amazed him, and gave him an immense idea of the grandeur and power of
France.  One day when we were talking to him of observatories and
astronomical instruments, he asked if we would allow him to examine
closely the strange and curious machine which we kept in a box: he meant
the microscope.  As we were in a better humour and infinitely more
amiable than when the officers inspected our property, we readily
satisfied the curiosity of the Regent.  One of us ran to our residence,
and returned immediately with the wonderful instrument.  While adjusting,
we tried to give our auditor, as well as we could, some notions of
optics, but seeing that the theory did not excite much enthusiasm, we
proceeded at once to the practice.  We asked if one of the company would
be so good as to procure us a louse.  The article was easier to find than
a butterfly.  A noble Lama, secretary to his excellency the First Kalon,
had merely to put his hand under his silk dress to his armpit, and an
extremely vigorous louse was at our disposition.  We seized it by the
sides with our nippers, but the Lama forthwith opposed this proceeding,
and insisted upon putting a stop to the experiment, on the ground that we
were going to cause the death of a living being.  “Do not be afraid,” we
said, “your louse is only taken by the skin; besides, he seems strong
enough to get over the pressure, even were it greater.”  The Regent who,
as we have before mentioned, had religious theories superior to those of
the common herd, told the Lama to be silent, and to allow us to proceed.
We continued the experiment, and fixed in the glass the poor little
beast, that struggled, with all its might, at the extremity of the
nippers.  We then requested the Regent to apply his right eye, shutting
his left, to the glass at the top of the machine.  “Tsong-Kaba!”
exclaimed the Regent, “the louse is as big as a rat.”  After looking at
it for a moment, he raised his head and hid his face with both hands,
saying, it was horrible to look at.  He tried to dissuade the others from
examining it; but his influence failed to make any impression.  Everyone,
in his turn, looked through the microscope, and started back with cries
of horror.  The Lama secretary, seeing that his little animal scarcely
moved, advanced a claim in its favour.  We removed the nippers, and let
the louse fall into the hands of its owner.  But, alas! the poor victim
did not move.  The Regent said, laughingly, to his secretary, “I think
your louse is unwell; go and see if you can get it to take some physic,
otherwise it will not recover.”

No one wishing to see other living creatures, we continued the
entertainment, by passing a small collection of microscopical pictures
before the eyes of the spectators.  Every one was charmed, and exclaimed
with admiration, “What prodigious capacity the French have!”  The Regent
told us, “Your railways and your aerial ships no longer astonish me so
much; men who can invent such a machine as that, are capable of
anything.”

The First Kalon was so delighted with the productions of our country,
that he took a fancy to study the French language.  One evening, we
brought him, in accordance with his wish, a French alphabet, each letter
of which had the pronunciation written beneath it in Thibetian
characters.  He ran his eye over it, and when we proposed to give him
some explanations, he replied, that they were not necessary, as what we
had written was quite clear.

The next day, as soon as we appeared in his presence, he asked us what
was the name of our emperor.  “Our emperor is called Louis Philippe.”
“Louis Philippe! Louis Philippe! very well.”  He then took his style, and
began to write.  An instant afterwards he gave us a piece of paper, on
which was written, in very well formed characters, LOUY-FELIPE.

During the brief period of our prosperity at Lha-Ssa, we had also
tolerably intimate communication with the Chinese ambassador Ki-Chan.  He
sent for us twice or thrice, to talk politics, or, as the Chinese phrase
it, to speak idle words.  We were much surprised to find him so
intimately acquainted with the affairs of Europe.  He spoke a good deal
about the English and Queen Victoria.  “It appears,” said he, “that this
woman has great abilities; but her husband, in my opinion, plays a very
ridiculous part; she does not let him meddle with anything.  She laid out
for him a magnificent garden full of fruit-trees and flowers of all
sorts, and there he is always shut up, passing his time walking about.
They say that in Europe there are other countries where women rule.  Is
it so?  Are their husbands also shut up in gardens?  Have you in the
kingdom of France any such usage?”  “No, in France the women are in the
gardens, and the men in the state.”  “That is right, otherwise all is
disorder.”

                      [Picture: Portrait of Ki-Chan]

Ki-Chan inquired about Palmerston; and whether he was still at the head
of foreign affairs.  “And Ilu, {192} what has become of him?  Do you know
him?”  “He was recalled; your fall involved his.”  “That is a pity.  Ilu
had an excellent heart, but he was devoid of prompt resolution.  Has he
been put to death or banished?”  “Neither the one nor the other.  In
Europe they do not proceed to such extremities as you at Peking.”  “Ay,
truly; your Mandarins are more fortunate than we: your government is
better than ours: our Emperor cannot know everything, and yet he judges
everything, and no one may presume to object.  Our Emperor tells us, That
is white; we prostrate ourselves and answer, Yes, that is white; he then
points to the same thing, and says, That is black; we again prostrate
ourselves and reply, Yes, that is black.”  “But if you were to say that a
thing cannot be at once white and black?”  “The Emperor would perhaps say
to a person who exhibited such courage, You are right; but, at the same
time, he would have him strangled or beheaded.  Oh, we have not like you
a general assembly of the chiefs (Tchoung-Teou-Y; so Ki-Chan designated
the Chamber of Deputies).  If your Emperor wished to act contrary to
justice, your Tchoung-Teou-Y would be there to stop him.”

Ki-Chan related to us the strange manner in which the great affair of the
English in 1839 had been managed at Peking.  The Emperor convoked the
eight Tchoung-Tang who constituted his privy council, and spoke to them
of the events that had occurred in the south.  He told them that some
adventurers from the western seas had manifested themselves rebellious
and insubordinate; that they must be taken and punished severely, in
order to give an example to all who might be tempted to imitate their
misconduct.  After thus stating his opinion, the Emperor asked the advice
of his council.  The four Mantchou Tchoung-Tang prostrated themselves and
said, “Tché, tché, tché, Tchou-Dze-Ti, Fan-Fou.”  (Yes, yes, yes; such is
the command of the master.)  The four Chinese Tchoung-Tang prostrated
themselves in their turn, and said, “Ché, ché, ché, Hoang-Chang-Ti,
Tien-Ngen.”  (Yes, yes, yes; it is the celestial benefit of the Emperor.)
After this, nothing further had to be said, and the council was
dismissed.  This anecdote is perfectly authentic, for Ki-Chan is one of
the eight Tchoung-Tang of the empire.  He added that, for his part, he
was persuaded that the Chinese were incapable of contending against the
Europeans, unless they altered their weapons and changed their old
habits; but that he should take care not to say so to the Emperor,
because, besides that the suggestion would be futile in itself, it would
perhaps cost him his life.

Our frequent conferences with the Chinese ambassador, the Regent, and the
Cashmerian governor, contributed not a little to secure for us the
confidence and consideration of the inhabitants of Lha-Ssa.  On seeing
the number of those who came to visit us, and to be instructed in our
holy religion, augment from day to day, we felt our hopes enlarge and our
courage increase.  Yet, amidst these consolations, one thought constantly
vexed us; it was that we could not present to the Thibetians the
inspiring spectacle of the pompous and touching festivals of Catholicism.
We were convinced that the beauty of our ceremonies would have a powerful
influence over the minds of these people, so eager after all that
appertains to external worship.

The Thibetians, as we have already observed, are eminently religious;
but, with the exception of a few contemplative Lamas, who withdraw to the
summits of mountains and pass their lives in the hollows of rocks, they
are very little disposed to mysticism.  Instead of confining their
devotion within their inner hearts, they like, on the contrary, display
by outward acts; and accordingly pilgrimages, noisy ceremonies in the
Lamaseries, prostrations on the tops of their houses, are practices
extremely to their taste.  They always have in their hands the Buddhist
rosary, turning and twisting it, and incessantly murmur prayers, even
when they are engaged in business.

There exists at Lha-Ssa a very touching custom, and which we felt a sort
of jealousy at finding among infidels.  In the evening, just as the day
is verging on its decline, all the Thibetians stay business, and meet
together, men, women and children, according to their sex and age, in the
principal parts of the town, and in the public squares.  As soon as
groups are formed, everyone kneels down, and they begin slowly and in
undertones to chant prayers.

The religious concerts produced by these numerous assemblages create
throughout the town an immense solemn harmony, which operates forcibly on
the soul.  The first time we witnessed this spectacle, we could not help
drawing a painful comparison between this pagan town, where all prayed
together, and the cities of Europe, where people would blush to make the
sign of the cross in public.  The prayer which the Thibetians chant in
these evening assemblies, varies according to the seasons of the year;
that, on the contrary, which they repeat on their rosary, is always the
same and only consists of six syllables—_Om mani padme houm_.  This
formula, which the Buddhists call, by abbreviation, the mani, is not only
in everyone’s mouth, but you see it written everywhere about, in the
streets, in the squares, and in houses.  On all the flags that float
above the doors, or from the summit of the public edifices, there is
always a mani printed in Landza, Tartar, and Thibetian characters.
Certain rich and zealous Buddhists maintain, at their own expense,
companies of Lama sculptors, whose business it is to diffuse the mani.
These singular missionaries travel, chisel and mallet in hand, over hill,
dale, and desert, engraving the sacred formula upon the stones and rocks.

According to the opinion of the celebrated orientalist Klaproth, “Om mani
padme houm” is merely the Thibetian transcription of a Sanscrit formula
brought from India to Thibet.  Towards the middle of the seventh century
of our era, the famous Hindoo Tonmi-Sambhodha introduced writing into
Thibet; but as the Landza alphabet, which he had at first adopted, seemed
to King Srong-Bdzan-Gombo too complex and too difficult to learn, he
invited the learned personage to draw up an easier writing, better
adapted to the Thibetian tongue.  Accordingly, Tonmi-Sambhodha shut
himself up for awhile, and composed the Thibetian writing now in use, and
which is merely a modification of Sanscrit characters.  He also initiated
the king into the mysteries of Buddhism, and communicated to him the
sacred formula “Om mani padme houm,” which spread rapidly through all the
countries of Thibet and Mongolia.

This formula has, in the Sanscrit language, a distinct and complete
meaning, which cannot be traced in the Thibetian idiom.  Om is, among the
Hindoos, the mystic name of the Divinity, with which all their prayers
begin.  It is composed of A, the name of Vishnu; of O, that of Siva; and
of M, that of Brahma.  This mystic particle is also equivalent to the
interjection O, and expresses a profound religious conviction; it is, as
it were, a formula of the act of faith; mani signifies a gem, a precious
thing; padma, the lotus; padme, the vocative of the same word.  Lastly,
houm is a particle expressing a wish, a desire, and is equivalent to our
Amen.  The literal sense, then, of this phrase is this:

    Om mani padme houm.

    O the gem in the lotus, Amen.

The Buddhists of Thibet and Mongolia have not been content with this
clear and precise meaning, and have tortured their imaginations in their
endeavours to find a mystic interpretation of each of the six syllables
composing the sentence.

They have written an infinity of voluminous books, wherein they have
piled one extravagance on another, to explain their famous mani.  The
Lamas are wont to say that the doctrine contained in these marvellous
words is immense, and that the whole life of a man is insufficient to
measure its breadth and depth.  We were anxious to know what the Regent
thought of this formula.  This is what he said on the subject: “Living
beings, in Thibetian semdchan, and in Mongol amitan, are divided into six
classes—angels, demons, men, quadrupeds, birds, and reptiles. {195}
These six classes of living beings correspond to the six syllables of the
formula ‘Om mani padme houm.’  Living beings, by continual
transformations, and according to their merit or demerit, pass about in
these six classes until they have attained the apex of perfection, when
they are absorbed and lost in the grand essence of Buddha; that is to
say, in the eternal and universal soul, whence emanate all souls, and
wherein all souls, after their temporary evolutions, are destined to meet
and become fused.

“Living beings have, according to the class to which they belong,
particular means of sanctifying themselves, of rising to a superior
class, of obtaining perfection, and arriving, in process of time, at the
period of their absorption.  Men who repeat very frequently and devotedly
‘Om mani padme houm,’ escape falling, after death, into the six classes
of animate creatures corresponding to the six syllables of the formula,
and obtain the plenitude of being by their absorption into the eternal
and universal soul of Buddha.”

We know not whether this explanation, which was given to us by the Regent
himself, is generally adopted by the learned Buddhists of Thibet and
Mongolia.  We may, however, observe, as it appears to us, that it bears
some analogy with the literal meaning: Oh, the gem in the lotus, Amen.
The gem being the emblem of perfection, and the lotus of Buddha, it may
perhaps be considered that these words express the desire to acquire
perfection in order to be united with Buddha, to be absorbed in the
universal soul.  The symbolic formula, Oh, the gem in the lotus, Amen,
might then be paraphrased thus: Oh, may I obtain perfection, and be
absorbed in Buddha, Amen.

According to the explanation of the Regent, the mani would be, as it
were, the summary of a vast pantheism, the basis of the whole belief of
the Buddhists.  The learned Lamas say that Buddha is the necessary, the
independent Being, the Beginning and End of all things.  The earth, the
stars, mankind, everything that exists is a partial and temporal
manifestation of Buddha.  Everything was created by Buddha; in this
sense, that everything proceeds from him, as light proceeds from the sun.
All creatures sprung from Buddha, have had a beginning, and will have an
end; but in the same way that they have necessarily sprung from the
universal essence, they will necessarily return to it.  It is as the
rivers and the torrents produced by the waters of the sea, and which,
after a course, more or less long, proceed again to lose themselves in
its immensity.  So Buddha is eternal; his manifestations also are
eternal; but in this sense, that there have been manifestations, and that
there always will be manifestations, though taken separately, they have a
beginning and an end.

Without inquiring too nicely whether this agrees or not with what
precedes, the Buddhists admit, besides, an unlimited number of divine
incarnations.  They say that Buddha assumes a human body, and comes to
dwell among men, in order to aid them in acquiring perfection, and to
facilitate for them their reunion with the universal soul.  These Living
Buddhas constitute the numerous class of Chaberons, whom we have
frequently noticed before.  The most celebrated Living Buddhas are—at
Lha-Ssa, the Talé-Lama; at Djachi-Loumbo, the Bandchan-Remboutchi; at the
Grand Kouren, the Guison-Tamba; at Peking, the Tchang-Kia-Fo, a sort of
grand almoner of the imperial court; and in the country of the Ssamba, at
the foot of the Himalaya mountains, the Sa-Dcha-Fo.  This last has, they
say, a somewhat singular mission.  He prays night and day, in order to
get the snow to fall continuously on the summit of the Himalaya; for,
according to a Thibetian tradition, there exists behind these lofty
mountains a savage and cruel people, who only await the subsidence of the
snow to come over and massacre the Thibetian tribes, and to take
possession of the country.

Although all the Chaberons are, without distinction, Living Buddhas,
there is, nevertheless, among them, a hierarchy, of which the Talé-Lama
is the head.  All the rest acknowledge, or ought to acknowledge, his
supremacy.  The present Talé-Lama, as we have said, is a child of nine
years old, and he has now for six years occupied the palace of the
Buddha-La.  He is a Si-Fan by birth, and was taken from a poor and
obscure family of the principality of Ming-Tchen-Tou-Sse.

When the Talé-Lama dies, or to speak Buddhickly, when he has laid aside
his human envelope, they proceed to the election of his successor, in the
following manner: Prayers are directed to be offered up, and fasts to be
performed in all the Lamaseries.  The inhabitants of Lha-Ssa especially,
as being the most interested in the affair, redouble their zeal and
devotion.  Every one goes a pilgrimage round the Buddha-La and the “City
of Spirits.”  The Tchu-Kors are perpetually turning in everybody’s hands,
the sacred formula of the mani re-echoes day and night, in all the
streets of the town, and perfumes are burnt in profusion everywhere.
Those who think they possess the Talé-Lama in their family, give
information of the belief to the authorities of Lha-Ssa, in order that
there may be established, in the children so indicated, their quality of
Chaberons.  In order to be able to proceed to the election of the
Talé-Lama, there must be discovered three Chaberons, authentically
recognised as such.  The candidates come to Lha-Ssa, and the Houtouktous
of the Lamanesque states meet in assembly.  They shut themselves up in a
temple of the Buddha-La, and pass six days in retirement, fasting and
praying.  On the seventh day, they take a golden urn, containing three
fish, likewise of gold, upon which are engraved the names of the three
little candidates for the functions of the divinity of the Buddha-La.
They shake the urn, the eldest of the Houtouktous draws out a fish, and
the child whose name is thus designated by lot is immediately proclaimed
Talé-Lama.  He is then conducted, in great pomp, to the street of the
City of Spirits, every one devoutly prostrating himself on his passage,
and is placed in his sanctuary.

The two Chaberons in swaddling clothes, who have contested for the place
of Talé-Lama, are carried back by their nurses to their respective
families; but to compensate them for not having succeeded, government
makes them a present of 500 ounces of silver.

The Talé-Lama is venerated by the Thibetians and the Mongols like a
divinity.  The influence he exercises over the Buddhist population is
truly astonishing; but still it is going too far to say that his
excrements are respectfully collected, and made into amulets which
devotees enclose in pouches and carry round their necks.  It is equally
untrue that the Talé-Lama has his arms and head encircled with serpents,
in order to strike the imagination of his worshippers.  These assertions,
which we read in some geographies, are entirely without foundation.
During our stay at Lha-Ssa, we asked a good many questions on this point,
and every one laughed in our faces.  Unless it could be made out that,
from the Regent to our argol merchant, all conspired to hide the truth
from us, it must be admitted that the narratives, which have given
circulation to such fables, were written with but very little caution.

It was not possible for us to get a sight of the Talé-Lama; not that
there is any great difficulty made in admitting the curious, or devotees,
to see him, but we were prevented by a rather singular circumstance.  The
Regent had promised to take us to the Buddha-La, and we were upon the
point of fulfilling this notable visit, when all of a sudden an alarm was
started that we should give the Talé-Lama the small-pox.  This malady
had, in fact, just manifested itself at Lha-Ssa, and the people declared,
that it had been brought from Peking, by the great caravan which arrived
a few days before.  As we had formed part of that caravan, we were asked
whether it would not be better to postpone our visit, in order that we
might not expose the Talé-Lama to the risk of catching the disease.  The
proposition was too reasonable to admit of our making any objection.

The fear which the Thibetians have of the small-pox is something
inconceivable.  They never mention its name even, without a sort of
stupor, as though they were speaking of the greatest scourge that could
by possibility desolate mankind.  And, indeed, there is no year in which
this malady does not make fearful ravages at Lha-Ssa, and the only remedy
which has hitherto suggested itself to the government as a preservative
for the population against this fearful epidemic, is to proscribe the
wretched families who are seized with it.  As soon as the small-pox has
declared itself in a house, all the inhabitants must dislodge, and
repair, whether they will or not, far from the city to the summits of the
mountains, or the depths of the valleys.  No one may hold any
communication whatever with the poor wretches, who soon die of hunger and
privation, or become the prey of wild beasts.  We did not fail to make
the Regent acquainted with the precious means used by the European
nations to preserve themselves from the disorder; and one of the chief
circumstances, which procured for us the good-will and protection of the
Regent, was his hope that we might one day introduce vaccination into
Thibet.  The missionary who should be fortunate enough to endow the
Thibetians with so invaluable a blessing, would assuredly acquire over
their minds an influence capable of competing with that of the Talé-Lama
itself.  The introduction of vaccination into Thibet by the missionaries
would, not improbably, be the signal of the downfall of Lamanism, and of
the establishment of the Christian religion among these infidel tribes.

People afflicted with the itch and leprosy, are numerous at Lha-Ssa.
These cutaneous diseases are engendered by the want of cleanliness, more
peculiarly prevalent among the lower classes of the population.  Cases of
hydrophobia are not unfrequent among the Thibetians; and one is only
surprised that this horrible malady does not commit greater ravages, when
one bears in mind the terrible multitudes of gaunt, famishing dogs that
are always prowling about the streets of Lha-Ssa.  These animals, in
fact, are so numerous in that city, that the Chinese contemptuously say,
that the three great products of the capital of Thibet, are Lamas, women,
and dogs—Lama, Ya-Teou, Keou.

This marvellous infinitude of dogs arises from the extreme respect which
the Thibetians have for these animals, and the use to which they apply
them in burying the dead.  There are four different species of sepulture
practised in Thibet; the first, combustion; the second, immersion in the
rivers and lakes; the third, exposure on the summit of mountains; and the
fourth, which is considered the most complimentary of all, consists in
cutting the dead body in pieces, and giving these to be eaten by the
dogs.  The last method is by far the most popular.  The poor have only as
their mausoleum the common vagabond dogs of the locality; but the more
distinguished defunct are treated with greater ceremony.  In all the
Lamaseries, a number of dogs are kept _ad hoc_, and within them the rich
Thibetians are buried. {200}

            [Picture: Chinese and Tartar female Head-dresses]

                       [Picture: Tibetian Theatre]




CHAPTER VII.


Notice of Moorcroft the English Traveller—Routes between Lha-Ssa and
Europe—Discussion with the Chinese Ambassador—Contest between the Regent
and Ki-Chan about us—Our expulsion from Lha-Ssa determined on—Protest
against this arbitrary measure—Report of Ki-Chan to the Emperor of
China—System of Chronology in use in Thibet—New Thibetian year—Festivals
and rejoicings—Buddhist Monasteries of the Province of
Oui—Khaldan—Preboung—Sera—Farewell of the Regent—Separation from
Samdadchiemba—Ly, the Pacificator of Kingdoms—Triple Address of the
Chinese Ambassador—Picturesque adieu between the Ly-Kouo-Ngan and his
Wife—Departure from Lha-Ssa for Canton—Crossing a river in a leathern
boat.

We have already referred to the travels of Moorcroft in Thibet, in
noticing the excessive fear with which the designers and makers of
geographical charts inspire the Thibetian government.  One day, the
governor of the Cashmerians brought to us one of his fellow countrymen,
named Nisan, who had been for a long time the servant of Moorcroft at
Lha-Ssa.  He talked to us at some length about his old master, and the
details he gave us confirmed all that had already been related to us.
The adventures of this English traveller appearing to us too singular to
be passed over wholly in silence, we have thought proper to give a short
review of them.

According to the statements collected in the capital of Thibet itself,
Moorcroft arrived from Ladak at Lha-Ssa in the year 1826; he wore the
Mussulman dress, and spoke the Farsie language, expressing himself in
that idiom with so much facility, that the Cashmerians of Lha-Ssa took
him for one of their countrymen.  He hired a house in the town, where he
lived for twelve years with his servant Nisan, whom he had brought from
Ladak, and who himself thought that his master was a Cashmerian.
Moorcroft had purchased a few herds of goats and oxen, which he had
confided to the care of some Thibetian shepherds, who dwelt in the gorges
of the mountains, about Lha-Ssa.  Under the pretext of inspecting his
herds, the feigned Mussulman went freely about the country, making
drawings and preparing his geographical charts.  It is said that never
having learnt the Thibetian language, he abstained from holding direct
communication with the people of the country.  At last, having dwelt for
twelve years at Lha-Ssa, Moorcroft took his way back to Ladak, but whilst
he was in the province of Ngari, he was attacked by a troop of brigands
who assassinated him.  The perpetrators of this murder were pursued and
arrested by the Thibetian government, who recovered a portion of the
property of the English traveller, among which was a collection of
geographical designs and charts.  It was only then, and upon sight of
these objects, that the authorities of Lha-Ssa found out that Moorcroft
was an Englishman.

Before separating from his servant, Moorcroft had given him a note,
telling him to show it to the inhabitants of Calcutta, if he ever went to
that city, and that it would suffice to make his fortune.  It was
doubtless a letter of recommendation.  The seizure of the effects of
Moorcroft created such a disturbance in Thibet, that Nisan, afraid of
being compromised, destroyed his letter of recommendation.  He told us
himself that this note was written in characters exactly similar to ours.

The facts we have here related, we derive from the Regent, from the
Cashmerian governor, from Nisan, and from several other inhabitants of
Lha-Ssa.  Before reaching this town, we had never heard of Moorcroft; it
was there we first learned the name of this English traveller.  From what
we have stated, it may be considered established that Moorcroft really
went to Lha-Ssa in 1826, that he resided there for twelve years, and that
he was afterwards assassinated on the road to Ladak from Lha-Ssa.

Let us turn now, however, to other information, extremely discrepant from
that which was given us in the capital of Thibet.  According to the
“Universal Geography” of Charles Ritter, {203a} Moorcroft made first a
journey in 1812, which lasted two months; he was afterwards directed by
the Company to procure horses from Turkestan, wherewith to improve the
breed of horses in India.  For this purpose he undertook a second journey
in November, 1819; he got as far as Ladak, where he remained two years.
In the month of October, 1822, he left that town for Cashmere, and on the
25th of August, 1825, died at Andkou, on the way from Herat to Balk.  The
death of Moorcroft, at the date and place stated by Charles Ritter, was
announced by his fellow-traveller, M. Tribeck, in a letter dated Balk,
6th September, 1825, and addressed to Captain Wade, the resident at
Loudiana. {203b}

We confess that we cannot possibly reconcile such opposite statements.
If Moorcroft was really not at Lha-Ssa, how is it that he was so well
known there, and that the people there speak of his residence among them
in terms so precise?  What interest could the Thibetians have in forging
such a tale?  On the other hand, if Moorcroft was at Lha-Ssa, how can we
explain that letter of M. Tribeck, which announces that his
fellow-traveller died in 1825, exactly at the time, when, according to
the other hypothesis, he was on his way to the capital of Thibet?

Without pretending to reconcile these contradictions, we will cite a fact
which concerns ourselves, and which will, perhaps, seem to bear some
relation to the affair of Moorcroft.  Some time after our arrival at
Macao, we read the following article in the “Bengal Catholic Herald,”
{203c} a journal printed at Calcutta.  “Canton the 12th September.  The
French missionaries of our city have lately received the news of the
deplorable death of two fathers of their mission in Mongol-Tartary.”
After a cursory sketch of the Mongol-Chinese territory, the writer of the
article proceeds thus:—“A French Lazarist called Huc, arrived, about
three years ago, amongst some Chinese families, who were established in
the valley of Black Waters, about two hundred leagues journey from the
Great Wall.  Another Lazarist, whose name is unknown to me, {203d} joined
him in the plan of forming a mission among the Mongol Buddhists.  They
studied the Mongol language with the Lamas of the neighbouring
Lamaseries.  It seems that they were taken for foreign Lamas, and were
treated in a friendly manner, particularly by the Buddhists, who are very
ignorant, and who mistook the Latin of their breviaries for Sanscrit,
which they do not understand, but for which they have a secret
veneration, because the rites of their religious books, in Mongol,
translated from the Sanscrit, are printed in red ink.

“When the missionaries thought themselves sufficiently learned in the
language, they advanced into the interior, with the intention of
commencing their work of conversion.  From that time only uncertain
rumours were heard about them, but in May last, from the interior of
Mongol-Tartary, the news came that they had been tied to horses’ tails,
and so dragged to death.  The real causes of this event are not as yet
known.”

Whilst they were thus announcing our death so positively, we were
approaching the termination of our long journey, and were close upon
Canton, happily enjoying a health fully capable of refuting the news thus
propagated concerning us.  But if, by chance, we had perished among the
mountains of Thibet, if we had been murdered there, the world would have
remained convinced that we had been tied to horses’ tails and had died in
Mongolia.  It would probably have never been believed that we had reached
the capital of Thibet; and if, at some later time, some European
traveller had visited Lha-Ssa, and had been informed of our abode in that
town, it would have been, perhaps, just as difficult to reconcile these
statements, as those respecting Moorcroft.  Although the death of the
English traveller is a matter which we cannot clear up, we did not
conceive that we could omit to say what we knew of it, without pretending
to invalidate, by the accounts collected at Lha-Ssa, the documents set
forth in the scientific London journals.

We were scarcely a month at Lha-Ssa before the numerous inhabitants of
this town grew accustomed to speak with respect and admiration of the
holy doctrine of Jehovah, and of the great kingdom of France.  The peace
and tranquillity we enjoyed, the distinguished protection which the
Thibetian government extended to us, the sympathy with which the people
seemed to surround us, all inspired us with the hope, that, by the aid of
God, we might lay in the very capital of Buddhism the foundation of a
mission, the influence of which would soon extend itself among the nomad
tribes of Mongolia.  The moment seemed to have come when the Tartar
pilgrims might at length learn, at Lha-Ssa, the only doctrine which can
save men’s souls, and civilize nations.

As soon as we considered our position at Lha-Ssa confirmed, we turned our
thoughts to the means of renewing our communications with Europe in the
speediest manner.  The path of the desert was impracticable.  We had,
certainly, managed to cross once, and as it were by a miracle, these
steppes infested by brigands and wild beasts; but it was out of the
question to think of organising a service of couriers along that
frightful route.  Supposing, besides, the fullest security that could be
desired, the mere length of the journey was a thing to make one shudder.
The road by India seemed alone practicable.  From Lha-Ssa to the first
English station is not quite a month’s journey.  By establishing one
correspondent on the other side of the Himalaya mountains, and one at
Calcutta, our communication with France would become, if not prompt and
easy, at all events feasible.  As this plan could only be put into
execution with the consent of the Thibetian government, we communicated
it to the Regent, who immediately entered into our views, and it was
agreed that in the summer M. Gabet should undertake the journey to
Calcutta, with a Thibetian escort, who were to accompany him as far as
Boutan.

Such were the plans we were forming for the establishment of a mission at
Lha-Ssa; but at this very moment the enemy to all good was hard at work
to ruin our projects, and to remove us from a country which he seems to
have chosen for the seat of his empire.  Having heard here and there
words of evil auspice, we comprehended that the Chinese ambassador was
secretly plotting our expulsion from Thibet.  The vague rumour of this
persecution had, in fact, nothing about it to surprise us.  From the
outset, we had foreseen that if difficulties assailed us, they would
emanate from the Chinese Mandarins.  Ki-Chan, in fact, could not bear to
see the Thibetian government receive with so much favour a religion and
strangers, whom the absurd prejudices of China have so long driven from
her frontiers.  Christianity and the French name excited too forcibly the
sympathy of the people of Lha-Ssa, not to arouse Chinese jealousy.  An
agent of the court of Peking could not, without anger, reflect on the
popularity which strangers enjoyed in Thibet, and on the influence which
they might one day exercise in a country which China has every interest
in keeping under her dominion.  It was determined, therefore, that the
preachers of the religion of the Lord of Heaven should be driven from
Lha-Ssa.

One day, the ambassador, Ki-Chan, sent for us, and after sundry attempts
at cajolery, ended by saying that Thibet was too cold, too poor a country
for us, and that we had better think of returning to our kingdom of
France.  Ki-Chan addressed these words to us, with a sort of indifferent,
careless manner, as though he supposed there could he no sort of
objection to them.  We asked him if, in speaking thus, he proposed to us
advice or command.  “Both the one and the other,” he replied, coldly.
“Since it is so, we have first to thank you for the interest which you
seem to have in our welfare, in telling us that this country is cold and
miserable.  But you must know, that men such as we, do not regard the
goods and conveniences of this world; were it not so, we should have
remained in our own kingdom of France.  For know, there is not anywhere a
country comparable with our own.  As for the imperative portion of your
words, this is our answer: ‘Admitted into Thibet by the local authority,
we recognise no right in you, or in any other person, to disturb our
abode here.’”  “How! you who are strangers, presume still to remain
here?’”  “Yes, we are strangers, but we know that the laws of Thibet are
not like those of China.  The Peboun, the Katchi, the Mongols, are
strangers like us, and yet they are permitted to live here in peace; no
one disturbs them.  What, then, is the meaning of this arbitrary
proceeding of yours, in ordering Frenchmen from a country open to all
people?  If foreigners are to quit Lha-Ssa, why do you stay here?  Does
not your title of Kin-Tchai (ambassador) distinctly announce that you
yourself are but a foreigner here?”  At these words, Ki-Chan bounded on
his velvet cushion.  “I a foreigner!” cried he, “a foreigner!  I, who
bear the authority of the Grand Emperor, who, only a few months’ since,
condemned and exiled the Nomekhan.”  “We are acquainted with that affair.
There is this difference between the Nomekhan and us, that the Nomekhan
came from Kan-Sou, a province of the empire, and we come from France,
where your Grand Emperor is nobody; and that the Nomekhan assassinated
three Talé-Lamas, while we have done no injury to any man.  Have we any
other aim than to make known to men the true God, and to teach them the
way to save their souls?”  “Ay, as I have already said to you, I believe
you to be honest people; but then the religion you preach has been
declared wicked, and prohibited by our Grand Emperor.”  “To these words,
we can only reply thus: The religion of the Lord of Heaven does not need
the sanction of your Emperor to make it a holy religion, any more than
we, of its mission, need it to come and preach in Thibet.”  The Chinese
ambassador did not think it expedient to continue this discussion; he
drily dismissed us, declaring that we might rest assured he would make us
quit Thibet.  We hastened to the Regent, in order to acquaint him with
the melancholy interview we had had with Ki-Chan.  The chief Kalon had
been made aware of the projects of persecution which the Chinese
Mandarins were hatching against us.  He endeavoured to reassure us, and
told us, that protecting in the country thousands of strangers, he was
powerful enough to give us the protection which the Thibetian government
extended to all.  “Besides,” added he, “even though our laws did prohibit
strangers from entering our country, those laws could not affect you.
Religious persons, men of prayer, belonging to all countries, are
strangers nowhere; such is the doctrine taught by our holy books.  It is
written: ‘The yellow goat has no country, the Lama no family.’  Lha-Ssa
being the peculiar assembling-place and abode of men of prayer, that
title of itself should always secure for you liberty and protection.”
This opinion of the Buddhists, which constitutes a religious man a
cosmopolite, is not merely a mystic idea written in books, but we have
found it recognised in the manners and customs of the Lamaseries; when a
man has had his head shaved, and assumes the religious habit, he
renounces his former name to take a new one.  If you ask a Lama of what
country he is, he replies, “I have no country, but I pass my time in such
a Lamasery.”  This manner of thinking and acting is even admitted in
China, amongst the bonzes and other classes of religionists, who are
called by the generic name of Tchou-Kia-Jin, (a man who has left his
family.)

There was, respecting us, a controversy of several days’ duration,
between the Thibetian government and the Chinese ambassador.  Ki-Chan, in
order to insure better success to his aims, assumed the character of
defender of the Talé-Lama.  This was his argument: Sent to Lha-Ssa by his
Emperor, to protect the Living Buddha, it was his duty to remove from him
whatever was calculated to injure him.  Certain preachers of the religion
of the Lord of Heaven, animated, no doubt, by excellent intentions, were
propagating a doctrine which, in the end, tended to destroy the authority
and power of the Talé-Lama.  Their avowed purpose was to substitute their
religious belief for Buddhism, and to convert all the inhabitants of
Thibet of every age, condition, and sex.  What would become of the
Talé-Lama when he had no worshippers?  The introduction into the country
of the religion of the Lord of Heaven, does it not lead directly to the
destruction of the sanctuary of the Buddha-La, and consequently, to the
downfall of the Lamanesque hierarchy and of the Thibetian government?
“I,” said he, “who am here to protect the Talé-Lama, can I permit, at
Lha-Ssa, men who propagate such formidable doctrines?  When those
doctrines have taken root, and it is no longer possible to extirpate
them, who will be responsible for such a misfortune?  What shall I reply
to the Grand Emperor, when he shall reproach me with my negligence and
cowardice?  You Thibetians,” said he to the Regent; “you do not
comprehend the gravity of this matter.  Because these men are virtuous
and irreproachable, you think they are harmless—it is a mistake.  If they
remain long at Lha-Ssa, they will spell-bind you.  Among you, there is
not a man capable of disputing with them upon religion.  You will not be
able to keep from adopting their belief, and then the Talé-Lama is
undone.”

The Regent did not enter at all into these apprehensions, with which the
Chinese ambassador endeavoured to inspire him.  He maintained that our
presence at Lha-Ssa could not in any way be prejudicial to the Thibetian
government.  “If the doctrine which these men held,” said he, “is a false
doctrine, the Thibetians will not embrace it; if, on the contrary, it is
true, what have we to fear?  How can the truth be prejudicial to men?
These two Lamas of the kingdom of France,” he added, “have not done any
harm; they are animated with the best intentions towards us.  Can we,
without good ground, deprive them of the liberty and protection which we
extend here to all strangers, and particularly to men of prayer?  Can we
make ourselves guilty of an actual and certain injustice, through an
imaginary fear of some possible evil to come?”

Ki-Chan reproached the Regent with neglecting the interests of the
Talé-Lama, and the Regent on his part accused Ki-Chan of taking advantage
of the minority of the sovereign, to tyrannize over the Thibetian
government.  For our parts, in this unfortunate contest, we refused to
acknowledge the authority of the Chinese Mandarin, and declared that we
would not quit the country without a formal order from the Regent, who
assured us that they should never extort from him any such thing.

The quarrel became more and more exacerbated every day.  Ki-Chan resolved
to take on himself to expel us from the country.  Matters had come to
such a crisis, that prudence obliged us to yield to circumstances, and to
oppose no further resistance, for fear of compromising the Regent, and of
becoming, perhaps, the cause of lamentable dissensions between China and
Thibet.  By further opposing this unjust persecution, we might irritate
too vehemently the Chinese, and furnish pretexts for their project of
usurping the Thibetian government.  If, on our account, a rupture
unhappily broke out between Lha-Ssa and Peking, we should inevitably be
held responsible for it; we should become odious in the eyes of the
Thibetians, and the introduction of Christianity into these countries
would be encountered hereafter with greater difficulties than ever.  We
therefore considered that it would be better to submit, and to accept
with resignation the crown of persecution.  Our conduct should prove to
the Thibetians, that at least we had come among them with peaceful
intentions, and that we did not intend to establish ourselves there by
violence.

Another consideration helped to confirm our resolution.  It occurred to
us that this very tyranny which the Chinese exercised against us, might
perhaps be the ultimate occasion of our missionaries establishing
themselves in Thibet with security.  In our simplicity, we imagined that
the French government would not see with indifference this monstrous
assumption of China, in daring to persecute Christianity and the French
name even among foreign nations, and at a distance of more than a
thousand leagues from Peking.  We were persuaded that the representative
of France at Canton could not omit to make emphatic remonstrances to the
Chinese authorities, and that he would obtain just reparation for the
violence with which we had been treated.  In thinking thus, we poor and
obscure missionaries were far from wishing to give ourselves, in our own
eyes, the least personal importance; but we do not disguise it, we were
proud in the belief that our position as Frenchmen would be a sufficient
title for our obtaining the protection of the government of our country.

After having maturely considered these points, we proceeded to the
Regent.  On learning that we had determined to leave Lha-Ssa, he seemed
sad and embarrassed.  He told us he greatly wished he had it in his power
to secure for us a free and tranquil abode in Thibet; but that alone, and
without the support of his sovereign, he had found himself too weak to
resist the tyranny of the Chinese, who for several years past, taking
advantage of the infancy of the Talé-Lama, had assumed unprecedented
claims in the country.  We thanked the Regent for his goodwill, and left
him to wait upon the Chinese ambassador.

We told Ki-Chan that, at a distance from all protection, we had resolved
to leave Lha-Ssa, since he was determined to compel us to do so; but that
we protested against this violation of our rights.  “Well, well,”
answered Ki-Chan, “you cannot do better; you must depart; it will be
better for you, better for the Thibetians, better for me, better for
everybody.”  He then told us that he had ordered all preparations to be
made for our departure; that the Mandarin and escort who were to
accompany us, had been selected.  It had even been arranged that we
should depart in eight days, and that they should take us along the route
which leads to the frontiers of China.  This last arrangement, excited at
once our indignation and surprise; it was inconceivable how they could
have the cruelty to condemn us to a journey of eight months, whilst by
proceeding towards India twenty-five days’ march would suffice to carry
us to the first European station, whence we could not fail to find means,
both secure and easy, for reaching Calcutta.  We forthwith and vehemently
protested against the project, but our protest was disregarded, as was
the request for some few additional days rest, after the long journey we
had just made, and to give time for the closing of the great wounds
caused by the cold of the desert.  All we could say to mollify the
cruelty of the Chinese ambassador was unavailing.

We then laid aside our suppliant tone, and declared to the delegate of
the court of Peking, that we yielded to violence, but that we would
denounce to our government: first, that the Chinese ambassador, installed
at Lha-Ssa, had arbitrarily and violently driven us thence, under the
vain pretext that we were strangers and preachers of the Christian
religion, which he called wicked and repudiated by his Emperor.  In the
second place, that in opposition to all right and all justice, he had
prevented us from pursuing an easy and direct route, of only twenty-five
days’ journey, to drag us tyrannically into the interior of China, and
make us undergo the hardships of an eight months’ journey.  Finally, that
we would denounce to our government the barbarity with which they forced
us to set out, without allowing us a little rest, a barbarity which, in
our then state, we had a right to consider as an attempt upon our life.
Ki-Chan replied that he had nothing to do with what the French government
might think or do, that in his conduct he had only to regard the will of
his Emperor.  “If my master,” he said, “knew that I had permitted two
Europeans freely to preach the religion of the Lord of heaven in Thibet,
I should be lost.  It would not be possible for me to escape death.”

The next day, Ki-Chan sent for us in order to communicate to us a report
he had drawn up on the subject of our affairs; and which he proposed to
lay before the Emperor.  “I did not wish,” said he, “to let it go without
reading it to you previously, for fear there should have escaped me in it
any expressions inexact in themselves or distasteful to you.”  Having
attained his chief object, Ki-Chan had resumed his amiable and
conciliatory manner towards us.  His report was unmeaning enough; what it
said about us was neither good nor bad; it simply set forth a dry
nomenclature of the countries we had passed through, since our departure
from Macao.  “Is this report as you like it?” said Ki-Chan; “do you see
anything in it to alter?”  M. Huc answered, that he had an observation to
make of great importance.  “Speak, I listen.”  “What I have to say to
you, does not interest us in the least; but it affects you very nearly.”
“Let us hear what it is.”  “My communication must be private: let your
people withdraw.”  “These men are my servants; they all belong to my
household; fear nothing.”  “Oh, it is not we who have anything to fear;
all the danger is to you.”  “The danger to me!  No matter, the officers
of my suite may hear all.”  “If you will, you can repeat to them what I
have to say; but I cannot speak in their presence.”  “Mandarins cannot
hold secret conversations with strangers; it is forbidden by the laws.”
“In that case, I have nothing to tell you; send the report just as it is;
but if it brings misfortune upon you, only blame yourself.”  The Chinese
ambassador became pensive; he took infinite pinches of snuff, one after
another, and then, as the result of long reflection, told his suite to
retire, and to leave us alone with him.

When everyone had gone, M. Huc began: “Now,” said he to Ki-Chan, “you
will understand why I wished to speak to you in private, and how
important it is to you that no one should hear what I have to tell you.
You will judge if we are dangerous men, we who fear even to injure our
persecutors.”  Ki-Chan was pale and disconcerted.  “Let us hear,” said
he; “explain yourself—let your words be candid and clear; what would you
say?”  “In your report, there is an inexactitude; you make me set out
from Macao with my brother Joseph Gabet, and yet I did not enter China
till four years after him.”  “Oh, if that is all, it is easy to correct
it.”  “Yes, very easy.  This report, you say, is for your Emperor; is it
not so?”  “Certainly.”  “In that case, it is your duty to tell the
Emperor the truth and nothing but the truth.”  “Oh, nothing but the
truth; let us correct the report.  At what period did you enter China?”
“In the twentieth year of Tao-Kouang (1840).”  Ki-Chan took his pencil
and wrote in the margin—twentieth year of Tao-Kouang.  “What moon?”  “The
second moon.”  Ki-Chan hearing us speak of the second moon, laid down his
pencil and looked at us with a fixed stare.  “Yes, I entered the Chinese
empire in the twentieth year of Tao-Kouang, in the second moon; I passed
through the province of Canton, of which you were at that time viceroy.
Why do you not write? are you not to tell all the truth to the Emperor?”
The face of Ki-Chan contracted.  “Do you see now why I wished to talk to
you in private?”  “Yes, I know the Christians are good people—does anyone
here know of this matter?”  “No, not anyone.”  Ki-Chan took the report,
tore it up; he wrote a fresh one, entirely different from the first.  The
dates of our first entry into China were not exactly set forth, and there
was a pompous eulogium on our knowledge and sanctity.  The poor man had
been simple enough to believe that we attached a great importance to his
Emperor’s good opinion of us.

In accordance with the orders of Ki-Chan, we were to set out after the
festivals of the Thibetian new year.  We had only been at Lha-Ssa two
months, and we had already passed the new year twice, first the European
new year, and then the Chinese; it was now the turn of the Thibetian.
Although at Lha-Ssa, they reckon the year as in China, according to the
lunar system, yet the calendars of these two countries do not agree: that
of Lha-Ssa is always a month behind that of Peking.  It is known that the
Chinese, the Mongols, and most of the peoples of Eastern Asia, make use
in their chronological calculations of a sexagenary cycle, composed of
ten signs called trunks, and of twelve signs which bear the name of
branches.  Among the Tartars and Thibetians, the signs of the denary
cycle are expressed by the names of the five elements repeated twice, or
by the names of the five colours with their shades.  The names of twelve
animals denote the duodenary cycle.

                   DENARY CYCLE
MONGOL                THIBETIAN
1  Moto               Cheng           Wood
2  Moto               Cheng           Wood
3  Gal                Mé              Fire
4  Gal                Mé              Fire
5  Chéré              Sa              Earth
6  Chéré              Sa              Earth
7  Témur              Dchak           Iron
8  Témur              Dchak           Iron
9  Oussou             Tchon           Water
10 Oussou             Tchon           Water
                 DUODENARY CYCLE
MONGOL                THIBETIAN
1  Khouloukhana       Chi-wa          Mouse
2  Oukhere            Lang            Ox
3  Bara               Tak             Tiger
4  Tolé               Yen             Hare
5  Lou                Dchouk          Dragon
6  Mokhé              Phroul          Serpent
7  Mori               Ria             Horse
8  Khoui              Lonk            Ram
9  Betchi             Preou           Monkey
10 Takia              Chia            Fowl
11 Nokhé              Dchi            Dog
12 Khakhé             Phak            Pig

To form the sexagenary cycle, the two first cycles are combined in the
following manner:—

                SEXAGENARY CYCLE
MONGOL
1  Moto khouloukhana         Wooden mouse
2  Moto oukhere              Wooden ox
3  Gal bara                  Fire tiger
4  Gal tolé                  Fire hare
5  Chéré lou                 Earth dragon
6  Chéré Mokhé               Earth serpent
7  Temur mori                Iron horse
8  Temur knoui               Iron ram
9  Oussou betchi             Water monkey
10 Oussou takia              Water fowl
11 Moto nokhé                Wooden dog
12 Moto khakhé               Wooden pig
13 Gal khouloukhana          Fire mouse
14 Gal oukhere               Fire ox
15 Chéré bara                Earth tiger
16 Chéré tolé                Earth hare
17 Témur lou                 Iron dragon
18 Témur mokhé               Iron serpent
19 Oussou mori               Water horse
20 Ousson khoui              Water ram
21 Moto betchi               Wooden monkey
22 Moto takia                Wooden fowl
23 Gal nokhé                 Fire dog
24 Gal khakhé                Fire pig
25 Chéré khouloukhana        Earth mouse
26 Chéré oukhéré             Earth ox
27 Temur bara                Iron tiger
28 Temur tolé                Iron hare
29 Oussou lou                Water dragon
30 Oussou makhé              Water serpent
31 Moto mori                 Wooden horse
32 Moto khoui                Wooden ram
33 Gal betchi                Fire monkey
34 Gal takia                 Fire chicken
35 Chéré nokhé               Earth dog
36 Chéré khakhé              Earth pig
37 Temur khouloukhana        Iron mouse
38 Temur oukhere             Iron ox
39 Oussou bara               Water tiger
40 Oussou tolé               Water hare
41 Moto lou                  Wooden dragon
42 Moto mokhé                Wooden serpent
43 Gal mori                  Fire horse
44 Gal khoui                 Fire ram
45 Chéré betchi              Earth monkey
46 Chéré takia               Earth fowl
47 Temur mokhé               Iron dog
48 Temur khakhé              Iron pig
49 Oussou khouloukhana       Water mouse
50 Oussou oukhere            Water ox
51 Moto bara                 Wooden tiger
52 Moto tolé                 Wooden hare
53 Gal lou                   Fire dragon
54 Gal mokhé                 Fire serpent
55 Chéré mori                Earth horse
56 Chéré khoui               Earth ram
57 Temur betchi              Iron monkey
58 Temur takia               Iron fowl
59 Oussou nokhé              Water dog
60 Oussou khakhé             Water pig

As this cycle returns periodically every sixty years, it may be imagined
that great confusion might occur in chronology, if they had not a sure
method of fixing the past sexagenary cycles.  To obviate this
inconvenience, the sovereigns give to each year of their reign a
particular name, and by this means the cyclic epochs are fixed in a way
to leave no doubt.  Thus the Mongols say, “The twenty-eighth year
Tao-Kouang, which is that of the fiery ram (1848.)”  In China, the
present sexagenary cycle commenced with the year 1805, and the years
Tao-Kouang date from 1820, the epoch when the Emperor now reigning
mounted the throne.  It is to be observed that Chun-Tchi, Khang-Hi,
Young-Tching, Kien-Long, Kia-King, Tao-Kouang, are not at all the names
of the six first Emperors of the Mantchou dynasty, but special
denominations to denote the years of their reign.

The Thibetians have adopted the use of the denary and duodenary cycles.
But by making them undergo more numerous combinations than the Mongols,
they obtain a cycle of 252 years.  The twelve first years merely bear the
names of twelve animals; then these same names are combined with those of
the five elements, repeated twice up to the 72nd year of the cycle.  They
then add to these combinations the word _po_ (male), which carries them
up to the 132nd year; then the word _mo_ (female), which takes it up to
the 192nd year; finally, they alternate the words _po_ and _mo_ to the
end of the cycle.

This chronological system, too complicated for the use of the lower
classes, is confined to the Lamaseries, where it is studied and
understood by the more learned Lamas.  The masses live on from day to
day, without an idea even of the existence of this method of combining
the cycles.  Except the Regent, we found no one at Lha-Ssa who could tell
us in what year we were.  They seemed generally to be wholly unaware of
the importance of denoting dates and years by particular names.  One of
the highest functionaries of Lha-Ssa, a very celebrated Lama, told us
that the Chinese method of counting the years was very embarrassing, and
not at all comparable with the simplicity of the Thibetian method; he
thought it more natural to say plainly, this year, last year, twenty or a
hundred years ago, and so on.  When we told him that this method would
only serve to make history an inextricable confusion, “Provided we know,”
said he, “what occurred in times gone by, that is the essential point.
What is the good of knowing the precise date of the occurrences?  Of what
use is that?”

This contempt, or rather this indifference for chronology, is observable,
in fact, in most of the Lamanesque works; they are frequently without
order or date, and merely present to the reader a hotch-potch of
anecdotes piled one on another, without any precision, either about
persons or events.  Fortunately the history of the Thibetians being
continually mixed up with that of the Chinese and the Tartars, one can
apply the literature of these latter peoples to the introduction of a
little order and precision into the Thibetian chronology.

During our stay at Lha-Ssa, we had occasion to remark that the Thibetians
are very bad chronologists, not only with respect to leading dates, but
even in the manner of reckoning each day the age of the moon.  Their
almanac is in a state of truly melancholy confusion, and this confusion
entirely proceeds from the superstitious ideas of the Buddhists
respecting lucky and unlucky days; all the days reputed unlucky, which
occur in the course of the moon, are omitted, and do not count.  Thus,
for example, if the fifteenth day of the moon is a day of ill omen, they
count the fourteenth twice over, and pass on direct to the sixteenth.
Sometimes several days of ill-omen occur one after the other; but that is
of no consequence; they cut them all off just the same, until they come
to a lucky day.  The Thibetians do not seem to find the least
inconvenience in such a method.

The renewal of the year is, with the Thibetians, as with all people, a
season of festivals and rejoicings.  The last days of the twelfth moon
are consecrated to the preparations for it; people lay in supplies of
tea, butter, tsamba, barley wine, and some joints of beef and mutton.
The holiday clothes are taken from the wardrobes; they remove the dust
under which the furniture is generally hidden; they furbish up, clean,
sweep, and try, in a word, to introduce into the interior of their houses
a little order and neatness.  The thing only happening once a year, all
the households assume a new aspect; the domestic altars are the objects
of especial care; they repaint the old idols, and they make, with fresh
butter, pyramids, flowers, and various ornaments designed to deck the
little sanctuaries where the Buddhas of the family reside.

The first Louk-So, or Rite of the Festival, commences at midnight, so
that every one sits up, impatiently awaiting this mystical and solemn
hour, which is to close the old year, and open the course of the new.  As
we were not anxious to catch the exact point of intersection which
separates the two Thibetian years, we went to sleep at our usual hour.
We were in a deep slumber, when we were suddenly awakened by the cries of
joy which issued from all sides, in all quarters of the town.  Bells,
cymbals, marine conches, tambourines, and all the instruments of
Thibetian music, were set to work, and operated the most frightful uproar
imaginable; it seemed as though they were receiving the new-born year
with a charivari.  We had once a good mind to get up, to witness the
happiness of the merry inhabitants of Lha-Ssa, but the cold was so
cutting that after serious reflection, we opined that it would be better
to remain under our thick woollen coverlets, and to unite ourselves in
heart with the public felicity.  Repeated knocks on the door of our
house, threatening to dash it into splinters, warned us that we must
renounce our project.  After several excuses, we were at last fain to
leave our warm beds; we donned our clothes, and the door being opened,
some Thibetians of our acquaintance rushed into our room, inviting us to
the new year’s banquet.  They all bore in their hands a small vessel made
of baked earth, in which floated on boiling water, balls composed of
honey and flour.  One of these visitors offered us a long silver needle,
terminating in a hook, and invited us to fish in his basin.  At first, we
sought to excuse ourselves, objecting that we were not in the habit of
taking food during the night, but they entreated us in so engaging a
manner, they put out their tongues at us with so friendly a grace, that
we were obliged to resign ourselves to the Louk-So.  We each hooked a
ball, which we then crushed between our teeth to ascertain its flavour.
We looked at each other, making grimaces; however, for politeness sake,
we had to swallow the dose.  If we could only have got off with this
first act of devotion! but the Louk-So was inexorable; the numerous
friends we had at Lha-Ssa succeeded each other almost without
interruption, and we had perforce to munch Thibetian sweetmeats till
daybreak.

The second Louk-So also consists in making visits, but with a different
ceremony.  As soon as the dawn appears, the Thibetians walk through the
streets of the town, carrying in one hand a pot of buttered tea, and in
the other a large gilt and varnished plate, filled with tsamba, piled up
in the form of a pyramid, and surmounted by three ears of barley.  On
these occasions, it is not allowed to pay visits without the tsamba and
the buttered tea.  As soon as you have entered the house of a person to
whom you propose to wish a happy year, you first of all make three
prostrations before the domestic altar, which is solemnly adorned and
illuminated; then, after having burnt some leaves of cedar, or other
aromatic tree, in a large copper censer, you offer to every one present a
cup of tea, and hand the plate, from which each takes a pinch of tsamba.
The people of the house reciprocate the compliment to the visitors.  The
inhabitants of Lha-Ssa have a saying, the Thibetians celebrate the
festival of the new year with tsamba and buttered tea; the Chinese with
red paper and crackers; the Katchi with delicate meats and tobacco; the
Peboun with songs and sports.

Although this popular saying is correct enough, the Pebouns do not
altogether monopolize the gaiety of the period.  The Thibetians also
enliven their new years’ fêtes with noisy rejoicings, in which the song
and the dance always play a large part.  Groups of children, with
numerous bells hung from their green dresses, pervade the streets,
giving, from house to house, concerts that are not wanting in harmony.
The song, generally sweet and melancholy, is interspersed with animated
choruses.  During the strophe, all these little singers keep marking the
time, by making, with their bodies, a slow and regular movement like the
swinging of a pendulum; but when they come to the chorus, they vigorously
stamp their feet on the ground in exact time.  The noise of the bells,
and of the nailed boots, produces a kind of wild accompaniment that
strikes upon the ear not disagreeably, especially when it is heard at a
certain distance.  These youthful _dilettanti_ having performed their
concert, it is usual with those for whom they have sung to distribute
among them cakes fried in nut-oil, and some balls of butter.

On the principal squares, and in front of the public monuments, you see,
from morning till night, troops of comedians and tumblers amusing the
people with their representations.  The Thibetians have not, like the
Chinese, collections of theatrical pieces; their comedians remain
altogether and continuously on the stage, now singing and dancing, now
exhibiting feats of strength and agility.  The ballet is the exercise in
which they seem to excel the most.  They waltz, they bound, they tumble,
they _pirouette_ with truly surprising agility.  Their dress consists of
a cap, surmounted by long pheasants’ plumes, a black mask adorned with a
white beard of prodigious length, large white pantaloons, and a green
tunic coming down to the knees, and bound round the waist by a yellow
girdle.  To this tunic are attached, at equal distances, long cords, at
the end of which are thick tufts of white wool.  When the actor balances
himself in time, these tufts gracefully accompany the movements of his
body; and when he whirls round they stick out horizontally, form a wheel
round the performer, and seem, as it were, to accelerate the rapidity of
his _pirouettes_.

You also see at Lha-Ssa a sort of gymnastic exercise called the Dance of
the Spirits.  A long cord, made of leathern straps, strongly plaited
together, is attached to the top of the Buddha-La, and descends to the
foot of the mountain.  The dancing sprites go up and down this cord, with
an agility only to be compared with that of cats or monkeys.  Sometimes,
when they have reached the top, they fling out their arms as if about to
swim, and let themselves slide down the rope with the velocity of an
arrow.  The inhabitants of the province of Ssang are reputed the most
skilful in this kind of exercise.

The most singular thing we observed at Lha-Ssa, during the new year’s
festival, is what the Thibetians call the Lha-Ssa-Morou, that is, the
total invasion of the town, and its environs, by innumerable bands of
Lamas.  The Lha-Ssa-Morou commences on the third day of the first moon.
All the Buddhist monasteries of the province of Oui open their doors to
their numerous inhabitants, and you see great bodies of Lamas, on foot,
on horseback, on asses, on oxen, and carrying their prayer-books and
cooking utensils, arriving tumultuously by all the roads leading to
Lha-Ssa.  The town is soon overwhelmed at all points, by these avalanches
of Lamas, pouring from all the surrounding mountains.  Those who cannot
get lodgings in private houses, or in public edifices, encamp in the
streets and squares, or pitch their little travelling tents in the
country.  The Lha-Ssa-Morou lasts six entire days.  During this time, the
tribunals are closed, the ordinary course of justice is suspended, the
ministers and public functionaries lose in some degree their authority,
and all the power of the government is abandoned to this formidable army
of Buddhist monks.  There prevails in the town an inexpressible disorder
and confusion.  The Lamas run through the streets in disorderly bands,
uttering frightful cries, chanting prayers, pushing one another about,
quarrelling, and sometimes having furious contests with their fists.

Although the Lamas generally show little reserve or modesty during these
festive days, it is not to be supposed that they go to Lha-Ssa merely to
indulge in amusements incompatible with their religious character; it is
devotion, on the contrary, which is their chief motive.  Their purpose is
to implore the blessing of the Talé-Lama, and to make a pilgrimage to the
celebrated Buddhist monastery called Morou, which occupies the centre of
the town.  Hence the name of Lha-Ssa-Morou given to these six festive
days.

The monastery of Morou is remarkable for the splendour and wealth
displayed in its temples.  The order and neatness which always prevail
here, make it, as it were, the model and example for the other
monasteries of the province.  West of the principal temple, there is a
vast garden surrounded by a peristyle.  In this is the printing
establishment.  Numerous workmen, belonging to the Lamasery, are daily
occupied in engraving blocks, and printing Buddhist books.  Their process
being the same as that of the Chinese, which is sufficiently understood,
we shall dispense with describing it.  The Lamas who pay their annual
visit to the festival of the Lha-Ssa-Morou, take the opportunity to
purchase the books they require.

In the district of Lha-Ssa alone, they reckon more than thirty large
Buddhist monasteries. {219}  Those of Khaldhan, of Preboung and Sera, are
the most celebrated and the most populous.  Each of them contains nearly
15,000 Lamas.

Khaldhan, which means in Thibetian “celestial beatitude,” is the name of
a mountain situated east of Lha-Ssa about four leagues.  It is on the
summit of this mountain that the Lamasery of Khaldhan stands.  According
to the Lamanesque books, it was founded in the year 1409 of our era, by
the famous Tsong-Kaba, reformer of Buddhism, and founder of the sect of
the yellow cap.  Tsong-Kaba fixed his residence there, and it was there
he quitted his human envelope, when his soul was absorbed in the
universal essence.  The Thibetians pretend that they still see his
marvellous body there, fresh, incorruptible, sometimes speaking, and, by
a permanent prodigy, always holding itself in the air without any
support.  We have nothing to say about this belief of the Buddhists,
because the too short stay we made at Lha-Ssa did not permit us to visit
the monastery of Khaldhan.

The Lamasery of Preboung (ten thousand fruits) is situate two leagues
west of Lha-Ssa; it is built on the site of a lofty mountain.  In the
centre of the monastery, rises a sort of kiosk, magnificently ornamented,
and all shining with gold and paintings.  It is reserved for the
Talé-Lama, who repairs thither once a year, to explain to the monks the
contents of the sacred volumes.  The Mongol Lamas, who come to Thibet to
perfect themselves in the science of prayer, and to obtain the degrees of
the Lamanesque hierarchy, generally fix themselves at Preboung, which, on
that account, is sometimes called in the country a Monastery of the
Mongols.

             [Picture: The Tortché, or Sanctified Instrument]

Sera is situated north of Lha-Ssa not more than half a league from the
town.  The Buddhist temples and the residences of the Lamas, stand on the
slope of a mountain planted with hollies and cypresses.  The road
followed by the pilgrims who come from Tartary, passes by these houses.
At a distance, these monuments, ranged in the form of an amphitheatre one
above the other, and standing out upon the green base of the mountain,
present an attractive and picturesque sight.  Here and there, in the
breaks of the mountain, and quite above the religious city, you see a
great number of cells inhabited by contemplative Lamas, and which you can
only reach with great difficulty.  The monastery of Sera is remarkable
for three large temples of several stories high, all the rooms of which
are entirely gilt.  Hence it is that the Lamasery has acquired the name
of Sera, from the Thibetian word _ser_, which signifies gold.  In the
chief of these three temples, they religiously preserve the famous
tortché, or sanctifying instrument, which, in the belief of the
Buddhists, came from India through the air, to place itself, if its own
accord, in the monastery of Sera.  This instrument is of bronze, in form
resembling a pestle; the middle, by which you hold it, is in one piece,
and cylindrical; the two extremities swell out in oval form, and are
covered with symbolical figures.  Every Lama must possess a small
_tortché_, made on the model of that which marvellously came from India.
When they repeat their prayers, and during the religious ceremonies, this
instrument is indispensable to them: they must sometimes hold it,
sometimes lay it on their knees; then take hold of it again, and turn it
in their hand, according to the rules of the ritual.  The _tortché_ of
Sera is the object of great veneration.  The pilgrims never fail to go
and prostrate themselves before the niche, wherever it lies.  At the new
year’s festival, it is carried in procession, with great pomp, to
Lha-Ssa, to be presented to the adoration of the people of the town.

While the innumerable Lamas of Lha-Ssa-Morou were celebrating with
transport their noisy festival, we, our hearts oppressed with sorrow,
were occupied in the preparation for departure.  We took down the little
chapel wherein we had tasted such sweet, but alas, too short,
consolation.  After having essayed to plough and sow a poor little corner
of this immense desert, we were obliged to abandon it, saying to
ourselves that shortly, no doubt, the briar and the thorn would spring
forth in abundance, and suffocate those precious germs of salvation,
which were already beginning to grow.  Oh, how bitter and depressing were
these thoughts!  We felt our hearts breaking, and we had only strength
enough to supplicate the Lord to send, to these poor children of
darkness, missionaries more worthy of bearing to them the light of the
faith.

The evening before our departure, one of the secretaries of the Regent
entered our lodging, and presented to us, in his name, two great ingots
of silver.  This attention on the part of the first kalon affected us
deeply, but we considered we ought not to accept this sum.  In the
evening, on going to his palace to bid him adieu, we took back to him the
two ingots.  We laid them before him on a small table, protesting to him
that this proceeding resulted from no ill-feeling on our part; that, on
the contrary, we should always remember, with gratitude, the good
treatment we had received from the Thibetian government, during the short
stay we had made at Lha-Ssa; that we had no hesitation in expressing our
belief that if it had depended on the Regent, we should throughout have
enjoyed in Thibet, the most tranquil and honourable repose; but that, as
to this money, we could not receive it without compromising our
conscience as missionaries and the honour of our nation.  The Regent did
not seem in any degree irritated by this proceeding.  He told us that he
understood our conduct, and could appreciate the objection we had
expressed; that he would not insist on our accepting this money, but that
still he should be very glad to make us some present upon separating.
Then pointing to a dictionary in four languages, which he had often
observed us turning over with interest, he asked us if this work would be
agreeable to us.  We thought we might receive this present without
compromising in any way the dignity of our character, and we, on our
parts, expressed to the Regent how happy we should be if he would deign
to accept, as a reminiscence of France, the microscope, which had so
excited his curiosity; our offer was kindly received.

At the moment of separation, the Regent rose and addressed to us these
words:—“You are going away, but who can know future events?  You are men
of astonishing courage.  Since you have been able to get thus far, I know
you have in your hearts a great and holy resolve.  I think you will never
forget it; for my part, I shall always bear it in mind.  You understand
me: circumstances will not permit me to say more.”  “We understand,” we
replied to the Regent, “the full bearing of your words, and we will
implore our God to realize one day the purpose they express.”  We then
parted, our hearts bursting with grief, from this man who had been so
kind to us, and by whose means we had formed the hope of making known,
with God’s help, the truths of Christianity to these poor people of
Thibet.

When we re-entered our house, we found the Cashmerian governor awaiting
us; he had brought us some provision for our journey; some excellent
dried fruits from Ladak, cakes made of flour, butter, and eggs.  He
insisted upon passing all the evening with us, to assist us in packing
our trunks.  As he intended shortly to visit Calcutta, we charged him to
give intelligence of us to the first Frenchman he should meet in the
English possessions in India.  We also gave him a letter, which we
entreated him to get forwarded to the representative of the French
government at Calcutta.  In this letter, we briefly explained the
circumstances of our stay in the capital of Thibet, and the reasons of
our departure.

It seemed to us advisable to take this measure, when we were about to
commence a journey of a thousand leagues, along frightful roads
continually bordered with precipices.  We thought that, if it should be
the will of God for us to be buried amid the mountains of Thibet, our
friends in France would at least know what had become of us.

The same evening, Samdadchiemba came to bid us adieu.  On the day that
the Chinese ambassador had resolved to make us leave Thibet, our dear
neophyte had been taken from us.  It is needless to say how hard and
painful this trial was; but to this measure, we could not, either the
Regent or ourselves, offer any objection.  Samdadchiemba was a native of
the province of Kan-Sou, directly subject to the Chinese authority.
Although our influence with Ki-Chan vas not very great, yet we got him to
promise that Samdadchiemba should suffer no injurious treatment, and
should be sent back safe to his family.  Ki-Chan promised this, and we
have since ascertained that he was true to his word.  The Regent was full
of kindness towards our neophyte.  As soon as he was separated from us,
he took care that he should want for nothing; he even gave him a sum of
money to provide for his journey.  With what circumstances allowed us to
add to this, Samdadchiemba was enabled to amass a small fortune, and to
place himself in a position to return in a fitting manner to his paternal
dwelling.  We recommended him to go to his aged mother, and fulfil the
duties which filial affection dictates, to instruct her in the mysteries
of the Christian faith, and to cause her to enjoy at her last moments the
benefit of baptismal regeneration; then, when he had closed her eyes, to
return and pass his days among the Christians.

To say the truth, Samdadchiemba was not an amiable young man; sour,
savage, and sometimes saucy, he was by no means an agreeable
fellow-traveller; yet he had in him a groundwork of honesty and devotion,
quite capable, in our opinion, of compensating for the perversities of
his nature.  We felt at parting from him a deep affliction, and all the
more so, that we had never suspected the existence, at the bottom of our
hearts, of so strong an attachment to this young man.  But we had made
together a long and painful journey; we had endured together so many
privations, and so much misery, that, unconsciously, our existence was,
so to speak, fused with his.  The law of affinity which unites men to
each other, acts with much more power amidst suffering, than in
prosperity.

On the day appointed for our departure, two Chinese soldiers came, early
in the morning, to inform us that the Ta-Lao-Ye, Ly-Kouo-Ngan; that is to
say, his Excellency Ly, pacificator of kingdoms, awaited us at breakfast.
This personage was the Mandarin whom the ambassador Ki-Chan had appointed
to accompany us to China.  We fulfilled his invitation; and, as the
departure was to take place from his house, we had our luggage
transported thither.

Ly, the pacificator of kingdoms, was a native of Tchang-Tou-Fou, capital
of the province of Sse-Tchouen; he belonged to the hierarchy of the
military mandarins.  For twelve years he had served in Gorkha, a province
of Boutan, where he obtained rapid promotion, and reaching the dignity of
Tou-Sse, with the general command of the troops guarding the frontiers
bordering on the English possessions, he was decorated with the blue
button, and enjoyed the privilege of wearing in his cap seven sable
tails.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan was only forty-five years old, but you would have
taken him for seventy; so broken and battered was he; he had hardly any
teeth left in his head; his scanty hair was grey; his dull and glassy
eyes endured a strong light with difficulty; his flabby wrinkled face,
his totally withered hands, and his enormous legs, upon which he could
scarcely support his frame, all bespoke a man exhausted by great
excesses.  We thought at first that this premature senility resulted from
an immoderate use of opium, but he informed us himself, in our very first
conversation, that it was brandy which had reduced him to this state.
Having obtained permission to quit the service, he was now about to seek,
in the bosom of his family, and by a careful and severe diet, the
restoration of his shattered health.  The ambassador Ki-Chan had in fact
hurried our departure in order that we might go in company with this
Mandarin, who in his quality of Tou-Sse, was entitled to an escort of
fifteen soldiers.

Ly-Kouo-Ngan was very well instructed for a military Mandarin; the
knowledge he had of the Chinese literature, and above all, his eminently
observant character, rendered his conversation effective and full of
interest.  He spoke slowly, almost in a drawling manner, but he had the
faculty of giving to his stories and general conversation a dramatic and
picturesque turn.  He was very fond of philosophical and religious
discussions; he had even, he said, magnificent projects of perfection for
the time, when quiet and unembarrassed in his family, he should have
nothing to do but to play at chess with his friends, or go and see the
play.  He believed neither in the Bonzes nor in the Lamas; as to the
doctrine of the Lord of Heaven, he scarcely knew what it was, and
required to be initiated in it before he embraced it.  Meanwhile, all his
religion consisted in a fervent veneration for the Great Bear.  He
affected aristocratic manners and exquisite polish; unfortunately, he
happened sometimes to forget himself, and to expose his altogether
plebeian origin.  It is superfluous to add that his excellency the
pacificator of kingdoms, was passionately fond of silver ingots;
otherwise it would have been difficult to recognise in him a Chinese,
much less a Mandarin.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan had a luxurious breakfast prepared
for us; and his table seemed to us all the finer as for two years we had
been used to live almost like savages.  The habit of eating with our
fingers had nearly made us forget the use of the Chinese chop-sticks.
When we had finished, Ly-Kouo-Ngan informed us that everything was ready
for departure, but, that before setting out, it was his duty to go to the
palace of the ambassador, with his company of soldiers, to take leave.
He asked us if we would not accompany him.  “By all means,” we replied,
“let us go together to the residence of the ambassador; you will fulfil
your duty, and we a politeness.”

We entered, our guide and ourselves, the apartment where Ki-Chan sat.
The fifteen soldiers drew up in file at the threshold of the door, after
prostrating themselves thrice and striking the earth with their
foreheads.  The pacificator of kingdoms did the same, but the poor wretch
could not himself get up again without our assistance.  According to our
custom, we saluted by placing our caps under our arms.  Ki-Chan opened
the discourse, and addressed a short speech to each of us.

Addressing us first, he assumed a wheedling tone: “You,” said he, “are
going to return to your country; I do not think you have any complaint to
make of me; my conduct towards you has been irreproachable.  I do not
allow you to stay here, but this is the will of the grand Emperor, not
mine.  I do not suffer you to go to India, because the laws of the empire
forbid it; if it were otherwise, I, old as I am, would accompany you
myself to the frontiers.  The road you are about to travel is not so
horrible as you are led to imagine; you will have, it is true, a little
snow, you will pass some high mountains, and some of the days will be
cold.  You see I do not conceal the truth from you.  Why should I try to
mislead you? but at all events, you will have attendants to wait upon
you, and every evening you will have a lodging for the night ready for
you; you will have no need to put up a tent.  Is not this travelling
better than that on your way hither?  You will be obliged to travel on
horseback; I cannot give you a palanquin; there are none to be got in
this country.  The report I am going to address to the grand Emperor will
be sent in a few days.  As my couriers go day and night they will pass
you.  When you have reached in safety the capital of Sse-Tchouen, the
viceroy, Pao, will take charge of you, and my responsibility will be at
an end.  You may depart in confidence and with joyful hearts.  I have
sent on orders that you shall be well treated throughout.  May the star
of happiness guide you in your journey from beginning to end.”  “Although
we consider ourselves oppressed,” replied we to Ki-Chan, “we do not the
less on that account offer up wishes for your prosperity.  Since it is to
dignities you aspire, may you recover all those you have lost, and attain
still higher.”  “Oh, my star is unlucky! my star is unlucky!” cried
Ki-Chan, taking a vigorous pinch of snuff from his silver box.

Then addressing himself to the pacificator of kingdoms, his voice assumed
a grave and solemn tone, “Ly-Kouo-Ngan,” said he, “since the grand
Emperor allows you to return to your family, you depart; you will have
these two fellow-travellers, and this circumstance ought to cause you
great joy, for the way, you know, is long and tedious.  The character of
these men is full of justice and gentleness; you will therefore live with
them in perfect harmony.  Take care never to sadden their hearts, by
word, or deed.  Another important thing I have still to say: As you have
served the empire for twelve years on the frontiers of Gorkha, I have
commanded the paymaster to send you 500 ounces of silver; it is a present
from the grand Emperor.”  At these words Ly-Kouo-Ngan, finding all at
once an unwonted suppleness in his legs, threw himself on his knees with
vehemence: “The heavenly beneficence of the great Emperor,” said he, “has
always surrounded me on every side, but unworthy servant that I am, how
could I receive a further signal favour without blushing?  I address my
heartfelt supplications to the ambassador, that I may hide my face from
him, and withdraw myself from this undeserved graciousness.”  Ki-Chan
replied, “Do you imagine the grand Emperor will thank you for your
disinterestedness?  What are a few ounces of silver?  Go, receive this
small sum, as it is offered to you; it will furnish you with tea to offer
to your friends; but when you get home, take care not to begin drinking
brandy again.  If you wish to live a few years longer, you must deny
yourself brandy.  I say to you this, because a Father and Mother ought to
give their children good advice.”  Ly-Kouo-Ngan struck the earth thrice
with his forehead, and then rose up and placed himself beside us.
Ki-Chan then harangued the soldiers, and changed his tone for the third
time.  His voice was sharp, abrupt, and sometimes bordering on anger.
“And you soldiers!” at these words the fifteen soldiers, as though moved
by one string, fell together on their knees, and retained that position
all the time of the harangue.  “Let me see, how many are there of you?
You are fifteen, I think,” and at the same time he counted them with his
finger; “yes, fifteen men; you, fifteen soldiers, are about to return to
your own province; your service is fulfilled; you will escort your
Tou-Sse to Sse-Tchouen, as also these two strangers.  On the way you will
serve them faithfully, and take care to be always respectful and
obedient.  Do you clearly understand what I say?”  “Yes, we do.”  “When
you pass through the villages of the _Poba_ (Thibetians) beware that you
do not oppress the people.  At the stations take care not to rob or
pillage the property of any person.  Do you clearly understand?”  “Yes,
we do.”  “Do not injure the flocks, respect the cultivated fields, do not
set fire to the woods.  Do you clearly understand me?”  “Yes, we do.”
“Among yourselves let there always be peace and harmony.  Are you not all
soldiers of the empire?  Do not then abuse or quarrel with one another.
Do you understand clearly?”  “Yes, we do.”  “Whoever conducts himself
badly, let him not hope to escape chastisement; his crime will be
investigated attentively, and severely punished.  Do you clearly
understand?”  “Yes, we do.”  “As you understand, obey and tremble.”
After this brief but energetic peroration, the fifteen soldiers struck
the ground with their foreheads thrice and rose.

                       [Picture: Adieu of Ki-Chan]

Just as we were leaving the residence of the ambassador, Ki-Chan drew us
apart, to say a few words in private.  “In a little while,” said he, “I
shall leave Thibet, and return to China. {227}  In order that I may not
be too much encumbered with luggage, on my departure, I am going to send
two large cases with you; they are covered with the hide of a long-haired
ox.”  He then told us the characters with which they were marked.  “These
two cases,” added he, “I recommend to your care.  Every evening, when you
reach the station, have them deposited in the place where you yourselves
pass the night.  At Tching-Tou-Fou, capital of Sse-Tchouen, you will
commit them to the care of Pao-Tchoung-Tang, viceroy of the province.
Keep a good eye on your own property, for in the route you will pursue,
there are many petty thieves.”  Having assured Ki-Chan that we would
observe his recommendation, we rejoined Ly-Kouo-Ngan, who was waiting for
us on the threshold of the great entrance gate.

It was rather curious that the Chinese ambassador should think fit to
confide his treasure to us, whilst he had at his disposal a Grand
Mandarin, who was naturally called upon by his position to render him
this service.  But the jealousy which Ki-Chan felt towards strangers did
not make him forget his own interests.  He considered, no doubt, that it
would be more safe to trust his cases to missionaries than to a Chinese,
even though the Chinese was a Mandarin.  This token of confidence gave us
great pleasure.  It was a homage rendered to the probity of Christians,
and, at the same time, a bitter satire upon the Chinese character.

We proceeded to the house of Ly-Kouo-Ngan, where eighteen horses, ready
saddled, were awaiting us in the court-yard.  The three best were
standing apart, reserved for the Tou-Sse and ourselves.  The fifteen
others were for the soldiers, and each was to take the one which fell to
him by lot.

Before we mounted, a strong-limbed Thibetian female, very fairly dressed,
presented herself: she was the wife of Ly-Kouo-Ngan.  He had been married
to her six years, and was about to leave her for ever; he only had one
child by her, which had died in its infancy.  As these two conjugal
halves were never again to see each other, it was but natural that at the
moment of so afflicting a separation, there should be a few words of
adieu.  The thing was publicly done, and in the following manner: “We are
going to part,” said the husband, “do you stay here and sit quietly in
your room.”  “Go in peace,” replied the wife, “go hence in peace, and
take care of the swellings in your legs.”  She then put her hand before
her eyes, to make believe she was crying.  “Look here,” said the
pacificator of kingdoms, turning to us, “they are odd people these
Thibetian women.  I leave her a well-built house, and plenty of furniture
almost new, and yet she is going to cry—is she not content?”

After this adieu, so full of unction and tenderness, every one mounted,
and the party set out down the streets of Lha-Ssa, taking care to select
those less encumbered with Lamas.

When we were out of the town, we perceived a large group awaiting us.
They were those inhabitants of Lha-Ssa, with whom we had had more
intimate acquaintance, during our stay in that town.  Many of them had
begun to learn the truths of Christianity, and seemed to us sincerely
disposed to embrace our holy religion; they had assembled on our road to
salute us and offer us a farewell khata.  We observed, amongst them, the
young physician, still wearing on his breast the cross we had given him.
We dismounted, [Picture: Parting of Ly-Kouo-Ngan with his wife] and
addressed to these Christian hearts a few words of consolation; we
exhorted them courageously to renounce the superstitious worship of
Buddha, to adore the God of the Christians, and ever to have full trust
in his infinite mercy.  Oh, how cruel was that moment, when we were
obliged to part from these well-beloved Catechumens, to whom we had as
yet only pointed out the path of eternal salvation without being able to
guide their first steps!  Alas! we could do nothing further for them,
except to implore Divine Providence to have compassion on these souls
redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ.

As we were remounting, we saw a horseman advancing towards us at full
gallop.  It was the governor of the Cashmerians, who had resolved to
accompany us as far as the river Bo-Tchou.  We were extremely touched by
so friendly an attention, which, however, did not surprise us at all on
the part of a sincere and devoted friend, who had given us repeated
proofs of his attachment during our stay at Lha-Ssa.

The arrival of the governor of the Cashmerians occasioned us to ride on
slowly, for we had much to say.  At length, after an hour’s march, we
reached the borders of the Bo-Tchou.  We found there a Thibetian escort,
which the Regent had ordered to conduct us to the frontiers of China; it
was composed of seven men and a Grand Lama, bearing the title of _Dheba_
(governor of a district).  With the Chinese escort, we formed a caravan
of twenty-six horsemen, without counting the drivers of a large herd of
oxen that carried our baggage.

Two large ferry-boats were ready to receive the horsemen and the horses;
the latter jumped in at a single bound, and drew up in a line, one beside
the other.  It was easy to see this was not the first time they had
performed this manœuvre.  The men then entered, with the exception of the
Dheba, Ly-Kouo-Ngan, and ourselves.  We saw that they were going to
convey us across the river in a rather more aristocratic manner; we
looked in every direction, but saw no means of transit.  “How, then, are
we to go over?”  “Look below there,” they replied, “see the boat coming.”
We turned our eyes in the direction indicated, and we perceived, in fact,
a boat and a man coming across the fields, but, contrary to the usual
practice, it was the boat that was carried by the man, and not the man by
the boat.  This boatman, running with his back laden with a large boat,
was a thing monstrous to behold.  As soon as he reached the river side,
he quietly set down his load, and pushed the boat into the water without
the least effort.  It was clearly one thing or the other: either the man
was of prodigious strength, or the boat of extreme lightness.  We looked
at the man, and saw nothing extraordinary in him; we approached the boat,
examined it, touched it, and the problem was solved.  This large boat was
made of ox hide solidly sewn together; inside, a few light bamboo sticks
served to keep it in shape.

After having heartily shaken hands with the Cashmerian governor, we
entered the boat, but we nearly burst it the first step we made.  They
had forgotten to tell us that we must only tread on the bamboo rods.
When we were all embarked, the boatman pushed off with a long pole, and
in the twinkling of an eye we were on the other side of the river; we
sprang ashore, and the owner taking the boat on his back, went off across
the fields.

These hide boats have the disadvantage of not remaining long in the water
without rotting.  Each time they are done with, the boatmen take care to
turn them upside down on the beach, to let them dry.  Perhaps by
varnishing them well, they might be preserved from the action of the
water, and rendered capable of enduring a longer navigation.

When we were mounted, we cast a last look on the town of Lha-Ssa, still
visible in the distance, and said in our hearts: “Oh, my God, thy will be
done!” and followed in silence the progress of the caravan.  It was the
15th of March, 1846.

                  [Picture: Scene on the river Bo-Tchou]

                       [Picture: Bridge of Ghiamda]




CHAPTER VIII.


Chinese account of Thibet—Mountain of Loumma-Ri—Arrival at Ghiamda—Visit
of two military Mandarins—Accident on a wooden bridge—The unicorn—Passage
of a glacier—Appearance of Lha-Ri—Ascent of Chor-Kon-La—Frightful road to
Alan-To—Village of Lang-Ki-Tsoung—Famous mountain of Tanda—Catastrophe of
Kia-Yu-Kiao—Passage of the celebrated plateau of Wa-Ho—Arrival at
Tsiamdo.

Leaving Lha-Ssa we travelled for several days, amid a large valley
entirely cultivated, and where we remarked on every side numerous
Thibetian farms, generally surrounded by trees.  The labours of
agriculture had not yet commenced, for in Thibet the winters are always
long and severe.  Herds of goats and bellowing oxen were wandering
dejectedly about the dusty fields, biting every now and then at the hard
roots of the tsing-kou, with which the ground was covered; this species
of barley is the chief culture of these poor regions.

The entire valley is composed of a number of small fields, separated from
one another by thick low fences, made of large stones.  The clearing of
this stony ground doubtless costs the original cultivators much fatigue.
These enormous stones had to be dug out of the ground one after the
other, and rolled with labour to the borders of the fields.

At the time of our passing, the country presented a dull and melancholy
aspect.  The landscape, however, was animated at intervals by caravans of
Lamas, who, singing and dancing, were going to the solemn festival of the
Lha-Ssa-Morou.  Shouts of joy and laughter issued now and then from the
farmhouses on the roadside, and informed us that the rejoicings for the
new year were not yet at an end.

Our first stage was a short one.  We stopped some time before sunset, at
Detsin-Dzoug, a large village, six leagues (60 lis) distant from Lha-Ssa.

A large house had been previously got ready for the accommodation of the
caravan.  As soon as we had alighted, we were introduced, by the governor
of the village to a room, in the midst of which flamed a magnificent fire
of argols, in a large earthen basin.  We were invited to seat ourselves
on thick cushions of green Pou-Lou, and we were served immediately with
buttered tea.  We were, in fact, surrounded by such care and attention,
that our hearts began to open.  This kind of travelling seemed marvellous
to us.  What a contrast to the hard and laborious life we had spent in
the desert, where a halt was only an aggravation of misery to us.  To
travel without being obliged to pitch a tent and to see to the animals;
without being put to any straits for fuel and food, seemed the
realization of a brilliant utopia.  As soon as we dismounted, to find a
warm room, and a large pitcher of buttered tea, was for us absolute
sybaritism.

Soon after our arrival we received the official visit of the Grand Lama,
whom the Regent had appointed to accompany us to the frontiers of China,
and with whom we had as yet merely exchanged a few compliments as we
crossed the river.  This individual called Dsiamdchang, that is to say,
the musician, was a thick-set man, about 60 years of age, who had
fulfilled administrative functions in several parts of Thibet.  Before
being recalled to Lha-Ssa, he occupied the post of Dheba-general, in a
district some little distance from Ladak; his large and somewhat wrinkled
countenance was full of good nature.  His character partook of the
frankness and open disposition of a child.  He told us that the Regent
had commanded him to come here expressly on our account, that he might
see we wanted nothing, during the time we were in the regions subject to
the Talé-Lama.  He then presented to us two young Thibetians, on whom he
pronounced a long and pompous eulogium.  “These two men,” said he, “have
been specially appointed to serve you on the way.  Whatever you command
them to do, that they must do punctually.  As to your refreshments,”
added he, “as you are not accustomed to the Thibetian cookery, it has
been arranged that you shall take them with the Chinese Mandarin.”

                  [Picture: Chinese musical instruments]

After a brief conversation with the Lama Dsiamdchang, we had, in fact,
the honour to sup in the company of Ly, the pacificator of kingdoms, who
lodged in a chamber contiguous to our own.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan was very
complaisant, and gave us a great deal of information about the route we
were to pursue, and which he himself was now travelling for the eighth
time.  That we might be enabled to have every day correct notions of the
countries through which we were passing, he lent us a Chinese work,
containing an itinerary from Tching-Tou, the capital of Sse-Tchouen to
Lha-Ssa.  This book is entitled, “Oui-Tsang-Thou-Tchi,” that is to say,
“A description of Thibet, with engravings.”  This compilation, from
various Chinese notices of Thibet, was drawn up by a Mandarin named
Lou-Houa-Tchou, who, in the 51st year of Kien-Long (1786), was charged
with the commissariat of the Chinese army.  Father Hyacinthe, the Russian
archimandrite at Peking, published a translation of this sort of
geography of Thibet.  M. Klaproth, after having revised, corrected, and
enriched with notes, the work of the Russian translator, inserted it in
the _Journal Asiatique_. {235}  The portion of this Chinese work which
concerns the route from Lha-Ssa to the province of Sse-Tchouen, and which
we had daily before us during our journey, is extraordinarily exact; but
this dry and laconic itinerary can be of no interest except to persons
occupying themselves specially with geography, or who travel through the
places it mentions.  It is merely an arid nomenclature, stage by stage,
of the places you find on the way.  To give an idea of it, we will
transcribe the article relative to our first day’s journey.

              “From Detsin-Dzoug to the halt of Tsai-Li.

                 “From Tsai-Li to the inn at Lha-Ssa.
“At Detsin-Dzoug there are several inns, in which              40 lis.
travellers generally stop for some time; near the road
is a post-house.  Thence a journey of 40 lis takes you
to the convent of Tsai-Li
“At Tsai-Li, there is a Dheba who supplies travellers          20 lis.
with wood and hay; this district is separated only by
a river from the territory of Lha-Ssa; you reach this
last place, after a journey of 20 lis; there is a
military commandant there
                                                  Total       60 lis.”

We set out from Detsin-Dzoug before daybreak, for we had a long way to
go.  We followed the same valley we had entered, on quitting the town of
Lha-Ssa.  But as we advanced, the mountains, with which this large plain
is surrounded, rose insensibly in the horizon, and seemed to draw near
us; the valley grew narrower and narrower; the ground became more and
more stony; the farms less frequent; and the population lost by degrees
that appearance of refinement and civilization which is always observable
in the environs of large towns.  After a rapid and uninterrupted march of
80 lis we stopped to take a little repose and refreshment in a large and
ruinous Buddhist convent, which served as a residence for some old ragged
Lamas.  The poverty in which they lived rendered them unable to offer to
the staff of the caravan anything but tea with milk, a pot of beer, and a
small roll of butter.  However, by adding to these provisions, some
biscuit and a leg of mutton which the cook of Ly-Kouo-Ngan had been civil
enough to prepare for us on the previous evening, we realized a
sufficiently substantial repast.

As soon as we had satisfied our appetite and refreshed our limbs, we
thanked these poor religious Buddhists with a khata, or scarf of
blessings, and then remounted our horses.  It was already late, and we
had yet 40 lis to go before we reached our night stage.  It was
pitch-dark when we arrived at Midchoukoung.  Our first care was to summon
our Thibetian grooms, and bid them get ready our beds as soon as
possible.  We considered that after a long journey on a bad horse, we
might dispense with ceremony.  After partaking of a light repast, and
saying our prayers, we wished a good night to the Pacificator of
Kingdoms, and to the Lama musician, and proceeded to bury ourselves under
the coverlid.

Next day, when we put our heads out of bed, the sun was already shining
in all its splendour, yet all was quiet in the courtyard of the inn; we
could hear neither the bellowing of the yaks, nor the neighing of the
horses, nor anything indicating preparations for the departure of a
caravan.  We rose, and after rubbing our eyes, opened the door of our
room to see how matters stood.  We found Ly-Kouo-Ngan and the Lama
Dsiamdchang, seated in a corner of the court-yard, quietly basking in the
rays of the sun.  As soon as they saw us they approached, and told us in
an infinitely roundabout manner, that we should be obliged to halt for
one day, as there were difficulties in procuring horses and a change of
oxen.  “This is very bad news,” said they; “this mischance is very
unfortunate, but we cannot help it; the circumstance of the new-year’s
festival is the sole cause of this delay.”  “On the contrary,” said we,
“this is excellent news; we are in no sort of hurry.  Let us go quietly,
and rest frequently on the way, and all will go well.”  These words
relieved our two guides from a great embarrassment.  These good people
imagined that we should quarrel with them, because it was necessary to
make a day’s halt; they were prodigiously mistaken.  If, in our previous
travels, delays had been sources of grievous vexation to us, the reason
was that we had an object in view, and that we were eager to attain it.
But now this was not the case, and we wished, as much as possible, to
travel like gentlemen.  We felt, besides, that it was not logical to go
at a running pace from a place from which we had been expelled.

Midchoukoung is a stage where you change your oulah, that is, the horses,
beasts of burden, and guides.  These services are kept up by the
Thibetian government, all the way from Lha-Ssa to the frontiers of China.
The Chinese or Thibetian public officers, who make official inspections
of the roads, are alone allowed to avail themselves of these sources.
The government of Lha-Ssa gives them a passport, upon which is stated the
number of men and animals that the villages, subject to the contribution
of the oulah, must furnish.

The Chinese account of Thibet gives the following account of this
compulsory service: “As respects the local service called oulah, all
those who have any fortune, whether men or women, are compelled to supply
it; even those who come from the most distant countries, if they occupy a
house to themselves, are not exempt from it.  The number of men each
person must furnish for this service is regulated by the fortune of each
individual.  The elders and the Dhebas determine, according to the size
of each house, the number of men, etc., it must furnish to the oulah;
each village provides three, four, and sometimes as many as ten men.  The
smaller families employ poor people as substitutes, paying them wages.
People beyond sixty years of age are exempt from the burden.  If the
public service requires it, they exact oxen and horses, asses and mules
from the dwellings of the rich; the poor people club together, and three
or four houses give one beast.”

The Chinese Mandarins, who always try to make money out of everything,
find means to speculate in the oulah with which the Thibetian government
furnishes them.  Before leaving Lha-Ssa, they manœuvre, by all imaginable
means, to have set forth on their road-bill a great number of animals;
they then take as many as are actually necessary, and receive, instead of
the rest, a compensation in money, which the wealthy Thibetians much
prefer to give them than to expose their animals to the perils of the
road.  Others claim the whole oulah, and employ it to transport into
China Thibetian merchandise.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan, whom we had heard declare so
energetically his disinterestedness, when the ambassador Ki-Chan offered
him a present on the part of the Emperor, showed feelings much less
generous in relation to the oulah.

During the day we passed at Midchoukoung, his road-bill accidentally fell
into our hands, and we were much surprised to read there that we had been
allotted two horses and twelve long-haired oxen.  Yet our entire baggage
was two portmanteaus and a few bed things.  “What do all these oxen
mean?” inquired we of the Pacificator of Kingdoms; “do we need twelve
beasts to carry two portmanteaus?”  “Oh, it’s a mistake of the
secretary,” replied he; and out of politeness, we affected to be
perfectly satisfied with the answer.

It often happens, however, that the Chinese make gross mistakes as to
their speculations in the oulah; they find, on the way, for example, some
Thibetian tribes who are not at all disciplined to this kind of
contribution.  It is in vain they point out to these rude and fierce
mountaineers the road-bill sealed with the seal of the Talé-Lama and that
of the Chinese ambassador; they remain inexorable.  To everything that is
said to them, as an inducement to submit to the law, they have but this
answer: “For a guide you will give so much; for a horse, so much; for a
yak, so much;” until, at last, Chinese diplomacy is pushed into a corner,
and the oulah is paid.  The inhabitants of the district of Midchoukoung
treated us with great politeness and courtesy: the chiefs of the village
had a spectacle got up for us, by a troop of buffoons, who were assembled
for the new year’s festival.  The large courtyard of the inn, where we
lodged, served for a theatre: first, the artists, masked, and
fantastically dressed, performed for some time, wild, deafening music, in
order to summon to the play the inhabitants of the neighbourhood.  When
all were come, and arranged in a circle round the stage, the Dheba of
Midchoukoung approached in a solemn manner to offer to our two guides,
and to ourselves, a scarf of blessings, and invited us to take our places
on four thick cushions which had been placed at the foot of a large tree,
that rose from an angle of the court.  As soon as we were seated, all the
troop of players put themselves in motion, and executed to the sound of
music a sort of satanic round, the rapidity of which nearly made our
heads swim; then came leaping, jumping, pirouetting, feats of strength,
combats with wooden sabres; the whole accompanied alternately by songs,
dialogues, music, and imitations of the cries of wild beasts.  Among this
troop of comedians, there was one more grotesquely masked than the
others, who acted as a sort of clown to the ring, monopolising the jests
and repartees.  We had not knowledge enough of the Thibetian language to
appreciate his sallies; but judging from the stamping of feet, and the
shouts of laughter of the audience, he seemed to acquit himself
wonderfully as a wit.  Altogether, the exhibition was amusing enough; the
Thibetians were perfectly enthusiastic.  When they had danced, leaped,
and sang for upwards of two hours, the performers ranged themselves in a
semicircle around us, took off their masks, and put their tongues in
their cheeks at us, with profound bows.  Each of us presented to the
chief of the troop a scarf of blessings, and the curtain fell.

In the afternoon, we invited Ly-Kouo-Ngan to a short walk.
Notwithstanding the indifferent elasticity possessed by his legs, he
acceded to our proposal with good grace, and we proceeded together to
explore the country.  The village of Midchoukoung is populous; but
everything announces that its inhabitants are living in anything but a
state of comfort.  The houses are generally built of stones strongly
cemented with glazed earth; a great many are crumbling away, the ruins
serving as a retreat for troops of large rats.  Some small Buddhist
altars, carefully lime-washed, are the only constructions that exhibit
any cleanliness, and their whiteness presents a remarkable contrast with
the grey, smoky hue of the village.  Midchoukoung has a Chinese guard,
composed of four soldiers and an under corporal.  These men keep a few
horses, and their barracks serve as a stage for the couriers who carry
the dispatches of the Chinese government.

On re-entering the inn, we found in the courtyard, which in the morning
had been used as a theatre, a noisy assembly of men and beasts.  They
were occupied in collecting our oulah, which was settled at twenty-eight
horses, seventy oxen, and twelve guides.  At the commencement of the
night, the Dheba came to inform us that all was done in accordance with
the sacred ordinance of the Talé-Lama, and that on the morrow, we could
depart at an early or late hour as we pleased.  At the dawn of day, we
mounted our horses, and bade adieu to Midchoukoung.  After some hours
journey, we left, as through the extremity of a large funnel, the great
valley in which we had been travelling since we left Lha-Ssa, and emerged
into a wild uncultivated region.  For five days, we journeyed on in a
labyrinth, now to the right, now to the left, and sometimes retracing our
steps, in order to avoid abysses and inaccessible mountains.  We were
perpetually in the depths of ravines, or on the precipitous and rocky
banks of torrents; our horses rather leaped than walked.  The most
vigorous animals, not accustomed to these dreadful places, could not
resist for any length of time the fatigues of such a route.  For half a
day only could we travel with any pleasure and security.  We came again
to the river we had crossed on quitting Lha-Ssa; it was tranquilly
flowing over a slightly inclined bed, and its broad banks offered an easy
and even path to travellers.  Amid these wild regions, you find no place
wherein to pass the night, except cold, damp hovels, exposed to all the
winds of heaven.  However, you arrive there so overcome by fatigue, that
you always sleep profoundly.

Before reaching the town of Ghiamda, we crossed the mountain Loumma-Ri.
“This mountain,” says the Chinese itinerary, “is high and somewhat
declivitous; it extends over a space of about forty lis.  The snow, ice,
and menacing peaks which travellers meet with on the way, before reaching
this mountain, and which intimidate the heart and dim the eye, may cause
this to be regarded, in comparison, as a plain easily traversed.”  The
summit of Mount Loumma-Ri, although very lofty, is, in fact, very easy of
access.  We reached it by an easy slope, without being obliged to
dismount once, a very remarkable circumstance in the mountains of Thibet.
We found, however, on the other side of the mountain a somewhat serious
difficulty, on account of the snow, which fell that day in abundance.
The animals frequently slipped, sometimes their hind feet came suddenly
in contact with their fore feet, but they never fell.  The only result to
the horsemen was a sort of jerking swing, to which we grew gradually
accustomed.

The Pacificator of Kingdoms took it into his head to dismount, and walk,
to warm himself a little; but after a few stumbling steps, he staggered
for an instant on his poor legs, fell, and made in the snow a broad, deep
furrow.  He rose in a fury, ran to the nearest soldier, and loaded him
with curses and cuts of his whip, because he had not dismounted to
support him.  All the Chinese soldiers immediately jumped from their
steeds, and fell at the feet of their colonel, making excuses.  All, in
fact, had been deficient in their duty; for, according to the Chinese
code of politeness, when a chief sets his foot on the ground, all the
subalterns must on the instant dismount.

When we were at the base of the mountain of Loumma-Ri, we continued our
march along a little river, which meandered through a forest of firs so
thick that the light of day scarce penetrated it; the snow lay deeply on
the broad branches of the trees, whence the wind shook them in thick
flakes on the caravan.  These small avalanches, falling unexpectedly upon
the horsemen, made them start, and utter cries of surprise; but the
animals, which, doubtless, had crossed the forest before in similar
weather, were in no degree affected.  They continued at their ordinary
pace, without taking fright, contenting themselves with quietly shaking
off the snow from their ears whenever it incommoded them.

We had scarcely emerged from the forest when we were all obliged to
dismount, for the purpose of scaling, during a full hour, some horrible
rocks.  When we had reached the summit, we laid the bridles on the necks
of the horses, and left the animals to the sagacity of their instinct as
a guide over this rapid and precipitous descent.  The men descended, now
backwards, as down a ladder, now seated, and letting themselves slide
down the snow; every one extricated himself victoriously from this
dangerous position, and arrived at the bottom, without breaking or
bruising arms or legs.

We still went on five lis more, in a narrow valley, and then perceived,
at the foot of a high mountain, a large collection of houses, amongst
which rose two Buddhic temples of colossal proportions.  This was the
station of Ghiamda.  A little before reaching the town, we found on the
road, a company of eighteen soldiers, drawn up in file, and having at
their head two petty Mandarins, decorated with the white button.
Mandarins and soldiers had their sabres drawn and their bows in their
shoulder-belts.  It was the garrison of Ghiamda, which, under arms and in
full uniform, awaited Ly, the pacificator of kingdoms, to pay him
military honours.  When the caravan had come within proper proximity, the
eighteen soldiers and the two Mandarins fell on their knees, turning the
points of their sabres to the ground, and crying out with one voice, “To
the Tou-Sse, Ly-Kouo-Ngan, the humble garrison of Ghiamda wishes health
and prosperity.”  At these words, Ly-Kouo-Ngan, and the soldiers of his
suite, stopped their horses, dismounted, and ran to the garrison, to
invite them to rise.  On both sides there was an infinity of bowing,
during which we quietly continued our journey.  On entering the town, we
had, in our turn, our little official reception.  Two Thibetians, in
holiday attire, seized, to do us honour, the bridles of our horses, and
conducted us to the house which had been prepared for our reception.
There the Dheba, or chief magistrate of the district, awaited us; he
offered us a scarf of blessings, and led us into an apartment where was a
table already laid out with tea, butter, cakes, and dried fruits.  In all
these marks of friendship and attention, we could not help discerning the
effect of orders forwarded by the Regent.  Whilst we were doing honour to
this modest collation we were informed that we should be obliged to stop
two days at Ghiamda, because the Dheba of the district, having received
only that morning the announcement of our approaching arrival, had not
had time to send for the animals, which were grazing, at a great distance
from the town.  This news was very welcome to us; but it plunged
Ly-Kouo-Ngan and the Lama Dsiamdchang into despair.  We essayed to
console them, by telling them that when one cannot direct events, one
bears them with resignation.  Our two conductors acknowledged our
doctrine to be very fine in theory, but the practice was not to their
taste.  However, they were obliged to admit afterwards, that this delay
was very opportune, as, during the two days that we remained at Ghiamda,
the sky was so overcast, the north wind blew with so much violence, and
the snow fell so abundantly, that, in the opinion of the Ghiamdians, we
could not have proceeded with safety in such boisterous weather.  In
fact, judging from what passed in the valley, it was easy to imagine that
a frightful storm must have laid waste the mountains.

The day after our arrival at Ghiamda we received a visit from the two
Chinese officers stationed in the town.  The one bore the title of
Pa-Tsoung, and the other that of Wei-Wei.  The Pa-Tsoung was a fine man,
strongly made, with a sounding voice and quick movement.  A large scar
across his face, and great black mustachios, contributed not a little to
give him a highly military look.  For four years he had served in the
Kachkhar as a private soldier, and had returned thence with the title of
Pa-Tsoung and the decoration of the peacock’s feather.  The Wei-Wei, a
young man two-and-twenty, was also a well-built person, but his languid
and effeminate mien presented a singular contrast with the manly bearing
of his colleague.  His face was pale, flabby, and extremely delicate, his
eyes were constantly humid and languishing.  We asked him if he was ill.
“No,” replied he, with a scarcely audible voice; “my health is
excellent;” and, as he spoke, his cheeks were slightly tinged with an
angry redness.  We saw that we had been guilty of an indiscretion, and we
turned to another subject of conversation.  This poor young man was an
insane smoker of opium.  When they were gone, Ly-Kouo-Ngan said, “The
Pa-Tsoung is a man born under a very favourable star; he will ascend
rapidly the grades of the military mandarinship; but the Wei-Wei was born
under a cloud.  Since he has become addicted to the European smoke,
heaven has forsaken him.  Before a year has elapsed he will have said
good-by to the world.”

The torrents of rain which fell almost without interruption during our
stay at Ghiamda, prevented us from visiting in detail this populous and
commercial town.  You find a great number of Pebouns or Indians of
Boutan, who monopolise here, as at Lha-Ssa, all that appertains to the
arts and industry.  The agricultural products of the country are next to
nothing.  They cultivate in the valley some black barley, but scarcely
sufficient for the consumption of the inhabitants.  The wealth of the
district is derived from its wool and goat’s-hair, out of which they
manufacture large quantities of stuffs.  It appears that amid these
frightful hills, there are excellent pastures, where the Thibetians feed
numerous flocks.  The lapis lazuli, stag’s horn, and rhubarb, are also
materials of a great commercial intercourse with Lha-Ssa and the
provinces of Sse-Tchouen and Yun-Nan.  They affirm here, that it is in
the mountains about Ghiamda that the best rhubarb grows.  This district
abounds in game of every description.  The forest, which we crossed after
leaving Mount Loumma-Ri, was full of partridges, pheasants, and several
varieties of wild fowl.  The Thibetians have no idea how to make the best
of these meats, so admired by the gourmands of Europe.  They eat them
boiled, and without any kind of seasoning.  The Chinese, in this respect,
as in every other, are much more advanced than their neighbours.  The
cook of Ly-Kouo-Ngan dressed our venison in a manner that left us nothing
to desire.

The appointed day of departure having arrived, the oulah was ready early
in the morning.  The wind had fallen, and the rain had ceased, yet the
weather was by no means fine; a cold and thick fog enveloped the valley,
and intercepted the view of the surrounding mountains.  We resolved,
however, to proceed, for the people of the place agreed in saying that,
for the time of year, the weather was all that could be expected.  “So
long as you are in the valley,” they said, “you will not see very
distinctly, but once on the heights, the obscurity will disappear; as a
general rule, whenever there is a fog in the valley, snow is falling on
the mountains.”  These words were far from encouraging.  We were fain,
however, to be resigned to our position, fortifying ourselves against the
snow, for every one assured us that from Ghiamda to the frontiers of
China, every day, without a single exception, we should have it on our
road.  Just as we were mounting, the Dheba of Ghiamda made us a present
of two pairs of spectacles to protect our eyes from the dazzling
whiteness of the snow.  We could not, at first, help laughing at the
sight of these optical instruments, so entirely novel to us was their
form.

The place occupied by glass in ordinary spectacles, was here occupied by
a sort of gauze horsehair work, carved out like a half walnut-shell.  To
fasten these two lids against the eyes, there was on each side a string
which passed behind the ears, and was then tied under the chin.  We
thanked the excellent Dheba most heartily; for, under the circumstances,
the present was inestimable.  On crossing the mountain of Loumma-Ri, we
had already suffered much from the reflection of the snow.

On quitting the town, we found, as on entering it, the soldiers of the
garrison awaiting Ly-Kouo-Ngan, in order to give him the military salute.
These men, ranged in file, in the fog, and holding in their hands a sabre
that gleamed in the obscurity, had so odd an appearance, that almost all
the horses in the caravan shied at them.  These military salutes were
renewed, on the way, wherever there was a Chinese garrison, to
Ly-Kouo-Ngan’s extreme exasperation.  As he was unable, on account of his
diseased legs, to dismount and remount with facility, these ceremonies
were a regular torment to him.  It was in vain that at each point he sent
forward one of his soldiers to direct the garrison not to come out to
receive him.  This made them only more eager and more earnest for
display, thinking that it was mere modesty prompted him to withdraw
himself from the honours due to his rank.

Four lis from Ghiamda, we crossed a large and rapid torrent, over a
bridge composed of six enormous trunks of fir trees, not planed, and so
badly joined, that you felt them shake under your feet.  No one ventured
to cross on horseback, and the precaution was most valuable to one of our
soldiers; his horse, slipping over the wet and trembling bridge, one of
its legs passed between two trees, and stuck there as in a vice.  If the
man had been on it, he would have inevitably been precipitated into the
torrent, and dashed to pieces on the rocks.  After long and painful
efforts, we managed to extricate the unfortunate animal from its
frightful position; to the astonishment of every one, it had not broken
its leg, nor even received the least wound.

Beyond this wretched bridge, we resumed our wild pilgrimage across rugged
and snow-clad mountains.  For four days, we did not find in these wild
regions a single Thibetian village.  Every evening we lay in the Chinese
guard-houses, around which were grouped a few shepherds’ huts, made with
the bark of trees.  During these four days, however, we changed the oulah
three several times without experiencing the least delay.  The orders had
been so well given beforehand, that on our arrival at each stage, we
found everything ready arranged for our departure on the morrow.

If we had not known that in these countries, desert in appearance, there
were shepherds living in the gorges of the mountains, it would have been
impossible for us to understand this prompt organization of the oulah.
Generally speaking, it was only in large towns that the service of the
caravan experienced delays and difficulties.

On the fourth day of our departure from Ghiamda, after having crossed a
great lake on the ice, we stopped at the station Atdza, a small village,
the inhabitants of which cultivate a few acres of land, in a little
valley encircled by mountains, the tops of which are covered with hollies
and pines.  The Chinese Itinerary says, on the subject of the lake you
see before your arrival at Atdza, “The unicorn, a very curious animal, is
found in the vicinity of this lake, which is 40 lis long.”

                          [Picture: The Unicorn]

The unicorn, which has long been regarded as a fabulous creature, really
exists in Thibet.  You find it frequently represented in the sculptures
and paintings of the Buddhic temples.  Even in China, you often see it in
the landscapes that ornament the inns of the northern provinces. {245}
The inhabitants of Atdza spoke of it, without attaching to it any greater
importance than to the other species of antelopes which abound in their
mountains.  We have not been fortunate enough to see the unicorn during
our travels in Upper Asia.  But all we were there told about it serves to
confirm the curious details which Klaproth has published on this subject
in the new _Journal Asiatique_.  We think it not irrelevant to give here
an interesting note which that learned orientalist has added to his
translation of the “Itinerary of Lou-Hoa-Tchou.”

“The unicorn of Thibet is called, in the language of this country, serou;
in Mongol, kere; and in Chinese, tou-kio-cheou: which means the
one-horned animal, or kio-touan, the straight horn.  The Mongols
sometimes confound the unicorn with the rhinoceros, called in Mantchou,
bodi-gourgou; and in Sanscrit, khadga; calling the latter also, kere.”

The unicorn is mentioned, for the first time, by the Chinese, in one of
their works, which treats of the history of the first two ages of our
era.  It is there said that the wild horse, the argali, and the
kio-touan, are animals foreign to China; that they belong to Tartary, and
that they use the horns of the latter to make the bows called unicorn
bows.

The Chinese, Mahometans, and Mongol historians agree in the following
tradition, relative to a fact which took place in 1224, when
Tchinggiskhan was preparing to attack Hindostan.  “This conqueror having
subdued Thibet,” says the Mongol history, “set out to penetrate into
Enedkek (India.)  As he was ascending Mount Djadanaring, he perceived a
wild beast approaching him, of the species called serou, which has but
one horn on the top of the head.  This beast knelt thrice before the
monarch, as if to show him respect.  Every one being astonished at this
event, the monarch exclaimed: ‘The Empire of Hindostan is, they say, the
birth-place of the majestic Buddhas and the Buddhistavas, and also of the
powerful Bogdas or princes of antiquity.  What then can be the meaning of
this dumb animal saluting me like a human being?’  Having thus spoke, he
returned to his country.”  Although this circumstance is fabulous, it
demonstrates, nevertheless, the existence of a one-horned animal on the
upper mountains of Thibet.  There are further, in this country, places
deriving their name from the great number of these animals, which, in
fact, live there in herds; for example, the district of Serou-Dziong,
which means, the village of the land of unicorns, and which is situate in
the eastern part of the province of Kham, towards the frontier of China.

A Thibetian manuscript, which the late Major Lattre had an opportunity of
examining, calls the unicorn the one-horned tsopo.  A horn of this animal
was sent to Calcutta: it was fifty centimetres {246} in length, and
twelve centimetres in circumference from the root; it grew smaller and
smaller, and terminated in a point.  It was almost straight, black, and
somewhat flat at the sides.  It had fifteen rings, but they were only
prominent on one side.

Mr. Hodgson, an English resident in Nepaul, has at length achieved the
possession of a unicorn, and has put beyond doubt the question relative
to the existence of this species of antelope, called tchirou, in Southern
Thibet, which borders on Nepaul.  It is the same word with serou, only
pronounced differently, according to the varying dialects of the north
and of the south.

The skin and the horn, sent to Calcutta by Mr. Hodgson, belonged to a
unicorn that died in a menagerie of the Rajah of Nepaul.  It had been
presented to this prince by the Lama of Digourtchi (Jikazze), who was
very fond of it.

The persons who brought the animal to Nepaul informed Mr. Hodgson that
the tchirou mostly frequented the beautiful valley or plain of Tingri,
situated in the southern part of the Thibetian province of Tsang, and
watered by the Arroun.  To go from Nepaul to this valley, you pass the
defile of Kouti or Nialam.  The Nepaulese call the valley of Arroun
Tingri-Meidam, from the town of Tingri, which stands there on the left
bank of the river; it is full of salt-beds, round which the tchirous
assemble in herds.  They describe these animals as extremely fierce, when
they are in their wild state; they do not let any one approach them, and
flee at the least noise.  If you attack them, they resist courageously.
The male and the female have generally the same aspect.

The form of the tchirou is graceful, like that of all the other animals
of the antelope tribe, and it has likewise the incomparable eyes of the
animals of that species; its colour is reddish, like that of the fawn in
the upper parts of the body, and white below.  Its distinctive features
are, first a black horn, long and pointed, with three slight curvatures,
and circular annulations towards the base; these annulations are more
prominent in front than behind; there are two tufts of hair which project
from the exterior of each nostril, and much down round the nose and
mouth, which gives the animal’s head a heavy appearance.  The hair of the
tchirou is rough, and seems hollow, like that of all the animals north of
the Himalaya that Mr. Hodgson had the opportunity of examining.  The hair
is about five centimetres long, and so thick that it seems to the touch a
solid mass.

Beneath the hair, the body of the tchirou is covered with a very fine and
delicate down, as are almost all the quadrupeds that inhabit the lofty
regions of the Himalaya mountain, particularly the famous Cashmere goats.

Doctor Abel has proposed to give to the tchirou the systematic name of
_Antelope Hodgsonii_ after the name of the learned person who has placed
its existence beyond a doubt. {248}

At Atdza we changed our oulah, although we had only fifty lis to go
before we reached the residence of Lha-Ri.  We required fresh animals
accustomed to the dreadful road we had below us.  One single mountain
separated us from Lha-Ri, and to cross it it was, we were told, necessary
to set out early in the morning, if we wished to arrive before night.  We
consulted the Itinerary, and we found there the following agreeable
account of the place: “A little further on you pass a lofty mountain, the
summits of which rise in peaks.  The ice and snow never melt here
throughout the year.  Its chasms resemble the declivitous shores of the
sea; the wind often fills them with snow; the paths are almost
impracticable, the descent is so rapid and slippery.”  It is obvious that
this brief but emphatic sketch did not hold out to us any very agreeable
pleasure trip for the morrow.  Oh, how readily we would have given up our
places to some of those intrepid tourists, whom the love of ice and snow,
of rocks and precipices, leads every year amidst the Alps, those
mountains of Thibet in miniature.

Another thing, very little calculated to encourage us, was, that the
people of the caravan, the villagers, everybody seemed anxious and
uneasy.  They asked one another whether the snow, which had fallen in
abundance for five days, and had not had time to settle, would not render
the mountains impassable; whether there was not a danger of being buried
in the chasms, or of being overwhelmed by the avalanches; whether, in a
word, it would not be prudent to wait a few days, in the hope that the
snow would be dispersed by the wind, or partly melted by the sun, or
consolidated by the cold.  To all these questions, the answers were
anything but encouraging.  In order to guard against the effects of mere
pusillanimity of presumption, we held, before going to bed, a council, to
which we summoned the old mountaineers of the country.  After long
deliberation, it was decided first, that if, on the morrow, the weather
was calm and serene, we might set out without temerity; secondly, that in
the supposition of departure, the long-haired oxen laden with the
baggage, and conducted by some people of the district, should precede the
horsemen, in order to trace out for them, in the snow, a more easy path.
The matter being thus determined, we tried to take a little rest, relying
little on the advantages of this plan, and much on the Divine protection.

When we rose, a few stars were still shining in the heaven, contending
with the first rays of light; the weather was wonderfully beautiful.  We
quickly made our preparations for departure, and as soon as the last
shades of night were dissipated, we began to ascend the formidable
Mountain of Spirits (_Lha-Ri_).  It rose before us like a huge block of
snow, whereon we perceived not a single tree, not a blade of grass, not a
dark spot to interrupt the uniformity of the dazzling whiteness.  As had
been arranged, the long-haired oxen, followed by their drivers, went
first, advancing one after the other; next came the horsemen, in single
file, in their steps, and the long caravan, like a gigantic serpent,
slowly developed its sinuosities on the mountain side.  At first the
descent was by no means rapid, for we encountered frightful quantities of
snow, that threatened every instant to bury us.  We saw the oxen at the
head of the column, advancing by leaps, anxiously seeking the least
perilous places, now to the right, now to the left, sometimes
disappearing all at once in some deep rut, and struggling amidst those
masses of moving snow, like porpoises amid the billows of the ocean.  The
horsemen who closed the cavalcade found a more solid footing.  We
advanced slowly along the steep and narrow furrows traced out for us
between the walls of snow, that rose to the height of our breasts.  The
air resounded with the bellowing of the oxen; the horses panted loudly,
and the men, to keep up the courage of the caravan, raised, every now and
then, a simultaneous shout like that of mariners at the capstan.
Gradually the route became so steep, so precipitous, that the caravan
seemed suspended from the mountain’s side.  It was impossible to remain
on horseback; every one dismounted, and each clinging to his horse’s
tail, resumed his march with renewed ardour.  The sun, shining in all its
splendour, darted its rays on these vast piles of snow, and caused them
to emit innumerable sparks, the flashing of which dazzled the eyes.
Fortunately, our visuals were sheltered by the inestimable glasses that
the Dheba of Ghiamda had given us.

After long and indescribable labour, we arrived, or rather, were hauled
up to the summit of the mountain.  The sun was already on the decline.
We stopped for an instant, both to re-adjust the saddles and fasten the
baggage, and to remove from the soles of our boots the masses of snow
that had accumulated upon them, and become consolidated into the form of
cones reversed.  Every one was transported with joy.  We felt a sort of
pride in being mounted so high, and in finding ourselves standing on this
gigantic pedestal.  We took a pleasure in following with our eyes the
deep and tortuous path that had been hollowed out in the snow, and the
reddish tint of which was markedly outlined in the otherwise spotless
white of the mountain.

The descent was more precipitous than the ascent, but it was much
shorter, and did not require the exertion we had been obliged to make on
the other side of the mountain.  The extreme steepness of the way
assisted us, on the contrary, in the descent, for we had merely to let
ourselves go; the only danger was that of rolling down too fast, or of
stepping out of the beaten path, and being thus for ever buried in the
bottom of some abyss.  In a country such as this, accidents of this
description are by no means chimerical.  We descended easily then, now
standing, now seated, and without any other mischance than a few falls
and some protracted slides, more calculated to excite the merriment than
the fear of travellers.

Shortly before arriving at the base of the mountain, the whole caravan
halted on a level spot, where stood an Obo, or Buddhic monument,
consisting of piled up stones, surmounted by flags and bones covered with
Thibetian sentences.  Some enormous and majestic firs encircling the Obo,
sheltered it with a magnificent dome of verdure.  “Here we are, at the
glacier of the Mountain of Spirits,” said Ly-Kouo-Ngan.  “We shall have a
bit of a laugh now.”  We regarded with amazement the Pacificator of
Kingdoms.  “Yes, here is the glacier; look here.”  We proceeded to the
spot he indicated, bent over the edge of the plateau, and saw beneath us
an immense glacier jutting out very much, and bordered with frightful
precipices.  We could distinguish, under the light coating of snow, the
greenish hue of the ice.  We took a stone from the Buddhic monument, and
threw it down the glacier.  A loud noise was heard, and the stone gliding
down rapidly, left after it a broad green line.  The place was clearly a
glacier, and we now comprehended partly Ly-Kouo-Ngan’s remark, but we saw
nothing at all laughable in being obliged to travel over such a road.
Ly-Kouo-Ngan, however, was right in every point, as we now found by
experience.

They made the animals go first, the oxen, and then the horses.  A
magnificent long-haired ox opened the march; he advanced gravely to the
edge of the plateau; then, after stretching out his neck, smelling for a
moment at the ice, and blowing through his large nostrils some thick
clouds of vapour, he manfully put his two front feet on the glacier, and
whizzed off as if he had been discharged from a cannon.  He went down the
glacier with his legs extended, but as stiff and motionless as if they
had been made of marble.  Arrived at the bottom, he turned over, and then
ran on, bounding and bellowing over the snow.  All the animals, in turn,
afforded us the same spectacle, which was really full of interest.  The
horses, for the most part, exhibited, before they started off, somewhat
more hesitation than the oxen; but it was easy to see that all of them
had been long accustomed to this kind of exercise.

The men, in their turn, embarked with no less intrepidity and success
than the animals, although in an altogether different manner.  We seated
ourselves carefully on the edge of the glacier, we stuck our heels close
together on the ice, as firmly as possible, then using the handles of our
whips by way of helm, we sailed over these frozen waters with the
velocity of a locomotive.  A sailor would have pronounced us to be going
at least twelve knots an hour.  In our many travels, we had never before
experienced a mode of conveyance at once so commodious, so expeditious,
and, above all, so refreshing.

At the foot of the glacier, each caught his horse as soon as he could,
and we continued our journey in the ordinary style.  After a somewhat
rapid descent, we left behind us the Mountain of Spirits, and entered a
valley, sprinkled here and there with patches of snow, that had withstood
the rays of the sun.  We rode for a few minutes along the frozen banks of
a small river, and reached at length the station of Lha-Ri.  We had, at
the gate of this town, as at Ghiamda, a military reception.  The Dheba of
the place came to offer us his services, and we proceeded to occupy the
lodging that had been prepared for us, in a Chinese pagoda, called
Kouang-Ti-Miao, {251} which means the temple of the god of war.  From
Lha-Ssa to Lha-Ri, they reckon 1,010 lis (101 leagues); we had been
fifteen days travelling the distance.

As soon as we were installed in our residence, it was agreed unanimously,
among Ly-Kouo-Ngan, the Lama Dsiamdchang, and ourselves, that we should
stop one day at Lha-Ri.  Although the oulah was all ready, we considered
it better to make a brief halt, in order to reinstate, by a day’s repose,
the strength we should require for climbing another formidable mountain,
that lay in our way.

The large village of Lha-Ri is built in a gorge, surrounded by barren and
desolate mountains; this district does not exhibit the least signs of
cultivation, so that the people have to get their flour from Tsing-Kou.
The inhabitants are nearly all shepherds; they breed sheep, oxen, and,
especially, goats, the fine silky hair of which is used in the fabric of
poulou of the first quality, and of those beautiful manufactures, so well
known by the name of Cashmere shawls.  The Thibetians of Lha-Ri are much
less advanced in civilization than those of Lha-Ssa; their physiognomy is
hard and rugged; they are dirty in their clothing; their houses are
merely large, shapeless hovels, made of rough stone, and rudely plastered
with lime.  You remark, however, on the side of the mountain, a little
above the village, a vast Buddhic monastery, the temple of which is fine
enough.  A Kampo is the superior of this Lamasery, and, at the same time,
temporal administrator of the district.  The numerous Lamas of Lha-Ri
lead an idle, miserable life; we saw them, at all hours of the day,
squatting in the different quarters of the town, trying to warm, in the
rays of the sun, their limbs, half covered with a few red and yellow
rags,—it was a disgusting sight.

At Lha-Ri, the Chinese government maintains a magazine of provisions,
under the management of a learned Mandarin, bearing the title of
Leang-Tai (purveyor), and decorated with the button of white crystal.
The Leang-Tai has to pay the various garrisons quartered on his line of
road.  There are, between Lha-Ssa and the frontiers of China, six of
these provision magazines.  The first and most important, is at Lha-Ssa;
the Leang-Tai of which town superintends the five others, and receives an
annual salary of seventy ounces of silver, whereas his colleagues have
only sixty.  The maintenance of the provisional magazine at Lha-Ssa costs
the Chinese government 40,000 ounces of silver per annum; while that at
Lha-Ri costs only 8,000 ounces.  The garrison of the latter town consists
of 130 soldiers, having at their head a Tsien-Tsoung, a Pa-Tsoung, and a
Wei-Wei.

The day after our arrival at Lha-Ri, the Leang-Tai, or purveyor, instead
of coming to pay an official visit to the staff of the caravan, contented
himself with sending us, by way of card, a leaf of red paper on which
were inscribed the letters of his name; he added, by the mouth of his
messenger, that a severe illness confined him to his room.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan
said to us, in a whisper, and with a sly laugh, “The Leang-Tai will
recover as soon as we are gone.”  When we were left alone, he said, “Ah,
I knew how it would be: every time a caravan passes, Leang-Tai-Sue (the
name of the Mandarin) is at death’s door; that is well understood by
everybody.  According to the usages of hospitality, he should have
prepared for us to-day a feast of the first class, and it is to avoid
this, that he feigns illness.  The Leang-Tai-Sue is the most avaricious
man imaginable; he never dressed better than a palanquin bearer; he eats
tsamba like a barbarian of Thibet.  He never smokes, he never plays, he
never drinks wine; in the evening his house is not lighted; he gropes his
way to bed in the dark, and rises very late in the morning, for fear of
being hungry too early.  Oh, a creature like that is not a man; ’tis a
mere tortoise-egg!  The ambassador Ki-Chan is resolved to dismiss him,
and he will do well.  Have you any Leang-Tais of this kind in your
country?”  “What a question!  The Leang-Tais of the kingdom of France
never go to bed without a candle, and when the oulah passes through their
town, they never fail to get ready a good dinner.”  “Ah, that is the
thing! those are the rites of hospitality! but this Sue-Mou-Tchou—” at
these words we burst into a hearty fit of laughter.  “By-the-by,” asked
we, “do you know why the Leang-Tai-Sue is called Sue-Mou-Tchou; the name
seems to us somewhat ignoble?”  “Ignoble, indeed; but it has reference to
a very singular anecdote.  Leang-Tai-Sue, before he was sent to Lha-Ri,
exercised the functions of Mandarin in a small district of the province
of Kiang-Si.  One day, two labourers presented themselves at his
tribunal, and besought him to give judgment in the matter of a sow, which
they both claimed.  Judge Sue pronounced thus his decision: ‘Having
separated truth from fiction, I see clearly that this sow belongs neither
to you, nor to you; I declare, therefore, that it belongs to me: respect
this judgment.’  The officers of the court proceeded to take possession
of the sow, and the judge had it sold in the market.  Since that
occurrence, Mandarin Sue has been always called Sue-Mou-Tchou (Sue the
sow).”  The recital of this story made us deeply regret that we must
depart without seeing the physiognomy of this interesting individual.

We left the town of Lha-Ri in changeable weather; our first day’s march
was only sixty lis, and offered nothing remarkable, except a large lake
which they say is eight lis in breadth and ten in length: it was frozen,
and we crossed it easily, thanks to a slight coating of snow with which
it was covered.  We lodged in a miserable hamlet, called Tsa-Tchou-Ka,
near which are hot springs.  The Thibetians bathe there, and do not fail
to attribute to them marvellous properties.

The next day was a day of great fatigue and tribulation; we crossed the
mountain Chor-Kou-La, which, for its height and ruggedness, may well
rival that of Lha-Ri.  We began its ascent, our hearts full of anxiety,
for the clouded and lowering sky that hung over us, seemed to presage
wind or snow; the mercy of God preserved us from both the one and the
other.  Towards mid-day, there rose a light north wind, the cutting cold
of which soon chapped our faces; but it was not strong enough to raise
the thick coat of snow which covered the mountain.

As soon as we had reached the summit, we rested for a moment under the
shade of a large stone obo, and dined on a pipe of tobacco.  During this
frugal repast, the Mandarin Ly-Kouo-Ngan told us, that in the time of the
wars of Kien-Long against Thibet, the Chinese troops, exasperated by the
fatigues and privations of a long journey, mutinied as they were passing
Chor-Kou-La.  “On this plateau,” said he, “the soldiers arrested their
officers, and after having bound them, threatened to precipitate them
into this gulf, unless they promised them increased pay.  The generals
having agreed to do right to the claims of the army, the sedition was
appeased, the Mandarins were set at liberty, and they quietly continued
their march to Lha-Ri.  As soon as they arrived in this town, the
generals made good their promise, and increased the pay; but, at the same
time, these insubordinate soldiers were mercilessly decimated.”  “And
what did the soldiers say?” inquired we of Ly-Kouo-Ngan.  “Those upon
whom the lot did not fall, laughed heartily, and declared that their
officers had shown great ability.”

On quitting the summit of Chor-Kou-La, you follow a somewhat inclined
path, and continue for several days on an extensive, high ground, the
numerous ramifications of which stretch afar their pointed tops and the
sharp needles of their peaks.  From Lha-Ssa to the province of
Sse-Tchouen, through all this long route, nothing is to be seen but
immense chains of mountains, intersected with cataracts, deep gulfs, and
narrow defiles.  These mountains are now all heaped up together,
presenting to the view the most varied and fantastic outlines; now they
are ranged symmetrically, one against the other, like the teeth of a huge
saw.  These regions change their aspect every instant, and offer to the
contemplation of travellers landscapes of infinite variety; yet, amidst
this inexhaustible diversity, the continuous sight of mountains diffuses
over the route a certain uniformity which after awhile becomes tiresome.
A detailed account of a journey in Thibet being extremely susceptible of
monotony, we abstain, that we may not fall into unnecessary repetitions
from describing the ordinary mountains.  We shall content ourselves with
mentioning the most celebrated—those which, in the Chinese phrase, “claim
the life of travellers.”  This method, besides, will be conformable with
the style of the inhabitants of these mountainous countries, who call
whatever is not lost in the clouds, _plain_; whatever is not precipice
and labyrinth, _level road_.

The high grounds we traversed, after surmounting the Chor-Kou-La,
[Picture: The Defile of Alan-To] are considered by the natives level
ground.  “Thence to Alan-To,” said the Thibetian escort to us, “there is
no mountain; the path is all like that,” showing us the palm of their
hand.  “Yet,” said they, “it is necessary to use a good deal of
precaution, for the paths are sometimes very narrow and slippery.”  Now
hear what, in reality, was this same road, “as flat as the palm of your
hand.”  As soon as you have quitted the summits of Chor-Kou-La, you
encounter a long series of frightful chasms, bordered on each side by
mountains cut perpendicularly, and rising up like two vast walls of
living rock.  Travellers are obliged to pass these deep abysses by
following, at a great height, so narrow a ledge, that the horses
frequently find only just enough room to plant their feet.  As soon as we
saw the oxen of the caravan making their way along this horrible path,
and heard the low roar of the waters rising from the depths of those
gulfs, we were seized with fear, and dismounted, but every one at once
told us immediately to remount, saying that the horses, accustomed to the
journey, had surer feet than we; that we must let them go their own way,
contenting ourselves with keeping firmly in our stirrups, and not looking
about us.  We recommended our souls to God, and followed in the wake of
the column.  We were soon convinced that, in point of fact, it would have
been impossible for us to keep our equilibrium on this slippery and
rugged surface; it seemed as though, at every moment, an invisible force
was drawing us towards those fathomless gulfs.  Lest we should get giddy,
we kept our heads turned towards the mountain, the declivity of which was
sometimes so perpendicular, that it did not even offer a ledge for the
horses to plant their feet on.  In such places we passed over large
trunks of trees, supported by piles fixed horizontally in the mountain
side.  At the very sight of these frightful bridges we felt a cold
perspiration running from all our limbs.  It was essential, however, to
advance, for to return or to dismount were two things beyond possibility.

After having been for two days constantly suspended between life and
death, we at length got clear of this route, the most dreadful and most
dangerous imaginable, and arrived at Alan-To.  Every one was rejoiced,
and we congratulated each other on not having fallen into the abyss.
Each recounted, with a sort of feverish excitement, the terrors he had
experienced in the most difficult parts of the passage.  The Dheba of
Alan-To, on hearing that no one had perished, expressed his opinion that
the caravan had been unprecedentedly fortunate.  Three oxen laden with
baggage had indeed been swallowed up, but these mischances were not worth
talking about.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan told us that he had never passed the defile
of Alan-To without witnessing frightful accidents.  In his previous
journey, four soldiers had been precipitated from the top of the mountain
with the horses they rode.  Every one was able to recount catastrophes,
the mere recital of which made our hair stand on end.  They had forborne
to mention them before, for fear of our refusing to continue the journey.
In fact, if we could have seen at Lha-Ssa, the frightful abysses of
Alan-To, it is probable that the ambassador Ki-Chan would scarcely have
succeeded in inducing us to attempt this journey.

From Alan-To, where we changed oulah, we descended through a thick forest
of firs, into a valley where we stopped, after eighty lis march, at a
village called Lang-Ki-Tsoung.  This post is one of the most picturesque
and most agreeable we had met throughout our journey.  It is situate
amidst the centre of a plain, bounded on all sides by low mountains, the
sides of which are covered with trees of fine growth.  The country is
fertile, and the Thibetians of the district seem to cultivate it with
much care.  The fields are watered by an abundant stream, the waters of
which drift down a large quantity of gold sand, for which reason, the
Chinese give this valley the name of Kin-Keou (gold.)

The houses of Lang-Ki-Tsoung are very singularly constructed; they are
absolutely nothing more than trunks of trees, stripped of their bark, and
with the two extremities cut off; so that they may be nearly of the same
size throughout.  Enormous piles are first driven into the earth to a
great depth; the part remaining above ground being at most two feet in
height.  Upon these piles they arrange horizontally, one beside the
other, the trunks of fir which they have prepared; these form the
foundation and the floor of the house.  Other fir trees similarly
prepared, and laid one upon the other, serve to form walls remarkable for
their thickness and solidity.  The roof is likewise formed of trunks,
covered with large pieces of bark, arranged like slates.  These houses
exactly resemble enormous cages, the bars of which are closely fixed
against each other.  If between the joints they discover any cracks they
stop these up with argols.  They sometimes build in this fashion very
large houses, of several stories high, very warm, and always free from
damp.  Their only inconvenience is their having very uneven and
disagreeable floors.  If the inhabitants of Lang-Ki-Tsoung ever take it
into their heads to give balls, they will, it is most likely, be obliged
to modify their plan of house construction.  Whilst we were waiting
patiently and in silence in our big cage until they should please to
serve up supper, the Dheba of Lang-Ki-Tsoung, and the corporal of the
Chinese guard, came to tell us that they had a little point to settle
with us.  “What point?” cried Ly-Kouo-Ngan, with an important air, “what
point?  Oh, I see, the oulah is not ready.”  “It is not that,” answered
the Dheba.  “Never at Lang-Ki-Tsoung has any one to wait for his oulah;
you shall have it this evening, if you like, but I must warn you that the
mountain of Tanda is impassable; for eight consecutive days, the snow has
fallen in such abundance that the roads are not yet open.”  “We have
passed the Chor-Kou-La, why should we not with equal success pass the
Tanda?”  “What is the Chor-Kou-La to the Tanda? these mountains are not
to be compared with each other.  Yesterday, three men, of the district of
Tanda, chose to venture upon the mountain, two of them have disappeared
in the snow, the third arrived here this morning alone and on foot, for
his horse was also swallowed up.  However,” said the Dheba, “you can go
when you like; the oulah is at your service, but you will have to pay for
the oxen and horses that will die on the way.”  Having thus stated his
ultimatum, the Thibetian diplomatist put out his tongue at us, scratched
his ear, and withdrew.  Whilst the Pacificator of Kingdoms, the Lama
Dsiamdchang, and a few other experienced persons belonging to the
caravan, were discussing earnestly the question of departure, we took up
the Chinese Itinerary, and read there the following passage: “The
mountain of Tanda is extremely precipitous and difficult of ascent; a
stream meanders through a narrow ravine: during the summer it is miry and
slippery, and during the winter it is covered with ice and snow.
Travellers, provided with sticks, pass it, one after the other, like a
file of fish.  It is the most difficult passage on the whole way to
Lha-Ssa.”  On reading this last sentence, the book fell from our hands.
After a moment’s stupor, we resumed the book, in order to assure our
selves that we had read correctly.  We were right; there it was written:
“It is the most difficult passage on all the way to Lha-Ssa.”  The
prospect of having to pursue a still more arduous route than that of
Alan-To was enough to stagnate the blood in our veins.  “The ambassador
Ki-Chan,” said we to ourselves, “is evidently a cowardly assassin.  Not
having dared to kill us at Lha-Ssa, he has sent us to die in the midst of
the snow.”  This fit of depression lasted but for an instant; God, in his
goodness, gradually restored to us all our energies, and we rose to take
part in the discussion which was proceeding around us, and the result of
which was that, on the morrow, a few men of the caravan should set out
before daybreak to sound the depth of the snow, and to assure themselves
of the real state of the case.  Towards midday the scouts returned, and
announced that Mount Tanda was impassable.  These tidings distressed all
of us.  We ourselves, although in no great hurry, were annoyed.  The
weather was beautiful, and we apprehended that if we did not profit by
it, we should soon have fresh snow, and thus see our departure
indefinitely adjourned.  Whilst we were anxiously deliberating what we
should do, the Dheba of the place came to relieve us from our
embarrassment.  He proposed to send a herd of oxen to trample down, for
two days, the snow that encumbered the path up the mountain.  “With this
precaution,” said he, “if the weather continues fine, you may, without
fear, depart on your journey.”  The proposition of the Dheba was eagerly
and gratefully adopted.

Whilst we waited until the long-haired oxen had made us a path, we
enjoyed at Lang-Ki-Tsoung, a few days of salutary and agreeable repose.
The Thibetians of this valley were more kindly and civilized than those
we had encountered since our departure from Lha-Ri.  Every evening and
morning they furnished us abundantly with the appliances of cookery; they
brought us pheasants, venison, fresh butter, and a sort of small sweet
tubercle which they gather on the mountains.  Prayer, walks, and some
games of chess, contributed to the delights of these days of leisure.
The chessmen which we used had been given to us by the Regent of Lha-Ssa;
the pieces were made of ivory, and represented various animals sculptured
with some delicacy.  The Chinese, as is known, are passionately fond of
chess, but their game is very different from ours.  The Tartars and the
Thibetians are likewise acquainted with chess; and singularly enough,
their chessboard is absolutely the same as our own; their pieces,
although differently formed, represent the same value as ours and follow
the same moves, and the rules of the game are precisely the same in every
respect.  What is still more surprising, these people cry _chik_ when
they check a piece, and _mate_ when the game is at an end.  These
expressions, which are neither Thibetian nor Mongol, are nevertheless
used by every one, yet no one can explain their origin and true
signification.  The Thibetians and the Tartars were not a little
surprised, when we told them that, in our country, we said in the same
way, _check_ and _mate_.

It would be curious to unravel the archæology of the game of chess, to
seek its origin and its progress amongst various nations, its
introduction into Upper Asia, with the same rules and the same technical
phrases that we have in Europe.  This labour appertains, of right, to the
_Palamede, Revue francaise des échecs_.  We have seen among the Tartars
first-rate players of chess; they play quickly, and with less study, it
seemed to us, than the Europeans apply, but their moves are not the less
correct.

After three days’ rest, the Dheba of Lang-Ki-Tsoung having announced to
us that the long-haired oxen had sufficiently trampled down the mountain
paths, we departed; the sky was clouded, and the wind blew briskly.  When
we reached the foot of Tanda, we perceived a long dark line moving, like
a huge caterpillar, slowly along the precipitous sides of the mountain.
The guides of Lang-Ki-Tsoung told us that it was a troop of Lamas
returning from a pilgrimage to Lha-Ssa-Morou, and who had encamped for
the night at the other end of the valley.  The sight of these numerous
travellers restored our courage, and we resolutely undertook the ascent
of the mountain.  Before we reached the top, the wind began to blow
violently, and drove about the snow in every direction.  It seemed as
though the whole mountain was falling to pieces; the ascent became so
steep, that neither men nor animals had strength enough to climb up.  The
horses stumbled at almost every step, and if they had not been kept up by
the large masses of snow, on more than one occasion they would have been
precipitated into the valley of Lang-Ki-Tsoung.  M. Gabet, who had not
yet recovered from the illness which our first journey had occasioned
him, could scarcely reach the top of Tanda; not having sufficient
strength to grasp the tail of his horse, he fell from exhaustion, and
became almost buried in the snow.  The Thibetian escort went to his
assistance, and succeeded, after long and painful exertions, in getting
him to the top, where he arrived more dead than alive; his face was of a
livid paleness, and his heaving breast sent forth a sound like the
death-rattle.

We met on the top of the mountain the Lama pilgrims, who had preceded us;
they were all lying in the snow, having beside them their long
iron-ferruled sticks.  Some asses, laden with baggage, were packed one
against the other, shivering in the cold wind, and hanging down their
long ears.  When all had sufficiently recovered breath, we resumed our
march.  The descent being almost perpendicular, we had only to sit down,
and leave it to our own weight to secure our making a rapid journey.  The
snow, under these circumstances, was rather favourable than otherwise; it
formed on the asperities of the ground a thick carpet which enabled us to
slide down with impunity.  We had only to deplore the loss of an ass,
which, choosing to get out of the beaten path, was precipitated into an
abyss.

As soon as we reached Tanda, the Mandarin, Ly-Kouo-Ngan, shook off the
snow which covered his clothes, put on his hat of ceremony, and
proceeded, accompanied by all his soldiers, to a small Chinese pagoda we
had seen on our entrance into the village.  It is reported that at the
time of the wars of Kien-Long against the Thibetians, one of the
Leang-Tai, charged with victualling the Chinese army, crossed during the
winter the mountain of Tanda on his way to Lha-Ri.  On passing the brink
of an abyss filled with snow, a long-haired ox let fall a coffer of
silver with which it was laden.  On seeing this, the Leang-Tai sprang
from his horse, threw himself upon the coffer, which he grasped in his
arms, and rolled, without relaxing his hold of the treasure, to the
bottom of the gulf.  Tradition adds, that in the spring, the snow having
melted, they found the Leang-Tai standing on his coffer of money.  The
Emperor Kien-Long, in honour of the devotion of this faithful commissary,
who had so faithfully abided by his trust, named him the Spirit of the
Mountain of Tanda, and raised a pagoda to him in the village.  The
Mandarins who journey to Lha-Ssa, never fail to visit this temple, and to
prostrate themselves thrice before the idol of the Leang-Tai.  The
Chinese emperors are in the habit of deifying in this manner civil or
military officers whose life has been signalized by some memorable act,
and the worship rendered to these constitutes the official religion of
the Mandarins.

                        [Picture: Pagoda of Tanda]

On leaving the village of Tanda, you travel for sixty lis on a plain
called Pian-Pa, which, according to the Chinese Itinerary, is the most
extensive in Thibet.  If this statement be correct, Thibet must be a very
detestable country; for, in the first place, this so-called plain, is
constantly intercepted by hills and ravines, and in the second place, it
is so limited in extent, that any one in the centre of it can easily
distinguish a man at the foot of the surrounding mountains.  After
passing the plain of Pian-Pa, you follow, for fifty lis, the serpentine
course of a small mountain stream, and then reach Lha-Dze, where you
change the oulah.

From Lha-Dze to the stage of Barilang is 100 lis journey; two-thirds of
the way are occupied by the famous mountain of Dchak-La, which is of the
number of those that are reputed murderous, and which, for that reason,
the Chinese call Yao-Ming-Ti-Chan; that is to say, _Mountain that claims
life_.  We effected its ascent and descent without any accident.  We did
not even get tired, for we were becoming used, by daily practice, to the
hard employment of scaling mountains.

From Barilang we pursued a tolerably easy route, whence we observed,
rising here and there, the smoke from a few poor Thibetian dwellings,
isolated in the gorges of the mountains.  We saw some black tents, and
numerous herds of long-haired oxen.  After a journey of 100 lis we
reached Chobando.

Chobando is a small town, the houses and lamaseries of which, painted
with a solution of red ochre, present, in the distance, a singular and
not disagreeable appearance.  The town is built on the slope of a
mountain, and is enclosed, in front, by a narrow but deep river, which
you cross on a wooden bridge, that shakes and groans under the feet of
travellers, and seems every moment about to break down.  Chobando is the
most important military station you find after quitting Lha-Ri; its
garrison consists of twenty-five soldiers and of an officer bearing the
title of Tsien-Tsoung.  This military Mandarin vas an intimate friend of
Ly, the pacificator of kingdoms; they had served together for several
years on the frontiers of Gorkha.  We were invited to sup with the
Tsien-Tsoung, who managed to give us, amidst these wild and mountainous
regions, a splendid repast, where were displayed Chinese delicacies of
every description.  During supper the two brothers-in-arms enjoyed the
satisfaction of recounting to each other their former adventures.

Just as we were going to bed, two horsemen, having belts adorned with
bells, came into the courtyard of the inn; they stopped for a few
minutes, and then set off again at full gallop.  We were informed that it
was the courier-extraordinary, bearing dispatches from the ambassador
Ki-Chan to Peking.  He had quitted Lha-Ssa only six days before, so that
he had already travelled more than 2,000 lis (200 leagues).  Ordinarily,
the dispatches only occupy thirty days between Lha-Ssa and Peking.  This
speed will, doubtless, seem in no way prodigious when compared with that
of the couriers of Europe; but, making allowance for the excessive
difficulties of the journey, it will perhaps be considered surprising.
The express couriers, who carry the mails in Thibet, travel day and
night; they always go in twos, a Chinese soldier and a Thibetian guide.
At about every hundred lis, they find on the road a change of horses, but
the men are not relieved so often.  These couriers travel fastened to
their saddles by straps; they are in the habit of observing a day of
rigorous fast before mounting their horses, and all the time they are on
duty, they content themselves with swallowing two raw eggs at every
stage.  The men who perform this arduous labour rarely attain an advanced
age; many of them fall into the abysses or remain buried in the snow.
Those who escape the perils of the road fall victims to the diseases
which they readily contract in these dreadful regions.  We have never
been able to conceive how these couriers travelled by night among these
mountains of Thibet, where almost at every step you find frightful
precipices.

You see at Chobando two Buddhic monasteries, where numerous Lamas reside,
belonging to the sect of the Yellow Cap.  In one of these monasteries
there is a great printing press, which furnishes sacred books to the
Lamaseries of the province of Kham.

From Chobando, after two long and arduous days’ march, in the turnings
and windings of the mountains, and through immense forests of pine and
holly, you reach Kia-Yu-Kiao.  This village is built on the rugged banks
of the river Souk-Tchou, which flows between two mountains, and the
waters of which are wide, deep, and rapid.  On our arrival we found the
inhabitants of Kia-Yu-Kiao in a state of profound grief.  Not long
before, a large wooden bridge, thrown over the river, had broken down,
and two men and three oxen who were upon it at the time perished in the
waters.  We could still see the remains of this bridge, built of large
trunks of trees; the wood, completely rotten, showed that the bridge had
fallen from decay.  At sight of these sad ruins, we thanked Providence
for having kept us three days on the other side of the mountain of Tanda.
If we had arrived at Kia-Yu-Kiao before the fall of the bridge, it would
probably have sunk under the weight of the caravan.

Contrary to our expectation, this accident caused us no delay.  The Dheba
of the place hastened to construct a raft; and on the morrow we were
able, at daybreak, to resume our march.  The men, baggage, and saddles
crossed the river on the raft, the animals swimming.

Thirty lis from Kia-Yu-Kiao, we came to a wooden bridge, suspended over a
frightful precipice.  Having our imaginations still full of the accident
at Kia-Yu-Kiao, we felt, at sight of this perilous pass, a cold shudder
of terror pervade all our limbs.  As a matter of precaution, we made the
animals pass first, one after the other; the bridge trembled and shook
under them, but held firm; the men went next.  They advanced gently on
their toes, making themselves as light as possible.  All passed safely,
and the caravan proceeded again in its usual order.  After having
surmounted a rocky and precipitous hill, at the foot of which roared an
impetuous torrent, we stayed for the night at Wa-Ho-Tchai, a station
composed of a barracks, small Chinese temple, and three or four Thibetian
huts.

Immediately after our arrival the snow began to fall in great flakes.  In
any other place, such weather would have been merely disagreeable; at
Wa-Ho-Tchai, it was calamitous.  We had next day to travel a stage of 150
lis, on a plateau famous throughout Thibet.  The Itinerary gave us the
following details as to this route: “On the mountain Wa-Ho, there is a
lake.  That people may not lose themselves in the thick fogs which
prevail here, there have been fixed on the heights wooden signals.  When
the mountain is covered with deep snow you are guided by these signals;
but you must take care not to make a noise; you must abstain from even
uttering a word, otherwise the ice and snow will fall upon you in
abundance, and with astonishing rapidity.  Throughout the mountain you
find neither beast nor bird, for it is frozen during the four seasons of
the year.  On its sides, and within 100 lis distance there is no
dwelling.  Many Chinese soldiers and Thibetians die there of cold.”

The soldiers of the garrison of Wa-Ho-Tchai, finding that the weather
seemed really made up for snow, opened the gates of the little pagoda,
and lighted a number of small red candles in front of a
formidable-looking idol, brandishing a sword in its right hand, and
holding in the other a bow and a bundle of arrows.  They then struck,
with repeated blows, on a small tam-tam, and executed a flourish on a
tambourine.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan assumed his official costume, and went to
prostrate himself before the idol.  On his return we asked in whose
honour this pagoda had been raised.  “It is the pagoda of Kiang-Kian
{264} Mao-Ling.”  “And what did Kiang-Kian do, that he is thus honoured?”
“Oh, I see that you are ignorant of these events of times gone by.  I
will tell you about him.  In the reign of Khang-Hi the empire was at war
with Thibet.  Mao-Ling was sent against the rebels in the rank of
generalissimo.  Just as he was going to pass the mountain Wa-Ho, with a
body of 4,000 men, some of the people of the locality who acted as
guides, warned him that every one, in crossing the mountain, must observe
silence, under penalty of being buried beneath the snow.  Kiang-Kian
issued forthwith an edict to his soldiers, and the army proceeded in the
most profound silence.  As the mountain was too long for the soldiers,
laden with baggage, to cross it in a single day, they encamped on the
plateau.  Conformably with the established rule in large towns of the
empire, and of camps in time of war, as soon as it was night they fired
off a cannon, Mao-Ling not daring to infringe this rule of military
discipline.  The report of the cannon had scarcely subsided, when
enormous blocks of snow came pouring down from the sky upon the mountain.
Kiang-Kian and all his men were buried beneath the fall, and no one has
ever since discovered their bodies.  The only persons saved were the cook
and three servants of Kiang-Kian, who had gone on before, and arrived
that same day in the village where we are.  The Emperor Khang-Hi created
Kiang-Kian Mao-Ling tutelary genius of the mountain Wa-Ho, and had this
pagoda erected to him, on the condition of protecting travellers from the
snow.”

Ly-Kouo-Ngan, having finished his story, we asked him who was the potent
being that sent down these terrible masses of snow, ice, and hail, when
any one presumed to make a noise in crossing the mountain Wa-Ho?  “Oh,
that is perfectly clear,” answered he; “it is the Spirit of the Mountain,
the Hia-Ma-Tching-Chin” (the deified toad).  “A deified toad!”  “Oh, yes;
you know that on the top of Wa-Ho there is a lake.”  “We have just read
so in the Itinerary.”  “Well, on the borders of this lake there is a
great toad.  You can scarcely ever see him, but you often hear him
croaking 100 lis round.  This toad has dwelt on the borders of the lake
since the existence of heaven and earth.  As he has never quitted this
solitary spot, he has been deified, and has become the Spirit of the
Mountain.  When any one makes a noise and disturbs the silence of his
retreat, he becomes exasperated against him, and punishes him by
overwhelming him with hail and snow.”  “You seem to speak quite in
earnest; do you think that a toad can be deified and become a spirit?”
“Why not, if he makes a point every night of worshipping the Great Bear?”
When Ly-Kouo-Ngan came to his singular system of the Great Bear, it was
futile to reason with him.  We contented ourselves with smiling at him
and holding our tongues.  “Ah!” said he, “you laugh at me because I speak
of the Seven Stars; and, indeed, as you do not believe in their
influence, it is wrong in me to speak to you of them.  I ought merely to
have told you that the toad of Wa-Ho was deified, because he had always
lived in solitude, on a wild mountain, inaccessible to the foot of man.
Is it not the passions of men that pervert all the beings of the
creation, and prevent them from attaining perfection?  Would not animals
in the course of time become spirits if they did not breathe an air
poisoned by the presence of man?”  This argument seeming to us somewhat
more philosophical than the first, we vouchsafed the honour of a serious
answer.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan, who possessed a fair judgment, when he was not
confused with this Great Bear, doubted at length the power of the deified
toad, and the protection of Kiang-Kian Mao-Ling.  Just as we were going
to repeat our evening prayer, Ly-Kouo-Ngan said to us: “Whatever may be
the actual case with the toad and Kiang-Kian, this is certain, that our
journey to-morrow will be fatiguing and perilous; since you are Lamas of
the Lord of Heaven, pray to him to protect the caravan.”  “That is what
we do every day,” answered we; “but on account of to-morrow’s journey, we
shall do so in an especial manner this evening.”  We had scarcely slept
two hours when one of the soldiers noisily entered our room, hung on a
peg in the wall a large red lantern, and announced that the cock had
already crowed once.  We had, therefore, to rise, and make, with
expedition, the preparations for departure, for we had 150 lis to march
before we reached the next stage.  The sky was studded with stars, but
the snow had fallen the evening before in such abundance, that it had
added to former layers another of a foot thick.  This was precisely what
we wanted, by way of carpet, to facilitate the passage of Wa-Ho, a
mountain perpetually covered with frozen snow, almost as slippery as a
glacier.

The caravan set out long before daybreak; it advanced slowly and silently
along the tortuous paths of the mountain, sufficiently lighted up by the
whiteness of the snow and the lustre of the stars.  The sun was beginning
to tinge the horizon with red when we reached the plateau.  The fear of
the Great Toad having dissipated with the night, every one now broke the
silence to which he had been condemned.  First the guides commenced
vituperating the long haired oxen that were wandering beyond the beaten
path.  By-and-by the travellers themselves hazarded some reflections on
the mildness of the air and the unexpected facility of the route.  At
length we altogether scorned the anger of the Toad, and every one talked,
hallooed, chattered or sang, without seeming in the least apprehensive of
the fall of snow or hail.  Never, perhaps, had the caravan been so noisy
as on this occasion.

The aspect of the plateau of Wa-Ho is extremely melancholy and
monotonous.  As far as the eye can reach, nothing is to be seen but snow;
not a single tree, not even a trace of wild animals, interrupts the
monotony of this immense plain.  Only, at intervals, you come to a long
pole, blackened by time, which serves to guide the march of caravans.
Throughout this extended mountain travellers do not find even a place to
prepare their tea and take refreshment.  Those who have not strength
enough to pass twenty hours without eating or drinking, swallow, as they
go, a few handfuls of snow, and a little tsamba previously prepared.

Throughout the day the sky was pure and serene, not a single cloud
obscuring for a moment the rays of the sun.  This excess of fine weather
was to us the source of the greatest suffering; the glare of the snow was
so intensely dazzling, that the hair spectacles did not suffice to keep
our eyes from severe inflammation.

When darkness began to spread over the mountain, we had reached the edge
of the plateau.  We descended by a narrow, rugged path, and after a
thousand twistings and turnings in a deep gorge, we reached at length the
stage of Ngenda-Tchai, where we passed the night in intolerable
suffering.  Everybody was continually crying and groaning as though his
eyes had been torn out.  Next day it was impossible to proceed.  The Lama
Dsiamdchang, who knew something of physic, made a general distribution of
medicine and eye-salve, and we all spent the day with our eyes bandaged.

                 [Picture: Chinese Hand, Foot, Shoes, &c]

Thanks to the drugs of the Lama, the next day we were able to open our
eyes and continue our journey.  Three stages separated us from Tsiamdo;
and they were very laborious and annoying stages, for we were obliged to
cross a number of those odious wooden bridges, suspended over torrents,
rivers, and precipices.  The recollection of the recent catastrophe at
Kia-Yu-Kiao haunted us incessantly.  After having pursued for twenty lis
a narrow path on the rugged banks of a large river called the
Khiang-Tang-Tchou, we at length reached Tsiamdo.  Thirty-six days had
elapsed since our departure from Lha-Ssa.  According to the Chinese
Itinerary we had travelled 2,500 lis (250 leagues.)

           [Picture: Proul-Tamba, a celebrated Thibetian Chief]




CHAPTER IX.


Glance at Tsiamdo—War between the Living Buddhas—We meet a small
Caravan—Calcareous Mountains—Death of the Mandarin Pey—The great chief
Proul-Tamba—Visit to the Castle of Proul-Tamba—Buddhist Hermit—War among
the Tribes—Halt at Angti—Thibetian Museum—Passage of the Mountain
Angti—Town of Djaya—Death of the son of the Mandarin Pey—Musk Deer—River
with Gold Sands—Plain and Town of Bathang—Great Forest of Ta-So—Death of
Ly-Kouo-Ngan—Interview with the Mandarins of Lithang—Various Bridges of
Thibet—Arrival on the frontiers of China—Residence at
Ta-Tsien-Lou—Departure for the Capital of the Province of Sse-Tchouen.

The Chinese government has established at Tsiamdo {268} a magazine of
provisions, the management of which is confided to a Liang-Tai.  The
garrison is composed of about 300 soldiers and four officers, a Yeou-Ki,
a Tsien-Tsoung, and two Pa-Tsoung.  The maintenance of this military
station, and of the garrisons dependent upon it, amounts annually to the
sum of 10,000 ounces of silver.

Tsiamdo, the capital of the province of Kham, is built in a valley
surrounded by high mountains.  Formerly it was enclosed by a rampart of
earth, now broken down every where, and the remnants of which are taken
away every day to repair the floors of the houses.  Tsiamdo, indeed, has
little need of fortifications; it is sufficiently defended by two rivers,
the Dza-Tchou and the Om-Tchou, which, after flowing, the one to the
east, the other to the west of the town, unite on the south, and form the
Ya-Long-Kiang, which crosses, from north to south, the province of
Yun-Nan and Cochin-China, and falls at length into the sea of China.  Two
large wooden bridges, one over the Dza-Tchou, the other over the
Om-Tchou, to the right and left of the town, lead to two parallel roads,
the first called the Sse-Tchouen road, the other the Yun-Nan road.  The
couriers who convey the mails from Peking to Lha-Ssa, and all the civil
and military servants of the Chinese government, are obliged to use the
Sse-Tchouen road; that of Yun-Nan is almost deserted.  You only see
there, from time to time, a few Chinese merchants, who purchase, from the
Mandarins of their provinces, the privilege of going to Thibet to sell
their merchandise.

The military stations which the court of Peking has established in the
states of the Talé-Lama were at one time maintained and managed by the
joint authorities of Sse-Tchouen and Yun-Nan.  This combination having
been, for a long time, the source of dissensions and quarrels between the
Mandarins of the two provinces, it was determined that the viceroy of
Sse-Tchouen should be sole director of the Chinese resident in Thibet.

Tsiamdo presents the appearance of an ancient town in decay; its large
houses, constructed with frightful irregularity, are scattered confusedly
over a large tract, leaving on all sides unoccupied ground or heaps of
rubbish.  Except a few buildings of later date, all the rest bear the
stamp of great antiquity.  The numerous population you see in the
different quarters of the town are dirty, uncombed, and wallow in
profound idleness.

We could not divine what were the means of existence of the inhabitants
of Tsiamdo; they are without arts, industry, and, we may add, almost
without agriculture.  The environs of the town present, generally
speaking, nothing but sands, unfavourable to the cultivation of corn.
They grow, however, some poor crops of barley, but these are, doubtless,
insufficient for the supply of the country.  Possibly musk, skins of wild
beasts, rhubarb, turquoises, and gold-dust, provide the population with
the means of a petty commerce, and thus with the necessaries of life.

Although Tsiamdo is not a place remarkable for its luxury or elegance,
you admire there a large and magnificent Lamasery standing towards the
west, on an elevated platform which commands the rest of the town.  It is
inhabited by about 2,000 Lamas, who, instead of each having his small
house, as in the other Buddhic monasteries, live all together in the
large buildings, with which the principal temple is surrounded.  The
sumptuous decorations that ornament this temple make it regarded as one
of the finest and most wealthy in Thibet.  The Lamasery of Tsiamdo has
for its ecclesiastical superior a Houtouktou Lama, who is at the same
time temporal sovereign of the whole province of Kham.

Five lis from Tsiamdo, towards the frontiers of China, there is a town
called Djaya, which, with the countries dependent on it, is subject to a
Grand Lama, bearing the title of Tchaktchouba.  This Lamanesque dignity
is somewhat inferior to that of Houtouktou.  At the time we were in
Thibet, there arose a great contest between the Houtouktou of Tsiamdo and
the Tchaktchouba of Djaya.  The latter, a young, bold, and enterprising
Lama, had declared himself Houtouktou, in virtue of an old diploma, which
he affirmed had been granted to him, in one of his former lives, by the
Talé-Lama.  He asserted, accordingly, his rights to supremacy, and
claimed the see of Tsiamdo and the government of the province of Kham.
The Houtouktou of Tsiamdo, a Lama advanced in years, did not choose to
resign his authority, and, on his side, alleged authentic titles, sent by
the court of Peking, and confirmed by the Grand Lama of Lha-Ssa.  All the
tribes, and all the Lamaseries of the province, entered into this
quarrel, and took part, some with the young Lama, some with the old.
After long and futile discussions, written and verbal, they resorted to
arms, and for a full year these wild and fanatic tribes were engaged in
bloody conflicts.  Whole villages were destroyed, and their inhabitants
cut in pieces.  In their terrible fury, these ferocious combatants
devastated everything; they pursued into the desert, with arrows and
fusils, the herds of goats and long-haired oxen, and in their destructive
course, set fire to the forests they found on their way.

When we arrived at Tsiamdo, the war had ceased some days, and all parties
had consented to a truce, in hopes of effecting a reconciliation.
Thibetian and Chinese negotiators had been sent by the Talé-Lama and the
ambassador Ki-Chan conjointly.  The youthful Houtouktou of Djaya had been
summoned to this congress, and fearful of treachery, he had come with a
formidable escort of his bravest partisans.  Several conferences had been
held without producing any satisfactory result.  Neither the one nor the
other of the two pretenders would withdraw his claims; the parties were
irreconcilable, and everything presaged that the war would be soon
resumed with fresh fury.  It appeared to us that the party of the young
Houtouktou had every chance of success, because it was the most national,
and consequently the most popular and strongest.  Not that his title was
really better founded or more valid than that of his competitor, but it
was easy to see that the old Houtouktou of Tsiamdo had hurt the pride of
his tribes by invoking the arbitration of the Chinese, and relying upon
the aid of the government of Peking.  All foreign intervention is odious
and detestable.  This is truth, alike in Europe and in the mountains of
Thibet, wherever people care for their independence and their dignity.

Our residence at Tsiamdo was quite exempt from the irritation and rage
that reigned about us.  We were treated with all those marks of attention
and kindness which we had experienced on all our journey since our
departure from Lha-Ssa.  Both the young and the old Houtouktou sent us a
scarf of blessing, with a good provision of butter and quarters of
mutton.

We stayed at Tsiamdo three days; for our guide, the Pacificator of
Kingdoms, had great need of rest.  The fatigues of this arduous route had
sensibly affected his health.  His legs were so swollen that he could not
mount or dismount from his horse without the assistance of several
persons.  The physicians and sorcerers of Tsiamdo, whom he consulted,
gave answers, the clearest meaning of which was, that if the malady
diminished, it would be no great matter; but that if it should grow
worse, it might become a serious affair.  The most reasonable counsellors
advised Ly-Kouo-Ngan to continue his journey in a palanquin.  A Chinese
Mandarin of the place offered to sell him his own, and to engage
carriers.  This advice was perfectly prudent; but avarice interposed, and
the sick man protested that he should be more fatigued in a palanquin
than on horseback.

To the illness of Ly-Kouo-Ngan was added another source of delay.  A
Chinese caravan which had left Lha-Ssa a few days after us, had arrived
at Tsiamdo on the same evening with ourselves.  This caravan consisted of
a Liang-Tai, or commissary, of his son, a young man of eighteen, and of a
numerous suite of soldiers and servants.  We wanted to let these pass on
before, for, if we travelled in company, it was to be feared that we
should not find lodgings and oulah sufficient for so great a number.  The
Liang-Tai and his son travelled in palanquins; but, notwithstanding the
conveniences of this mode of conveyance, the two illustrious travellers
were so extenuated with fatigue, and so languid, that it was the general
impression their strength would not suffice to carry them into China.
The literary Mandarins being used to an easy life, are little adapted for
supporting the innumerable miseries of the journey into Thibet.  Among
those who are sent to fulfil the duties of commissary, few are fortunate
enough to return to their country.

                     [Picture: Thibetian Travellers]

The day of our departure, the old Houtouktou of Tsiamdo sent us an escort
of four Thibetian horsemen, to guard us until we reached the territory of
the Tchaktchouba of Djaya.  On quitting the town, we passed over a
magnificent bridge entirely built of large trunks of fir, and we then
found ourselves on the Sse-Tchouen road, which meanders along the sides
of a high mountain, at the base of which runs the rapid river Dza-Tchou.
After proceeding twenty lis, we met, at a turn of the mountain, in a deep
and retired gorge, a little party of travellers, who presented a picture
full of poetry: The procession was opened by a Thibetian woman astride a
fine donkey, and carrying an infant, solidly fastened to her shoulders by
large leathern straps.  She led after her, by a long cord, a pack-horse,
laden with two panniers, which hung symmetrically on its sides.  These
two panniers served as lodgings for two children, whose laughing joyous
faces we saw peeping out from little windows in their respective baskets.
The difference in the age of these children seemed slight; but they could
not be of the same weight, for to keep the equilibrium between them, a
large stone was tied to the side of one of the panniers.  Behind the
horse laden with these child-boxes followed a horseman, whom one easily
recognised, by his costume, as a retired Chinese soldier.  He had behind
him, on the crupper, a boy of twelve years old.  Last of all, an enormous
red-haired dog, with squinting eyes, and an expression altogether of
decided bad temper, completed this singular caravan, which joined us, and
took advantage of our company as far as the province of Sse-Tchouen.

The Chinese was an ex-soldier of the garrison of Tsiamdo.  Having
performed the three years’ service required by law, he had obtained leave
to remain in Thibet, and to engage in commerce.  He had married, and
after having amassed a little fortune, he was returning to his country
with all his family.

We could not but admire the fortitude, the energy, and the devotion of
this brave Chinese, so different from his selfish countrymen, who never
scruple to leave their wives and children in foreign lands.  He had to
bear up, not only against the dangers and fatigues of a long journey, but
also against the raillery of those who themselves had not the heart to
follow his good example.  The soldiers of our escort soon began to turn
him into ridicule.  “This man,” said they, “is evidently insane; to bring
from foreign countries money and merchandise, that is reasonable; but to
bring into the central nation, a large-footed woman and all these little
barbarians, why, it is contrary to all established usages.  Has the
fellow an idea of making money by exhibiting these animals of Thibet?”

More than once observations of this kind excited our indignation.  We
always made a point of defending this worthy father, of commending his
honourable conduct, and of reproving loudly the barbarity and immorality
of the Chinese customs.

Shortly after we had admitted into our caravan the interesting little
party from Tsiamdo, we left the river Dza-Tchou to our right, and
ascended a high mountain covered with large trees and enormous rocks,
themselves covered with thick coats of lichen.  We afterwards again came
upon the river, and proceeded along its banks, by a rugged path, for a
few lis, till we arrived at Meng-Phou.  We had travelled scarcely eight
leagues, but we were overcome with fatigue.  The three days rest we had
taken at Tsiamdo had modified our equestrian powers, so that we had some
difficulty in getting our legs into riding order again.  Meng-Phou
consists of seven or eight huts, built of rough stone, in a large and
deep ravine.

Next day we travelled along the crest of a lofty mountain, having
continually to mount and dismount, in order to get from one eminence to
another.  On this route we had frequently to cross precipices on wooden
bridges, which, to use the expression of the Chinese Itinerary, are
“suspended in the region of the clouds.”  After a march of 60 lis we
reached Pao-Tun, where we changed the oulah, and where we began to find
the Thibetians less complaisant and docile than on the other side of
Tsiamdo.  Their mien was haughtier and their manner more abrupt.  On the
other hand, the Chinese of the caravan became more humble, less exacting,
and prudently abstained from speaking in a domineering fashion.  All the
way from Pao-Tun to Bagoung, you see nothing for ten leagues but
calcareous mountains, entirely bare and rough.  No trees are to be seen,
nor grass, nor even moss.  Below you only remark, in the fissures of the
rocks, a little verdant stone-crop, which seems to protest against the
desolate sterility around.  One of these mountains, which the Chinese
call Khou-Loung-Chan, which means the perforated mountain, presents a
very singular appearance.  You see here a great number of holes and
hollows, in infinite variety of form and size.  Some of these apertures
resemble huge doorways.  The smaller look like bells, some like round and
oval sky lights.

The mountain being in the peak form, we were not able to go and visit
these caverns.  However, we approached sufficiently near to them to be
able to judge that they are all of a considerable depth.  These numerous
cavities resulting, probably, from old volcanic eruptions, are attributed
by the Chinese to the Kouei or evil genii.  The Thibetians, on the
contrary, affirm that they were dug by the tutelary deities of the
country; that, in ancient times, some Lamas of great sanctity made them
their retreat, and that therein they were transformed into Buddha; and
that at certain periods of the year you still hear within the mountain
the murmur of Lama prayers.

In Thibet, we had never observed on our route other mountains than those
of a granitic nature, always remarkable for masses of enormous stones,
heaped upon one another, generally assuming a form originally
quadrangular, but rounded at the angles by the incessant action of the
wind and rain.  These enormous calcareous masses, which we observed on
our way to Bagoung, could not fail to fix our attention.  In fact, the
country began entirely to change its aspect.  For more than a fortnight
we saw nothing but calcareous mountains, producing a marble as white as
snow, of a fine and very close grain.  The shepherds of these regions are
in the habit of cutting from them large slabs, on which they carve the
image of Buddha, or the formula “Om mani padme houm,” and which they
afterwards place on the roadside.  These carvings remain for many years,
without being in the least defaced, for this marble having a great
quantity of silex closely intermixed with carbonate of chalk, is
extremely hard.  Before our arrival at Bagoung, we journeyed for four or
five lis, along a road bordered on both sides, by two unbroken lines of
these Buddhic inscriptions.  We saw some Lamas engraving the _mani_ on
marble slabs.

We reached the little village of Bagoung a little before nightfall, and
proceeded to dismount at a Chinese barracks, composed of a few huts built
of magnificent fragments of white marble, cemented with mud and dung.  As
soon as we arrived, they announced to us the death of the Liang-Tai,
named Pei, who had overtaken us at Tsiamdo.  It was two days before, that
his caravan had passed through Bagoung.  Having reached the barracks, the
bearers of the Mandarin, after setting down the palanquin, had opened the
curtains, as usual, to invite his excellency to enter the apartment that
had been prepared for him.  But, in the palanquin, they only found a
corpse.  In accordance with the Chinese usages, the son of the departed
could not leave the body of his father in a foreign land, but must take
it to his family, in order to deposit it in the sepulchre of his
ancestors.  Now, we were still in the heart of Thibet, and the family of
the Mandarin Pei was in the province of Tche-Kiang, altogether at the
extremity of China.  The route, as has been seen, was difficult and long;
but hesitation in the matter was out of the question: filial piety had to
surmount all obstacles.  A coffin, ready made, was, by chance, in the
guardhouse.  The son of the Mandarin bought it at a high price from the
soldiers; he deposited therein the remains of his father.  They adapted
the shafts of the palanquin to the coffin, and the carriers, in
consideration of increased pay, agreed to carry to the frontiers of
China, a dead instead of a living man.  The caravan had quitted Bagoung
the evening preceding our arrival.

The announcement of this death astonished and affected all of us.

Ly-Kouo-Ngan particularly, who was in no satisfactory state of mind, was
thunderstruck.  The fear he felt prevented him from taking any supper;
but, in the evening, another matter occurred to divert his attention from
these sad thoughts of death.  The chief of the Thibetian village came to
the guard-house, to announce to the travellers, that it had been resolved
in that country, that thereafter they would not supply the oulah
gratuitously; that for a horse, people must pay one ounce of silver, and
for a yak half an ounce.  “The caravan which passed yesterday,” added he,
“was obliged to agree to this.” . . .  To make it manifest that this
regulation would not admit of any discussion, he abruptly put his tongue
in his cheek at us, and withdrew.

A manifesto so plain and definite was a complete thunderbolt to the
Pacificator of Kingdoms.  He entirely forgot the melancholy death of the
poor Liang-Tai, in the thought of this frightful catastrophe which
threatened his purse.  We charitably participated in his affliction, and
tried, as well as we could, to conform our words to his sombre thoughts.
But, in reality, it was a matter of utter indifference to us.  If they
refused to supply us with the means of continuing our journey, we should
merely have to stay in Thibet, which, after all, was a result to which we
should without difficulty become reconciled.  Meantime, we went to bed,
and left the people of the escort to discuss politics and social economy.

The next day, when we rose, we found neither oxen nor horses in the court
of the barracks.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan was in utter despair.  “Shall we have the
oulah?” inquired we; “shall we depart to-day?”  “These barbarians,”
answered he, “do not comprehend the merit of obedience.  I have resolved
to address myself to Proul-Tamba; I have sent a deputation to him; I have
known him a long time, and I hope he will procure the oulah for us.”
This Proul-Tamba was a person of whom we had already heard a great deal.
He was at the head of the party of the young Tchaktchouba of Djaya, and
consequently the avowed enemy of Chinese influence.  He was, we were
informed, learned as the most learned Lamas of Lha-Ssa.  No one came up
to him in valour; never in battle had he experienced defeat.
Accordingly, among all the tribes of the province of Kham, his name alone
had potency, and acted like a talisman on the minds of the multitude.
Proul-Tamba was, in some measure, the Abd-el-Kader of these wild
mountaineers.

The dwelling of Proul-Tamba was distant from Bagoung not more than five
or six lis.  The deputation that had been sent to him, soon returned, and
announced that the great chief himself was coming.  This unexpected news
put in commotion the whole Thibetian village, and the soldiers.  Every
one said to every one, excitedly, “The great chief is coming, we are
going to see the great chief!”  Ly-Kouo-Ngan hastened to attire himself
in his best clothes, his silk boots, and his hat of ceremony.  The
Chinese soldiers also improved, as well as they could, their toilet.
Whilst the Thibetians ran to meet their chief, Ly-Kouo-Ngan selected from
his baggage a magnificent khata, or scarf of blessing, and then posted
himself on the threshold of the door, to receive the illustrious
Proul-Tamba.  As for us, the department we selected was to study the
physiognomies of the different parties.  The most interesting was,
doubtless, that of the Pacificator of Kingdoms.  It was curious to see
this Chinese Mandarin, generally so haughtily insolent in the presence of
Thibetians, become all at once humble and modest, and awaiting,
tremblingly, the arrival of a man whom he deemed strong and potent.

At last the great chief appeared; he was on horseback, escorted by a
guard of honour, consisting of four horsemen.  As soon as all had
dismounted, the Pacificator of Kingdoms approached Proul-Tamba, made him
a low bow, and offered him the scarf of blessing.  Proul-Tamba motioned
to one of his attendants to receive the present, and without saying a
word, quickly crossed the court, and went straight to the room prepared
for his reception, and where we awaited him with the Lama Dchiamdchang.
Proul-Tamba made us a slight bow, and sat down without ceremony, in the
place of honour, on a carpet of grey felt.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan placed himself
on his left, the Lama Dchiamdchang on his right, and we in front of him.
Between us five there was such a respectful distance, that we formed a
sort of large circle.  Some Chinese soldiers and a crowd of Thibetians
stood behind us.

There was a minute of profound silence.  The great chief Proul-Tamba was
at most forty years of age; he was of middle height, and his sole attire
was a large robe of green silk, bordered with beautiful wolf-fur, and
fastened at the waist by a red girdle.  Large purple leather boots, an
alarming fox-skin cap, and a broad, long sabre, passed through the girdle
horizontally, completed his costume.  Long hair, black as ebony, which
hung down over his shoulders, gave to his pale, thin face, a marked
expression of energy.  The eyes were, however, the most remarkable
features in the physiognomy of this man; they were large, glittering, and
seemed to breathe indomitable courage and pride.  The whole appearance
and bearing of Proul-Tamba denoted a man of real superiority, born to
command his fellows.  After having attentively looked at us, one after
the other, his hands resting one on each end of his sabre, he drew from
his bosom a packet of little khatas, and had them distributed amongst us
by one of his men.  Then turning to Ly-Kouo-Ngan: “Ah, thou art back
again,” said he, with a voice that resounded like a bell; “if they had
not told me this morning it was thee, I should not have recognised thee.
How thou hast aged since thy last visit to Bagoung.”  “Yes, thou art
right,” answered the Pacificator of Kingdoms, in soft and insinuating
tones, drawing himself along the felt carpet nearer to his interlocutor;
“yes, I am very feeble; but thou art more vigorous than ever.”  “We live
in circumstances under which it is necessary to be vigorous; there is no
longer peace in our mountains.”  “True, I heard yonder that you have had
here amongst you a little dispute.”  “For more than a year past, the
tribes of Kham have been waging a bloody war, and thou callest that a
little dispute.  Thou hast only to open thy eyes, on thy way, and thou
wilt behold, on every side, villages in ruins, and forests burnt down.
In a few days, we shall be obliged to resume our work, for no one will
hear the words of peace.  The war, indeed, might have been brought to a
conclusion after a few skirmishes; but, since you Chinese have chosen to
meddle in our affairs, the parties have become irreconcilable.  You
Chinese Mandarins are good for nothing but to bring disorder and
confusion into these countries.  It cannot go on in this way.  We have
let you alone for some time, and now your audacity knows no bounds.  I
cannot, without shuddering all over, think of that affair of the Nomekhan
of Lha-Ssa.  They pretend that the Nomekhan committed great crimes.  It
is false: these great crimes, it is you that invented them.  The Nomekhan
is a saint, a Living Buddha.  Who ever heard that a Living Buddha could
be tried and exiled by Ki-Chan, a Chinese, a layman?”  “The order came
from the Grand Emperor,” answered Ly-Kouo-Ngan, in a low and tremulous
voice.  “The Grand Emperor!” cried Proul-Tamba, turning with an angry air
to his interrupter, “thy Grand Emperor is only a layman.  What is thy
Grand Emperor compared with a Grand Lama, a Living Buddha?”  The great
chief of the province of Kham inveighed for a length of time against the
domination of the Chinese in Thibet.  He assailed in turns the Emperor,
the viceroy of Sse-Tchouen, and the ambassador of Lha-Ssa.

Throughout these energetic philippics, he frequently reverted to the
affair of the Nomekhan.  One could see that he felt a deep interest in
the fate of the Grand Lama, whom he regarded as a victim of the court of
Peking.  The Pacificator of Kingdoms took care not to contradict him; he
affected to concur in the sentiments of Proul-Tamba, and received each
proposition with an inclination of the head.  At length he hazarded a
word as to departure and the oulah.

“The oulah,” replied Proul-Tamba; “henceforth, there will be none for the
Chinese, unless they pay the price for them.  It is enough that we allow
the Chinese to penetrate into our country, without adding the folly of
furnishing them with the oulah gratuitously.  However, as thou art an old
acquaintance, we will make an exception in favour of thy caravan.
Besides, thou art conducting two Lamas of the Western Heaven, who have
been recommended to me by the chief Kalon of Lha-Ssa, and who are
entitled to my services.  Where is the Dheba of Bagoung?  Let him
advance.”

The individual who, the evening before, had come to tell us, “no more
money, no more oulah,” presented himself.  He bent his knee before the
great chief, and respectfully put his tongue in his cheek at him.  “Let
them get ready the oulah immediately,” cried Proul-Tamba, “and let every
one do his duty.”  The Thibetians, who were in the courtyard, sent forth
a simultaneous shout of submission, and ran off to the adjacent village.

Proul-Tamba rose, and after having invited us to take tea in his house,
which stood on our road, sprang on his horse, and returned home at full
gallop.  The oulah soon appeared, and the caravan found itself organised,
as it were, by magic.  After half an hour’s march, we reached the
residence of the great chief.  It was a lofty, large structure, not
unlike a stronghold of the feudal times.  A broad canal, bordered with
large trees, encircled it.  A drawbridge descended for us.  We dismounted
to cross it, and entered, through an immense gateway, a square court,
where my lord Proul-Tamba awaited us.  They tied the horses to posts
planted in the middle of the court, and we were introduced into a vast
saloon, which seemed to serve as the domestic temple, or castle chapel.
The enormous beams which supported the roof were entirely gilt.  The
walls were hung with flags of all colours, covered with Thibetian
inscriptions.  At the end of the saloon were three colossal statues of
Buddha, before which were placed large butter lamps and censers.  In a
corner of the temple, they had prepared a low table, with four thick
cushions, covered with red stuff.  Proul-Tamba graciously invited us to
take our places, and as soon as we were seated, the chatelaine made her
appearance in state costume, that is to say, with her face frightfully
daubed over with black, her copious tresses adorned with spangles, red
coral beads, and small mother-of pearl buttons.

In her right hand she carried a majestic tea-pot, the vast circumference
of which rested on her left arm.  Each of us presented his cup, which was
filled with a bumper of tea, on the surface of which floated a thick coat
of butter: the tea was of the best quality.  While we were sipping the
hot fluid, our hostess reappeared, bearing two dishes of gilt wood, the
one full of raisins, the other of nuts.  “These are fruits of our
country,” said Proul-Tamba to us; “they grow in a fine valley not far
distant.  In the Western Heaven, have you fruits of this kind?”  “Oh,
yes, plentifully; and you cannot conceive how much pleasure you give us
in presenting to us these fruits, for they recall to us our country,”
and, as we spoke, we took a handful of raisins from the gilt plate.
Unfortunately, they were only remarkable for a tough and sour skin, and
for a number of pips, which cracked under our teeth like gravel.  We
turned to the nuts, which were of a magnificent size, but were again
deceived; the kernel was so solidly fixed in its hard shell, that it was
as much as we could do to extract a few morsels with the tips of our
nails.  We returned to the raisins, then again to the nuts, travelling
from one plate to the other in search, but vainly, of something wherewith
to quiet the gnawings of our stomach.  We were growing convinced that
Mrs. Proul-Tamba had resolved to play us a trick, when we saw two
vigorous Thibetians approach, carrying another table, on which was a
whole kid, and a superb haunch of venison.  This unexpected apparition
gladdened our hearts, and an involuntary smile must have announced to our
Amphitryon how favourably his second service was received.  They removed
the skins of raisins and the nut shells; Thibetian beer took the place of
the buttered tea, and we set to work with incomparable energy.  When we
had triumphantly achieved this Homeric repast, we offered to the grand
chief a scarf of blessing, and remounted our horses.  Not far from the
feudal castle of the illustrious Proul-Tamba, we came to a calcareous
hill, with great apertures on its summit, and on its rugged sides
numerous Buddhic sentences cut in gigantic characters.  All the
Thibetians stopped, and prostrated themselves thrice to the ground.  This
mountain was the retreat of a hermit Lama, for whom all the tribes of the
province of Kham entertained profound veneration.  According to the
statement of the natives, this holy Lama had withdrawn, twenty-two years
before, to one of the caverns of the mountain; since that time, he had
remained in it, without quitting it once, passing day and night in
prayer, and in the contemplation of the ten thousand virtues of Buddha.
He allowed no one to visit him.  Every three years, however, he gave a
grand audience of eight days, and, during that period, the devout might
present themselves freely at his cell, and consult him about things past,
present, and to come.  At this time, large offerings failed not to pour
in from every quarter: the sainted Lama kept none for himself, but
distributed them among the poor of the district.  What did he want with
riches and the good things of this world?  His cell, dug out of the
living rock, never required the least repair; his yellow robe, lined with
sheepskin, served him alike in all seasons of the year.  On every sixth
day only did he take a repast, consisting of a little tea and
barley-meal, which charitable persons in the vicinity passed to him by
means of a long cord, which descended from the top of the grotto to the
foot of the mountain.  Several Lamas had placed themselves under the
direction of this hermit, and had resolved to adopt his manner of life.
They dwelt in cells, dug near that of their master.  The most celebrated
of his disciples was the father of the great Proul-Tamba.  He, also, had
been a famous warrior, and ever at the head of the people of this
country.  Having reached an advanced age, and seeing his son capable of
being his successor, he had conferred on him the title of Grand Chief.
Then shaving his head, and assuming the sacred habit of the Lamas, he had
retired into solitude, leaving to younger and more vigorous hands the
charge of terminating the contest which had commenced between the two
Houtouktous of the province of Kham.

                  [Picture: The Hermit of the Mountain]

The sun had not set when we reached the station of Wang-Tsa, fifty lis
from Bagoung.  Wang-Tsa is a small village built at the foot of a hill of
black loam, covered with thickets of holly and cypress.  The houses,
built of the black soil, communicate to the village an extremely sombre
and funereal aspect.  At Wang-Tsa, we began to observe traces of the
civil war, which was laying waste these countries.  The Chinese barracks,
built of large fir planks, had been entirely burnt; its remains, half
charred, which lay about, served throughout the evening to keep up a
magnificent fire.  Upon setting out next morning, we observed a singular
alteration in the caravan.  The horses and oxen were the same that we had
taken from Bagoung, but all the Thibetian guides had vanished; not one of
them remained: women of Wang-Tsa had taken their place.  Upon inquiring
the meaning of this new and surprising arrangement: “To-day,” answered
the Lama Dchiamdchang, “we shall reach Gaya, which is a hostile village.
If the Bagoung men went there, there would inevitably be a fight, and the
inhabitants of Gaya would seize the animals of the caravan.  The oulah
being conducted by women, we have nothing to fear.  Men, who would have
the cowardice to fight with women, and take the animals confided to their
care, would be despised by the whole world.  Such is the usage of these
countries.”  We were not a little surprised to find, among the wild
mountains of Thibet, sentiments so like those of our own country.  This
was pure French chivalry.  We were eager to see in what courteous and
gallant fashion the ladies of Wang-Tsa would be received by the gentlemen
of Gaya.

After passing a lofty mountain, covered with large masses of rock, partly
buried in old layers of snow, we entered a valley thoroughly cultivated,
and of a mild temperature.  We perceived in the distance, in a hollow,
the houses of Gaya.  They were high, flanked with watch-towers, and not
unlike castles.  When we were some hundred paces from this large village,
there issued from it all at once a formidable squadron of cavalry, who
dashed forward to meet the caravan.  The horsemen, armed with fusils and
long lances, seemed quite disposed for a skirmish.  Their martial humour,
however, vanished, when they perceived that the caravan was conducted by
women; and they contented themselves with hearty shouts of laughter, and
with expressions of contempt at the cowardice of their foes.  As we
entered Gaya, men, women, and children, were all in motion, and sending
forth cries, that seemed to us anything but amicable.  No mischance,
however, occurred.  We dismounted in the court of a large three-storied
house, and as soon as they had unsaddled the horses, and unyoked the
long-haired oxen, the ladies of Wang-Tsa drank hastily a cup of buttered
tea, which was courteously handed round to each, and immediately returned
with their oulah.

We found at Gaya a tolerably comfortable lodging, but we did not know on
what conditions we should proceed.  The important question of the oulah
occupied every one’s mind, yet no one ventured to put the question
openly, and we went to bed, leaving the consideration of serious matters
to the morrow.

It was scarce day when the court of the house where we lodged was filled
with a crowd of Thibetians, who had come to deliberate on the degree in
which they should tax our caravan.  From a second-floor balcony, we could
enjoy at our leisure the singular spectacle which this council presented.
Of the immense multitude, there was not an individual who was not an
orator; everybody spoke at once; and, judging from the sounding altitude
of the voices, and the impetuous animation of the gestures, there must
certainly have been some very fine speeches there.  Some orators mounted
upon the luggage that was piled in the court, and made of it a pulpit,
whence they overlooked the multitude.  Sometimes it seemed that the
eloquence of words was insufficient to convey conviction to the minds of
the audience, for the disputants would fight and pull each other’s hair,
and beat each other without mercy, until an orator of superior influence
came and called the honourable members to order.  This calm, however,
would not be of long duration; the tumult and disorder would soon
recommence with increased vigour.  The thing became so serious, that we
were convinced these people would end with drawing their sabres, and
massacring each other.  We were mistaken.  After the assembly had
vociferated, gesticulated, and manipulated for more than an hour, there
was a great shout of laughter; the council rose, and everybody withdrew
perfectly calm.  Two deputies then ascended to the second-floor, where
the staff of the caravan lodged; and informed Ly-Kouo-Ngan, that the
chiefs of the family of Gaya, after deliberating on the organisation of
the oulah, had decided that they would furnish gratuitously animals for
the two Lamas of the Western Heaven, and for the Thibetians of Lha-Ssa;
but that the Chinese must pay half-an-ounce of silver for a horse, and a
quarter for a long-haired ox.  At this intimation, Ly-Kouo-Ngan collected
his strength, and inveighed with energy against what he called a tyranny,
an injustice.  The Chinese soldiers of the caravan, who were present,
co-operated with loud cries and menaces, for the purpose of intimidating
the delegates of the national assembly of Gaya; but the latter preserved
an attitude deliciously haughty and contemptuous.  One of them advanced a
step, placed, with a sort of wild dignity, his right hand on the shoulder
of Ly-Kouo-Ngan, and after piercing him with his great black eyes, shaded
with thick eyebrows, “Man of China,” said he, “listen to me; dost thou
think that with an inhabitant of the valley of Gaya, there is much
difference between cutting off the head of a Chinese and that of a goat?
Tell thy soldiers, then, not to be too fierce, and not to talk big words.
Who ever saw the fox that could terrify the terrible yak of the
mountains?  The oulah will be ready presently; if you do not take it, and
go to-day, to-morrow the price will be doubled.”  The Chinese perceiving
that violence would only involve disagreeable results, had recourse to
cajolery, but to no purpose.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan found no resource except that
of opening his strong-box, and weighing out the required sum.  The oulah
soon arrived, and we occupied ourselves busily with the organisation of
the caravan, in order to leave as soon as possible this village of Gaya,
which the Chinese deemed barbarous and inhabitable, but which seemed to
us extremely picturesque.

From Gaya to Angti, where we were to change the oulah, was only a short
stage of thirty lis.  The Chinese were in despair at having been obliged
to spend so much money to effect so short a distance; but they had only
come to the commencement of their miseries; for we were destined to meet
with Thibetian tribes, still less tractable than those of Gaya.

The snow, which had given us a few days’ respite since our departure from
Tsiamdo, again assailed us on the very evening of our arrival at Angti.
During the night, and the following day, it fell in such abundance that
we were unable to go out without having it up to our knees.  As a climax
of misfortune, we had, on leaving Angti, to ascend one of the rugged and
most dangerous mountains on this route.  The Chinese Itinerary thus
describes it: “At Angti, you cross a great snow-clad mountain; the road
is very steep; the accumulated snows resemble a silvery vapour.  The fog
which the mountain exhales penetrates the body, and makes the Chinese
ill.”

According to a popular tradition of the country, in the olden time, a
chief of the tribe of Angti, a famous warrior, held in awe by all his
neighbours, was buried under an avalanche one day when he was crossing
the mountain.  All the efforts to recover his body were fruitless.  A
holy Lama of the period, having declared that the chief had become the
genius of the mountain, they raised a temple to him, which still exists,
and where travellers never fail to burn a few incense sticks, before
proceeding on their way.  In tempests, when the wind blows with violence,
the genius of Mount Angti never fails to appear; there is no one about
who has not seen him several times.  He is always seen mounted upon a red
horse, clothed in large white robes, and quietly sauntering upon the
crest of the mountain.  If he meets any traveller, he takes him on his
crupper, and vanishes forthwith at full gallop.  The red horse being so
light that he leaves no trace, even on the snow, no one, to this day, has
been able to discover the retreat of the White Knight, for so they call
him in the country.

As to us, we were not much concerned about the red horse and the white
knight.  What we feared, was the mountain itself.  We could not help
shuddering at the sight of the frightful quantity of snow which had
fallen, and which would render the road extremely dangerous.  We were
obliged to await the return of fine weather, and then to send, as we had
before done under similar circumstances, a herd of long-haired oxen to
trample down the snow, and trace out a path over the mountain.

We stayed five days at Angti.  Ly-Kouo-Ngan took advantage of this long
halt to doctor his legs, the malady in which assumed every day a more
alarming character.  The question of the oulah, long discussed in several
assemblies, was resolved, at last, in the same way as at Gaya; a result
which did not fail greatly to annoy the Chinese, and to elicit from them
infinite clamour.

What we found most remarkable at Angti was, certainly, the Dheba, or
chief of the tribe.  This individual, named Bomba, was at most three feet
high; the sabre which he carried in his girdle was, at least, twice his
own length; notwithstanding this, the man had a magnificent chest, and a
face, broad, energetic in its expression, and beautifully regular in its
features.  The exiguity of his stature arose from an entire abortion of
the legs, which, however, did not in the least affect his feet; nor did
the almost total absence of legs prevent the chief of the tribe of Angti
from being surprisingly active.  He was always running about with as much
agility as the longest legged of his people; he could not, indeed, make
very extended strides, but he compensated for this by the rapidity of his
movements.  By dint of working about right and left, skipping and
jumping, he always arrived as soon as any one else; he was, they said,
the most expert horseman, and the most intrepid warrior of the tribe.
When they had once hoisted him on his horse, where he held on, at once
standing and seated, he was invincible.  In the popular assemblies, which
the mountaineers of these regions are in the habit of holding very
frequently, and always in the open air, to discuss all questions of
public and private interest, the chief Bomba always made himself
remarkable by the ascendancy of his eloquence and his resolute character.
When they were discussing at Angti the tax on the oulah, no one was seen,
no one heard, but the astonishing Bomba.  Perched on the shoulders of a
big, tall Thibetian, he pervaded, like a giant, the tumultuous assembly,
and dominated it, by word and gesture, still more than by his factitious
stature.

The chief of Angti omitted no opportunity of giving us special proofs of
kindness and sympathy.  One day, he invited us to dine with him.  This
invitation served the double end of exercising towards us the duty of
hospitality, and, in the next place, of piquing the jealousy of the
Chinese, whom he hated and despised with all his soul.  After dinner,
which offered nothing remarkable but a profusion of uncooked and boiled
meat, and tea richly saturated with butter, he asked us to go and see a
saloon full of pictures and armour of every description.  The pictures
which lined the walls consisted of portraits, rudely coloured,
representing the most illustrious ancestors of the family of Bomba.  We
observed there, a numerous collection of Lamas of every age and dignity,
and some warriors in war costume.  The arms were numerous, and in great
variety.  There were lances, arrows, two-edged sabres, spiral and
scythe-shaped; tridents; long sticks with large iron rings, and
matchlocks, the stocks of which were of most singular shapes.  The
defensive arms were round bucklers of the hide of the wild yak,
ornamented with red copper nails; armlets and greaves of copper, and
coats of mail of iron wire, of a thick and close web, but,
notwithstanding, very elastic.  The chief Bomba told us that these coats
of mail were the armour of very ancient times, which had been put aside
since the use of the gun had become general in their country.  The
Thibetians, as we have said, are too indifferent in matters of
chronology, to be able to assign the time when they began to make use of
fire-arms.  It may be presumed, however, that they were not acquainted
with gunpowder until towards the thirteenth century, in the time of the
wars of Tchingghiskhan, who had, as we know, artillery in his army.  A
rather remarkable circumstance is, that in the mountains of Thibet, as
well as in the Chinese empire and the plains of Tartary, there is no one
but knows how to make powder.  Every family makes it for its own use.  In
passing through the province of Kham, we often remarked women and
children busily employed in pounding coal, sulphur, and saltpetre.  The
powder thus made is certainly not so good as that of Europe, yet, when it
is put in a fusil, with a ball upon it, it is sufficiently potent to
project the ball, and make it kill stags in hunting, and men in battle.

After five days’ repose, we resumed our route.  Immediately at the
outset, the caravan began to ascend the lofty mountain of Angti.  We met
neither red horse nor white knight, and no genius took us on his crupper,
to bear us away to his solitary abode.  On every side, we saw only snow,
but that snow was so abundant that even on the most noted mountains, we
had never found so frightful a quantity.  Frequently the guides, mounted
upon long-haired oxen, entirely disappeared in gulfs, from which they
could only disengage themselves with great difficulty.  More than once we
were on the point of retracing our steps, and giving up all hopes of
reaching the summit.

The small Sinico-Thibetian caravan that had joined us at Tsiamdo, and
that had never left us since, presented a spectacle worthy of the utmost
compassion.  We forgot, in some degree, our own sufferings, when we saw
these poor little creatures almost at every step buried in the snow, and
with hardly strength enough to cry.  We admired the intrepid energy of
the Thibetian mother, who, so to speak, multiplied herself, in order to
rush to the assistance of her numerous offspring, and who derived, from
maternal tenderness, superhuman strength.

The mountain of Angti is so lofty and steep, that it took us the whole
day to ascend and descend it.  The sun had already set when we managed to
roll to the bottom.  We halted a few minutes, under some black tents
inhabited by nomad shepherds, swallowed a few handsful of tsamba, diluted
with brackish tea, and then resumed our route along a rocky valley where
the snow was all melted.  We followed for two hours, in utter darkness,
the steep banks of a river, of which we heard the waters without seeing
them.  Every instant we trembled lest we should be precipitated into it;
but the animals, which knew the road, and which we left to their
instinct, conducted us safely to Djaya.

Our arrival in the middle of the night put all the town in commotion.
The dogs, by their fierce barking, gave the alarm.  Soon after, the doors
of the houses were opened, and the inhabitants of the town rushed out in
a crowd into the streets, with horn lanterns, torches, and weapons of
every description, the general impression being that there was an
invasion of the enemy.  However, when they observed the peaceful and even
timid bearing of the caravan, their apprehensions were quieted, and each
person returned home.  It was past midnight before we were able to get to
sleep, having previously resolved to stay a day at Djaya, with a view to
take a few hours’ rest after crossing the famous mountain of Angti,—not
more than was necessary.

Djaya is, as we have stated already, the residence of the young Lama
Houtouktou, who at the time was warring with the Houtouktou of Tsiamdo.
The town, situated in a beautiful valley, is tolerably large; but, at the
time we passed through it, it was half in ruins; scarce twenty days had
elapsed since it had been attacked by the partisans of the Grand
Houtouktou.  The two parties, we were informed, had had terrific combats,
wherein on both sides the victims had been numerous.  In passing through
the town, we found whole quarters laid waste by fire; nothing remained
but enormous heaps of calcined stones, and woodwork reduced to ashes.
All the trees of the valley had been cut down, and the trampling of
horses had utterly laid waste the cultivated fields.  The celebrated
Lamasery of Djaya was deserted, the cells of the Lamas and the wall, for
more than 400 yards in circuit, which surrounded them, had been
demolished, and presented nothing but a terrible mass of ruins.  The
assailants had only respected the principal temples of Buddha.

The Chinese government keeps at Djaya a small garrison, composed of
twenty soldiers, commanded by a Tsien-Tsoung and a Pa-Tsoung.  These
military gentlemen wore anything but a satisfied aspect.  They seemed to
be very indifferently pleased in this country, a prey to all the horrors
of civil war.  The warlike attitude of the mountaineers left them no
rest, day or night.  It was in vain they tried to preserve neutrality, or
rather to have the appearance of belonging to both parties; they none the
less found themselves constantly between two fires.  It would appear,
indeed, that Djaya has never furnished to the Chinese an easy and
agreeable residence.  At all times, Chinese domination has met with
invincible resistance from the fierce tribes around it.  The Chinese
Itinerary, which was written in the reign of the Emperor Kien-Long,
expresses itself thus concerning these countries: “The Thibetians, who
inhabit the district of Djaya, are of a haughty and fierce character; all
attempts to subdue them have been fruitless, they are considered very
ferocious; it is their natural character.”  What the Chinese writer calls
“fierce character,” is nothing more in reality than ardent patriotism,
and a very just hatred of a foreign yoke.

A day’s rest having sufficiently repaired our strength, we quitted Djaya.
It is unnecessary to add that the Chinese were obliged to pay, and in
ready money, for the hire of the oulah.  The Thibetians of the country
were too ferocious to furnish us gratuitously with oxen and horses.  We
travelled for two days, through a country extremely low, where we
frequently found small villages and black tents grouped in the valleys.
We were often obliged to traverse wooden bridges, in order to cross
sometimes calm and quiet streams, and at other times torrents, the
impetuous waters of which rolled on with a terrible noise.  Shortly
before our arrival at the station of Adzou-Thang, we overtook the party
which was accompanying the coffin of the deceased Liang-Tai to Bagoung.
The son also had just died in a black tent, after a few hours’ frightful
agony.  The caravan, having no chief, was in a complete state of
disorganisation; most of the soldiers of the escort had dispersed, after
pillaging the baggage of their Mandarin; three only had remained, who
were devising the best means of effecting the conveying of the two bodies
to China.  They despaired of being able to continue their journey in so
small a number; so that the arrival of our caravan extricated them from a
great difficulty.  The conveyance of the father’s body had been arranged
at Bagoung; that of the son remained unsettled.  The carriers of his
palanquin had refused to undertake the carriage, for they foresaw that
there would not be money enough to pay them for their trouble.  To place
the coffin on an ox was impracticable; there was no inducing a Thibetian
guide to allow one of their animals to carry a corpse, much less the
corpse of a Chinese.  We were obliged to have recourse to stratagem.  The
body of the last deceased Mandarin was secretly cut into four pieces, and
then packed in a box, which we put among the general luggage, making the
Thibetians believe that in honour of filial piety, the body of the son
had been laid beside that of his father, in the same coffin.

The two corpses, that had become our fellow-travellers, communicated to
the caravan a mournful aspect, which had great influence upon the Chinese
imagination.  Ly, the pacificator of kingdoms, whose strength decreased
daily, was particularly alarmed by the circumstance; he would fain have
removed the sad spectacle, but this he could not effect without exposing
himself to the terrible accusation of having impeded the sepulture of two
Mandarins, who had died in a foreign country.

From Adzou-Thang, we went on to sleep and change oulah in a small village
of the valley of Che-Pan-Keou (Valley of Slates).  According to the
testimony of the Chinese Itinerary, the inhabitants of this valley are a
rude, wicked, and obstinate people; that is to say, in other words, they
do not fear the Chinese, and are in the habit of making them pay a good
price for the yaks and horses with which they furnish them.

The valley of Che-Pan-Keou, as its name indicates, abounds in quarries of
argillaceous schist.  The Thibetians of these countries raise from them
beautiful slate, which they use in tiling their houses; they also raise
very thick pieces, upon which they engrave images of Buddha with the
form, “Om mane padme houm.”  This slate is of very fine texture.  The
small portions of mica or talc which they contain, give them a brilliant
and silky lustre.

The stream which flows through the centre of the valley, contains a large
quantity of gold dust, which the natives do not neglect to collect and
refine.  As we walked along the stream, we found fragments of crucibles,
to which were still attached a few particles of gold; we showed them to
the Pacificator of Kingdoms, and this sight seemed to reanimate his
strength, and to renew the bonds which attached him to life.  The blood
suddenly rushed into his face, his eyes, which had been almost extinct,
shone with an unwonted fire.  One would have said that the sight of a few
grains of gold had made him completely forget both his malady and the two
corpses which accompanied him.

Musk deer abound in this schistous valley.  Although that animal,
addicted to cold climates, is met with on almost all the mountains of
Thibet, nowhere, perhaps, is it seen in such large numbers as in the
neighbourhood of Che-Pan-Keou.  The pines, cedars, hollies, and
cypresses, which cover this country, contribute, no doubt, a good deal to
attract these animals thither, peculiarly fond, as they are, of the roots
of these trees, which have a strong aromatic perfume.

The musk deer is of the height of a goat; it has a small head; its nose
is pointed, and ornamented with long white mustachios; its legs are
small, its haunches large and thick; two long crooked teeth, which grow
out of the upper jaw, enable it to tear up from the ground the
odoriferous roots, upon which it subsists; its hair is generally from two
to three inches long, and is hollow, like that of almost all the animals
which live north of the Himalaya mountains; extremely rough, and always
bristling; its colour is black below, white in the middle, and inclining
to grey above.  A bladder, suspended from the belly, near the navel,
contains the precious substance, the musk.

The inhabitants of the schistous valley capture in the chase such a
number of these musk deer, that you see nothing in their houses but the
skins of these animals, hung on the walls by pegs.  They use the hair to
stuff the thick cushions, on which they sit during the day, and the sort
of mattress which serves them for a bed; they have in the musk the source
of a very lucrative trade with the Chinese.

The day after our arrival at Che-Pan-Keou, we bade farewell to the
inhabitants of the valley, and proceeded on our way.  At the three next
stations, they were quite inexorable on the question of the oulah.  The
Chinese were disgusted at the behaviour of these rude mountaineers, who,
as they said, did not comprehend hospitality, and had no notion of what
was right and what was wrong.  As to us, on the contrary, we sympathized
with these men and their rude, spirited temperament; their manners, it is
true, were not refined, but their natural disposition was generosity and
frankness itself, and in our eyes matter was of more moment than manner.
At length we reached Kiang-Tsa, and the Chinese now began to breathe more
freely, for we were entering upon a less hostile district.  Kiang-Tsa is
a very fertile valley, the inhabitants of which seem to live in plenty.
We remarked among them, besides the soldiers of the garrison, a great
number of Chinese from the provinces of Sse-Tchouen and Yun-Nan, who keep
a few shops and exercise the primary arts and trades.  A few years, they
say, enable them, in this country, to amass a tolerably large fortune.
The two military Mandarins of Kiang-Tsa, who had been companions in arms
of Ly-Kouo-Ngan, were alarmed at the deplorable state in which they found
him, and advised him strongly to continue his journey in a palanquin.  We
joined our entreaties to theirs, and we were fortunate enough to triumph
over the avarice of the Pacificator of Kingdoms.  He appeared at last to
comprehend that a dead man had no need of money, and that first of all he
should see to the saving of his life.  The son of the Mandarin Pei seemed
to have died just in the nick of time for placing at Ly-Kouo-Ngan’s
disposal, his palanquin and his eight Chinese bearers, all of whom were
at Kiang-Tsa.  We halted for one day to repair the palanquin and to give
the bearers time to prepare their travelling sandals.

The countries which we passed to the south of Kiang-Tsa, seemed to us
less cold and less barren than those we had journeyed through previously.
The ground perceptibly declined; we were still, indeed, completely
surrounded by mountains, but they gradually lost their savage and
mournful aspect.  We no longer saw those threatening forms, those
gigantic masses of granite with sharp and perpendicular declivities.
High grass and forests showed themselves on every side, cattle became
more numerous, and everything announced that we were rapidly advancing
towards more temperate climes; only the tops of the mountains still
preserved their crowns of snow and ice.

Four days after our departure from Kiang-Tsa, we reached the banks of the
Kin-Cha-Kiang (River of Gold-dust), which we had already crossed on the
ice with the Thibetian ambassador, two months before our arrival at
Lha-Ssa.  Amid the beautiful plains of China, this magnificent river
rolls on its blue waves with an imposing majesty; but among the mountains
of Thibet, it is ever bounding about, throwing the great mass of its
waters to the bottom of gorges and valleys, with terrible impetuosity and
noise.  At the spot where we came to the river, it was enclosed between
two mountains, the sharp flanks of which, rising perpendicularly on its
banks, made for it a narrow but extremely deep bed; the waters ran
rapidly, sending forth a low and lugubrious sound.  From time to time, we
saw huge masses of ice approach, which, after having whirled round in a
thousand eddies, at last were dashed to pieces against the sharp
projections of the mountain.

We followed the right bank of the Kin-Cha-Kiang for half a day.  Towards
noon, we reached a small village, where we found everything prepared
beforehand for crossing the river.  The caravan divided itself among four
flat boats, and, in a little while, we were on the opposite bank.  Near
it, at the entrance to a narrow valley, was the station of
Tchon-Pa-Loung.  The Dheba of the place furnished us, by way of supper,
with some excellent fresh fish; and, for sleeping, with a very snug
wind-tight chamber, and thick mattresses stuffed with the hair of the
musk deer.

Next day we travelled along a small river, which subsequently joins the
River of Gold-dust.  Our hearts were lighter than usual, for we had been
told that we should arrive the same day in a charming country.  As we
went along, we accordingly looked first on one side and then on the
other, with an uneasy curiosity; from time to time we rose on our
stirrups in order to see further; but the landscape was a long time
before it became poetical.  On our left we had still the aforesaid river,
prosaically running over great stones, and on our right a large red
mountain, dismal, bare, and cut up in all directions by deep ravines;
masses of white clouds, driven onward by a cutting wind, flitted over the
sides of the mountain, and formed, ahead of us, a sombre horizon of mist.

Towards midday, the caravan halted at some ruins, to drink a cup of tea
and eat a handful of tsamba; we then clambered to the top of the red
mountain, and from the height of this great observatory, admired on our
right the magnificent, the enchanting plain of Bathang. {292}  We found
ourselves, all at once transported, as it were by magic, into the
presence of a country which offered to our view all the wonders of the
richest and most varied vegetation.  The contrast, above all, was
striking.  On one side, a sombre, barren, mountainous region, almost
throughout a desert; on the other, on the contrary, a joyous plain, where
numerous inhabitants occupied themselves in fertile fields, in the
labours of agriculture.  The Chinese Itinerary says, “The canton of
Bathang is a beautiful plain, a thousand lis in length, well watered by
streams and springs; the sky there is clear, the climate pleasant, and
everything gladdens the heart and the eyes of man.”  We quickly descended
the mountain, and continued our journey in a real garden, amid flowering
trees and verdant rice fields.  A delicious warmth gradually penetrated
our limbs, and we soon felt our furred dresses oppressive; it was nearly
two years since we had perspired, and it seemed very odd to be warm
without being before a good fire.

Near the town of Bathang, the soldiers of the garrison were drawn up in
line, to do military honours to the Pacificator of Kingdoms, who, perched
up, at the bottom of his palanquin, went through the ranks in a very
unwarlike manner.  The Thibetian population, who were all on foot,
accompanied the caravan to a beautiful Chinese pagoda which was to serve
for our lodging.  The same evening, the Mandarins of the Chinese garrison
and the Grand Lamas of the town, came to pay us a visit, and to offer us
some beef and mutton, butter, corn, candles, bacon, rice, nuts, raisins,
apricots, and other products of the country.

At Bathang, there is a magazine of provisions, the fourth from Lha-Ssa;
it is, like all the others, managed by a literary Mandarin, bearing the
title of Liang-Tai.  The Chinese garrison, consisting of three hundred
soldiers, is commanded by a Cheou-Pei, two Tsien-Tsoung, and a Pa-Tsoung.
The annual maintenance of the Chinese troops, who belong to this post,
amounts to nine thousand ounces of silver, without reckoning the rations
of rice and tsamba.  We observed, among the population of Bathang, a very
great number of Chinese; they are engaged in various arts and trades;
several of them, indeed, occupy themselves with agriculture, and make the
most of the Thibetian farms.  This plain, which you find, as by
enchantment, amid the mountains of Thibet, is wonderfully fertile: it
produces two harvests each year.  Its principal products are, rice,
maize, barley, wheat, peas, cabbages, turnips, onions, and several other
varieties of vegetable.  Of fruits, you find grapes, pomegranates,
peaches, apricots, and water melons.  Honey is also very abundant there.
Lastly, you find there mines of cinnabar (sulphur of mercury), from which
they extract a large quantity of mercury.  The Thibetians get the mercury
in all its purity, by disengaging the sulphur by combustion, or by
combining it with slack-lime.

The town of Bathang is large and very populous, and its inhabitants seem
to be well off.  The Lamas there are very numerous, as they are in all
the Thibetian towns.  The principal Lamasery, which they call the Grand
Monastery of Ba, has for its superior a Khampo, who holds his spiritual
authority from the Talé-Lama of Lha-Ssa.

The temporal power of the Talé-Lama ends at Bathang.  The frontiers of
Thibet, properly so called, were fixed in 1726, on the termination of a
great war between the Thibetians and the Chinese.  Two days before you
arrive at Bathang, you pass, on the top of the Mang-Ling mountain, a
stone monument, showing what was arranged at that time between the
government of Lha-Ssa and that of Peking, on the subject of boundaries.
At present, the countries situate east of Bathang are independent of
Lha-Ssa in temporal matters.  They are governed by the Tou-Sse, a sort of
feudal princes, originally appointed by the Chinese Emperor, and still
acknowledging his paramount authority.

These petty sovereigns are bound to go every third year to Peking, to
offer their tribute to the Emperor.

We halted at Bathang three days, the illness of our guide Ly-Kouo-Ngan,
being the cause of this delay.  The daily fatigues of this long journey
had so overpowered the poor Mandarin, that he was in an almost hopeless
state.  His best plan was to take advantage of the fine climate of
Bathang, and to let the caravan proceed on its way.  His friends advised
him to do so, but without success.  He insisted upon continuing his
journey, and sought, in every way, to deceive himself as to the serious
nature of his malady.  As for us, we considered his case so dangerous,
that we felt it our duty to profit by the repose we enjoyed at Bathang,
to talk seriously to him on the subject of his soul and of eternity.  Our
previous conversations on the way had already sufficiently enlightened
him as to the principal truths of Christianity.  Nothing now remained but
to make him clearly perceive his position, and to convince him of the
urgency of entering frankly and fully into the path of salvation.
Ly-Kouo-Ngan altogether concurred with us, admitting our observations to
be replete with reason.  He himself spoke with great eloquence on the
frailty and brevity of human life, of worldly vanities, of the
impenetrability of God’s decrees, of the importance of salvation, of the
truth of the Christian religion, and of the obligation on all mankind to
embrace it.  He said to us, on all these subjects, some very sensible and
very touching things; but when it came to the point, to the practical
result, to the declaring himself Christian, there was a dead stand; he
must absolutely wait till he had returned to his family, and had
abdicated his mandarinate.  It was in vain that we represented to him the
danger he incurred by postponing this important matter; all was useless.
“So long as I am a Mandarin of the Emperor,” said he, “I cannot serve the
Lord of Heaven,” and he had got this absurd idea so deep in his brain,
that it was impracticable to dislodge it.

On leaving the station of Bathang, we were obliged to turn for some
distance, quite northwards, in order to resume an eastern direction; for
since our departure from Tsiamdo, we had continually progressed towards
the south during twenty consecutive days.  The caravans are compelled to
lengthen this route considerably, in order to reach a secure passage
across the great river Kin-Cha-Kiang.

Our first day’s march from Bathang was full of charms, for we travelled,
in a delightful temperature, through a country of an infinite variety of
landscape.  The narrow path we followed was throughout bordered with
willows and apricot trees in flower.  Next day, however, we again found
ourselves amid all the horrors and dangers of our old route.  We had to
ascend a very high mountain, upon which we were mercilessly assailed by
the snow and the north wind.  It was a complete reaction against the
Sybaritism we had enjoyed in the warm and flowery plain of Bathang.  At
the foot of the mountain, the snow was succeeded by torrents of cold
rain, which seemed to filter through into the very marrow of our bones.
As a climax of misfortune, we were obliged to pass the night in a
habitation, the roof of which, cracked in several places, gave free
passage to the wind and rain.  We were, however, so exhausted with
fatigue that this did not prevent our sleeping.  The next day we awoke in
the mire; we found our bedclothes entirely soaked, and our limbs stiff
with cold.  We were obliged to rub ourselves violently with pieces of
ice, in order to restore circulation to the blood.  The abominable
village, which afforded us this horrible lodging, bears the name of
Ta-So.  On emerging from the valley of Ta-So, you ascend, by a narrow
gorge, an elevated plain, which we found covered with snow.  Here, we
entered a magnificent forest, the finest we had seen in the mountains of
Thibet.  The pines, cedars, and hollies entwined their vigorous branches,
and formed a dome of verdure impenetrable to the sun, and under which
there is much better protection from the rain and snow than in the houses
of Ta-So.  The trunks and branches of these large trees are covered with
thick moss, which extends in long and extremely delicate filaments.  When
this stringy moss is new, it is of a beautiful green hue; but when it is
old, it is black, and bears an exact resemblance to long tufts of dirty
and ill-combed hair.  There is nothing more grotesque or fantastic than
the appearance of these old pines, with this very long hair suspended
from their branches.  The prickly holly that grows on the mountains of
Thibet, is remarkable for the extraordinary development it attains.  In
Europe, it never exceeds the size of a shrub, but here, it always grows
to the size of a large tree.  If it does not rise as high as the pine, it
equals it in the size of its trunk, and it is even superior to it in the
richness and abundance of its foliage.

This day’s march was long and fatiguing.  The night had set in when we
reached the station of Samba, where we were to change the oulah.  We were
just going to bed, when we missed a Thibetian, belonging to the escort,
precisely the very man who had been assigned as our servant.  We sought
him, but without success, in every corner of the small village in which
we had arrived.  We concluded he had lost his way in the forest.  We at
first thought of sending in search of him, but in so dark a night, how
could one possibly find a man in that vast and thick forest?  We
contented ourselves with going in a body to a neighbouring hill, where we
shouted, and lit a large fire.  Towards midnight, the lost man
reappeared, almost dead with fatigue.  He carried on his back the saddle
of his horse, which, no doubt, finding the journey too long, had thought
fit to lie down in the midst of the forest, and it had been impossible to
get him up again.  The return of this poor young man filled every one
with joy, and we all then went to rest.

The next day, we rose late.  Whilst the inhabitants of Samba were
bringing the horses and the beasts of burden to form the caravan, we went
for a little walk, and to have a view of the place, which we had reached
over night.  The village of Samba is a collection of thirty small houses,
built of large flint stones, rudely cemented, some with argols, others
with mud.  The aspect of the village is mournful, but the environs are
tolerably cheerful.  Two streams, one coming from the west, the other
from the south, join near the village, and form a river, the transparent
waters of which flow over a vast prairie.  A small wooden bridge, painted
red, herds of goats and long-haired cattle, which sported amid the
pastures, some storks and wild ducks, fishing for their breakfast on the
banks of the water, a few gigantic cypresses here and there, even the
smoke which rose from the Thibetian cottages, and which the wind gently
wafted over the adjacent hills, all contributed to give life and charm to
the landscape.  The sky was clear and serene.  Already the sun, having
risen a little above the horizon, promised us a fine day, and a mild
temperature.

We returned to our lodgings, walking slowly.  The caravan was ready, and
on the point of departure; the beasts were laden with their burdens; the
horsemen, their robes tucked up, and whip in hand, were ready to mount.
“We are behind hand,” said we, “let us make haste,” and at a run we were
in our places.  “Why are you in such a hurry?” said a Chinese soldier,
“Ly-Kouo-Ngan is not ready; he has not yet opened the door of his room.”
“To-day,” answered we, “there is no great mountain a-head; the weather is
fine: there is no objection to our starting a little later; go, however,
and tell the Mandarin that the caravan is ready.”  The soldier pushed
open the door, and entered the chamber of Ly-Kouo-Ngan; he rushed out
again pale and with haggard eyes.  “Ly-Kouo-Ngan is dead!” said he to us,
in a low tone.  We rushed into the room, and saw the unfortunate
Mandarin, stretched on his bed, his mouth open, his teeth clenched, and
his eyes shrunk up by death.  We placed our hands on his heart, which
gently moved.  He had yet a spark of life in him, but hope was vain; the
dying man had altogether lost the use of senses; there was another rattle
or two in his throat, and he expired.  The humours with which his legs
were swollen, had gone up to his chest, and suffocated him.

The death of our guide had not been unexpected; there was nothing in it
to surprise us, but it occurred in such a sudden, melancholy manner, that
every one of us was greatly agitated.  As for ourselves, in particular,
we were afflicted at it beyond all expression.  We bitterly regretted
that it had not been our good fortune to assist at the last moments of
this unfortunate man, whom we had so desired to bring from the darkness
of paganism into the light of the faith.  Oh, how impenetrable are the
decrees of God!  Some hope, however, mingled with our but too just
grounds for fear.  As this poor soul had been sufficiently enlightened as
to the truths of religion, it is permissible to suppose that God, of his
infinite mercy, perhaps accorded to him, in his last moments, the grace
of the baptism of volition.

That day the caravan did not proceed on its march, the animals were
unsaddled and sent out to pasture; and then the soldiers of the escort
made all the necessary preparations, according to the Chinese rites, for
conveying the body of their Mandarin to his family.  We will not enter
here into the details of what was done in this matter, for whatever
concerns the manners and customs and ceremonies of the Chinese, will find
a place elsewhere.  We will merely say that the defunct was enveloped in
a large white pall, which had been given him by the Living Buddha of
Djachi-Loumbo, and which was covered with Thibetian sentences, and with
images of Buddha, printed in black.

The Thibetians, and other Buddhists, have unlimited confidence in the
printed winding-sheets which are distributed by the Talé-Lama and the
Bandchan-Remboutchi.  They are persuaded that those who are fortunate
enough to be buried in them, cannot fail to have a happy transmigration.

By the demise of Ly-Kouo-Ngan, the caravan found itself without a leader
and without a guide.  There was, to be sure, the Lama Dsiamdchang, to
whom the power should have fallen by right, and by legitimate succession;
but the Chinese soldiers being very little disposed to acknowledge his
authority, we passed from the monarchic state to the republican,
democratical form.  This state of things lasted at most half-a-day.
Perceiving that the men of the caravan, both Thibetians and Chinese, were
not yet prepared for so perfect a government, and considering that
anarchy was developing itself in every direction, and that matters
threatened to go to rack and ruin, consulting only the public interest
and the safety of the caravan, we assumed the dictatorship.  We
immediately issued several decrees, in order that everything might be in
readiness for us to proceed on the morrow at daybreak.  The necessity of
being governed was so completely understood, that no one made any
opposition, and we were obeyed punctually.

At the appointed time, we left Samba.  The caravan bore a sad and
melancholy aspect.  With its three corpses, it absolutely resembled a
funeral procession.  After three days’ march across mountains, where we
generally found wind, snow, and cold, we arrived at the station of
Lithang (copper plain).  The Chinese government keeps here a magazine of
provisions, and a garrison consisting of 100 soldiers.  The Mandarins of
Lithang are: a Liang-Tai, a Cheou-Pei, and two Pa-Tsoung.  A few minutes
after our arrival, these gentlemen came to pay us a visit.  In the first
place, the illness and death of our guide were discussed at full length;
then we were required to state our quality, and by what authority and in
what position we were in the caravan.  By way of answer, we simply showed
him a large scroll, fortified with the seal and signature of the
ambassador Ki-Chan, and containing the instructions which had been given
to Ly-Kouo-Ngan about us.  “Good, good,” said these persons to us, “the
death of Ly-Kouo-Ngan will make no change in your position; you shall be
well treated wherever you go.  Up to this time you have always lived
peaceably with the men of the caravan, doubtless this good understanding
will continue to the end.”  We hoped so too.  Yet, as considering human
frailty, difficulties might possibly arise on the way, particularly among
the Chinese soldiers, we wished to have with us a responsible Mandarin.
We made this request, and were informed that of the four Mandarins who
were at Lithang, not one could be spared to conduct us; that we could go
along quietly enough as far as the frontiers, with our Thibetian and
Chinese escort; and that there we should readily find a Mandarin to
conduct us to the capital of Sse-Tchouen.  “Very well,” said we, “as you
cannot give us a Mandarin we shall travel as we think fit, and go where
we please.  We are not even sure that on quitting this place we shall not
return to Lha-Ssa.  You see that we deal freely with you; reflect upon
the point.”  Our four magistrates rose, saying that they would deliberate
on this important matter, and that in the evening we should have an
answer.

During our supper, a Pa-Tsoung, one of the four Mandarins, presented
himself in his state robes.  After the usual compliments, he told us that
he had been selected to command our escort as far as the frontiers; that
he had never, in his dreams of ambition, imagined he should have the
honour of conducting people such as we; that he was ashamed on the first
day of seeing us, to have to ask us a favour; it was, that we would rest
for two days at Lithang, in order to recover our strength, which must be
exhausted by so long and arduous a journey.  We perceived that our friend
had need of two days to arrange some affairs of his own, previous to a
journey which he had not expected.  “Ah,” we replied, “already how full
of solicitude is your heart for us.  We will rest then two days as you
wish it.”  Authority having been thus reorganized, our dictatorship was
at an end.  But we thought we perceived that this was anything but
agreeable to our people, who would much rather have had to do with us
than with a Mandarin.

The town of Lithang is built on the sides of a hill which rises in the
middle of a plain, broad but almost sterile.  Nothing grows there but a
little barley, and a few poor herbs, which serve for pasturage to some
miserable herds of goats and yaks.  Seen from a distance, the town has
some promise.  Two large Lamaseries, richly painted and gilt, which are
built quite on the top of the hill, especially contribute to give it an
imposing aspect.  But, when you pass through the interior, you find
nothing but ugly, dirty, narrow streets, so steep, that your legs must be
accustomed to mountain travelling, to keep their equilibrium.  This side
of the River of Gold-dust, you observe among the tribes a rather
remarkable modification in the manners, customs, costume, and even in the
language.  You see that you are no longer in Thibet, properly so called.
As you approach the frontiers of China, the natives have less ferocity
and rudeness in their character; you find them more covetous, flattering,
and cunning; their religious faith is no longer so vivid, nor so frank.
As to the language, it is no longer the pure Thibetian that is spoken at
Lha-Ssa, and in the province of Kham; it is a dialect closely connected
with the idiom of the Si-Fan, and in which you remark various Chinese
expressions.  The Thibetians of Lha-Ssa who accompanied us had the
greatest difficulty in the world in understanding and being understood.
The costume, for the most part, only differs as to the head-dress.  The
men wear a hat of grey or brown felt, somewhat similar to our own felt
hats when they first come from the hatter’s board and have not been
rounded to the form.  The women form with their hair a number of small
tresses, which flow over their shoulders.  They then place on their heads
a large silver plate, somewhat similar to a dinner-plate.  The more
elegant wear two of these, one on each side, so that the two ends meet
above the head.  The precept of daubing the face with black, does not
apply to the women of Lithang.  This kind of toilet operates only in the
countries temporally subject to the Talé-Lama.

The most important of the Lamaseries of Lithang possesses a great
printing press for Buddhic books, and it is hither that, on holidays, the
Lamas of the neighbouring countries come for their supplies.  Lithang
carries on also a large trade in gold dust, in chaplets of black beads,
and in cups made with the roots of the vine and box-tree.  As we departed
from Lithang, the Chinese garrison was under arms, to render military
honours to Ly-Kouo-Ngan.  They acted just as if he had been alive.  When
the coffin passed, all the soldiers bent their knees and exclaimed: “To
the Tou-Sse, Ly-Kouo-Ngan, the poor garrison of Lithang wishes health and
prosperity.”  The petty Mandarin, with the white button, who had become
our guide, saluted the garrison in the name of the deceased.  This new
commander of the caravan was a Chinese of Moslem extraction; but one
could find nothing about him which seemed to belong in the least to the
fine type of his ancestors: his puny, stunted person, his pointed smiling
face, his shrill treble voice, his trifling manners, all contributed to
give him the air of a shop-boy, and not in the least that of a military
Mandarin.  He was a prodigious talker.  The first day he rather amused
us, but he soon became a bore.  He thought himself bound, in his quality
of Mussulman, to talk to us, on all occasions, about Arabia, and of its
horses that are sold for their weight in gold; about Mahomet, and his
famous sabre that cut through metals; about Mecca and its bronze
ramparts.

From Lithang to Ta-Tsien-Lou, a frontier town of China, is only 600 lis,
which are divided into eight stages.  We found the end of that frightful
route to Thibet exactly like its middle and its beginning.  We in vain
climbed mountains; we found still more and more before us, all of a
threatening aspect, all covered with snow and rugged with precipices; nor
did the temperature undergo any perceptible change.  It appeared to us,
that, since our departure from Lha-Ssa, we had been doing nothing but
move round and round in the same circle.  Yet, as we advanced, the
villages became more frequent, without, however, losing their Thibetian
style.  The most important of these villages is Makian-Dsoung, where some
Chinese merchants keep stores for supplying the caravans.  One day’s
journey from Makian-Dsoung, you pass in a boat the Ya-Loung-Kiang, a
large and rapid river.  Its source is at the foot of the Bayen-Kharat
mountains, close to that of the Yellow River.  It joins the
Kin-Cha-Kiang, in the province of Sse-Tchouen.  According to the
traditions of the country, the banks of the Ya-Loung-Kiang were the first
cradle of the Thibetian nation.  As we were passing the Ya-Loung-Kiang in
a boat, a shepherd crossed the same river on a bridge merely composed of
a thick rope of yak skin tightly stretched from one bank to the other.  A
sort of wooden stirrup was suspended by a solid strap to a moveable
pulley on the rope.  The shepherd had only to place himself backwards,
under this strange bridge, with his feet on the stirrup, and hold on to
the rope with both his hands; he then pulled the rope gently; [Picture:
Iron Chain Bridge] the mere weight of his body made the pulley move, and
he reached the other side in a very short time.  These bridges are very
common in Thibet, and are very convenient for crossing torrents and
precipices; but one must be accustomed to them.  We ourselves never
ventured on them.  Iron chain bridges also are much in use, particularly
in the provinces of Ouei and Dzang.  To construct them, as many iron
hooks are fixed on both sides of the river as there are to be chains,
then the chains are fastened, and on the chains planks, which are
sometimes covered with a coating of earth.  As these bridges are
extremely elastic, they are furnished with hand-rails.

We arrived at length safe and sound at the frontiers of China, where the
climate of Thibet gave us a very cold farewell.  In crossing the mountain
which precedes the town of Ta-Tsien-Lou, we were almost buried in the
snow, it fell so thick and fast; and which accompanied us into the valley
where stands the Chinese town, which, in its turn, received us with a
pelting rain.  It was in the early part of June, 1846, and three months
since we had departed from Lha-Ssa; according to the Chinese Itinerary,
we had travelled 5,050 lis.

Ta-Tsien-Lou signifies the forge of arrows, and this name was given to
the town, because in the year 234 of our era, General Wou-Heou, while
leading his army against the southern countries, sent one of his
lieutenants to establish there a forge of arrows.  This district has by
turns belonged to the Thibetians and to the Chinese; for the last hundred
years it has been considered as an integral part of the empire.

“The walls and fortifications of Ta-Tsien-Lou,” says the Chinese
Itinerary, “are of freestone.  Chinese and Thibetians dwell there
together.  It is thence that the officers and troops, which are sent to
Thibet quit China.  Though it passes also a large quantity of tea coming
from China, and destined to supply the provinces of Thibet, it is at
Ta-Tsien-Lou that is held the principal tea fair.  Although the
inhabitants of this canton are very addicted to the worship of Buddha,
they seek to get a little profit; yet they are sincere and just,
submissive and obedient, so that nothing, even death, can change their
natural good nature.  As they have been long accustomed to the Chinese
domination, they are the more attached to it.”

We rested three days at Ta-Tsien-Lou, and each day had several quarrels
with the principal Mandarin of the place, who would not consent to our
continuing our route in a palanquin.  However, he had at length to give
way, for we could not bear even the idea of mounting once more on
horseback.  Our legs had bestrid so many horses of every age, size,
quality, and colour, that they refused to have anything further to do
with horses at all, and were full of an irresistible resolution to
stretch themselves at ease in a palanquin.  This was granted them, thanks
to the perseverance and energy of our remonstrances.

The Thibetian escort which had accompanied us so faithfully during the
long and arduous route returned after two days’ rest.  We gave the Lama
Dchiamdchang a letter for the Regent, in which we thanked him for having
assigned us so devoted an escort, and which had throughout kept in our
memory the good treatment we had received at Lha-Ssa.  On parting from
these good Thibetians we could not help shedding tears, for insensibly,
and as it were without our knowledge, ties had been formed between us
which it was painful to sever.  The Lama Dchiamdchang secretly told us
that he had been charged to remind us, at the moment of separation, of
the promise we had made to the Regent.  He asked us if they might reckon
on seeing us again at Lha-Ssa.  We replied that they might, for at that
time we were far from anticipating the nature of the obstacles that were
to prevent our return to Thibet.

The next morning, at daybreak, we entered our palanquins, and were
conveyed, at the public expense, to the capital of the province of
Sse-Tchouen, where, by order of the Emperor, we were to undergo a solemn
judgment before the Grand Mandarins of the Celestial Empire.




POSTSCRIPT.


After a few months journey through China, we arrived at Macao, in the
early part of October, 1846.  Our long and painful journey was at an end;
and at last we were able, after so many tribulations, to enjoy a little
quiet and repose.  During two years we applied our leisure moments to the
preparation of the few notes made in our journey.  Hence these
“Reminiscences of Travel,” which we address to our European brethren,
whose charity will no doubt be interested in the trials and fatigues of
the missionaries.

Our entrance into China, for the purpose of returning to our mission in
Mongol-Tartary, compels us to leave unfinished the labour we had
undertaken.  It remains for us to speak of our relations with the Chinese
tribunals and Mandarins, to give a sketch of the provinces we have
traversed, and to compare them with those which we had occasion to visit
in our former travels in the Celestial Empire.  This omission we will
endeavour to supply in the leisure hours we may be able to snatch from
the labours of the sacred ministry.  Perhaps we shall be in a position to
give some correct notions about a country, of which, at no time,
certainly, have men’s ideas been so erroneous as they are at this day.
Not that we are without abundant books about China and the Chinese.  On
the contrary, the number of works on these subjects that have appeared in
France, and particularly in England, within the last few years, is really
prodigious.  But the zeal of a writer will not always suffice to describe
countries in which he has never set his foot.  To write travels in China,
after a saunter or two through the factories of Canton and the environs
of Macao, involves the danger of speaking of things that one is not
thoroughly acquainted with.  Although it has been the good fortune of the
learned orientalist, J. Klaproth, to discover the Potocki Archipelago
without quitting his closet, it is, generally speaking, rather difficult
to make discoveries in a country which one has not visited.

                    [Picture: Chinese Ornamental Ware]




NOTES.


{48}  Oui, in Thibetian, means centre, middle; and hence the name was
given to the province which occupies the centre of Thibet, and the
capital of which is Lha-Ssa.

{76}  Charmanas (in Sanscrit, S’raman’as) are monks in the Lamanesque
hierarchy.

{84}  Goucho is a title of honour, given to the Lamas by the Thibetians.

{104}  Tchanak is the Mongol name of Peking; Kampo means Pontiff.

{155}  Dalae-Lama is altogether an erroneous form of this designation;
the words are Talé-Lama.  Talé, in Thibetian, means sea, and the
appellation has been applied to the Grand Lama of Thibet, because this
personage is locally supposed to be a sea of wisdom and power.

{172}  _Siao-ti_, an expression used by the Chinese when they speak of
themselves in the presence of Mandarins.

{192}  The Chinese name for Mr. Elliot, the English Plenipotentiary at
Canton, at the commencement of the Anglo-Chinese war.

{195}  The class of reptiles comprehends fish, mollusks, and all animals
that are neither quadrupeds nor birds.

{200}  Strabo, speaking of the customs of the nomadic Scythians, as
retained among the Sogdians and Bactrians, writes: “In the capital of
Bactria, they breed dogs, to which they give a special name, which name,
rendered into our language, means buriers.  The business of these dogs is
to eat up all persons who are beginning to fall into decay, from old age
or sickness.  Hence it is that no tomb is visible in the suburbs of the
town, while the town itself is all filled with human bones.  It is said
that Alexander abolished this custom.”

Cicero attributes the same custom to the Hyrcanians, in his “Tusculan
Questions,” (Lib. i. § 45): “In Hyrcania plebs publicos alit canes;
optimates, domesticos.  Nobile autem genus canum illud scimus esse.  Sed
pro sua quisque facultate parat, à quibus lanietur: eamque optimam illi
esse censent sepulturam.”

Justin also says of the Parthians: “Sepultura vulgò aut avium aut canum
aniatus est.  Nuda demum ossa terrâ obruunt.”

{203a}  “Asia,” vol. v., p. 800, German edition, 1833–1837.

{203b}  See “Asiatic Journal of London,” vol. xxi., p. 786, and vol.
xxii., p. 596.  A notice of Moorcroft’s manuscripts was inserted in the
“Journal of the Geographical Society of London,” 1831.

{203c}  Vol. xii, No. 9, p. 120.

{203d}  M. Gabet.

{219}  In the province of Oui there are three thousand.

{227}  Ki-Chan, in fact, is now viceroy of the province of Sse-Tchouen.

{235}  _Nouveau Journal Asiatique_, 1st series, tome iv. and vi.

{245}  We had for a long time a small Mongol treatise on natural history,
for the use of children, in which a unicorn formed one of the pictorial
illustrations.

{246}  A centimetre is 33–100 of an inch.

{248}  The unicorn antelope of Thibet is probably the oryx-capra of the
ancients.  It is still found in the deserts of Upper Nubia, where it is
called Ariel.  The unicorn (Hebrew, reem; Greek, monoceros), that is
represented in the Bible, and in Pliny’s “Natural History,” cannot be
identified with the oryx capra.  The unicorn of holy writ would appear
rather to be a pachydermous creature, of great strength and formidable
ferocity.  According to travellers, it still exists in Central Africa,
and the Arabs call it Aboukarn.

{251}  Kouang-Ti, was a celebrated general who lived in the third century
of our era, and who, after many and famous victories, was put to death
with his son.  The Chinese, indeed, say that he did not really die, but
that he ascended to heaven, and took his place among the Gods.  The
Mantchous, who now reign in China, have named Kouang-Ti the tutelary
spirit of their dynasty, and raised a great number of temples in his
honour.  He is ordinarily represented seated, having on his left hand his
son Kouang-Ping, standing, and on his right, his squire, a man with a
face so very dark, as to be almost black.

{264}  The Kiang-Kian are the highest dignitaries of the military
hierarchy in China; they are decorated with the red button.  Each
province has a Kiang-Kian, who is its military governor, and a
Tsoung-Tou, or viceroy, who is its chief literary Mandarin.

{268}  On Andriveau-Goujon’s map, this place is called Chamiton.

{292}  Bathang signifies in Thibetian, plain of cows.