North of Kalgan the native habitations are scattered irregularly over
the country wherever good water and grass abound. The Mongols are
generally nomadic, and consult the interest of their flocks and herds
in their movements. In summer they resort to the table-land, and stay
wherever fancy or convenience dictates; in winter they prefer the
valleys where they are partially sheltered from the sharp winds, and
find forage for their stock.
The desert is not altogether a desert; it has a great deal of sand and
general desolation to the day’s ride, but is far from being a forsaken
region where a wolf could not make a living. Antelopes abound, and are
often seen in large droves as upon our Western plains; grouse will
afford frequent breakfasts to the traveler if he takes the trouble to
shoot them; there are wild geese, ducks, and curlew in the ponds and
marshes; and taken for all in all, the country might be much worse
than it is—which is bad enough.
The flat or undulating country is, of course, monotonous. Sunset and
sunrise are not altogether unlike those events on the ocean, and if a
traveler wishes to feel himself quite at sea, he has only to wander
off and lose his camp or caravan. The natives make nothing of straying
out of sight, and seem to possess the instincts which have been often
noted in the American Indian. Without landmarks or other objects to
guide them, they rarely mistake their position, even at night, and can
estimate the extent of a day’s journey with surprising accuracy. Where
a stranger can see no difference between one square mile of desert and
a thousand others, the Mongol can distinguish it from all the rest,
though he may not be able to explain why. Perception is closely allied
to instinct, and as fast as we are developed and educated the more we
trust to acquired knowledge and the less to the unaided senses.
Of course it is quite easy for a stranger to be lost in the Mongolian
desert beyond all hope of finding his way again, unless some one comes
to his aid. A Russian gentleman told me his experience in getting lost
there several years ago. “I used,” said he, “to have a fondness for
pursuing game whenever we sighted any, which was pretty often, and as
I had a couple of hardy ponies, I did a great deal of chasing. One
afternoon I saw a fine drove of antelopes, and set out in pursuit of
them. The chase led me further than I expected: the game was shy, and
I could not get near enough for a good shot; after a long pursuit I
gave up, and concluded to return to the road. Just as I abandoned the
chase the sun was setting. My notion of the direction I ought to go
was not entirely clear, as I had followed a very tortuous course in
pursuing the antelopes.
“I was not altogether certain which way I turned when I left the road.
It was my impression that I went to the eastward and had been moving
away from the sun; so I turned my pony’s head in a westerly direction
and followed the ridges, which ran from east to west. Hour after hour
passed away, the stars came out clear and distinct in the sky, and
marked off the progress of the night as they, slowly moved from east
to west. I grew hungry, and thirsty, and longed most earnestly to
reach the caravan. My pony shared my uneasiness, and moved
impatiently, now endeavoring to go in one direction and now in
another. Thinking it possible that he might know the proper route
better than I, I gave him free rein, but soon found he was as much at
fault as myself. Then I fully realized I was lost in the desert.
“Without compass or landmark to guide me, there was no use in further
attempts to find the caravan. Following the Mongol custom, I carried a
long rope attached to my saddle-bow, and with this I managed to
picket the pony where he could graze and satisfy his hunger. How I
envied his ability to eat the grass, which, though scanty, was quite
sufficient. I tried to sleep, but sleeping was no easy matter. First,
I had the consciousness of being lost. Then I was suffering from
hunger and thirst, and the night, like all the nights in Mongolia,
even in midsummer, was decidedly chilly, and as I had only my ordinary
clothing, the cold caused me to shiver violently. The few snatches of
sleep I caught were troubled with many dreams, none of them pleasant.
All sorts of horrible fancies passed through my brain, and I verily
believe that though I did not sleep half an hour in the whole night,
the incidents of my dreams were enough for a thousand years.
[Illustration: LOST IN THE DESERT OF GOBI.]
“Thoughts of being devoured by wild beasts haunted me, though in truth
I had little of this fate to fear. The only carnivorous beasts on the
desert are wolves, but as game is abundant, and can be caught with
ordinary exertion, they have no occasion to feed upon men. About
midnight my fears were roused by my pony taking alarm at the approach
of some wild beast. He snorted and pulled at his rope, and had it not
been for my efforts to soothe him, he would have broken away and fled.
I saw nothing and heard nothing, though I fancied I could discover
half a dozen dark forms on the horizon, and hear a subdued howl from
an animal I supposed to be a wolf.
“Morning came. I was suffering from hunger, and more from thirst. My
throat was parched, my tongue was swollen, and there was a choking
sensation as if I were undergoing strangulation. How I longed for
water! Mounting my horse, I rode slowly along the ridge toward the
west, and after proceeding several miles, discovered a small lake to
my right. My horse scented it earlier than I, and needed no urging to
reach it. Dismounting, I bent over and drank from the edge, which was
marked with the tracks of antelopes, and of numerous aquatic birds.
The water was brackish and bitter, but I drank it with eagerness. My
thirst was satisfied, but the water gave me a severe pain in my
stomach, that soon became almost as unendurable as the previous
dryness. I stood for some minutes on the shore of the lake, and
preparing to remount my horse, the bridle slipped from my hand. Mongol
ponies are generally treacherous, and mine proved no exception to the
rule. Finding himself free, he darted off and trotted back the way we
had come.
“I know that search would be made for me, and my hope now lay in some
one coming to the lake. It did not require long deliberation to
determine me to remain in the vicinity of the water. As long as I was
near it I could not perish of thirst; and moreover, the Mongols, who
probably knew of the lake, might be attracted here for water, and, if
looking for me, would be likely to take the lake in the way. Tying my
kerchief to my ramrod, which I fixed in the ground, I lay down on the
grass and slept, as near as I could estimate, for more than two hours.
“Seeing some water-fowl a short distance away, I walked in their
direction, and luckily found a nest among the reeds, close to the
water’s edge. The six or eight eggs it contained were valuable prizes;
one I swallowed raw, and the others I carried to where I left my gun.
Gathering some of the dry grass and reeds, I built a fire and roasted
the eggs, which gave me a hearty meal. The worst of my hardships
seemed over. I had found water—bad water, it is true—but still it
was possible to drink it; by searching among the reeds I could find an
abundance of eggs; my gun could procure me game, and the reeds made a
passable sort of fuel. I should be discovered in a few days at
farthest, and I renewed my determination to remain near the lake.
“The day passed without any incident to vary the monotony. Refreshed
by my meal and by a draught from a small pool of comparatively pure
water, I was able to sleep most of the afternoon, so as to keep awake
during the night, when exercise was necessary to warmth. About sunset
a drove of antelopes came near me, and by shooting one I added venison
to my bill of fare. In the night I amused myself with keeping my fire
alive, and listening to the noise of the birds that the unusual sight
threw into a state of alarm. On the following morning, as I lay on my
bed of reeds, a dozen antelopes, attracted by my kerchief fluttering
in the wind, stood watching me, and every few minutes approaching a
few steps. They were within easy shooting distance, but I had no
occasion to kill them. So I lay perfectly still, watching their
motions and admiring their beauty.
“All at once, though I had not moved a muscle, they turned and ran
away. While I was wondering what could have disturbed them I heard the
shout of two Mongol horsemen, who were riding toward me, and leading
my pony they had caught a dozen miles away. A score of men from the
caravan had been in search of me since the morning after my
disappearance, and had ridden many a mile over the desert.”
The Mongols are a strong, hardy, and generally good-natured race,
possessing the spirit of perseverance quite as much as the Chinese.
They have the free manners of all nomadic people, and are noted for
unvarying hospitality to visitors. Every stranger is welcome, and has
the best the host can give; the more he swallows of what is offered
him, the better will be pleased the household. As the native habits
are not especially cleanly, a fastidiously inclined guest has a
trying time of it. The staple dish of a Mongol yourt is boiled mutton,
but it is unaccompanied with capers or any other kind of sauce or
seasoning. A sheep goes to pot immediately on being killed, and the
quantity that each man will consume is something surprising. When the
meat is cooked it is lifted out of the hot water and handed, all
dripping and steamy, to the guests. Each man takes a large lump on his
lap, or any convenient support, and then cuts off little chunks which
he tosses into his mouth as if it were a mill-hopper. The best piece
is reserved for the guest of honor, who is expected to divide it with
the rest; after the meat is devoured they drink the broth, and this
concludes the meal. Knives and cups are the only aids to eating, and
as every man carries his own “outfit,” the Mongol dinner service is
speedily arranged. The entire work consists in seating the party
around a pot of cooked meat.
[Illustration: MONGOL DINNER TABLE.]
The desert is crossed by various ridges and small mountain chains,
that increase in frequency and make the country more broken as one
approaches the Tolla, the largest stream between Pekin and Kiachta.
The road, after traversing the last of these chains, suddenly reveals
a wide valley which bears evidence of fertility in its dense forests,
and the straggling fields which receive less attention than they
deserve.
The Tolla has an ugly habit of rising suddenly and falling
deliberately. When at its height, the stream has a current of about
seven miles an hour, and at the fording place the water is over the
back of an ordinary pony. The bottom of the river consists of large
boulders of all sizes from an egg up to a cotton bale, and the footing
for both horses and camels is not specially secure. The camels need a
good deal of persuasion with clubs before they will enter the water;
they have an instinctive dread of that liquid and avoid it whenever
they can. Horses are less timorous, and the best way to get a camel
through the ford is to lead him behind a horse and pound him
vigorously at the same time. When the river is at all dangerous there
is always a swarm of natives around the ford ready to lend a hand if
suitably compensated. They all talk very much and in loud tones; their
voices mingle with the neighing of horses, the screams of camels, the
roaring of the river, and the laughter of the idlers when any mishap
occurs. The confused noises are in harmony with the scene on either
bank, where baggage is piled promiscuously, and the natives are
grouped together in various picturesque attitudes. Men with their
lower garments rolled as high as possible, or altogether discarded,
walk about in perfect nonchalance; their queues hanging down their
backs seem designed as rudders to steer the wearers across the stream.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE TOLLA]
About two miles from the ford of the Tolla there is a Chinese
settlement, which forms a sort of suburb to the Mongol town of Urga.
The Mongols have no great friendship for the Chinese inhabitants, who
are principally engaged in traffic and the various occupations
connected with the transport of goods. Between this suburb and the
main town the Russians have a large house, which is the residence of a
consul and some twenty or thirty retainers. The policy of maintaining
a consulate there can only be explained on the supposition that Russia
expects and intends to appropriate a large slice of Mongolia whenever
opportunity offers. She has long insisted that the chain of mountains
south of Urga was the “natural boundary,” and her establishment of an
expensive post at that city enables her to have things ready whenever
a change occurs. In the spirit of annexation and extension of
territory the Russians can fairly claim equal rank with ourselves. I
forget their phrase for “manifest destiny,” and possibly they may not
be willing that I should give it.
Urga is not laid out in streets like most of the Chinese towns; its
by-ways and high-ways are narrow and crooked, and form a network very
puzzling to a stranger. The Chinese and Russian settlers live in
houses, and there are temples and other permanent buildings, but the
Mongols live generally in yourts, which they prefer to more extensive
structures. Most of the Mongol traffic is conducted in a large
esplanade, where you can purchase anything the country affords, and at
very fair prices.
The principal feature of Urga is the lamissary or convent where a
great many lamas or holy men reside. I have heard the number estimated
at fifteen thousand, but cannot say if it be more or less. The
religion of the Mongols came originally from Thibet, by direct
authority of the Grand Lama, but a train of circumstances which I have
not space to explain, has made it virtually independent. The Chinese
government maintains shrewd emissaries among these lamas, and thus
manages to control the Mongols and prevent their setting up for
themselves. As a further precaution it has a lamissary at Pekin, where
it keeps two thousand Mongol lamas at its own expense. In this way it
is able to influence the nomads of the desert, and in case of trouble
it would possess a fair number of hostages for an emergency.
About the year 1205 the great battle between Timoujin and the
sovereign then occupying the Mongol throne was fought a short distance
from Urga. The victory was decisive for the former, who thus became
Genghis Khan and commenced that career of conquest which made his name
famous.
Great numbers of devotees from all parts of Mongolia visit Urga every
year, the journey there having something of the sacred character which
a Mahommedan attaches to a pilgrimage to Mecca. The people living at
Urga build fences around their dwellings to protect their property
from the thieves who are in large proportion among the pious
travelers.
From Urga to the Siberian frontier the distance is less than two
hundred miles; the Russian couriers accomplish it in fifty or sixty
hours when not delayed by accidents, but the caravans require from
four to eight days. There is a system of relays arranged by the
Chinese so that one can travel very speedily if he has proper
authority. Couriers have passed from Kiachta to Pekin in ten or
twelve days; but the rough road and abominable carts make them feel at
their journey’s end about as if rolled through a patent
clotheswringer. A mail is carried twice a month each way by the
Russians. Several schemes have been proposed for a trans-Mongolian
telegraph, but thus far the Chinese government has refused to permit
its construction.
The desert proper is finished before one reaches the mountains
bordering the Tolla; after crossing that stream and leaving Urga the
road passes through a hilly country, sprinkled, it is true, with a
good many patches of sand, but having plenty of forest and frequently
showing fertile valleys. These valleys are the favorite resorts of the
Mongol shepherds and herdsmen, some of whom count their wealth by many
thousand animals. In general, Mongolia is not agricultural, both from
the character of the country and the disposition of the people. A few
tribes in the west live by tilling the soil in connection with stock
raising, but I do not suppose they take kindly to the former
occupation. The Mongols engaged in the caravan service pass a large
part of their lives on the road, and are merry as larks over their
employment. They seem quite analogous to the teamsters and
miscellaneous “plainsmen” who used to play an important part on our
overland route.
A large proportion of the men engaged in this transit service are
lamas, their sacred character not excusing them, as many suppose, from
all kinds of employment. Many lamas are indolent and manage in some
way to make a living without work, but this is by no means the
universal character of the holy men. About one-fifth of the male
population belong to the religious order, so that there are
comparatively few families which do not have a member or a relative in
the pale of the church. If not domiciled in a convent or blessed by
fortune in some way, the lama turns his hand to labor, though he is
able at the same time to pick up occasional presents for professional
service. Many of them act as teachers or schoolmasters. Theoretically
he cannot marry any more than a Romish priest, but his vows of
celibacy are not always strictly kept. One inconvenience under which
he labors is in never daring to kill anything through fear that what
he slaughters may contain the soul of a relative, and possibly that of
the divine Bhudda. A lama will purchase a sheep on which he expects to
dine, and though fully accessory before and after the fact, he does
not feel authorized to use the knife with his own hand. Even should he
be annoyed by fleas or similar creeping things (if it were a township
or city the lama’s body could return a flattering census,) he must
bear the infliction until patience is thoroughly exhausted. At such
times he may call an unsanctified friend and subject himself and
garments to a thorough examination.
[Illustration: THE SCHOOLMASTER.]
Every lama carries with him a quantity of written prayers, which he
reads or recites, and the oftener they are repeated the greater is
their supposed efficacy. Quantity is more important than quality, and
to facilitate matters they frequently have a machine, which consists
of a wheel containing a lot of prayers. Sometimes it is turned by hand
and sometimes attached to a wind-mill; the latter mode being
preferred.
Abbe Hue and others have remarked a striking similarity between the
Bhuddist and Roman Catholic forms of worship and the origin of the two
religions. Hue infers that Bhuddism was borrowed from Christianity; on
the other hand, many lamas declare that the reverse is the case. The
question has caused a great deal of discussion first and last, but
neither party appears disposed to yield.
The final stretch of road toward the Siberian frontier is across a
sandy plain, six or eight miles wide. On emerging from the hills at
its southern edge the dome of the church in Kiachta appears in sight,
and announces the end of Mongolian travel. No lighthouse is more
welcome to a mariner than is the view of this Russian town to a
traveler who has suffered the hardships of a journey from Pekin.
[Illustration: TAIL PIECE]