Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 1 (of 2)

CHAPTER XXVI

THE GRAVES OF THE PONTIFFS

Volumes would be required in which to describe a monastery such as Tashi-lunpo in all its details, its intricate conglomeration of stone buildings connected with one another by passages, corridors, staircases, and terraces, or separated by narrow deep lanes or small open squares; its many temple halls with an innumerable host of images; its monks’ cells, lecture halls, mortuary chapels, kitchens, factories, warehouses for provisions and materials; its complicated organization in spiritual and temporal affairs, its festivals and ceremonies. Such a description could only be compiled by an intimate acquaintance with the Lamaist hierarchy and Church, and this knowledge could only be attained by the ardent study of a whole lifetime; for those who would penetrate deeply into the mysteries of Lamaism must gain a thorough knowledge of Buddhism and its relations to Brahminism and Hinduism, and understand the influence which Sivaism has exerted on the religion of the Tibetans, and must be familiar with the elements of the ancient Bon religion and its fetichism and Shamanism, which have crept in and corrupted the Lamaistic form of Buddhism. Such a task lies beyond the scope of this work for many reasons, not least because I have only a dim conception of the essentials of Lamaism.1 I shall therefore content myself with depicting the system from its picturesque side, and describing the outward ordinances I had an opportunity of observing personally. I shall write the names phonetically, without all the silent consonants which render a conscientious translation unintelligible to those who have not devoted much time to the study of the Tibetan language.

Tashi-lunpo must not be conceived as a single vast block of buildings, but as a cloister town within an enclosing wall, a town of at least a hundred separate houses, very irregularly built and grouped, joined together in rows divided by narrow lanes (Illustration 118). On the south side of the Tsangpo a rocky spur projects from the mountains eastwards into the valley of the Nyang-chu; below and to the east of this cliff lies Shigatse in the broad valley on the northern, left bank of the river, while the monastery is built on the lower part of the southern slope of the ridge, and therefore faces south. Looking from the plain to the south of the monastery at this conglomeration of white houses, one notices at once some striking features which facilitate the orientation. On the extreme right is a high thick wall without windows, from the top of which large pictures are exposed to view during certain summer festivals. A little to the left of it, the grand white façade of the Labrang, with its solid, simple, and tasteful architecture, rises above all the cloister town, and in front of and below the Labrang five buildings, quite alike in appearance, catch the eye—massive towers with golden roofs in the Chinese style. They form a line running from west to east, and are the mausoleums of the five earlier Tashi Lamas. The remaining space within the wall around and below them is occupied by all the other houses, and wherever you stand on their flat roofs the first and the last objects you see are these mausoleums; for Tashi-lunpo has also a system of aerial streets and places, as they may be called, that is, the roofs protected by low parapets. In the deep lanes one is quite unable to find the way unless one is very familiar with them, for only the nearest high walls can be seen, consisting either of an unbroken smooth surface or interrupted by large long windows in black frames. The walls all slope a little inwards, so that all the lanes between the houses are narrowest at the bottom. The pavement is irregular, worn, and smooth; some lanes and open squares are not paved at all. All these constructions are solidly and firmly built, and planned so as to defy time as well as the rude climate of Tibet.

Tashi-lunpo was founded in the year A.D. 1445 by Ge-dun-dup, the nephew of Tsong Kapa, who in the year 1439 was installed as Grand Lama of the Gelugpa sect, though he did not yet bear the title of Dalai Lama. The present Grand Lama of Lhasa, Ngavang Lobsang Tubden Gyamtso, who has now held the office for thirty-four years, is the thirteenth in succession. This number is not to be compared with the long list of Roman Popes. The first Panchen Rinpoche of Tashi-lunpo was named Panchen Lobsang Chöki Gyaltsan, and held the dignity of pope from 1569 to 1662, or ninety-three years—certainly a world record. His mortuary chapel, Chukang-sher, or the East Tomb, is the one to which we shall first direct our steps.

Its façade faces the rectangular court where the ceremonies are performed, its portal stands at a level with the uppermost platform for spectators, and above the door hang large white awnings beneath a symbolic decoration—a wheel between two gilded stags. The roof is made of gilded copper sheeting, and is divided into two sections by a platform with a parapet (Illustration 124).

The interior of the mausoleum is a cubical room, illuminated only by the daylight, which enters through the portal and mingles effectively with the pale gleam of the butter-fed wicks in a row of silver saucers and brazen bowls. The middle bowl is larger than the others, is like a caldron, and has a cover with a round hole through which a sacrificial flame rises from the melting butter. Before this cordon of butter lamps, on a rather higher super-altar, stand a row of pyramidal figures of baked paste, painted in front with various colours and representing different Lamaistic symbols. Behind them is a row of bowls and chalices of solid gold and silver, donations of wealthy pilgrims. They contain pure water, meal, barley, rice, and other edible offerings.

The tomb itself, in the interior, is a chhorten in the form of a pyramid with steps, ledges, and cornices, and may be 20 to 23 feet high. All the front is decorated with gold and silver in arabesques and other designs, and is studded with precious stones. At the very top stands a gao, a yard high, somewhat like a sentry-box, with a front of lotus leaves, and in it sits a statue of the deceased wearing the usual mitre, with which Tsong Kapa is always represented, and of which we saw so many specimens during the festival. A number of long silken kadakhs have been placed in the uplifted hands of the statue, and hang down over the monument in long festoons and streamers. This is also draped with a multitude of tankas, temple banners which are painted in Lhasa and Tashi-lunpo, and represent scenes from the life of the founder of the religion and of the Church fathers. Among and behind them also hang standards and pennants of coloured cloth narrowing to a point at the bottom, and all are old, dusty, and dingy (Illustrations 125, 126).

This chhorten with its richly decorated front and its motley surroundings stands alone in the cubical chapel, and a narrow, pitch-dark passage runs round it; at the back, by the light of a paper lantern, the solid foundation of masonry, on which the monument rests, may be seen. The pilgrims circle round it, the more times the better, and the orthodox “Gelugpa,” members of the “sect of virtue,” always walk in the direction of the hands of a watch, that is, they turn on entering to the left. The monks, who act as guides, insist that we also shall conform to this regulation.

Now we cross again the court of ceremonies, and are conducted slowly through narrow corridors to a somewhat lighter gallery, where we can look down into a dukang, a hall where the high office is performed five times a day. Red mattresses, much the worse for wear, lie in rows on the smooth stone floor, on which the monks sit cross-legged during the mass. In the middle of the shorter side stands a papal throne, with back and arms, and covered with yellow silk—it is the seat of the Grand Lama, who on certain occasions teaches and preaches here.

Then we are led to the Yalloa-champa, a holy apartment with a curtain formed of a network of iron rings, through which we catch a glimpse of some dark idols and a quantity of Chinese porcelain bowls. Illuminated by butter lamps and draped with long silken cloths, here stands a figure of Dolma, one of the two wives of Srong Tsan Ganpo, the first Tibetan king, both very popular in Tibet, and immortalized in most Lama temples. It is said of the statue here that it once exchanged words of wisdom with a monk. In another compartment we find Tsong Kapa’s statue veiled in silken draperies, and also a figure of the second Tashi Lama, the Panchen Lobsang Yishe.

The library is called Kanjur-lhakang, and here the bible of the Tibetans in 100 to 108 folios, the Kanjur, is kept, studied, and explained. It contains a collection of canonical works which were translated from the Sanscrit originals in the ninth century. The hall is as dark as a subterranean crypt, its red-painted wooden pillars are hung with unframed pictures, tankas, painted with minute artistic detail, and on the walls also a host of gods are depicted in colours. At the upper, shorter side is a row of altars, with images of gods in niches, and figures of Tashi Lamas and other great priests. Before these, too, butter lamps are burning, and smooth bright brazen bowls are filled to the brim with offerings. The illumination is scanty and mystical as everywhere in Tashi-lunpo; it seems as though the monks needed darkness to strengthen their faith in the incredible and supernatural literature that they read and study here (Illustration 127).

Proceeding westwards along the lane which runs in front of the mausoleums, we look into the monument of the second supreme pontiff and then into that of the third. They were named Panchen Lobsang Yishe (1663-1737) and Panchen Lobsang Palden Yishe (1737-1779). The mausoleums are built after the pattern of the one already described, but between the entrance pillars of the third hangs a shield bearing the name of the Emperor Kien Lung in raised characters. Köppen gives in his book some interesting information about the relations of the great Manchu Emperor with this Tashi Lama. Kien Lung (1736-1795) sent many letters to the Grand Lama from the year 1777 inviting him to come to Pekin, but the latter suspected treachery and made all kinds of excuses. But the Emperor was so persistent that at length in July of the year 1779 the prelate had to set out. After a journey of three months he reached the monastery Kum-bum. Wherever the holy caravan passed crowds of pilgrims collected to worship the Grand Lama and offer him presents. He passed the winter at Kum-bum, and made daily several thousand impressions of his hand on paper, which were well paid for as relics. One rich chief alone is said to have presented him with 300 horses, 70 mules, 100 camels, 1000 pieces of brocade, and 150,000 shillings in silver. Escorted by princes, governors, officials, and soldiers, and also by the chief court lama of the Emperor, Chancha Khutukhtu, he reached, after a further journey of two months, Kien Lung’s summer residence, where he was received with magnificent pomp and state and brilliant fêtes. The Son of Heaven was pleased to allow himself to be instructed by the holy man in the truths of religion. While the Emperor was visiting the tombs of his ancestors in Mukden, the Tashi Lama made his triumphal entry into Pekin, where all, from the imperial princes to the mob in the streets, wished to see him and receive his blessing. Even the imperial favourites insisted obstinately on seeing His Holiness, on which occasion he sat dumb and motionless behind a transparent curtain, casting down his eyes so as not to be polluted by the sight of beautiful women.

But all this worldly glory came to a sudden and deplorable end. The Tashi Lama fell ill and died, and it was affirmed that the powerful Emperor had caused him to be poisoned, because he suspected him of a design to free himself from the supremacy of China with the help of the Governor-General of India; for it was to this third Tashi Lama that Warren Hastings had sent Bogle as ambassador six years previously. If our friend, the present Tashi Lama, had thought of this circumstance he would perhaps have preferred to omit his visit to India. The Emperor pretended to be inconsolable, had the body embalmed, and masses said for three months over the golden sarcophagus, and then the body was carried on men’s shoulders all the way to Tashi-lunpo, the journey lasting seven months, and was there deposited in the splendid mausoleum to which we paid a flying visit (Illustration 128).

Our next visit is to the so-called Namgyal-lhakang, the temple of Tsong Kapa, a large pillared hall with a huge statue of the reformer; before it and its companion images stand the usual battery of lamps, sacred vessels, and Lamaistic emblems. The temple watchman, housed in a small recess in the entrance hall, is a jovial septuagenarian who has lived sixteen years in Mongolia, and always comes out to inquire after my health when I pass the temple of Tsong Kapa on my way from or to the western buildings of Tashi-lunpo (Illustrations 129, 163).

Tsong Kapa’s name is as famous and as highly revered in the Lamaistic Church as that of Buddha himself: I cannot recall to mind that his statue is absent in one of the many temples I have visited in Tibet. He was born in Amdo in the year 1355, and of course his birth was attended by all kinds of supernatural circumstances. At the age of three years he decided to retire from the world, and therefore his mother cut off his hair, which became the roots of the famous miraculous tree in Kum-bum (the temple of the “hundred thousand statues”), on the leaves of which Father Huc read with his own eyes holy inscriptions. Unfortunately my own visit to Kum-bum was in the winter of 1896 when the holy tree was leafless. After a thorough course of study Tsong Kapa formed the resolution of reforming the dissolute and corrupted Lamaism, and in several public conferences he silenced, like Luther, all his opponents. The number of his followers rapidly increased, and in the year 1407 he founded the monastery Galdan, near Lhasa, becoming its first abbot, and subsequently the equally large and famous monasteries Brebung and Sera. Tsong Kapa introduced celibacy among the monks of his sect, which he called “Gelugpa,” the sect of virtue, and whose badge was the yellow cap; for yellow was the sacred colour of the old Buddhist monks. Among other precepts he enunciated was the regulation that the virtuous monks should retreat into solitude at certain times, to give themselves up to meditation and study, and prepare themselves for disputations. At the present day the yellow-caps are much more numerous in Tibet than the red-caps. Tsong Kapa died in the year 1417, and lies buried in Galdan, where his sarcophagus or chhorten stands in the open air. He is regarded as an incarnation of Amitabha, and at the same time of Manjusri and Vajrapani, and he still lives on, therefore, in the person of our friend the present Tashi Lama, after living in the other five Tashi Lamas in succession, whose graves we have just visited. No wonder, then, that he is in exceptionally high repute in Tashi-lunpo.

As we were sitting before the statue, contemplating Tsong Kapa’s kind smiling features under the usual pointed mitre, young lamas appeared with fruits, sweetmeats, and tea, and with greetings from the Tashi Lama, who hoped I would not overtire myself. Some monks sat by the wall in the semi-darkness reading aloud from their holy scriptures, which lay before them on small stools; they held in the hand a dorche, the symbol of power, and a bell which they rang from time to time (Illustration 130). When we again went out into the sunshine the Indian elephant of the Tashi Lama was taking exercise in the lane; he is the only one of his species in the whole country, and is said to be a present from a wealthy merchant, who brought him from Siliguri.

The fourth Tashi Lama, Panchen Tenbe Nima (1781-1854) has also a mausoleum, similar to those of his predecessors. At either side of the entrance are seen on the walls of the ante-chamber painted portraits, double life size, of the “four great kings,” Namböse, Yukorshung, Pagyepo, and Chenmigsang, whose duty it is to ward off the demons and prevent them from disturbing the peace of the temple. They are painted in staring colours and have a hideous appearance, are armed with sword, bow, and spear, and surrounded by a confusion of clouds, waves and tongues of flame, tigers, dragons, and other wild beasts. These four figures are hardly ever absent from the entrance to a temple in Tibet, and one of these four guardian kings is represented in relief on each of the four sides of the five mausoleums.

Our guides told us that this mausoleum was erected the same year in which the fourth Tashi Lama died. On either side of the chapel proper is a smaller shrine, to the left the Yamiyang-lhakang, with several images, and an altar front decorated with gilded sphinxes having red wings on the back, nape of the neck, and paws. On the right stands the Galdan-lhakang, with an image of Tsong Kapa projecting from the petals of a lotus flower, which indicates his heavenly origin.

Lastly, we turn our steps to the chapel in which the fifth Tashi Lama, Panchen Tenbe Vangchuk (1854-1882) sleeps his last sleep. As this mausoleum is only about twenty years old, it looks fresher and cleaner than the others, and is particularly richly and gorgeously decorated without and within. The front of the chhorten glitters with gold, turquoise, and coral. A glass candelabrum from India looks out of place amid the pure Lamaist convent style, as also some common balls of blue glass and looking-glass—cheap wares, such as are seen in country gardens and in front of village inns. They hang from a ledge in front of the sarcophagus receptacle. On the altar stand the usual votive vessels, many of them strikingly elegant and tasteful. A large bowl on a tall foot is of gold, and contains a burning wick. On the right, on nails, hang simple gifts of poor pilgrims—cheap kadakhs like gauze bandages, bangles, necklaces, amulet cases, rosaries—all of the cheapest kind, and all presents from pilgrims who, carried away by their enthusiasm, offered up the insignificant ornaments they happened to be wearing. Here we see the impression of a child’s foot on a tablet of stone in a red and yellow frame; a full description in raised letters informs us that it is the print of the foot of the present Grand Lama when he was a child six months old. To this tomb gifts flow more profusely than to the others, for there are still many people living who remember the deceased.

The first four tombs were secured by many solid complicated locks, were opened to admit us, and were closed again when we left. But the chapel of the fifth Grand Lama stood open to the public, and a string of pilgrims passed to and from it. The monks accompanying us wished to drive them away, but I would not suffer them to be disturbed; it was, moreover, interesting to observe their worship for a while. Murmuring “Om mani padme hum,” they stand with bent head before the sepulchral monument, fall on their knees, let their hands slide forward over the stone floor until they lie full-length, touching the ground with their foreheads; then they get up and repeat this gymnastic feat again and again. Afterwards they bow before the idols, lay a handful of rice or meal in the offerings bowls, and go round the dark passage about the monument.

In each of these monuments the Grand Lama is interred at the top, in the pyramid behind his own image. From the street in front of the mausoleums you ascend some stone steps to a portal which gives access to a paved forecourt surrounded by a gallery resting on wooden pillars. Within the pillars the walls are adorned with frescoes representing smiling gods and dancing goddesses like nymphs and odalisks, historical and legendary personages, wild animals, allegorical figures, and the circular disc which betokens the universe with the worlds of the gods, men, and devils. The walls in the forecourt of the fifth tomb were remarkable for the fresh bright colours of their bold effective decoration, while those in the others had suffered from the action of time, and in parts were so much obliterated that they were almost past restoration. When age has set its mark equally on the whole painted surface the picture gains in beauty, for its colours are more subdued and less crude, but the worst is, that frequently the whole decoration has fallen off. A large bronze bell hangs in front of each mausoleum.

The outer courts are so small that the elegant portals cannot exhibit their full beauty; they are too near, and they are seen much foreshortened. From the outer court of the fifth tomb a wooden staircase leads up to the entrance hall; the staircase consists of three divisions, and has therefore four banisters, the two in the middle being closed at the top and bottom by ropes. The middle steps may only be used by the Tashi Lama himself, while those at either side are free to Tom, Dick, and Harry, and therefore are much worn—almost hollowed out. When the visitor reaches the top of the staircase, he has the door of the mausoleum in front of him, and to the right and left the short sides of the entrance hall, each with a figure of one of the four spiritual kings, while the two others are painted on the wall at either side of the massive door-posts. The entrance hall opens on the forecourt, and its richly carved lintel and beams are supported by two red polygonal wooden pillars with carved and painted elongated capitals. Before the door hangs heavy drapery of a coarse pattern. The very massive heavy panels of the door are lacquered dark brick-red, shine like metal, and are ornamented with mountings, shield-shaped plaques, and rings of yellow brass partly blackened with age. A pair of tassels hang from the rings of the shields. When the two doors are opened the mysterious gloom of the sepulchral chamber and the flickering lamps are exposed to view (Illustrations 132, 133).

Our first inspection of Tashi-lunpo was now ended, and, satiated with strange impressions, we betook ourselves in the twilight to our tents in Kung Gushuk’s garden. Darkness fell sooner than usual, for a storm was gathering in the west, and it came down on us before we reached our camp.

CHAPTER XXVII

POPULAR AMUSEMENTS OF THE TIBETANS

The credulous people at whose expense the monks live in laziness—and live well—are not satisfied with religious spectacles alone, which minister only to their spiritual needs; they must also be amused with profane exhibitions, which are more congenial to their lower instincts, and are more adapted to stimulate the senses. On February 15 an exhibition of this kind was to take place on the plain outside the town of Shigatse, and I and my people were invited. We mounted our horses in good time and rode northwards through the small town, which has not more than 300 houses—towns in Tibet are few and insignificant. The houses are white, with a black or red band at the top; with few exceptions they are only one storey high; the roof is almost always flat and guarded by a parapet; the windows and doors are in the same style as those of the monastery. From the street you enter into a yard where generally a large savage dog is chained. The roofs are adorned with a forest of bundles of twigs and rods hung with prayer streamers in all the colours of the rainbow; their object is to drive away devils. Between the irregular lines of houses run narrow lanes and roads, where black swine wallow among the discarded refuse, dead dogs lie about, and stinking puddles stagnate; and we also pass open squares, sometimes with ponds.

There is something uniformly dull about the whole town, in vivid, humiliating contrast to the dzong (Illustration 134), the castle proudly enthroned on its rock, and the golden temple roofs of Tashi-lunpo at the foot of the mountain. The ground is yellow dust, and here and there we pass abrupt terraces of löss; dust whirled up by the wind lies on all the houses and roads.

A black, continuous procession of pleasure-seekers streams out to the great plain on the north-east of the dzong; the farther we go the thicker it grows; most are on foot—men with prayer mills and tobacco pipes, women with round red aureoles at the neck and crying children in their arms, boys, beggars, monks, and all the pilgrims from neighbouring countries. Here and there rides a fine gentleman with one or more attendants, while hawkers transport dried fruit and sweetmeats on mules to sell among the people.

Arrived at the show-ground, we leave our horses in charge of Rabsang, and watch with keen interest the curious festive scene presented to our sight. It is a sea of human beings, thousands and thousands of Tibetans and travelling strangers in varied costumes, any one of whom is a subject worthy of an artist’s brush. Before us, to the east, we have the gardens of the villages at the foot of the mountains in the Nyang-chu valley, and behind us stretches a whole town of blue-and-white tents with spectators of more or less importance, and in the best position stands a blue-and-white tent open towards the show-ground—there sit, cross-legged, on soft rugs, the officials of the dzong in yellow raiment, solemn as statues of Buddha, and take refreshments now and again. All these tents rise like islands above the sea of heads.

Right through the crowd from north to south runs a race-course, only 6 or 7 feet broad, and flanked on both sides by ridges of earth a foot high. The ground slopes down from the canvas town to the course, and the spectators collected here, ourselves among the number, have seated themselves in groups; but on the east side, where the ground is level, they remain standing. And here the crowd is separated into three divisions by two broad clear lanes. At the end, close to the race-course, two targets are erected, consisting of round discs suspended from poles with a white and a black ring, and a red spot in the middle. The lanes are kept clear lest any one should be hurt during the shooting. Policemen in red-and-white coats with yellow hats, and pigtails both in front and behind, keep the people in order; the pigtail swings backwards and forwards, while a rope’s end is in constant use to drive too inquisitive spectators off the course. Two of these policemen are attached to me, to keep me a clear view, but they cause me more annoyance than satisfaction, for I have constantly to restrain them when they would strike half-naked youngsters who are not at all in the way.

Now the show commences! All eyes are turned to a troop of seventy cavaliers in extraordinary motley costumes, who ride slowly in single file northwards along the race-course, so slowly that there is plenty of time to examine the various dresses. All wear red flat mushroom-hats with waving, drooping plumes, white thin vests with a waistcoat over them, and white trousers with patches on the knees. But in some details there is a great variety. One rider, for instance, is dressed in a white silk waistcoat bound with black, over a yellow silken jacket with wide rucked sleeves; while another wears a bright blue jacket on a yellow vest, and has also blue knee-caps on his yellow pantaloons. In general the knee patches are red. The quiver, covered with red material, hangs from a shoulder-belt, and is decorated with shining metal plates, shields, and buttons, and contains a bundle of long arrows tipped with single feathers or tufts. The saddle with its clumsy high wooden frame rests on a saddle-cloth worked in colours. The tail of the horse is wrapped round with red, yellow, and blue ribands terminating in a tassel, which is stretched out by a ring of wire so as to be more effective. A similar rosette also adorns the root of the tail, and from it ribands and cross strips running along the flanks of the horse are attached to the saddle, and flutter in the wind. Between the ears the horse carries a towering plume of peacock’s feathers stuck in a bunch of down; on the forehead is a bundle of strips of material of various lengths and colours; the bridle is thickly studded with plates of metal, and across the chest is a broad belt with bells, which ring at the slightest movement.

The party is therefore decked out fantastically in rich colours, and now it turns and rides along the course in the reverse direction, but this time in full career. They ride as fast as the horses can gallop, fling their legs and elbows up and down, the plumes wave, the quivers rattle, and all the tassels, streamers, and ribands fly and flutter in all directions during this wild career. The horses snort, the bridles are covered with flakes of froth, and each rider leaves a cloud of dust for the one behind him. This evolution is repeated twice, and then at the third lap the riders shoot with their long bows at the two targets. The distance between the two is about 60 yards, and an arrow is aimed at each target. The first shot is easy, but then the shooter must be very smart in his movements to catch hold of the quiver, swinging and jumping on his back, take out the arrow, place it against the string and discharge it before he is past the second target. Many marksmen hit both targets, others sent the first arrow into the target, but the second into the ground. Sometimes the arrow glanced against the wooden frame of the target, while some of the riders got over the difficulty by turning round and discharging the arrows backwards, to the great danger of the spectators (Illustrations 137, 138).

The horses are small and active, some of them half-wild and fiery; they have long hair, are badly groomed and shaggy. During the shooting their legs are at full stretch, and the reins hang loose on their necks.

At the fourth career the riders shot with loose powder, and at the fifth with the gun at the first target, and with the bow at the second. They use long, heavy, clumsy muskets, and have not even taken off the inconvenient crutch. A ball of crushed-up paper is inserted in the mouth of the barrel, which is scattered around when the shot is fired—to make a show. The start is made at a considerable distance, and the rider is at full gallop when he comes up to the first target. He holds the gun in the left hand, raises it slowly and gracefully to the right shoulder, grasps the butt with his right hand, holds the muzzle in front of him in the direction of the course, and at the moment he is flying past the target turns the barrel towards it and fires, the match having been lighted at starting. Many produced a red cloud from the target, all a white, of paper, if the gun went off; for it failed when the tinder was not held at the right moment to the touch-hole. Some marksmen discharged their guns a little too late, when they were past the target, and then the spectators most exposed to danger began to rush away in all directions, for they had good reason to fear that their eyebrows would be singed. Immediately the shot is fired the gun-sling is quickly thrown over the shoulder, and now there are two seconds in which to catch hold of the quiver, take out an arrow, and discharge it at the second target. The interval was so short that most of the riders missed; when one made a hit, the crowds gave vent to prolonged applause, and a miss caused still more delight. It must be very hot and trying work to ride in this gorgeous costume with gun, bow, and quiver in full sunshine, every now and then buried in a cloud of dust. Some horses were so restive that their riders could not shoot, and that caused great amusement to the people. One of the marksmen loses his hat, and the next horse shies at it when he is opposite the target, and, leaving the marked course, springs into the crowd of sightseers. Another handles his gun well and raises a red cloud from the target, and also hits the second, but in his hurry has discharged two arrows. One shatters the target and another breaks his gun, and rides on with only the butt in his raised hand, all to the great amusement of the people. Attendants collect the arrows, repair the targets, and fill in the bull’s eyes with fresh powder (Illustration 138).

This is a Tibetan popular diversion, fresh, rich in colouring, and picturesque. The spectators have evidently their favourites among the competitors, as may be gathered from the increased buzz of voices when certain cavaliers draw near. Others are not expected to win laurels, for they are received with bursts of laughter. The people are all eyes and ears as they stand or sit for hours together, eating nuts and sweet stuff. In the crowd we see many old acquaintances from the monastery, and also lamas from Ladak, who are studying in the theological seminaries of Tashi-lunpo; merchants from Nepal and Bhotan, Mongolian pilgrims in fur caps with large ear-flaps of fox-skin, and about a score of merchants from Ladak and Kashmir, in tall white turbans and black kaftans with waist-belts. The Chinese, who play the same part in Tibet as the English in India, sit in small groups, smoking their pipes; they seem to take no interest in the prize-shooting. They wear blue dresses, black vests, and black skull-caps with a coral button on the top.

Two horses, which probably had never before taken part in such sports, took fright, rushed among the crowd on our side, knocking down some and jumping over others, and were caught at length when they had fallen down entangled in human bodies and clothing. Last of all, a ragged fellow jolted along the course on a wretched brute, causing great merriment. This was the signal that the sports were ended, and now the riders dismounted and passed in a long procession before the dzong tent, where each bowed his head before the “Chairman of the Town Council,” and a kadakh was laid over his neck. This inexpensive mark of favour was also bestowed on them by their friends and acquaintances, and some favourites went about with as many as sixty white neck-cloths. I treated the whole party to tea, and gave them a present of money for the amusement they had afforded myself and my retinue. When we at last rode into Shigatse, we were escorted by quite a host of black Tibetans.

On February 21 Ma Daloi invited me to witness some performances in the inner court of his yamen in commemoration of the Chinese New Year. The performers were to be soldiers of the garrison, but the spectacle was put on the stage by the four Chinese temples in Shigatse. It was late at night and pitch dark, and the whole effect depended on the illumination. Two chairs with a table between them were placed in the verandah, and while Ma regaled me with genuine Chinese tea, cakes, and cigarettes, twenty men entered, each carrying two large lanterns of white material in the form of a clover leaf, and painted with flowers and dragons. In the centre a wick is so fixed, that the lanterns do not catch fire when they are swung round. The men dance, and swing their lanterns in an advancing line of uniform undulations; they then place themselves so that the lanterns form various patterns, constantly changing; they whirl themselves round with lightning speed, and the bright lanterns resemble great fireballs hovering about in the darkness. All the time squibs and crackers are thrown about, and fizz and explode among the legs of the spectators, for the court is full of Tibetans who come in quite at their ease. Lastly, the lanterns are left standing and a gigantic bird with a long movable tail and a long curved neck stalks solemnly across the court. The next item is performed by Nepalese. Each of them carries two lanterns like beehives; the top of the one in front consists of a horse’s head, with a full flowing mane of paper, and at the point of the hinder hangs a paper tail. Therefore they seem to be riding on horses illuminated from within, as they execute a very lively dance round the court. They sing all the while a melancholy song in slow time. And now a green and yellow dragon comes writhing on to the scene. His head is of wood and paper, and is borne by a man from whose back a painted cloth, the body of the dragon, hangs down and envelops a second crouching man. The dragon dances, twists itself about, opens its jaws, and makes as though it would swallow all present. During the play, weird noisy music drones from drums, cymbals, and flutes, which produce notes like those of a bagpipe. These buffoons present themselves in the courts of all people of rank during the New Year season, to make a little money. They threatened us one evening, but I begged them to come in the daytime, that I might immortalize them on a photographic plate (Illustration 136).

CHAPTER XXVIII

MONKS AND PILGRIMS

During the period of forty-seven days which the force of circumstances compelled me to spend in Shigatse, I had an opportunity of making numerous visits to the monastery, of drawing and photographing interesting details, of making myself familiar with the daily life and habits of the monks, being present at their studies and recitations, and ever increasing my knowledge of the hierarchical metropolis. I used to ride up to Tashi-lunpo with one or two attendants, and pass the whole day in its dark sepulchral chapels and temples. At twilight some of my men came for me with horses. I will recall a few of the impressions I received on these visits, before we start again on our travels.

On February 14 I sat on the uppermost of the western galleries and drew a sketch of the façade of the eastern tomb (Illustration 124), but the pilgrims who were assembling this day for a religious spectacle proved so inquisitive that I had to stop my work and postpone it till a more favourable occasion. I then ascended to a roof platform in front of the Labrang, protected with a balustrade, and posted sentinels at the foot of the steps to prevent the people from following me. Up there the eye falls on a number of cylindrical frames, a couple of yards high, some covered with black and white materials, others enveloped in folded draperies of different colours and length, very like petticoats (Illustration 109). Between them gilded tridents, flagstaffs, and other holy symbols protrude, which protect the temples from demons. While I was sketching a view of the façades of the middle three mausoleums, the head steward of Tashi-lunpo appeared, who supervises the provisioning, cleaning and lighting, etc., caused rugs and cushions to be laid down, and set out the usual refreshments. He is an old lama who has already served thirty years in Tashi-lunpo, after preparatory studies in the monastery Tösang-ling.

From our point of view we can see several smaller gilded copper roofs in Chinese style, standing in front of the façades of the mausoleums and rising directly from flat roofs without any intervening course. Under each roof is ensconced an idol of importance in a temple hall.

We moved about on the roof and enjoyed the wonderful view over the cloister town and its forest of roof ornaments, and came to a place where groups of clerical tailors were sewing together pieces of coloured materials with a zeal and despatch as if their lives depended on it. Had it not been for the religious environment and the waving emblems, one might have thought that they were busy with dresses for a ballet or masquerade. Oh, no, the idols were to have new silken dresses, and were to be hung round with new draperies and standards in honour of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the birth of the Tashi Lama. The clerical knights of the needle sat in the full sunshine, sewed, chattered together, and seemed quite happy. They boldly asked me for money to buy tea, and I gave them a handful of rupees.

Below the place where we had first seen the Tashi Lama at the performance, lies an open gallery, a colonnade looking on the court; the pillars are of wood, and are wound round with red stuff at the top and white below. This gallery is very picturesque, especially the part where the statues of the four spirit kings are placed. The pillars stand out dark against the light background of the open court, and among them move figures which are far from marring the picture, namely, monks in red garments and pilgrims in motley attire (Illustration 142).

Now, too, a religious ceremony was being held in the court. A kind of throne was erected on the northern, shorter, side, and on both sides of it sat monks in yellow kaftans. Two lamas, also clothed in yellow, advanced bare-headed to the throne and remained there motionless with their bodies bent. Then three lamas in red togas and yellow skull-caps walked slowly over the quadrangle with shrill cries and singular gestures, took off their caps and put them on again with mystical movements. This ceremony was continued so long that we followed the example of most of the pilgrims and left the clergy to their own devices.

Next day another ceremony took place, of which, unfortunately, I could obtain no trustworthy explanation. The Tashi Lama took his seat on the throne of yellow silk, on the short side of the court, in full pontificals, and two monks in red dresses came before him in tall red helmet-shaped head-coverings. After His Holiness had greeted them, one advanced to the eleven steps of the stone staircase and stationed himself on the lowest, whereupon a very curious conversation began. The lama on the step calls out something, probably a quotation from the holy scriptures, or, perhaps, puts a question, claps his hands so that the court rings with the sound, and makes a movement with the right hand as though he were throwing something straight at the head of the other monk. This one replies in the same loud tone and also claps his hands. Occasionally the Tashi Lama puts in a word himself. Lobsang Tsering, who is with me, says that this ceremony is a kind of disputation, and that the two disputing monks will attain a higher degree in the scale of the priesthood if they pass the examination satisfactorily.

Below, to our left, six monks in yellow garments sit on a carpet. Between the pillars the gallery is packed with lamas of lower rank in red dresses, and before them sit superior monks in red kaftans richly worked in gold. Beside the Tashi Lama, on his right, is the seat of Lobsang Tsundo Gyamtso. The dark-red and straw-yellow robes are very effective against the dirty-grey colour of the court.

Now a number of serving brothers come on the scene and set long rows of small tables on the open space in front of the Tashi Lama, which are immediately covered with bowls of dried fruits, confectionery, and mandarin oranges. And now begins a feast in honour of the graduation. When the tables and bowls are emptied, they are removed as quickly as they were brought, and then comes a solemn procession of monks with tea-pots, and a kind of tea ceremony begins, less complicated but quite as imposing as in Japan. Two priests of high rank place themselves in front of the Tashi Lama and remain there, bending a little forwards, and quite as motionless as the priests praying at the altar in our own churches. It is their duty to serve tea to His Holiness. The first monk in the procession bears a pot of solid gold, which one of the monks before the throne takes from him to fill the cup of the Tashi Lama. The other monks in the procession carry silver pots, each of which is valued at £45, and from these tea is poured out for all the other monks who are not re-incarnations. Every monk carries his own wooden cup in the folds of his toga, and holds it out when the monk who pours out the tea comes round with his pot (Illust. 143).

All through the ceremony the two candidates continue to dispute and clap their hands without intermission. After sitting cross-legged for three hours, as motionless as a statue of Buddha, His Holiness leaves the throne, and, supported by two monks, slowly descends the staircase, on which a narrow strip of coloured carpet is laid; for the Tashi Lama may not touch the unclean earth with his holy feet. Behind him walks a monk, holding above his head a huge sunshade of yellow silk with hanging fringes. One can hardly help feeling that the little man in papal robes and the yellow mitre, who disappears in the darkness among the pillars of the gallery, while the deepest silence prevails, is really a saint, and one of the most powerful in the world. He is now going up to his apartments in the Labrang, where he can pass his time in peace till some new ceremony calls him forth to discharge his ecclesiastical duties (Illust. 145).

A gloom seemed to fall over the whole quadrangle after he had withdrawn. The monks, who had but just been so quiet, began to talk and laugh, the younger ones played and wrestled together, and dirty bare-armed novices drove away with sticks two mangy dogs which had found their way into the holy place.

It was, however, not only the absence of the Tashi Lama that relieved the gloom of the quadrangle: clouds of yellow dust were being swept by a westerly storm over Tashi-lunpo. All the streamers, window curtains and awnings, and the long white flags, began to flutter and clap, and the strokes of the thousand temple bells were blended into one clang, which filled the air and seemed to rise like a hymn to the dwellings of the gods; for at all corners, projections, and cornices are hung brazen bells with clappers attached to a spring, so that a very slight breeze is sufficient to produce a sound. It is very pleasant to listen to this great carillon played by the wind as one wanders through the maze of Tashi-lunpo.

A lama from Ladak, who had been studying for five years in Tashi-lunpo, informed me that there are four different grades of learned priests. If there are several sons in one family, one must always be devoted to the monastic life. In order to be received into a monastery he must first take the oath, binding him to live in chastity and abstinence, not to drink, to steal, to kill, etc. He is then admitted as a novice into the fraternity of the yellow monks. After preliminary studies he attains to the first order in the priesthood, which is called the Getsul, and it is his duty to study certain holy writings and listen to the instruction imparted by a Kanpo-Lama. He is also bound to perform certain services, present tea to the superior monks, carry wood and water, see after the cleaning of the temples, fill the votive bowls, snuff the butter lamps, etc. The next order, the Gelong, has three subdivisions: Ringding, Rikchen, and Kachen, of which the last qualifies a member to act as teacher. Then comes the rank of Kanpo-Lama, or abbot, and lastly the Yungchen, who stands next to the Panchen Rinpoche.

The Getsul-Lama has to pay a fee of 20 rupees in order to be promoted to the rank of a Ringding-Lama; it is only a question of money, and the rank may be conferred on a monk a month after he enters the convent, but may be postponed for years if he is penniless. A Ringding-Lama must study a great number of scriptures and pay 50 or 60 rupees before he can become a Rikchen-Lama, and other 300 to become a Kachen. According to another informant the Ringding and the Rikchen are attached to the Getsul order, and only the Kachen belongs to the Gelong order. In these orders, however, it is easier to collect the necessary fees, for the monk has now an opportunity of exercising his sacerdotal office among the people. No payment is demanded on promotion to the rank of Kanpo-Lama, but this appointment is in the hands of the Tashi Lama; it is comparatively seldom conferred, and great learning is a necessary condition. On his appointment the lama receives a certificate bearing the seal of the Tashi Lama. A thorough knowledge of the holy books is required for the rank of Yungchen, and a conclave of high priests present recommendations for the conferment of the dignity.

At the present time there are 3800 monks in Tashi-lunpo, but during festivals the number rises to 5000, for then many come in from the neighbouring convents. Of the 3800 there are, it is said, 2600 of the Getsul and 1200 of the Gelong order. The Gelong Lamas are not obliged to meddle with worldly matters, but have only to superintend the temple services and take part in the rites. There are four only of the Kanpo order now in Tashi-lunpo and two of the Yungchen: one from the Chang province, and the other from Kanum in Beshar, the convent where the Hungarian Alexander Csoma Körösi lived as a monk eighty years ago in order to study the records of Lamaism. This Yungchen-Lama, who is named Lotsaba, is abbot of the monastery Kanum and of three others near the Sutlej. He came as a nine-year-old boy to Tashi-lunpo, and has lived here twenty-nine years. He longs to return to his home, but the Tashi Lama will not let him go thither until the Dalai Lama has returned to Lhasa.

Of the 3800 monks, 400 in all come from Ladak and other lands in the western Himalayas; a few are Mongolians and the rest Tibetans; 240 monks provide the church music, and dancing is performed by 60. They dance only twice a year. In the intervals their valuable costumes are deposited in sealed chests in a store-room called Ngakang. As they are little worn they last for centuries.

The disputation just described is connected with promotion to the Kachen order, the graduation taking place only during the New Year festival, when eighteen lamas are annually promoted from the rank of Getsul to that of Gelong. The ceremony lasts three days: on the first day two graduate in the morning and two in the afternoon; on the second day six, and on the third day eight.

On February 16 I again rode up to the monastery to sketch gateways and photograph the Tashi Lama, who had sent me word in the morning that this day would suit him if I had time to spare. The weather was all that could be wished, calm and clear. There was a dense crowd on the uppermost platform, in a broad open space before the eastern mausoleum. It was particularly interesting to see an interminable procession of nuns, who had come in from the neighbouring temples to seek the blessing of the Tashi Lama for the new year. All ages were represented, from wrinkled old women to quite young girls. They were fearfully ugly and dirty, and in the whole collection I could find only two who were fairly good-looking. They had short hair and were dressed like the monks: some I should have taken for men, if I had not known that they were women. But, unlike the monks, they wore small yellow caps with turned-up brims, red on the underside.

Lamas and pilgrims swarmed on the courts, platforms, roofs, and staircases—all come to receive the sacred blessing; the devout and patient assembly, here forming queues, made a deep impression on the spectators. To us they intimated a long wait, and therefore we went to the tomb of the Grand Lama, and I drew the handsome portal. I had scarcely finished when Tsaktserkan appeared to inform me that His Holiness was waiting for me, so we hurried up the staircases, past the usual groups of monks, who were loitering all about and appeared to have little to do. On the great quadrangle preparations were being made for the disputation ceremonies.

This time Muhamed Isa accompanied me, and the Tashi Lama received me in the same half-open roof chamber as on the former occasion. He was as charming as ever, and again turned the conversation to distant countries far remote from this carefully isolated Tibet. This time he spoke chiefly of Agra, Benares, Peshawar, Afghanistan, and the road from Herat to the Khyber Pass.

“What lies to the west of Yarkand?” he asked.

“The Pamir and Turkestan.”

“And west of that?”

“The Caspian Sea, which is navigated by large steamers.”

“And west of the Caspian Sea?”

“The Caucasus.”

“And where do you come to when you continue to travel westwards?”

“To the Black Sea, Turkey, Russia, Austria, Germany, France, and then to England, which lies out in the ocean.”

“And what is there to the west of this ocean?”

“America, and beyond another ocean, and then Japan, China, and Tibet again.”

“The world is immensely large,” he said thoughtfully, and nodded to me with a friendly smile.

I asked him to come to Sweden, where I would be his guide. Then he smiled again: he would like to travel to Sweden and London, but high sacred duties kept him constantly fettered to the convent walls of Tashi-lunpo.

After tea and refreshments he walked about his room like an ordinary man, and asked me to get my camera ready. A yellow carpet was laid in the sunny part of the room, and a chair was placed on it. He did not, alas! wear his refined, charming smile when the three plates were exposed, but had a solemn look—perhaps he was considering whether it might not be dangerous to allow an unbeliever to take his portrait in the midst of his own cloister town (Illustration 146). A tall young lama with a pleasant countenance knew how to take photographs, and took a couple of portraits of me for the Tashi Lama. He had a dark room, where we could develop our plates—Lamaist temples are excellently adapted for dark rooms.

Then we resumed our seats, and the Tashi Lama inquired how I had liked the show of riders on the preceding day. I answered that I had never experienced such amusement. He had never attended these worldly spectacles, for he was always engaged in his religious duties on that day. Then he made a sign, and some monks brought in a gift of honour for me: two bundles of cerise-coloured woollen material, woven in Gyangtse; some pieces of gold-embroidered stuff from China; two copper bowls with silver edges, and a gilded saucer for a porcelain cup, with a cover to match. With his own hands he gave me a gilded image clothed in red and yellow silk, and a large light-yellow kadakh. The image he gave me, a seated Buddha with blue hair, a crown, and a bowl in the hands, from which a plant sprouts, he called Tsepagmed. This, according to Grünwedel, is the form of the Amitabha Buddha, called Amitayus, or “he who has an immeasurably long life.” It is significant that the Tashi Lama selected this particular image to give me, for he is himself an incarnation of Amitabha, and he is almighty. The figure of the Tsepagmed was therefore intended as a pledge that a long life was before me. This I did not understand at the time; it was only when I looked through Professor Grünwedel’s Mythologie that I grasped the significance of the present.

This time the audience lasted two and a half hours, and it was the last time I saw the Tashi Lama face to face; for afterwards all sorts of political complications arose which might have been dangerous to him—not to me—and I considered myself bound not to expose him to any annoyance through my visits, which might excite the suspicion of the Chinese. But it grieved me to stay near him for weeks, knowing that he saw every day my tent from his small cloister window, and yet not be able to visit and converse with him; for he was one of those rare, refined, and noble personalities who make other people feel that their lives are fuller and more precious. Yes, the memory of the Tashi Lama will cleave to me as long as I live. His friendship is sincere, his shield is spotless and bright, he seeks for the truth honestly and humbly, and knows that by a virtuous and conscientious life he renders himself a worthy temple for the soul of the mighty Amitabha.

The Tashi Lama was six years old when destiny called him to be the Pope of Tashi-lunpo, a dignity he has held nineteen years. He is said to have been born in Tagbo, in the Gongbo country. He, like the Pope, is a prisoner in the Tibetan Vatican in spite of his great religious influence, and leads a life prescribed by religious regulations, every day of the year having its particular ecclesiastical functions and occupations. For instance, on February 20, he must bow the knee before the graves of all his predecessors, accompanied by all the superior clergy. When I asked where he himself would be interred when it pleased Amitabha to be re-incarnated in a new Tashi Lama, I was told that a sepulchre would be erected for him as handsome as the others, and that a conclave of the higher priests would select the site. Either the sixth mausoleum will be erected on the west side of the others in a line with them, or a new row will be commenced in front of the former.

One day all my Lamaist followers were admitted to the presence of His Holiness. It was agreed beforehand that they should not pay more as temple offerings than three rupees per man. Of course I paid for them, and they afterwards assured me that the sacred blessing would benefit them during the rest of their lives.

I did not succeed in getting information as to the number of pilgrims who flock annually to Tashi-lunpo. When I made inquiries on the subject I was answered with a laugh, and the statement that they were so numerous it was quite impossible to count them. Pilgrims of rank and fortune make large contributions; others only a small silver coin, or a bag of tsamba or rice; and others again come in companies in the train of some well-to-do chief who pays for them all. If the concourse is too large, the blessing is imparted by the higher monks through laying on of hands; when the numbers are smaller, they receive the blessing from the Tashi Lama himself, not with the hand, but with a staff bound with yellow silk. He only blesses people of position and monks with his hand.

We saw laymen as well as clergy among the pilgrims. We have already seen the nuns forming a queue and waiting for the blessing. Four hundred nuns had come in from the neighbouring convents. During their stay they receive free lodging in the Chini-chikang, a building in Tashi-lunpo, free board, and a small present of money at their departure. They do not appear every year, but this year they arrived on the second day of the festival and departed on February 18.

We also saw novices from other monasteries, who are regaled with tea at stated times; but they must be content to sit on the ground in front of the kitchen, where they fill the narrow lane, so that it is difficult to get past.

There are also wandering lamas among the pilgrims. One day I made a sketch of one who had roamed far and wide. He wore a rosary round his neck, a necklace of shells, and a gao with an idol, which had been given him by the Tashi Lama. Not long before he had performed a prostration pilgrimage round all the monasteries of Lhasa, and had just completed this feat, so acceptable to the gods, round Tashi-lunpo. He moves in the direction of the hands of a watch, and measures the distance round the monastery with the length of his body. He folds his hands over his forehead, sinks on his knees, lays himself full length on the ground, stretches both arms forward, scratches a mark in the soil, stands up, steps up to the mark and falls again on his knees, and repeats this process till he has gone all round the monastery. Such a circuit of Tashi-lunpo demands a whole day, but if he also goes into the lanes and round all the mausoleums and temples, this religious gymnastic feat requires three days. We saw daily whole rows both of clerical and lay pilgrims encompassing Tashi-lunpo and all its gods in this fashion. I asked several of them how many times they prostrated themselves on the ground during a circuit, but they did not know; for, they said, “We pray all the time, Om mani padme hum; there are twenty manis to each prostration, and we cannot therefore count the prostrations as well.” Many of them encircle the wall several times.

This wandering lama was one of a brotherhood of nine monks, who often visited us in our garden, sat down in front of the tents, turned their prayer mills, and sang. They had free lodging in a building in Tashi-lunpo, called Hamdung. Another member was the seventeen-year-old Tensin from Amdo, who had taken four months to travel thence to Tashi-lunpo. They had come for the festival, and intended to return home through Lhasa and Nakchu (Illustration 216).

The contributions of the pilgrims are one of Tashi-lunpo’s chief sources of revenue. But the monastery also possesses extensive estates and herds, and certain monks, who superintend the agricultural affairs and have the disposal of the produce, also carry on trade with the neighbourhood and with Nepal. The produce of the whole of Chang is devoted to the use of Tashi-lunpo, which is therefore wealthy. Each of the 3800 monks, irrespective of rank, receives 15 rupees annually, and, of course, lives gratis in the convent.

Another large source of income is the sale of amulets, talismans and relics, idols of metal or terra cotta, sacred paintings (tankas), joss-sticks, etc. The priests also get very good prices for small, insignificant, almost worthless clay idols, and paper strips with symbolical figures, which the pilgrims carry round the neck as talismans, when these things have been duly blessed by the Tashi Lama.

On February 21 I spent nearly the whole day in parts of the monastery I had not previously seen. We wandered through narrow winding corridors, and lanes in deep shadow, between tall white-washed stone houses, in which the monks have their cells. One of the houses was inhabited by student monks from the environs of Leh, Spittok, and Tikze, and we went into the small dark cubicles, hardly larger than my tent. Along one of the longer sides stood the bed, a red-covered mattress, a pillow, and a frieze blanket. The other furniture consisted of some boxes of books, clothing, and religious articles. Holy writings lay opened. A couple of bags contained tsamba and salt, a small altar with idols, votive vessels, and burning butter lamps, and that is all. Here it is dark, cool, damp, and musty—anything but agreeable; very like a prison. But here the man who has consecrated his life to the Church, and stands on a higher level than other men, spends his days. Monks of lower rank live two or three in one cell. Gelongs have cells to themselves, and the chief prelates have much more elegant and spacious apartments.

Each monk receives daily three bowls of tsamba, and takes his meals in his own cell, where tea also is brought to him three times a day. But tea is also handed round during the services in the temple halls, in the lecture-rooms, and in the great quadrangle. No religious rite seems to be too holy to be interrupted at a convenient time by a cup of tea.

One day from the red colonnade (Kabung) I looked down on the court full of lamas, who were sitting in small groups, leaving only narrow passages free, along which novices passed to and fro with hot silver and copper pots, and offered the soup-like beverage stirred up with butter. It had all the appearance of a social “Five o’clock tea” after some service. But the meeting had a certain touch of religion, for occasionally a solemn, monotonous hymn was sung, which sounded wonderfully beautiful and affecting as it reverberated through the enclosed court. On March 4 the quadrangle and other places within the walls of Tashi-lunpo swarmed with women—it was the last day on which the precincts of the monastery were open to them; they would not be admitted again till the next Losar festival (Illustration 150).

The young monk who, when accompanying the Tashi Lama in India, had had an opportunity of learning about photography, had his dark room beside his large elegant cell. I, too, was able to develop my plates there. He asked me to come frequently and give him instructions. He had solid tables, comfortable divans, and heavy handsome hangings in his room, which was lighted with oil lamps at night. There we sat and talked for hours. All of a sudden he took it into his head to learn English. We began with the numerals, which he wrote down in Tibetan characters; after he had learned these by heart he asked for other of the more common words. However, he certainly made no striking progress during the few lessons I gave him.

Care is necessary in walking through the streets of the cloister town, for the flags, which have been trod by thousands of monks for hundreds of years, are worn smooth and are treacherous. Usually there is a good deal of traffic, especially on feast days. Monks come and go, stand talking in groups at the street-corners and in the doorways, pass to and from the services, or are on their way to visit their brethren in their cells; others carry newly-made banners and curtains from the tailor’s shop into the mystical twilight of the gods; while others bear water-cans to fill the bowls on the altars, or sacks of meal and rice for the same purpose. Small trains of mules come to fill the warehouse of the convent, where a brisk business is going on, for a family of 3800 has to be provided for. And then, again, there are pilgrims, who loiter about here only to look in on the gods, swing their prayer mills, and murmur their endless “Om mani padme hum.” Here and there along the walls beggars are sitting, holding out their wooden bowls for the passer-by to place something in, if it is only a pinch of tsamba. The same emaciated, ragged beggars are to be found daily at the same street-corners, where they implore the pity of the passengers in the same whining, beseeching tone. In the narrow lanes, where large prayer mills are built in rows into the wall, and are turned by the passers-by, many poor people are seated, a living reproof of the folly of believing that the turning of a prayer mill alone is a sufficiently meritorious action on the way to the realms of the blessed. In one particularly small room stand two colossal cylindrical prayer mills before which a crowd is always collected—monks, pilgrims, merchants, workmen, tramps and beggars. Such a praying machine contains miles of thin paper strips with prayers printed on them, and wound round and round the axis of the cylinder. There is a handle attached, by which the axle can be turned. A single revolution, and millions of prayers ascend together to the ears of the gods.