To go back a little in my story, my prosperity as a doctor obliged me to buy much medicine, and I often went to Thien-ho-thang, a drug store which was kept by Li Tsu-shu, a Chinese from Yunnang. In China they make decoctions of their medicines, but the Tibetans take every medicine in powdered form. Every medical herb and root is pulverised, as well as some kinds of horns and stones. To get some of these medicines I was often obliged to stop a couple of days in his house; and as I bought great quantities of medicine, I came to be treated very civilly as a good customer. He lent me a book on medicine, the reading of which added not a little to my small knowledge, and I boldly undertook every kind of patient. I know I made a very dangerous doctor, but I was obliged to go on as a pedant domineering over a society of ignoramuses. Still, I admit I possessed more knowledge of physiology than most of the doctors in Lhasa, and I was in consequence more trusted than they.

I frequently went to this druggist, who owned the largest of the three Chinese drug stores in Lhasa. Li Tsu-shu was about thirty years old and had a very fine house. He lived with his wife, a son and a daughter, a mother-in-law and three maids. They treated me as if I were a member of the family, probably because I was kind to them and gave them all sorts of things that I received from my friends and clients. When, for instance, somebody gave me too much cake, sugar, milk or grapes, for my own use, I used to take them to the druggist to give them to the children, who were consequently quite impatient to see me. If I happened not to visit the house for a couple of days, they became anxious about me. I was soon so much beloved by the children that we seemed to have been friends for over ten years, and I was sometimes asked if I had known them in China. This acquaintance with the children helped me very much afterwards, when I was leaving Tibet.

This Gyami Menkhang or Chinese druggist had his house in the street of Wan-dzu Shing-khang, in Lhasa. Among those who used to come to his store was Ma Tseng, Secretary to the Chinese Amban. He was a great scholar and a man of worldly knowledge. He had a Tibetan mother and was born in Tibet. He spoke Tibetan without a shade of Chinese accent, while he spoke and read Chinese quite as well. He had read much in Chinese, and had been twice in Peking. Three times he had gone to India, visited Calcutta and Bombay as a peddler, and come back with a great store of knowledge about foreign affairs. His office hours being very short, he had much time to spare, and as he was a great friend of the druggist’s, he came to him very often. This led me to get acquainted with him, and I found him very amusing. He told me many Tibetan secrets and many of their habits and customs both good and bad. I soon found that what was told by him was always true. Being the Secretary of the Chinese Amban, he was also acquainted with the secret relations of the Tibetan and Chinese Governments. He was so talkative, that he would tell me anything before I asked. His acquaintance pleased me so much that when I was tired of reading I would take a walk to the druggist’s, with no other object than to talk with this Secretary.

Once while standing at the door of the druggist’s, I saw a man apparently of quality come towards me with his servant. The store stands at the corner where the streets leading to Panang-sho and Kache-hakhang meet, and this man came along Ani-sakan street toward Panang-sho. He passed a few steps by me, when he turned and looked at me. Then I heard his servant say that I must be the man. Walking to me the nobleman said “Is it you?” I looked at him and found him, though much thinner than before, to be the son of Para the Premier, whom I had met at Darjeeling. He did not look like a man out of his senses, as I had been told. He said that he was much pleased that I had come to his country. He was on some important business, but went with me into the house of the druggist. The wife of the druggist, who knew him, gave him a chair, and the young noble seemed to be desirous to talk with me. I hinted that it was not good for us to let it be known that we had seen each other at Darjeeling, and began our talk by saying that it was about half a year since we had met each other at Gyangtze. He also was aware that his staying at Darjeeling should be kept a secret, and carefully avoided talking about our having met in that town.

From what he said and did there, I could not find anything in him that showed him to be an idiot; on the contrary, he was evidently a man of much sense. Among other things he told me that three months before, one of his servants committed theft and, when reproved severely, had pierced him through the side with a sword with the result that a part of his intestines could be seen. This, he added, made him so haggard. When, after a long talk, he went on his way, the wife of the druggist told me that the young man had hoodwinked me about the wounds, which really were given him for wrong-doing on his side. She told me that everything concerning his family was known to her, for she had before been wife to his brother, who, not being allowed to live long with her, simply because she was of birth too humble for his family, divorced her and was now adopted at Namsailing. The young man, she told me, was very prodigal, and deeply in debt, on account of which he was wounded. To my question whether he was then beside himself, she answered that he was mad or otherwise as it suited him, and not a man to be easily trusted, for he was very good at taking money from others.

In Tibet, when people go out to enjoy the flowers (for the flower-season is very short there) they pitch tents in the wheat-fields or in a forest, and have every sort of merriment. This is called a picnic of lingka, or forest party, and forms one of the merriest amusements in Tibet. I was invited once to one of these villas in the wheat-fields. I found there an old nun of about sixty years of age, with seven or eight nun-attendants beside her. Hers was not a tent, but a splendid house of wood, the walls of which were covered over inside with painted cloth and outside with white cloth. Though temporary, the building was well furnished. This old lady had been ill for over fifteen years, and was aware that she was sinking. She said she knew that her disease was incurable, but nevertheless desired to have such a famous doctor as myself to feel her pulse, and would be satisfied if I could only relieve her a little of her pain. I examined her and found that her trouble was rheumatism, so I gave her a little tincture of camphor, besides some medicine for her stomach, which was a little out of order. Faith works wonders. My medicine told well and, her pain of fifteen years gradually abating, she was soon able to enjoy sound sleep, which had long been desired by her. Finally she became so well that she could walk a little. Her raptures can be imagined, and she at once reported the condition of her health to her family. It seems that she was married, though not legally, to the Ex-Minister of Finance, who was also a priest of the New Sect. Shame on Bu??hism therefore that he was living with the nun. Priest nobles are generally supposed to have wives, though not legally married to them; most of them keep such women somewhere, and the nuns are the best class of women to be their wives—at least so had thought the Ex-Minister of Finance. This particular nun was old now and bent with age, though she was stoutly built.

When one of the man servants in the residence of the Minister of Finance fell ill, I was sure to be summoned, for they put great faith in me and I could not but believe that the Lord Bu??ha was working through me to cause me to succeed so wondrously among them. In this wise I became acquainted with the Ex-Minister of Finance, who was a deeply learned scholar, as well as an experienced diplomatist. Aged sixty-two, he was about seven feet six inches in height—taller than any other Tibetan I saw.

His dress took twice as much cloth as that of an ordinary person. He knew men well, and was shrewd in business, exceedingly kind and faithful and never deceitful. His only fault was his living with the nun. While talking with me, they often repented with tears of the folly they had committed with each other when young. He was not bad at heart, but his passionate behavior soiled what should have been his stainless purity, and also he was much influenced by worldly thoughts. He had great sympathy with my condition, and often said that he was very sorry for me to have to see a patient, who had been sent to me from Lhasa, when the patients in Sera were keeping me so busy. Besides being sorry for my lack of time for study, he warned me to be on my guard. Upon my asking him what he meant, he disclosed his fear that I might be poisoned like many other envied persons, for I had already robbed many doctors of their business. When I expressed my concern, he asked me if I should be contented with a moderate living. Being assured that I should be quite satisfied if I could only obtain a mere living, he said that he would support me, and offered me a dwelling in his residence. It was not pretty, he said, but quiet and comfortable. It was situated out of the way, so that few patients, except those who were very dangerously ill, would be likely to trouble me, and I could then study more devotedly. Not only, he said, could I give more time to study, but I should also be on better terms with the city physicians, if at the cost of some inconvenience on the part of general patients. I was very glad to accept this kind offer, for I had been much regretting the little time and opportunity I had to study Bu??hism, which was the sole object of my coming to Lhasa through so many hardships.