Wandering in Northern China :: CHAPTER IX HOLY URGA

CHAPTER IX HOLY URGA

The holy city of Urga squats out on what would be an ordinary Mongolian plain were it not for the rows of hills or low mountains which roll up on either side of it. The landscape is the same yellow-brown, smooth as the fur of the fox, the city, its wide shallow valley, and the rolling hills on the right hand are as utterly devoid of trees or even a suggestion of brush, as the Gobi. Only along the edge, and covering the upper portion, of the range to the west and south, sacred to the “Living Buddha” whose two palace compounds sit at the foot of it, is there any vegetation except the thin brown grass of mountain heights. The soil does not welcome it, for one thing. Even the forests capping the long low sacred mountain, though planted centuries ago and strictly protected, while dense enough, have attained little more than scrub growth. About forty-five hundred feet above the sea and no great distance from the Siberian border, Urga is no tropical haven. They tell me that in summer its middays are sometimes uncomfortably hot; but though it was only the middle of September when we arrived, all the clothing we had brought with us was none too much to shut out the penetrating mountain cold. Five days before, Peking had been sweltering; here the entire population wore heavy quilted garments, from which hardly a bare foot peered among the most poverty-stricken even on the days when a brilliant sun in a glass-clear sky made delightful autumn weather; before the month ended, howling gales of hail and snow swept across the city and blotted out the surrounding hills, to leave them covered with white as far as the eye could see.

The city is built in several towns or sections of distinctly different characters, separated by bare, stony, wind-swept spaces. Besides the old Chinese merchant town back up the valley, and the straggling buildings which partly flank the nature-laid road to it, there is the official town of yamens and the like, with two great temple compounds closely allied to it, then the now main business and residential section where virtually all non-Mongols live, and farther on, a little higher up the slope of the hills, a whole city completely given up to lamas, with the great sanctuary of Ganden, only high building in Urga, bulking far above it. Then, across the flat valley and several little streams, more than a mile away against the background of the sacred mountain, is the dwelling-place of Bogda-Han, the “Living Buddha,” flanked at some distance by his summer palace on one side and on the other by clusters of buildings housing the things and the men who serve him. Lastly there are scores of yourts, the low round felt tents of Mongolia, scattered at random outside the permanent city, particularly to the north, the homes of true nomads who will not be without the comforts of their portable houses even though they live in the holy national capital.

For that matter, many of the dwellers in the city itself still cling to the customs and architecture of the plains from which they came. Mongol princes and saints, of whom there is a generous number in Urga, cabinet ministers and judges, may have a rather Russian type of frame house within their compounds, but the chances are that they do their actual living in their felt tent beside it. The yourts are said to be uncomfortably warm in summer, whence the tendency of those who are wealthy by Mongol standards to copy European dwellings; but when the first early frosts come they like the low crowded tent, with its intense dung-fire heat, its sense of coziness, even the smell of the sifting smoke of their pungent fuel, that has come down to them from their hardy nomadic forefathers. The story is told of some high-placed Mongol to whom fell a fine big room in one of the government buildings of the expelled Chinese, who complained that it was as bad as living outdoors and demanded either that another small low room be built for him within it or that he be allowed to conduct his official business in his tent.

Urga is as wholly made up of walled compounds as any Chinese city; but here the walls, instead of being of stone or baked mud, are of upright pine logs, bark and all, some ten feet high and set so tightly together that only here and there can one peer through a crack. Between these frowning palisades, broken for block after block only by identical gates which are a cross between a wooden arch and a Japanese torii with three uncurved crosspieces, and painted a dull red, run, not streets, but haphazard passageways deep in dust, mud, or mere stony soil, according as nature left them—grim defenseless lanes full of the offal of man and beast, of putrid carcasses and gnawed bones, and always overrun with groups of those surly, treacherous big black wild dogs of Urga, ready the instant they feel they have mustered sufficient force to pounce upon and drag down the passer-by. Inside, the compounds are bare and unswept yards, for filth means nothing to the Mongol, and the planting of a flower or a shrub is far beyond his stage of civilization. A house or two, even three, perhaps as many felt tents, a tethered horse, a heap of dried dung fuel, and the inventory is complete. A small stream, its banks heaped high with filth and garbage, lined with foraging dogs and squatting Mongols, crossed by half a dozen precarious bridges culminating in the red one sacred to the “Living Buddha,” which is barred against every-day traffic, meanders disconsolately through the gloomy town. For there is a gloominess, an ominousness about Urga which even the great gleaming gold superstructures of its many temples and shrines, so brilliant as to cow the eye on days of clear sunshine, do not dispel.

A few streets of the central town, to which commerce is confined, are flanked by shops of a hybrid Chinese-Russian character, the great majority of which are inwardly establishments quite like those of China, though often scanty of goods and with a discouraged air in these days of oppressive rule. Then there are numerous open-air markets more worth visiting for their picturesqueness than for their wares. In one wide dusty space Mongolian ponies are put through their paces for prospective purchasers; camels or oxen may be had near-by on certain days; then, there are several blocks lined with displays of furs, mainly of sheep and goats in this season, but now and then offering wild pelts at reasonable figures. Shop after shop is filled from floor to low shack roof with the gaudy boots worn indiscriminately by all Mongols; little portable booths or stands overflowing with every manner of silly and useful trinket, chaotic collections of second-hand hardware spread on the ground, more or less itinerant purveyors of used garments and of the heavy silver ornaments that go with Mongol dress, each strive in their turn to attract and detain the stroller. Almost all these merchants, from horse-dealers to hawkers of lama rosaries and alleged photographs of the “Living Buddha,” are Chinese; the Mongol is frankly a nomadic herdsman and scorns any other occupation. Even in the purulent meat and vegetable market stretching along the carrion-lined stream just outside our window there were but few native venders. The more lowly members of the tribe might consent to slash up and distribute the still bleeding carcasses of cattle and sheep which Urga consumes in surprising daily quantities; even out on the plains that is a necessary and respectable task. But as the Mongol considers it unholy to cultivate the ground, the huge carrots, the turnips larger than cocoanuts, the squashes, potatoes, cabbage, lettuce, kaoliang, millet, and corn-meal all came from the truck-gardens of Chinese in inconspicuous hollows about the city and were sold only by them. Millet and kaoliang and rock-salt were about the only non-flesh wares appealing to the natives, anyway, for boiled meat, each mouthful slashed off before the lips with a sheath-knife, as among the gauchos of South America, is almost an exclusive diet with them the year round.

There is the atmosphere of a frontier town about Urga, for all its age and holiness and costly religious structures. Perhaps it is the great prevalence of mounted people as much as the rough-and-ready style of its architecture and streets which gives this feeling. The poor, and most of the despised foreigners, may or must go on foot, but the true Mongol, male or female, young or old, layman or lama, is by nature a horseman. Even the women, in their incredibly heavy ornaments and cumbersome garments, sit the tight little wooden saddles covered with red cloth as if they were part of the jogging animal beneath them. Children ride as easily and as soon as they can walk. Horsemen are so numerous and so fundamental in the Mongol scheme of things that the pedestrian has only secondary rights in the soft-footed streets of Urga. It is not so much his natural rudeness, nor even his inbred scorn for the horseless, which makes the Mongol so apt to ride down the walker unless the latter sidesteps. Probably it has never occurred to him, any more than to his horse, that all other movable beings should not necessarily always make way for him.

Besides the omnipresent Mongol pony there are strings of haughty camels from, or off again to, the desert; there are oxen and their crudest of two-wheeled carts, and now and again a yak, or a cross between this and the native cattle, identified mainly by its thick bushy tail. It is not only this quaint long-haired animal from the roof of Asia which reminds one of the close relationship between Mongolia and its distant neighbor, Tibet. The lengthwise Tibetan script stands beside the upright Mongolian on the faÇade of more than one building and on many a monument; not a few of the friendly-looking, darker-tinted natives of the lofty land behind the Himalayas, recognizable also by their different garb, the right arm and shoulder protruding from the cloak, may be met in the market-places; when the visitor begins to poke his nose into religious matters he finds that Tibet is much closer to him than he suspected.

Though there are sights of an inanimate nature in Urga that are well worth seeing, it is especially the unique and striking costumes of her people which cause bitter resentment for the confiscation of a camera. The Mongols are as fond of gaudy colors as the Andean Indians, though somewhat less given to barbaric combinations of them. Of a score of laymen often no two wear robes of the same hue; red, purple, blue, green, and all the combinations and gradations between them may be seen in any gathering outside religious circles. Men who pride themselves on their liberality toward the outside world show a fondness for ugly slouch-hats of a cheap quality that quickly fades to a nondescript hue. But these are so few as to be conspicuous among their orthodox fellows, who display a variety in head-dress which I have not the energy to attempt to describe. Suffice it to say that these are all striking, both in color and form, and that the overwhelming favorite seems to be the pagoda-shaped thing with a ball, generally of colored glass, on top, and side-wings of fur. This is common to both laymen and lamas and is said to have been originally copied from a sacred peak of central Asia.

But it would be unchivalrous to expect the men, even of an Oriental race in which the women form the bottom layer of society, to outdo the other sex in effective decoration of the cranium. Until I came to Mongolia I had been laboring under the delusion that in my various wanderings about the globe I had already run across the final word in woman’s head-dress. I humbly apologize, and hereby bestow the leather medal upon the ladies of Urga, without the least fear of ever again having to modify my decision. In intricacy, ugliness, fearsomeness, unportability, wastefulness, absurdity, not to say pure idiocy, their contraption surely outdistances all competitors, at least in our own little solar system.

It starts, so I have been assured by those of wider experience and reputation for veracity, often at virtual baldness, which under the circumstances, or under such a head-dress, is not surprising. Over this goes a skull-cap of silver in elaborate designs, weighing, if the eye be permitted to judge what the fingers may not touch, several pounds. I am no ladies’ coiffeur, and I may be getting the cart before the horse, but it is my strong impression that the hair comes next, most of it the hair of some one else, naturally, or at least hair which has ceased to derive its direct nourishment from its wearer. In color and texture, too, it has a way of recalling the tail of a horse, though this may be mere coincidence. First of all the hair forms a wig; then it flares out and is wound, in single strands that give it a cloth-like texture, round and round two horns that are thin and flat but wider and longer than those of the water-buffalo, which the lady with these appendages protruding well beyond her shoulders considerably resembles. Across the horns, front and back, at close intervals, run inch-wide bars of silver—replaced by wood or other substitutes in poverty-stricken cases—while from the ends, perhaps as a concession to the timid spectator who cannot rid himself of the fear of being gored, are suspended braids or cords reaching to the waist. A lady of reasonable tastes might conclude that this is enough, but there are innumerable opportunities for adding other silver and colored decorations, and naturally one needs a hat over one’s hair, so that milady of Urga piles on top, at the jaunty angle of a first-year sailor, one of the fur-sided, pagoda-shaped helmets favored by the men, thereby crowning herself in a manner befitting the rest of her costume. Let not the hasty reader get the impression that this ponderous and deeply cogitated head-dress is confined to the consorts of princes and saints, nor relegated to festive occasions and popular hours. The old woman who sold half-decayed fruit opposite our window wore the whole contraption, and all available evidence goes to show that it is as seldom removed as is the fly-trap hat of the Korean male. Indeed, it would be impossible to reconcile daily hair-dressing with the early hours at which many a fully clad woman appears. One easily surmises that this unbelievable millinery was copied from the cattle that have been the Mongols’ constant and chief companions for many centuries; but why hang the horns on the woman? Is it to keep before the mind that she, too, is a dangerous creature, or is it a means of training her in patience and the uncomplaining endurance of lifelong impediments, like the crippled feet of the women of China?

In ordinary circles the rest of the female costume of Mongolia would attract attention, but under the national head-dress it is almost inconspicuous. It includes big puffed sleeves, for instance, not unlike those of the Western world a generation ago, but filled with something that makes them hard and solid, and lifts the puffs some six inches above the shoulders. Unseemly exposure of the person is not a Mongol fault. Though personal habits of an indescribable nature are constantly in evidence among both sexes and all classes, there is never anything even remotely reminiscent of the freedom of a bathing-beach in more civilized lands. The woman’s thick, quilted, colorful jacket-gown covers her from tonsils to instep; her long sleeves serve her, Chinese fashion, as gloves; though it is known that she wears heavy lumber-jack trousers quite like those of her husband, even her trim ankles, if she has them, are never in evidence, for she thrusts her feet into the same mammoth boots which are universal beneath all ages, ranks, callings, and degrees of sanctity.

The Mongol boot, as I may have said before, is knee-high, of soft leather, usually red and most elaborately decorated, the toe turned up like the prow of Cleopatra’s barge, and it is made much too large for the foot, in order that many layers of thick socks may be worn in wintry weather. The extraordinarily slow pace of life in Urga is partly due, beyond a doubt, to the necessity of stalking about like a hobbled prisoner in such boots; but then, they were never made for walking, which is not a natural Mongol means of locomotion. The favorite one is the single-foot pony, with a kind of Indian rawhide reins, stirrups so short that the rider seems to be kneeling, and a tight little red saddle. It is an old joke in Urga that a Mongol would make an excellent cook—if he could ride about the kitchen on horseback. As the women as well as the men ride astride, with the easy abandon of born cowboys, it is perhaps as well that most of them cling to their marvelous head-dress, for without it there is little to distinguish between the sexes.

It is said that almost half the population of Urga are lamas. Certainly there are thousands upon thousands of them, swarming everywhere, in the market-town as well as in their own temple-topped sections, sometimes on horseback, more often plodding through the slovenly streets in their ponderous boots. Their round clipped heads, in contrast to the long cues of laymen, are often bare in any weather. It is visually evident, without asking questions, that they wear no trousers under their long quilted robes, which are similar to those of the marriageable men, yet easily distinguishable from them. Their gowns, originally saffron-yellow or brick-red in color, are well suited to the mahogany tint which the cold of high plateaus gives the Mongol cheeks; but they are so invariably dulled by grease, filth, and rough desert living as to suggest that this is considered the most holy and fitting state for seekers after a pseudo-Nirvana. Cleanliness certainly has no relation whatever to godliness in this unedifying religion of creaking prayer-wheels and barbaric hubbub; laity and lamas alike seem frankly to scorn it. Now and again one saw a prince who had just donned his winter garments, or a group of high lamas rode by in gleamingly new saffron or red robes, the yellow streamers from their high hats trailing behind them, clad in the most spotless of beautiful silks. But there is evidently something unmanly about such a condition, for those even of the highest class seem to make haste to reduce themselves to the common dirty drab, as some of our youths “baptize” a new pair of shoes. From high to low the Mongols are an unlaundered people, like so many dwellers in semi-desert lands, apparently never subjecting their clothing to any cleansing process—so filthy in fact that even the Chinese call them dirty!

Yet these big brawny Mongols of the Gobi, beside whom the Chinese look delicate and harmless, bring history home to the beholder in a striking fashion. It was easy to imagine these fearless nomad horsemen banding together under a Jenghiz Khan and sweeping down upon the rich but weaker people to the southward; once in Mongolia, that breeding-ground for many centuries of new virility for the human race, as it were, it was no longer hard to understand why the timorous but diligent Chinese should have spent such incredible toil to fling a wall across their whole northern frontier, in the vain hope of shutting themselves off from these dreaded barbarians, scorning civilization but ever ready to loot it of its fruits. Now and again I met a prince—not a pampered weakling of a run-down stock, like so many who bear that title in the West, but big powerful fellows who could ride their horses day after day like centaurs, sleep out on the open plain, and master their great herds with the pole-and-noose lasso as easily as any of their herdsmen subjects—handsome Mongol princes with a truly regal poise and dignity, for all the countless grease-spots on their silken gowns, whom one could readily picture in the rÔle of another Jenghiz Khan.

Speaking of those halcyon days of the Mongols seven centuries ago, there seems to be but little differentiation in the minds of historians between them and the Tartars; but in Mongolia to-day there is a wide gulf between these two peoples. What is known as a Tartar in Urga at least, where a few score of them dwell, is no longer a warrior but has degenerated into a tradesman, a close bargainer wearing mainly European garb, with a little velvet cap always on his head, topped off by one of fur when he sallies forth into the street. He is a Mohammedan, too, and the Mongol certainly is not. Once he seems to have been at home in central Mongolia; now he lives far to the West, scattered through the regions about Bokhara, Kashgar, and Samarkand. In much greater numbers and influence in Urga to-day are two other semi-Europeanized peoples,—the surly Kalmucks from western Mongolia and Sungaria, and the Buriats, Mongol by race but grown half Russian during generations under the rule of the czars in an annexed province, and by long intermixture with their more Caucasian fellow-subjects.

But though Urga so nearly coincides with that Karakoram which was still the capital of Jenghiz Khan when his vast conquests ended, one feels even there that the power of the Mongol is broken, that with his debauching idolatry and his all but universal taint with one of the most abhorred of diseases, he will never again have the initiative and the energy to band together into a menace to more advanced civilizations. He will do surprisingly well, in fact, if he succeeds in his new attempt to govern himself. The traveler cannot but be struck by the astonishing scarcity of children in Mongolia, especially if he has just come from Japan and China, until he learns that fully a third of the population of the country as a whole are lamas, and notes the prevalence of missing noses among both sexes and all classes in the streets of Urga. The most educated Mongol, in our Western sense, with whom I came in contact declared that within a century his race will completely have disappeared. While there is probably undue pessimism in so flat a statement, there are many signs that the people which once subjugated nearly all Asia and stopped only at the Danube in Europe is to-day on the same swift downward path as the American Indian they in so many ways resemble.

As befits a holy city, Urga is overrun with temples, shrines, monasteries, and all the myriad paraphernalia of lamaism, that degenerate, repulsive, yet picturesque offshoot of Buddhism, centered in Tibet but clinging with a tenacious hold to all Mongolia. Take away everything concerned with her religion, and the Mongol capital would shrink to a mere filthy village. Most conspicuous of its structures is the shrine or temple of Ganden, towering not only above the lama town about it but over the whole city. A stony and sandy hollow separates this monasterial section from the secular one, but when one has climbed the further slope of this he finds himself wandering through just such another maze of narrow, dunghill streets shut in by high wooden palisades. Here it will be doubly wise to carry a heavy stick, for not only are the savage black dogs that everywhere dot the landscape in and about Urga particularly numerous and ravenous in this log-built labyrinth, but they are accustomed to seeing only lamas in their dirty robes, and foreign garb quickly attracts their unwelcome attention. At least in theory there are no women in lama-town, and as lamaism is not a religion calling for congregations, even native laymen are conspicuous in this section by their absence.

As the stroller comes out upon an open space on the summit of the low, broad hillock, he finds before him not only the great central edifice of Ganden, built in Tibetan fashion of a square stone wall many feet thick, with deep window-embrasures of fortress-like size, topped by three overhanging stories in wood, but also many lower yet no less ornate buildings flanking and surrounding it. From these, in all likelihood, proceed barbarous sounds of drum-beating, the hammering of big brass disks, a cabalistic chanting, and yet more awe-inspiring noises the source of which he cannot identify. Huge cylinders on the high corners of Ganden, many of its absurd outer ornaments, and much of the superstructure of the lower buildings are covered with gold, upon which the cloudless sun gleams richly. If it is “school” or service time, only a score or so of ragged, besmeared beggars, most or all of them lamas, will be in sight, scattered along the outer walls or in the gateways of the religious structures. One of the largest of these is built like a mammoth Mongol tent, with a saucer-shaped roof, and inside, if a lone Caucasian wanderer has the courage to march through the gate and step into the open doorway in the face of hundreds of scowling bullies in once-red robes—for the “orthodox” yellow of more genuine Buddhism is much more rare in Urga—he will behold a veritable sea of lamas, squatted back to back on wide low wooden benches more or less covered with soiled cushions, in rows so close together that a cat could scarcely squirm between them, and stretching so far away in every direction that one must stoop low to see beneath the idolatrous junk suspended from the low rafters, even as far as the dais in the center of the building. Here sits what I suppose we would call an abbot, leading the services or instructing the gathering in the fine points of lamaism. For this is a kind of seminary, a lama university to which sturdy red-robed males come from all over Mongolia and beyond, to perfect themselves in the intricate hocus-pocus of their faith, in which a bit of Buddhism is swamped by the grossest forms of demonology and ridiculous superstitions. The students are of no fixed age; burly men in the forties and sensual-faced old fellows who are soon to feed the dogs are almost as numerous as impudent youths already soiled and begrimed in true lama fashion. For hours at a time this huge gathering rocks back and forth on its haunches, intoning supplications under the lead of the abbot, sometimes chanting its litanies to the accompaniment of a “music” so barbaric as to send shivers up the unaccustomed spine, meanwhile moving the hands in distorted gestures prescribed by the ritual. Their devotions consist mainly of the endless repetition of the same brief prayers, mumbled over and over until the monotony promises to drive the listening stranger to sleep or to distraction. The notion is that this never ceasing iteration of the same scant theme will withdraw the minds of the devotees from worldly things and fix their attention on that nothingness which is the goal of the seeker after Nirvana; it needs but a slight acquaintance with lamas, however, to show that the real effect is to make them mere mumbling automatons, with minds as narrow and as shallow as their monotonous invocations.

The upper town of Urga, entirely inhabited by lamas, has the temple of Ganden, containing a colossal standing Buddha, rising high above all else. It is in Tibetan style and much of its superstructure is covered with pure gold

Red lamas leaving the “school” in which hundreds of them squat tightly together all day long, droning through their litany. They are of all ages, equally filthy and heavily booted. Over the gateway of the typical Urga palisade is a text in Tibetan, and the cylinders at the upper corners are covered with gleaming gold

High-class lamas, in their brilliant red or yellow robes, great ribbons streaming from their strange hats, are constantly riding in and out of Urga. Note the bent-knee style of horsemanship

A high lama dignitary on his travels, free from the gaze of the curious, and escorted by mounted lamas of the middle class

From time to time the immense crowded gathering stops to eat and drink, still squatted in their places, from bowls of tea and of some such grain as millet, which are passed around among them. This is “holy food,” and the young lower-class lamas who bring it growl protests if the stranger comes too near them while they are carrying it. Then the intonations begin again and go on hour after hour, as tediously as such things can go only in the East, until at last “school” is dismissed and red lamas pour forth through the door and gate like wine from a punctured wine-skin, pausing a moment to take advantage of their first escape into the open air in many hours, then stalking away in their heavy oversize boots with that peculiar ball-and-chain gait of the walking Mongol.

Nowhere on earth probably, unless it be in Tibet, is so great a proportion of the population exclusively engaged in the unproductive nonsense of saving its souls. Every first son becomes a lama; if a boy recovers from any serious illness, the parents usually take the vow that he, too, shall don the red or yellow robe; there are many other reasons, among them the dread of labor, fear of hunger, hope of more promiscuous favors from the weaker sex, which add to the crowded ranks of lamas. No census is available, but in Urga almost every other person one meets displays the clipped head and collarless gown, while conservative estimators reckon that fully two fifths of the population of all Mongolia live, in the name of religion, on the exertions of the rest. Nor is it possible to conceive of a priesthood—to use the word loosely—more deeply sunk in degradation. Not merely do the lamas live in filth and sloth, engaged only in the pursuit of their own salvation, in no way serving their fellow-men, but they are notorious libertines, moralless panderers, in many cases beggars of the lowest type. The first lamas I ever saw were a pair who accosted us at a halt during our climb out of Kalgan, powerful fellows big and sturdy enough to have laughed at the most arduous labor, yet who begged even the sweepings of our wayside lunch and picked up the cigar-butt I tossed away. In Urga lamas bedraggled to the nth degree squatted day after day on busy street-corners telling their beads and monotoning a brief prayer incessantly from dawn to dusk for a few stray coppers and scraps of food.

However, there are lamas of high as well as of low degree—Jenghiz Khan himself, you may recall, was one. Several of the ministers in the Mongolian cabinet were lamas; some are princes as well, holding vast tracts of land and hundreds of slave-like subjects; among a number who called upon my departing host during my stay I recall a magnificent specimen of manhood who came to buy for his own use all the best furnishings of the house, and a strong-featured older man who brought a thousand silver dollars to make good the debt of a scamp for whom he had gone surety out of mere friendship. Such strict honesty is not customary among the Mongols, though they have something like the Chinaman’s way of keeping promises; hence there was not even the pressure of public opinion, certainly no fear of legal action, to cause him to yield up for no value received what was perhaps a considerable portion of his fortune.

Some of the lower orders of lamas engage in worldly occupations, at least intermittently, to keep the wolf from the door; and those who do not live in monasteries may enter into a sort of left-handed marriage, though their wives are always known as “girls.” The higher ranks are in theory celibates, but no such rule actually cramps their personal desires, and the “Living Buddha” himself has led anything but a life of lonely bachelorhood. Among the rank and file of red-robed roughnecks much the same standard of sexual morals seems to prevail as that reached by the lecherous touts of our large cities. It is said to be almost the general practice to reward a lama who has “cured” a young woman by means of his incanted gibberish by granting him the temporary boon of her affections, and foreigners have had experiences in Mongolia which indicate about the same indifference to lack of privacy in the amorous adventures of wearers of the red or yellow robe that prevails in some of their other personal habits.

There are no real schools in Mongolia except these choral gatherings of lamas. In them they learn to read and write, not Mongolian but Tibetan, the Latin of lamaism. The laymen boys of better-class families get their education, if at all, from private instructors, and in rare cases reach universities over the Russian border. Women have, of course, no need for other teaching than what their parents and husbands can give them, though now and then a prince or a wealthy saint hires tutors for his daughters.

However, to turn away from the retreating stream of lamas and push onward, even an enumeration of the religious structures and trappings about the great squat “university” would be wearisome. Most amusing or imbecile of them all to the Westerner, according to his mood, are the prayer-cylinders. Why these are more commonly called “prayer-wheels” is a mystery, for they are invariably cylindrical in shape, varying in size from the largest to the smallest sections of sewer-pipe. How many hundreds of these there are, not only in lama-town but everywhere in Urga, could be computed only by a man of energy and patience. Endless rows of large ones, each covered by a kind of sanctified guard-house, stretch along whole sides of the upper town; they line several of the principal streets; there must be at least one, that could better serve as outhouse, for every family in Urga. The small ones are as flies in summer. Each of these upright wooden cylinders contains thousands of prayers, all, if I am not misinformed, the repetition of the same monotonous phrase, written in Tibetan characters on scraps of tissue-paper,—Om mani padme hun, “The Jewel is in the Lotus,” whatever that means. A kind of capstan furnishes half a dozen protruding bars by which to turn the contrivance, and every turn is equivalent to saying as many thousand prayers as the cylinder contains. Every pious passer-by pauses to revolve one here and there; pilgrims, or residents who have sallied forth especially for that purpose, turn them all, one after the other, along the whole row or, as far as is physically possible, throughout the whole town. Thus the creak of prayer-cylinders is seldom silent, though they furnish a great market for axle-grease. Around the lower massive stone walls of Ganden shrine something like a hundred smaller cylinders are so arranged that by a simple twist of the wrist all of them are turned at once, releasing literally millions of prayers—a labor-saving device compared to which the proudest invention of our industrial world is but clumsy and wasteful.

Unlike the disciples of the truer and more kindly Buddhism to the east and west, the surly lamas of Urga resent visits by strangers to their sanctuaries, and prevent them entirely to the more holy ones. But there happened to be no higher official to forbid it when I stepped through the deep stone door of towering Ganden into a cluttered and musty interior, and the half-dozen young lamas of the garden variety who at first moved toward me in a mass, with a manner almost as threatening as might meet the intruder into a Mohammedan mosque, were softened by a gesture which implied the eventual bestowal of a silver ruble. Closely trailed by them I was permitted to make the circuit of the ground floor, and study from feet to knees the colossal figure of a standing Buddha which takes up almost all the space within Urga’s most lofty building. Then they urged me toward the door, but as I refused to part with the coveted coin for any such slight view they conferred together for some time in hoarse whispers. Finally one was sent to the outer entrance to make sure that none of the higher lamas was likely to drop in unexpectedly, and while two clambered before and three behind me I climbed a steep crude wooden stairway to the second story. This brought me about to the hips of the statue. In the semi-darkness of the building, filled to overflowing with hundreds of small Buddhas, with silk banners and streamers in many colors, with strings of paper prayers, with tawdry freaks of an unclean imagination and all the drab and indecent mummeries of a religion of fear, it was impossible to make out more than that the figure was of slight artistic merit, and that it was completely covered with what had every appearance of being real gold of considerable thickness. A third story on a level with its chest had low doorways at the four corners which opened upon a gallery overhung by one of the massive roofs and gave a far-reaching view of all Urga and its vicinity. Here one might have touched the massive ornamental lanterns, covered with gold, as were parts of the cornices and many of the smaller decorations. Still another half-perpendicular, makeshift stairway led to a higher gallery, carpeted with the droppings of birds and admitting light enough to show that the contents of the building were as soiled and unlaundered as the gowns of my suspicious and worried companions. This was at the level of the Buddha’s face, which resembled nothing so much as a very young “flapper” given to overindulgence in rouge, almost a babyish face, with bright crimson lips a yard long and an immature, affectionate expression that did not in the least befit a being presiding over the sullen and repulsive religion of Mongolia. Two sets of arms, one raised and the other extended in a familiar Buddhist fashion, could be made out in the gloom. Of the weight of actual gold covering the figure from sandals to coiled-snake coiffure there was no means of judging, but I would have been prompt to accept it in lieu of any income I could acquire in the course of a natural lifetime. One of the lamas wished to know whether we had anything in the outside world from which I came comparable to their four-story Buddha. Having in mind only ecclesiastical constructions, I could think of nothing that might be mentioned as a rival; but I might have told them of a statue on an island in the harbor of our principal city which just about equals this one in stature, without bringing in the fact that it is of tarnished bronze instead of gleaming gold.

It is easier to believe the tales of the old Spanish conquistadores after seeing Urga. If the capital of the Inca empire had half as many “golden roofs and cornices scintillating in the sunshine,” it would have been enough to arouse the cupidity of more saintly men than the followers of Pizarro. Gaze across the holy city of Mongolia in almost any direction, and a golden superstructure is almost certain to strike the eye. The lower story is in every case made of materials less tempting to the light-fingered, and palisades shut them in. But what burglar would not give all the rest of his earthly chances for one short half-hour of feverish, unmolested activity at any of those glittering second stories? That of the holy of holies in the monasterial section to the east of the official yamens, in particular, is of an elaborate massiveness which suggests some unlimited source of the precious yellow metal, and when the unclouded sun shines full upon it the eye can literally not endure the sight. Gold, filth, and superstition—after we have seen Urga even the least bigoted of us can understand more fully, if not completely condone, the high-handedness of a Cortez in overthrowing the heathen idols and burning the unholy temples of conquered “Gentiles.”

Along the sloping brown hillside just behind lama-town stands a row of whitewashed brick dagobas, the tombs of saints so holy that their bodies were not disposed of in the customary Mongol fashion. On the ledges of these, as on any projecting place inside the prayer-cylinder sheds, and indeed anywhere on holy edifices where there is room for them and it is permitted, worshipers have laid heaps of loose stones, each representing some appeal to supposedly supernatural forces. Of many another strange device in and about the mammoth temple compounds, there are the prostrating-boards, slightly inclined planks on short legs for the use of the pious during their extraordinary genuflexions before venerated shrines. With that indifference to soiling themselves for which the Mongols are conspicuous, however, the bare ground suffices most worshipers, and the boards do no great amount of service. The orthodox prostration so closely resembles one of the movements in great favor among our gymnasium instructors that the sight of a group of devotees, women fully as often as men, repeating it time after time in their ponderous boots and heavy garments threatens to convulse the American, at least, with laughter. Though there is no unison among the worshipers, each one performs the ceremony with a fixed rhythm which could not be more exact if a maltreated piano were pounding out the periods, so that the effect is of individual perfection of movement but utter inability to synchronize the group. The worshiper first stands at attention with his face to the shrine, as nearly like a soldier as “the conformation of the body”—not to mention the abundance of clothing—“will permit,” murmurs a prayer several times over, then bows his trunk to the horizontal, places his hands on the ground, straightens his legs to the rear, and lowers himself to the prostrate, even his nose touching the earth. There he remains a moment, then, flexing his arms until his rigid body rests on hands and toes, he regains the original position by performing the same movements in reverse order, repeating the exercise as long as piety, the weight of his sins, or his dread of evil spirits suggests. I know from experience that it is a genuine exercise even in gymnasium garb; what it is in full Mongol attire, sometimes including even the feminine head-dress, any vivid imagination can picture. No wonder the Mongols are big and strong; and what call is there for our famous gymnastico-religious organization ever to establish one of its Oriental branches in Urga? It may be just as well, perhaps, for us dilettante gymnasts of the West never to challenge a red-robed lama to bodily combat; for I have seen more than one of them make a complete circuit of some holy section of the city performing this prostration at every other step forward, leaving off at the point where night overtook them, and returning to start there again at dawn.

Except in Lhasa, and perhaps Rome, the worshiper in Urga has an advantage seldom to be found on this earth; he may perform his pious antics, not merely before silent shrines and motionless statues, but before a living god in flesh and blood. It is a pleasant tramp for any one with unatrophied legs across the valley to the dwelling-place of the “Living Buddha.” A few small streams block his way, unless he can hit upon the stepping-stone fords of the horseless lower classes. But if he is a Westerner, one of the mounted lamas who are constantly jogging back and forth between the palace and the city may, out of mere curiosity to see him at close range, or because all the native benevolence of the nomad herdsman has not yet been steeped out of him by superstition and the misbehavior of other outlanders, carry him across on his crupper. Or, if the stroller is not in a mood for petty adventures, he may take the causeway. This is a road wide as a Western boulevard and perhaps half a mile long, raised on wooden trestles which carry it across the slightly lower part of the valley; but it runs, not from the section where foreigners lodge and carry on such business as is possible under present conditions, but, being designed merely for the use of the “Living Buddha” and his courtiers, it connects his palaces with those of his late sainted brother, and with the shrine topped by that most coveted golden superstructure to which he sometimes comes to be worshiped. Apparently there is nothing sacred about this roadway, however, for any one may use it, and a gang of Chinese was engaged in replacing the logs covered with earth—which spells bridge to the Oriental—of a section that had collapsed. For that matter, it is Chinese workmen who repair, as they probably originally built, the fantastic gates and the flaring tile roofs even within the sacred palace precinct, but for which concession by his holiness and the jealous preservers of his sanctity nothing probably would ever get mended.

The low chaos of roofs within his principal compound, green, yellow, blue, golden, a jumble of Chinese, Tibetan, Russian and hybrid architecture, stands out against the little lines of trees along the foot of the sacred mountains,—evergreen, white birch, and other species, now red or yellow, like the omnipresent lamas, with early autumn. A few guard-houses with a ragged armed Mongol or two lounging before them surround the place, but these picturesque sentinels do not interfere with the movements even of foreigners so long as they do not attempt to enter the sacred precincts. On special occasions non-Mongols have been permitted to pass the gates, but very, very few have ever entered the presence or even the actual dwelling of the “Living Buddha” himself, to whom even the highest of Mongols do not have free access. The elaborate gates have the same demon guards, the same isolated wall as a screen against evil spirits, and all the rest of the flummery common to such structures in China and Korea. Some of the buildings within the compound, however, might have been taken bodily from some cheap European, or at least Russian, town, while the confusion of the whole scheme of structures would not awaken delight in the heart of any real architect.

The “summer palace” of the human deity, a furlong away, being more fully Tibetan, is less unpleasing to the eye. At about the same distance from the main palace in the opposite direction is almost a town of mainly modern buildings, housing the non-religious belongings and the servants of the Mongol god. His stables contain many horses; his garages have automobiles of a dozen different makes, European as well as American, not to mention the usual proportion of Fords; a Delco system lights his establishment; and most modern inventions are represented in one form or another. The “Living Buddha” buys every new contrivance the West has to offer, merely as playthings, in a vain attempt to make a noticeable inroad in a burdensome income. A foreign business man of Urga who has furnished much of it assured me that he purchases on the average ten thousand dollars “Mex” worth of assorted junk a day, things of every conceivable kind, which are petulantly tossed aside when the owner and his swarms of satellites tire of them. Many of the motor-cars rust away unused, though this modern god does all his traveling to and from his various thrones by automobile, and his chauffeur, a khaki-and-legging-clad Buriat, may frequently be seen speeding about town on the only motor-cycle in Urga.

In striking contrast to this modernity of his surroundings is the attitude of the Mongols toward their living god. It is something which we of the West can scarcely conceive, and which probably has no precedent among even the most pietistic creeds of the Occident. Second only to the Dalai-Lama of Lhasa in the hierarchy of lamaism, Bogda-Han, to give him one of the many titles by which he is known among Mongols, is worshiped by millions throughout a vast space of central Asia. The attribution of deity with which they invest him is due to the belief that he is a reincarnation of the original Buddha. When a “Living Buddha” dies—of which more anon—the high council of lamaism, by the consultation of certain sacred books and a deal of hocus-pocus which saner mortals would not have the interest to follow, determine where the body into which his soul has been reborn will be found. At first blush it would seem that this must be a new-born babe; but perhaps there is no nursery in the sacred palace, or no lamas of sufficient experience in that line to take charge of a puling infant. Therefore, by something corresponding to poetic license, the signs point to a boy of about nine years of age, who will be found, say, on such a corner of such streets in this or that city, doing so and so at a specified hour. A cavalcade of high lamas travel to the place indicated, which is more likely to be in Tibet than in Mongolia, capture the new and unsuspecting Buddha, and carry him off to a life of deification. It is commonly reputed in the outside world that each Buddha is quietly done away with by what we might call his cardinals at the age of eighteen, his body embalmed, and a new find installed in his place. A Russian professor long resident in Urga has been to some pains to prove that this is not true, that it is in fact mere nonsense; but he admits the curious coincidence that all the “Living Buddhas” up to the present one seem to have died at about eighteen years of age.

The market in front of Hansen’s house. The structure on the extreme left is not what it looks like, for they have no such in Urga but it houses a prayer-cylinder

A youthful lama turning one of the myriad prayer-cylinders of Urga. Many written prayers are pasted inside, and each turn is equivalent to saying all of them

Women, whose crippled feet make going to the shops difficult, do much of their shopping from the two-boxes-on-a-pole type of merchant, constant processions of whom tramp the highways of China

An itinerant blacksmith-shop, with the box-bellows worked by a stick handle widely used by craftsmen and cooks in China

The present one played in unusual luck. To an even greater extent than his predecessors he took advantage of his position to become the Don Juan of Mongolia, and among his many light-o’-loves there was one to whom he wished to stick—or who decided to stick to him. Being a god is very convenient at times. This one calmly overruled the time-honored law that lamas, and especially “Living Buddhas,” may not marry—though of course this verb does not exactly fit the case—and attached the minx to him for life. She seems to have some such power over men as did the old Empress Dowager of China, an impression borne out by her masterful face in such photographs of her as are extant. Not only did she succeed in saving her paramour from the usual fate in his youth, but she so strengthened his position that he is still on his deified throne at an age variously reckoned at from fifty to sixty. Some explain this survival in another way: there were, they say, to have been a fixed number of reincarnations of the Buddha, of which this is the last, after which, we are led to infer, the stainless soul will pass into Nirvana; and of course a few years more or less of hanging back from that blissful state can do no one any harm, least of all in the Orient, where the sense of time is so nearly paralyzed. Even among those who do not accept this view there are many who claim that there will never be another “Living Buddha” in Mongolia, for political rather than lamaistic reasons.

The fact is, probably, that while the masterfulness of his consort had something to do with the survival of the present reincarnation, the powerful clique about him has been willing to permit it because of his weakness, which has prevented him from ever grasping any real authority. Since his gallant youth he has been tainted with that dread disease so wide-spread among the Mongols, which not only makes him a semi-invalid easily manipulated by the real power behind his pseudo-divinity, but which left him some years ago stone-blind. Because he is too sacred to be touched by impious hands, there was no way of curing him, and now it is too late. Besides, the high lamas preferred him sickly and supine rather than well and strong, not to mention the almost complete ignorance among the Mongols of the real nature of their well nigh universal ailment.

Perhaps his blindness increases his divinity in the minds of the faithful, as a sightless witch often wins more followers than one with all her senses intact. At any rate, Mongols of all classes treat their living fetish with divine honors. Pilgrims come from all over central Asia to prostrate themselves on the ground or the prayer-boards outside his compound; on special days they are blessed, not by his actual appearance in person—for visibility often breeds contempt, and the physical labor of being a god should be reduced to a minimum—but by being tapped on the heads with a contrivance in the hands of middle-class lamas to which is attached a rope the other end of which is grasped, hypothetically at least, by the “Living Buddha” seated on his throne inside his central palace. So divine is he that notwithstanding his infirmity the excretions of his body are collected in silver and gold vessels, sealed, and sent out among the credulous as a cure for their infirmities! Foreigners who have chanced to catch a glimpse of him on his way to or from the city temples to pray for rain—he has, of course, the latest and best thing in barometers—or some other ceremony, describe him as being more cleanly dressed than is the Mongol custom, but otherwise quite like any other lama of high class, plus a kind of gold crown. Close inspection might reveal that this alleged pulchritude is an exaggeration—I am skeptical of the possibility of combining cleanliness and Mongol—but that has never been permitted a foreigner.

While no manifestos are issued commanding the foreigner to remain within doors and avert his face, as was long the case when the emperor of China made his annual journey to sacrifice to the Altar of Heaven in Peking, armed guards as well as pious fanatics see to it that the divine being is not too nearly approached during his passing to and fro about Urga. No later ago than the month of my visit a group of Americans in an automobile were halted on one side of the unmarked route over which the “Living Buddha” was to return from the temple where he was just then enthroned, and compelled to get out and walk across it. As a special concession to the spirit of modernity, when the insistent guards were reminded that the abandoned machine could not advance of its own will, they permitted the chauffeur to climb in again and technically break the divine law by riding across the prospective trail of the blind god.

Tibetan, as I have said, is the Latin of lamaism. Even in Peking, where branch clusters of the faith exist, only two or three temples are permitted, by special dispensation, to carry on their services in Mongolian, and there is said to be only one in Asia where Chinese is used. The great stone letters on the flank of the sacred mountain, visible as far off as the eye can reach, are Tibetan characters. From Tibet come numbers of lamas, and orders tending to keep the ritual more orthodox; the Dalai-Lama himself once fled before foreign invaders to Urga. Neither these seekers after Nirvana from Lhasa and vicinity nor the traders from the more northern parts of Tibet make the journey now by the direct overland route. Not only are there bleak mountains and vast morasses, dreary despoblados without a sign of man for days, and the fanatical Mohammedan province of Kansu to cross, but in these settled times there are real dangers from bandits of several nationalities. So the beaten trail of to-day, except for those Tibetan divinities who come by sea, like any tourist, leads down through northern India and across into central China, thence northward through the former Celestial Empire, which still claims, if in vain, jurisdiction over all Outer Mongolia.

There is nothing more pleasant than a stroll on a brilliant autumn day across the golden-brown rolling plains about Urga, especially to the north and east, where they roll ever higher until all the holy city, to its most distant and isolated clusters of temples, lies spread out before one. No suggestion of modern industry breaks the peaceful quiet, which is enhanced by the law forbidding hunting or any other interference with wild creatures within a circuit of about twelve miles about the residence of Bogda-Han. Great flocks of pigeons fly up in purple-blue clouds only when the stroller has almost walked them down; less charming birds show a similar lack of fear of man; in the low forest along the crest of the sacred mountain roam elk, wild pigs, deer, bears, wolves, some say even moose and reindeer, not to mention many smaller and more harmless animals. Yet there is something ominous rather than tranquil and inviting about the scene as a whole; the Elysian charm is sullied and broken by various repelling things, particularly by the inhuman Mongol method of disposing of the dead.

This consists simply, except in rare cases of reputed gods or demigods, of feeding the corpses of all to the dogs. There seems to be nothing corresponding to a funeral service. Foreign residents say that formerly it was the custom to load the body on a two-wheeled cart and drive pell-mell across the hillocks until it fell off, the driver not daring to look back under penalty of having all the evil spirits which inhabited the dead man enter his own body. Others say they have sometimes seen a kind of procession of lamas and relatives follow the corpse to the hills and stand some little distance off watching its consumption. Certainly in the great majority of cases there is no more ceremony involved than in tossing garbage on the nearest dump. There are no fixed spots for depositing the bodies, but they are thrown hit or miss on the outer edges of the town, often right beside the main trails and especially in the shallow, verdureless gullies breaking up the wrinkled brown country about it.

One must be on the ground early after a death to find enough of the body left to recognize it as more than a broken skeleton. The big black dogs, covered with long shaggy hair, which dot the landscape everywhere in and about Urga, filling its streets with murderous-looking eyes that keep the pedestrian on the constant qui vive, have learned their task well from many generations of practice. The rapidity with which they can reduce what was a sentient, moving being the day before to a mere sprinkling of broken bones is astonishing. This doubly endears these loathsome beasts to the Mongols, for they believe that the more quickly a body is eaten the better man does this prove the deceased to have been in life. It is especial good luck and proof of unusual sanctity to see the body eaten by birds, but the dogs rarely leave their feathered rivals an opportunity thus to bear testimony to the character of the departed. The birds have their turn after the dogs have given up hope of deriving further benefit from their exertions, and finish off the job by cleaning out the skull and the other morsels for which a bill is needed.

There is nothing either hidden or sacred about these graveless graveyards. Any one may stroll through them, and find them quite as abandoned as any city dump-heap. Dog-nests made of the ragged quilted cloaks in which the bodies are carried out are the only conspicuous feature, except the skulls which lie about everywhere. I wondered at first that there were never any remains of the skeleton except widely scattered and broken bones, until I beheld a dog pick up a rib and carry it off to a comfortable spot on the hillside, there to sit down on his haunches, break it in two, and gnaw the last scrap of nourishment out of it. In the dry desert air the skulls quickly bleach snow-white and brittle; only here and there is one still “green” enough to be gray in color, so solid as to pain the toe that kicks it across the plain. These vast bone-yards are no place for the Westerner, living on his over-refined food, to spend the hour before an appointment with his dentist, for his envy of the full sets of perfect white teeth in almost every skull may become overwhelming.

It seems to be the idea of these putative Buddhists, the Mongols, and of their brethren, the Buriats and Kalmucks, who follow the same custom, that, since all living creatures are brothers, the least a man can do for his dumb fellow-beings is to bequeath them his useless body as nourishment—and thereby, of course, win merit that will improve his reincarnation. The Tibetans do likewise, except that they feed their mountain eagles or condors as well as their dogs, and prepare the food for the latter by mixing it with ground grain. Gruesome as the custom is, there is a thoroughness and promptitude about it which greatly outdoes the Christian mode of burial, a real and visible return of “dust to dust.” I know of no other means of disposing of the dead which gives the corpse so nearly its true value, none which leaves such a true sense of the worthlessness of human remains. Between this and the opposite extreme of an elaborate funeral followed by a showy mausoleum I am not sure but that I prefer the Mongol method.

To the Mongols themselves there is no more sanctity about their scattered bones than about any other form of rubbish. Shepherds or others whose calling brings them there wander or sit about the skull-strewn gullies quite as calmly as if they were in a field of daisies. Relatives seldom if ever come to pick up any of the remains; sometimes the rains wash broken bones down the gullies into the edge of town, where they lie until they are covered up with silt and disappear. Most of them simply disintegrate into the semi-desert soil about them. There is never a sign that the Mongol riding by feels any distress at the thought that some day these same surly black dogs that are tearing to pieces the corpse at the roadside will do the same for him. The tops of skulls, especially of higher lamas and men of standing, are sometimes used as drinking-vessels, or as oil-receptacles in the temples, and specially sainted thigh-bones make excellent whistles for use in ritualistic uproars; otherwise no one seems to have thought of the commercial possibilities of the bone-yards. Nor are these strange people, who might punish with death the stranger who forced his way into the presence of their living god, in the least sensitive about the possession of their remains. A high lama dropped in upon my host one day and chanced to spy a skull-top that had just been presented by some native admirer. He picked it up, looked it over carefully, held it up to a light, and announced that the original owner had been a very good man, proof of which was the condition of the zigzag joints and the fact that the skull was so thin in one spot that the light showed rosy red through it. Perhaps, he added, as he laid it back on the bric-À-brac table and accepted a cigarette, it had been the skull of his good old friend Lama So-and-so.

If I may hazard a guess, it is that this to us gruesome custom has grown up among the Mongols because they are nomads. They cannot carry the graves of their ancestors with them, whereas the dogs will follow of their own accord. Their attitude toward these surly black beasts without owners, which roam the plains as well as make every street of Urga a gauntlet, bears out this impression. Though they are as quick as we to beat them off with any weapon when they get too aggressive, they deeply resent a serious injury to or the killing of one of them by a frightened foreigner. Yet the tendency of any Westerner would be to do just that; I know of few assignments that would give me more satisfaction than to lead a regiment to Urga and exterminate her swarming dogs. Most of them seem to have acquired the disease most prevalent among those they feed upon, and one feels that the slightest bite would prove fatal. Luckily they spend the day largely in sleeping and making love, so that the streets are not always as dangerous as they might be. But they easily gather in packs, and especially at night or during the long hungry winters they are a distinct menace not merely to women and children but to the hardiest men. They are really cowards, these man-eating dogs of Mongolia, as the shrinking look in their tigerish eyes when they are effectively threatened proves; yet they are so accustomed to human flesh that man is to them natural prey, and they seem to have developed a knowledge of human anatomy which tells them where to attack most effectively, as well as what tidbits to prefer when they are not especially hungry. Urga is full of stories of the inability of these ugly beasts to await the natural end of their predestined victims. A man making his way late at night across the noisome market-place outside our window had been dragged down and eaten during the past winter. By poetic justice, he was a lama. In the outskirts just back of one of the temple compounds a Buriat woman was pulled off her horse and devoured one cold winter day before those looking on could come to her rescue. A year or so before, a Russian colonel newly arrived dined late with friends, who asked him as he left whether they could not give him an escort, or at least lend him a cudgel. No, indeed, replied the departing guest, a Russian officer could not be afraid; besides, he had his sword. Next morning the sword and a few buttons and rags were all that could be found of the colonel.

Clyx.com