PA-U-RONG TO MULI

The Yalung river forms the western frontier of the dominions of the king of Chala. Across the river lies the country generally known as Huang Lama, which is governed by its own lama-prince. The guide whom the king had deputed to accompany me thus far, and who had proved himself a sturdy, honest fellow, had now to return to Tachienlu, leaving me to the care of the three Chinese soldiers who had been instructed to follow me all the way to the borders of the province of Yunnan. Before leaving me, the king's man was obliging enough to cross the river in order to explain to the people of the other side that I was a harmless traveller and deserving of their assistance. This was a necessary precaution, for the ula privilege had been extended to me only as far as the king of Chala's frontier.199

The king's brother had told me in Tachienlu that on the banks of the Yalung I should find a colony of "White-bone" Lolos. The Lolos—to whom I have already referred—were once a powerful non-Chinese race inhabiting a great part of southern Ssuch'uan and the greater part of Yunnan. A large remnant of them still maintains its independence in the mountainous country between the Chien-ch'ang valley and the Upper Yangtse. The so-called Hei-Ku-t'ou or "Black-bones," are the aristocrats of the race, the Pai-Ku-t'ou or "White-bones" the "tame" ones, who do what they are told by any one who has authority over them, whether of their own race or not. The Lolos are an interesting people from the European point of view on account of their obstinate self-reliance, their dislike for the Chinese, and their mysterious history. The 12,000 square miles or so of mountain-land which still belong to them comprise one of the least-known corners of the Chinese empire;200 but this is only owing to the jealousy of the Chinese, who object to Europeans going where they cannot and dare not go themselves. A well-conducted European able to satisfy his hosts that he had no hostile intentions would probably be well received in Lolo-land, for the people seem to be as hospitable as those of Laos and the Shan States, with whom, indeed, it is just possible that they are ethnologically connected. The European students of their language could be numbered on the fingers of one hand, and no one has yet given a comprehensive account of it. It is evident from Paul Vial's little hand-book201—which deals with some of the Lolo tribes of Yunnan—that there are several dialects, which probably represent several broad tribal cleavages. It is doubtful, indeed, whether many of the Yunnan Lolos would be able to carry on an intelligent conversation with the independent Lolos of the Ta Liang Shan.202 During the day's holiday which I gave my men at Pa-U-Rong—for I remained there two nights—I made enquiries about the isolated Lolo colonists of whom I had heard, and discovered that the information given me was accurate. I had great difficulty in persuading one of them to come to me and tell me something of their history; and the one who finally accepted the bribe which I held out was not a brilliant specimen of the attractive race to which he belonged. He was afflicted with deafness, stupidity and extreme nervousness, had no knowledge of Chinese, and was only partially acquainted with the local dialect of Tibetan. I managed, however, to take down a small vocabulary from him203 and extracted hesitating answers to a few of my questions. In Pa-U-Rong and its suburb villages there are some twenty-three families of Lolos. They came from the independent Lolo country, east of YÜeh-hsi, about the year 1850, the migration being due to a tribal feud. They were well received by the local t'u pai hu, and lands were allotted to them for which they pay an annual rent. In or about the year 1864 they addressed a petition to the king of Chala in which they begged to be enrolled among his subjects. The answer to this petition was favourable, and they have since been treated with every kindness, for which they are grateful. They use the Tibetan alphabet in transcribing their language,204 but only a few of them can read and write. They call themselves DrÜ, which has the meaning of "comrades." They worship a deity called Ba Le Nim Bu and another called San To. The latter is supposed to reside on the top of one of the high mountains overlooking Pa-U-Rong on the north-east. They neither bury nor burn their dead: they tie a white veil over the dead man's face, swathe him in a shroud, and throw him into the Yalung. The poorest among them go barefooted and scarify the soles of their feet with a hot iron in order to make them hard. When the head of a family dies his property goes to his eldest son; if there is no son the widow adopts a boy, who then takes the family surname and succeeds to the property—much as is done in China. If there is no heir, the property goes to the lamas, in accordance with Tibetan custom.

The statement regarding the deity on the mountain-top is interesting as showing that when the Lolos migrate they take their gods with them and give them a new residence in a locality convenient for acts of worship. It seems to be an established fact that the Lolos have never been converted to Buddhism. Mount Omei is to them a sacred mountain, but it is to worship gods of their own and not Buddhas or Bodhisattvas that they go thither on pilgrimage.205 Considering their fondness for mountains as religious centres, it does not seem rash to hazard the prophecy that when their country has been explored the highest point of the Ta Liang Shan will be found to be the Olympus of their gods. The little colony of emigrants has no doubt been obliged to conform to most of the social customs of those among whom they live, and this is sufficient to explain why among them the lamas are regarded as ultimus haeres of their property. As time goes on it is probable that their descendants will gradually forget their own language and the history of their race.

An old man—not a Lolo—who said his name was Shou Ji Tseri, paid me a visit in order to tell me that he was a Roman Catholic. He had been converted by a French missionary in Tachienlu over twenty years before, and though he had long since migrated to Pa-U-Rong, he and his family had remained steadfast in the faith. He assured me that he was not persecuted, and suffered no social disabilities through being a Christian.

The landlord of my house was the t'u pai hu,206 and he was evidently a devout Buddhist, or rather lamaist. The room in which I was quartered was a kind of private chapel, containing a small library of Tibetan books grimy with age. More numerous than the books were bundles of charms supposed to ward off disease and ill-fortune. They consisted of small stiff cards, not unlike playing-cards in size and appearance, covered with writing on one side, and crudely-painted pictures of horses and other animals on the other.

On the eve of my departure from Pa-U-Rong I gave my returning guide a letter in which I informed the king of my safe arrival at the limits of his territory. The lack of startling adventures was perhaps a little disconcerting after all that I had been told of the perils of the way, but I was glad to know that I had not contributed to the collapse of that amiable monarch's already rather insecure throne.

I made my exit from the kingdom of Chala by the undignified expedient of sliding down a rope. The Yalung207 is one of the greatest tributaries of the Yangtse, but it is full of rapids and cascades, and is unnavigable. At Pa-U-Rong it is about 70 or 80 yards broad, and the current is very swift and strong. I heard that till recently it could at the season of slack water be crossed by a raft;208 but at the time of my visit there was no raft or boat of any kind on the river (the last one had been wrecked and lost), and a single stout cable of twisted bamboo, stretched from bank to bank, afforded the only means of crossing. The frontispiece to this book, which reproduces a photograph taken by myself, shows one of my followers in the act of making the passage. Bridges of this kind are common in Tibet, and in the Himalayan gorges, but it is not often that the stream to be crossed is so wide as the Yalung. The main roads—such as the highroad from Tachienlu to Lhasa—are generally provided with good bridges or ferries; and, as a rule, it is only when travelling by the "small roads" and by-ways of Tibet that one is compelled to cross rivers and gorges by single ropes. The abbÉ Huc admits that in the course of his long journey to Lhasa and back he never ventured on bridges of this kind, though he frequently saw them. Captain Gill209 remarks that "this is a method of crossing a river that must require a considerable amount of nerve"; but he too, apparently, evaded the necessity of putting the matter to personal test. In my case there was no possibility of evasion.

The first view of this primitive substitute for a bridge certainly does not inspire one with confidence. There is one rope for crossing from the left to the right bank, and another—some 30 yards off—for the reverse proceeding. The banks on either side are high and steep, and each rope-end is firmly bound round an immovable rock or boulder. The arrangement is shown in the accompanying diagram.

On crossing from the left bank (Pa-U-Rong side) one starts at the point A, reaching the right bank at the point B. Crossing in the opposite direction one starts at C, reaching the left bank at D. The points A and C are about 120 feet above the level of the water. B and D are about 40 feet lower. The native of the district, when about to cross the river, places a semicircular piece of tough wood, with two grooves for the fingers, on the bamboo rope, clutches it with both hands and lets himself go. He is not tied to the movable cylinder or to the rope, and he has nothing to sit on. He simply holds on with his hands, his legs hanging in the air. He descends with terrific speed to the point where the rope sags or hangs lowest (the points E and F); and having safely arrived there, he is only a few yards from the further bank, and quickly hauls himself along the remaining distance. In this manner the crossing is only a matter of a few exhilarating seconds. With us, however, the operation was a longer one. Unfortunately, the proper rope for leaving the left bank was old, and had been condemned as unsafe; all my party, therefore, were obliged to use the rope that was only intended for crossing in the opposite direction. The rope-end at the point C, however, had been temporarily brought down to the point G, as it would otherwise have been necessary for us to haul ourselves along nearly the whole length of the rope in an ascending direction, which would have been a task requiring great strength and endurance. Even as it was, instead of a rapid rush through the air across almost the whole width of the river, the weight of our bodies only took us about two-thirds of the total distance, and from that point we had to proceed by throwing our legs over the rope and pulling ourselves upwards inch by inch, hand over hand. The work was exceedingly laborious. All my party went across in this manner one by one, starting at D and arriving at G. The point H represents the place at which we had to commence hauling. In view of the fact that we were all novices at rope-climbing, each of us submitted, before starting, to having a leather thong tied under the arms, and made fast to the sliding cylinder, so that if loss of nerve or other cause had made us let go we should not have fallen into the river, but hung limply on the rope until rescued. There was, therefore, no actual danger provided that nothing gave way. In some places where these primitive bridges are in use, passengers are provided with a swinging rope-seat which hangs from the cylinder. This, of course, must relieve the strain on hands and arms very considerably. But we were furnished with no such luxury. My dog Jim was sent across by himself, his body being firmly tied up with strips of cloth suspended from the cylinder, from which the unhappy beast hung like a squirming fish at the end of a line. When he reached the point at which upward hauling became necessary, one of the natives—who seemed to delight in performing acrobatic feats above the swirling waters of the Yalung—clambered along from the right bank with an extra rope and tied it round him. He did this while he was hanging upside down with his legs round the rope-bridge. The loose end of the spare rope he took back with him to the right bank, and the dog was safely pulled by several willing hands along the remaining distance. My baggage was sent across in the same manner. I found the experience interesting and somewhat exciting. The whole village turned out to watch us cross the river, and I must confess that when I was being trussed up with the leather thong my feelings were perhaps only comparable to those of a condemned criminal who is being pinioned before execution. A fall into the river would mean almost certain death. The water seethes and bubbles in innumerable whirlpools, and is nearly as cold as ice, for it largely consists of frozen snow.

I never heard the Yalung given that name by the natives. The word is a Chinese approximation to the Tibetan Nya Rong ("Valley of the Nya"). The Tibetans all know the river as the Nya Ch'u or Nya river; but the Chinese, so far as my experience goes, never give it any other name than Kin [Chin] Ho, which means "Gold River,"—so that "Yalung" is really only a book-word. The number of rivers in western China, of which the word "Gold" forms part of the Chinese name, might almost fill a page. The Ta Tu river above Wa Ssu Kou210 is the Chin Ch'uan ("Gold Stream"), the Yangtse for hundreds of miles of its course is the Chin Sha Chiang [Kin Sha Kiang], or "River of Golden Sand," and many streams of less importance bear similar names. The reason of the popularity of the name is not far to seek, for gold in larger or smaller quantities is well known to exist in nearly all the rivers that take their rise in eastern and northern Tibet, and the Tibetans—especially the lamas—derive therefrom a very considerable profit.

Baber pointed out that the upper Yangtse, from its junction with the Yalung to about P'ing-shan (above the mouth of the Min), is "never called locally by any other name than Kin-[Chin-] Ho, or 'Gold River.'" M. Cordier, in quoting this passage in his sumptuous edition of Marco Polo's travels,211 says that he imagines Baber to have made a slight mistake in saying that this part of the great river is named a ho, and that the word actually used is probably kiang. As both words mean "river" the point is of small importance, but as a matter of fact Baber is perfectly right. Not only is the Yangtse from the mouth of the Min to the mouth of the Yalung called the Kin [Chin] Ho, as Baber said, but it seems obvious that the natives regard the Yalung as the main upper stream of the same river, just as they regard the Min as the main upper stream of the Yangtse hundreds of miles lower down.212 Baber was no doubt unaware that the Yalung was known as the Kin Ho, or he would have seen why it is that its junction with what we know as the Yangtse effects a change in the name of the latter.

In official publications, however, the local names are disregarded. In such works the Yangtse is given one name from its entrance into Ssuch'uan down to HsÜ-chou-fu, where it comes to an untimely end by entering the Min:213 and that one name is the Chin Sha Chiang.214 As regards its Tibetan course, the Chinese geographical authorities attempt after their usual cumbrous fashion to give the sounds of the various Tibetan names—they write of the Mu-lu-ssu-wu-su for instance—but they recognise it as the same river. In explanation of the local idea that the Yalung is the principal stream it may be mentioned that at the point of junction the Yalung has the appearance of being larger than the Yangtse.215

We did not proceed far on our journey during the day on which we accomplished the feat of crossing the Yalung. We clambered up the steep slope to a height of about 1,500 feet and remained for the night in the poor hamlet of Dju Mu. We were still well within sight of Pa-U-Rong, having travelled only about 12 li. A change of language or dialect perplexed my servant as soon as we had crossed the river, and though it is rash to generalise from the appearance of the inhabitants of a few isolated villages, there seemed to be racial changes as well. The Tibetan-Man-tzu population of the kingdom of Chala seems to give place to a race-group which might be described as Tibetan-Mo-so. The men are shorter than those of the eastern watershed of the Yalung, the women plainer and stouter and of heavier build. There is no great change in the dress of the men, but the women—perhaps recognising their deficiency of personal attractiveness—show an exaggerated fondness for jewellery and trinkets, which make a ceaseless jingle as they walk.

Many of the people—men as well as women—wear large earrings consisting of plain circles of silver, from which, in the case of girls, are suspended long strings of coloured beads. On both sides of the Yalung—but not far from its banks on either side—the women also wear curious silver plates or plaques which are fastened to their hair. Unmarried girls wear one and married women two of these ornaments. Some of the plaques—which vary in size from about 5 inches to more than a foot in diameter—are adorned with dainty filigree work, which would do credit to the silversmiths of any country, but the majority are simple and of rude workmanship, such as the specimen which with difficulty I succeeded in purchasing.216 In the middle of each plaque is a silver tube containing some red substance that from a distance looks like dark coral. These little plates are regarded as ornaments, but they are also charms to ward off a certain dread disease. From a description of the ailment it would appear to be something like bubonic plague. I saw no cases of it, but I was told that it devastates the valley of the Yalung every autumn, and kills every one who does not wear a charm. It is curious to note that nearly all the great trough-like river-valleys of south-western China have acquired a similar reputation of extreme unhealthiness. The Red River of Tongking and Yunnan is so much dreaded by the Chinese on account of its deadly fevers that nothing will induce them to spend a night on its banks.217 The Salwen, the valley of which forms a yawning chasm from north to south of the Yunnan plateau, has an even worse reputation, as is well known to all who have travelled from Talifu to Bhamo.218 Charms against disease are worn by the men of the Yalung valley as well as by the women, but they do not take the same form. The men and boys carry a small charm-box (ga-u219) hung round their necks like a locket by a string or chain, and in the box they place little amulets220 which they have received from the lamas. The efficacy of the charms is supposed to be impaired if they are removed from the person or put into the hands of a stranger, so it is not often that one has an opportunity of close examination.

The next day (28th April) we travelled a very short distance—about 6 miles. The path wound round the edge of a defile and up the mountain side west and south-west through a pine forest. We halted at a place called TÊ Ben, a single house belonging to a headman, situated near the edge of a bluff that commanded a fine view of the Yalung valley, now far below us. Difficulties about transport prevented our making a longer stage. Next day, these difficulties having been overcome, our path led us over innumerable undulations, in the course of which we gradually ascended another 2,000 feet. At the hamlet of Pa Sung, which we reached during the morning, there were no animals to be hired, and our baggage was carried for the rest of the day's march by three women and a yak. One of my Chinese escort—not in love with his mountaineering experiences—was much perturbed at the discovery that he was expected to walk, and made himself so disagreeable to the villagers that they had to bribe him to calmness by making him a present of a live fowl. He accepted the fowl, and made one of the village damsels carry it for him. This incident was not discovered by me until our arrival at our destination that night, when I punished my soldier for the impropriety of his conduct by paying for the fowl and eating it myself. The yak caused us some trouble by losing itself in the forest while we were having our midday tsamba. It was finally discovered by its driver—a very little boy—and brought back by him triumphantly at the end of a rope. The incident pleasantly recalled to my memory the only poem in the English language, so far as I am aware, which sings the exclusive praises of the yak, an animal which, however useful to man, is indeed hardly of the kind that would naturally inspire a poet to a lyrical outburst.221 Tibetan and Man-tzu children seem to be able to manage the clumsy beast with the same ease and dexterity as are shown by Chinese children in controlling the cumbrous movements of the water-buffalo; and the European who may prod a yak without the least effect in accelerating its motion, and whose mere proximity often rouses the water-buffalo to dangerous fury, can have nothing but jealous admiration for the Oriental child whose lightest touch reduces one or the other to complete docility.

From the hamlet of Pa Sung we dropped down to a deep ravine at the bottom of which is a sparkling mountain stream spanned by a rustic bridge. The ravine was full of wild-flowers—pink, red, purple and white in a setting of rich green. I noticed also that ivy—not so common a sight in the Far East as in England—clambered in great profusion round the trunks of trees and over a small obo; and some exquisite ferns, including maiden-hair, covered the steep banks of the stream and fringed our path. After climbing up the further side of the ravine our path again wound up and along the mountain-side, and brought us finally to the hamlet of Ten Ba K'a, where we lodged in the local chiefs house. Our host was a fine-looking man, whose long black hair hanging down on each side of his face gave him an appearance of ferocity that was belied by the gentleness of his manners. I was accommodated in the family chapel—a large room on the first floor. Close by was a small lamasery. The village is situated at the head of a small valley which runs north-east and south-west, and from it we had a magnificent view of the snowy mountains we had left behind us on the other side of the Yalung. The valley itself—when one looks down upon it from above—is of very peculiar formation, being split up by a series of clearly-defined ridges. I could see nothing to indicate that they were glacier moraines. Next morning we climbed one of the ridges that lies immediately behind the village, and from its summit we descended into a thickly-wooded ravine, bounded on the left by lofty and picturesque cliffs. After descending a thousand feet or more we emerged from the ravine into a small partially-cultivated valley containing a village. After leaving this village, where we took our midday rest, we began a long and rather wearisome up-hill climb past a plantation of birches and through a thin forest. From the top of the pass we made a gradual descent through similar country, and struck into the valley of a large stream—the Dja Ch'u—issuing, apparently, from some high snowy peaks visible in the distance.222 This river accompanied us from this point practically all the way to Muli. Our path led us hundreds of feet above the river's left bank, and brought us to our night's lodging in a solitary house. Other scattered houses were visible some distance off, and I was told that they all bear the collective name of Hu Dra. Our hostess brought me as a present the best Tibetan cheese I had tasted.

The next day, 1st May, we left our quarters at Hu Dra just as the sun rose, on a beautiful fresh morning that reminded one almost too vividly of early summer in England. Even the cuckoo was not wanting. The road led us at first in a south-easterly direction high above the left bank of the Dja Ch'u for about 3 miles, then turned with that river into a valley running south-west. A mile or so beyond the bend I observed a village on the right bank, but we kept to the left, still high above the river. Nearly opposite that village we came to a couple of tumbledown huts. While we were resting here, two of my soldiers took the opportunity to disgrace May Day by indulging in a violent quarrel. For the sake of cacophony I had previously given one of these men the unmelodious name of Bloggins, owing to the singular irregularity of his features. Certainly no one could have mistaken him for a reincarnation of Plato's Charmides. To the other, for a different reason, I had given the surname of Hoggins. Before I could learn the cause of the dispute and settle it by friendly arbitration, Hoggins drew his sword and began laying it about him in a manner suggestive of slaughter and blood. The effects were not serious, as the blade of the sword, not being intended for actual warfare, broke off at the hilt. Bloggins took shelter behind a mule. The quarrel arose and subsided like a thunderstorm, for in half an hour the combatants were again on the most amiable terms with each other and drowning the memory of their disagreement in a bowl of tea.

From the scene of this bloodless combat the road continued to lead us high above the left bank of the river-valley, giving us occasional glimpses of the many windings of the stream. One has to ride with caution, as the path frequently lies along the edge of a precipice. The surface is sometimes very rough and rocky, and the road undulates a great deal as it has to cross a number of deep ravines. After riding about 65 li from our starting-place we reached the neighbourhood of an important lamasery, named Wa-chin Gompa,223 well hidden in a wooded dell. The lamas objected to receiving us here, so we went on to a scattered hamlet called Ta K'oa. The Dja Ch'u here changes its name to the Ya-Rong Ch'u.

A great authority has told us that among the losses brought upon us by the fury and vulgarity of modern life, one of the saddest is the loss of a wish to gather a flower in travelling.224 Perhaps it was because I was so far from the beaten tracks of civilisation that on that beautiful May morning the wish to gather flowers still asserted in me its vigorous vitality. The wild-flowers during that day's journey were indeed so numerous and beautiful that all the members of my party yielded to the temptation of decking themselves out in blossoms pink and white and blue. The dainty freshness of our summer garlands only served, I fear, to throw into stronger relief the dirt and dust of our travel-stained garments. Though there were three flower-bedecked women among my party, I was moved by no impulse to crown any one of the three as our Queen of May. It would be ungallant to give the reasons. But if none of them was conspicuous for beauty of figure or feature, I think it only fair to call to grateful remembrance the fact that one was the possessor of an alluring smile and a not unattractive dimple.

On 2nd May a pretty road lined with "English" hedgerows bursting into bloom, led us after a ride of 4 miles to a point from which we obtained a fine view of the river—a long stretch of smooth water shining in the sun, a rather violent rapid, and a series of graceful curves. From the village of Dje Ru we descended for the first time to the river-bank and crossed the stream—now called the Tong Yi—by a substantial wooden bridge about 50 yards long. I have already referred to the variety of names possessed by the rivers of this region. The stream which we knew first on 30th April as the Dja Ch'u had changed its name at least seven times before we finally left its banks three days later; but as in the case of many other Tibetan rivers, the different names often represent merely the tribal names of the various village communities that dwell on its banks, or even the names of the valleys through which it flows. In the interests of geography it would no doubt be more satisfactory if every river were given one name only, by which it could be universally known throughout the whole length of its course; but the convenience of so doing would hardly appeal to people who never saw a map, and never travel, and know nothing of their rivers except the short stretches that flow by their doors. I did not meet a single inhabitant of the Yalung watershed who was able to tell me whence any of their rivers came, or whither it went. Such questions seemed to them merely frivolous, the answers being regarded as beyond the range of possible human knowledge.

About a mile beyond the wooden bridge the river becomes the Wo Pu Tsong, and later on the Mi Ch'u. Not far beyond, a fairly large tributary—the Ba Tsam Ch'u—enters by a valley in the east, and joins the main stream at a point where, after flowing for some miles due south, it turns sharply to the south-west. Our path, following the right bank of the river, now turned into a narrow valley through which we travelled for the rest of the stage, and from which we did not emerge till the middle of the following day. This valley possesses, perhaps, the most beautiful riverine scenery met with anywhere throughout my journey, though it is not on the same grand scale as the scenery of the Yangtse gorges or the valley of the Ta Tu. After travelling along an undulating road for about 5 miles, we came to a place which possesses the abrupt name of Wu, where—on the flat roof of one of the two huts forming the hamlet—we had our midday meal. Just before reaching this spot we passed a place where two landslips, one on each side of the river, had very recently taken place. Part of the subsiding banks having fallen into the water, a violent rapid had been formed across the river.

In this extremely beautiful valley the river is known as the Li Ch'u. It is an unnavigable stream containing a considerable body of water sometimes nearly 100 yards broad, but occasionally narrowed to 30. An easy walk through the most charming sylvan scenery brought us, a few miles beyond Wu, to a wooded glade, where—as the moon had already risen and there was no sign of a village—I decided to camp out. There is here an obo covered with the usual inscribed slates; and close by stands a square stone building with a wooden roof. This building serves as a kind of canopy for a ch'o-ten225 (ch'orten), or small lamaist pyramid, which occupies the whole space inside. My sketch of this ch'orten, which is of a type very common in Tibetan lands, will convey an idea of its appearance.

The stone canopy—a plain, unpretentious building226—faces the south-east. It has four doorways, one on each side. The ch'orten itself is of stone, covered with plaster, and whitewashed, and stands about 20 feet high.

Rockhill, describing similar structures met with elsewhere, remarks that the word "ch'orten" means "offering-holder." "Great numbers" he says "are built in the vicinity of lamaseries, and serve to point out the roads leading to them. They are also something like the stations in the Catholic 'Path of the Cross,' as pilgrims, when journeying to a shrine, perform prostrations before each ch'orten met on the way thither."227 Colonel Waddell has an interesting note to explain the symbolical character of this type of building. He says that ch'ortens are "symbolic of the five elements into which a body is resolved upon death: thus ... the lowest section, a solid rectangular block, typifies the solidity of the earth; above it water is represented by a globe; fire by a triangular tongue; air by a crescent—the inverted vault of the sky; and ether by an acuminated circle, the tapering into space."228 The Tibetan ch'ortens may thus be regarded either as the tombstones of dead lamas or as chambers for preserving the relics of Buddhist saints. In the latter case they are analogous to the far more imposing pagodas of China or the dagobas of Burma and of Anuradhapura in Ceylon.

Outside the stone building containing the ch'orten I spent the night of 2nd May. We were now in a sheltered ravine and in a fairly warm latitude. We were therefore independent of walled shelter, and, as we carried with us our own tsamba, we were in no want of food. The spot we had chosen was indeed an ideal resting-place. The utter peacefulness of our beautiful valley, the murmur of the stream only a few yards away, the soft shimmer of moonlight interwoven with the network of fresh foliage that curtained mysterious fairylands beyond, combined to create an earthly paradise that might almost make one cease to long for a heavenly one. If Shakespeare had visited the Far East, he would surely have chosen just such a spot as this for the scene of a new Midsummer Night's Dream. It was sad to reflect that until Æroplanes come into general use it could never be made accessible to lovers of nature except those who were willing to cross the vast ranges of snowy mountains that hem it in; but I could not restrain a feeling of exultation at the thought that never—I hope this is no rash prophecy—would the shriek of a steam-engine disturb here

and that our boisterous civilisation would be content to leave this one nook of beauty for ever undefiled. If any of my readers is yearning to seek in some quiet hermitage rest and release from the pains and feverish joys of modern life, some home of ancient peace amid lovely scenery, let him turn his pilgrim steps towards the far lands of the Tibetan border, for his ideal would be surely realised in some such valley as this.

It was with regret, not shared, I fear, by my unemotional companions, that I left my camping-ground on the morning of the next day. For half the day, however, our path still lay through the southern portion of the same beautiful valley, and amid scenery no less charming than that of the day before. A short distance beyond our camp a turn in the path brought us opposite to a ravine opening towards the east, on the river's left bank. The sun rose behind it as I passed, and shed a rich glow on rocks and cascades and masses of pure green foliage. A walk of 5 or 6 miles brought us to a crazy wooden bridge229 over which we crossed with some trepidation to the left bank, and about 3 miles further on we again crossed to the right. Beyond this the scenery becomes wilder, and the river-valley gradually opens out into a region where rocks and hills lie about in fantastic confusion. Passing oboes, prayer-flags and prayer-wheels in great numbers, we climbed up a steep and winding path that gradually led us far away from the Li Ch'u and brought us to a scattered mountain village named Ku-Dze, where we rested. One of my men had gone in advance of us in order to arrange for new means of transport; and when I arrived at the village I found that the hospitable headman had converted four tumbledown, roofless walls into a delightful arbour with a thick, soft carpet of green leaves and walls of pine-branches, and a doorway festooned with feathery bamboo. In this Arcadian retreat I was provided with an appropriate repast of milk and eggs.

From this village to the lamasery of Muli—the capital, if it may be called so, of the Huang Lama territory—is a distance of about 14 miles through pleasant undulating country and over an easy road. At one point, however, we found the main path blocked by a huge landslip, and for a distance of several miles we were obliged to take a rough and rocky path that gave us a good deal of trouble. We did not arrive at Muli till after sunset. There is nothing to show that one is anywhere near a human habitation until suddenly, after turning a corner, one comes in full view of a mass of white walls only a few hundred yards away. This is the lamasery of Muli. To all appearance it is a compact, unwalled town composed entirely of white-plastered houses. In reality it is a large monastery and nothing else, for all the buildings that look like ordinary houses are only the separate cells or dwelling-places of the lamas. Two or three of them, in their dark-red gowns, were waiting to receive me. These were the people who, I had been led to understand, were fanatically anti-foreign, and whose hostility rendered it a dangerous experiment to travel through their country. If their feelings were of a hostile nature, they certainly evinced a wonderful power of self-control, for their reception of me was altogether courteous and friendly. They lodged me in a comfortable two-floored building only a few yards from the lamasery, and sent me presents of fuel and food.