Marvellous birth of Tsong-Kaba--His preparation for the Apostleship--He
departs for the West--His interview with the Grand Lama of Thibet--He
reforms the Lamanesque worship--Numerous analogies between the Catholic
religion and reformed Buddhism--Origin of these analogies--Tree of the
Ten Thousand Images--Lamanesque Teaching--Faculty of Prayer--Government
of the Lamasery of Kounboum--Offerings of the Pilgrims--Industry of the
Lamas--The adventures of Sandara the Bearded--Favourable disposition of
the Lamas towards Christianity--Singular practice for the relief of
Travellers--Nocturnal Prayers--Departure for the Lamasery of Tchogortan.
The country of Amdo, situate south of Koukou-Noor, is inhabited by
Eastern Thibetians, who, like the Mongol Tartars, lead a pastoral and
nomadic life. The aspect of the country is wild and dismal. In all
directions the eye discerns nothing but mountains of red and yellow
ochre, almost destitute of vegetation, and intersected by deep ravines.
It is only here and there, in this sterile and desolate region, that you
find valleys tolerably supplied with pasturage, and hither the nomad
tribes lead their flocks.
According to the Lamanesque chronicles, towards the middle of the
fourteenth century of our era, a shepherd of the land of Amdo, named
Lombo-Moke, had set up his black tent at the foot of a mountain, near the
entrance to a deep ravine, through which, over a rocky bed, meandered an
abundant stream. Lombo-Moke shared with his wife, Chingtsa-Tsio, the
cares of pastoral life. They possessed no numerous flocks; some twenty
goats and a few sarligues or long-haired cattle, constituted all their
wealth. For many years they had lived alone and childless in these wild
solitudes. Each day Lombo-Moke led his animals to the neighbouring
pastures, while Chingtsa-Tsio, remaining alone in her tent, occupied
herself with the various preparations of milk, or with weaving, after the
manner of the women of Amdo, a coarse linen with the long hair of the
sarligues.
One day, Chingtsa-Tsio having descended to the bottom of the ravine to
draw water, experienced a faintness, and fell senseless on a large stone
which bore inscribed on it various characters in honour of the Buddha
Chakdja-Mouni. When Chingtsa-Tsio came to herself, she felt a pain in
the side, and at once comprehended that the fall had rendered her
fruitful. In the year of the Fire Hen (1357), nine months after this
mysterious event, she brought into the world a son, whom Lombo-Moke named
Tsong-Kaba, from the appellation of the mountain, at whose feet his tent
had stood for several years past. The marvellous child had, at his
birth, a white beard, and his face wore an air of extraordinary majesty.
There was nothing childlike about his manners. So soon as he saw the
light, he was capable of expressing himself with clearness and precision
in the language of Amdo. He spoke little, indeed, but his words always
developed a profound appreciation of the nature and destiny of man.
At the age of three, Tsong-Kaba resolved to renounce the world, and to
embrace the religious life. Chingtsa-Tsio, full of respect for the holy
project of her son, herself shaved his head, and threw his fine long
flowing hair outside the tent. From this hair, there forthwith sprung a
tree, the wood of which dispensed an exquisite perfume around, and each
leaf of which bore, engraved on its surface, a character in the sacred
language of Thibet. Tsong-Kaba himself withdrew into the most absolute
retirement, avoiding even the presence of his parents. He took up his
position on the summits of the wildest mountains, or in the depths of the
profoundest ravines, and there passed whole days and nights in prayer and
in the contemplation of eternal things. His fastings were long and
frequent. He respected the life even of the humblest insect, and
rigorously interdicted himself the consumption of any sort of flesh
whatever.
While Tsong-Kaba was thus engaged in purifying his heart by assiduity and
prayer, and the practices of an austere life, a Lama, from one of the
most remote regions of the West, casually visited the land of Amdo, and
received the hospitality of Lombo-Moke's tent. Tsong-Kaba, amazed at the
science and the sanctity of the stranger, prostrated himself at his feet,
and conjured him to become his instructor. The Lamanesque traditions
relate that this Lama of the western regions was remarkable not only for
his learning, the profundity of which was unfathomable, but for the
singularity of his appearance. People especially remarked his great
nose, and his eyes that gleamed as with a supernatural fire. The
stranger being, on his part, not less struck with the marvellous
qualities of Tsong-Kaba, did not hesitate to adopt him as his disciple,
and for this purpose took up his abode in the land of Amdo, where,
however, he only lived a few years. After having initiated his pupil in
all the doctrines recognised by the most renowned saints of the West, he
fell asleep one day, on a stone, on the summit of a mountain, and his
eyes opened not again.
Tsong-Kaba, deprived of the holy stranger's lessons, became all the more
eager for religious instruction, and ere long he formed the resolution of
abandoning his tribe, and of going to the further west, to drink at their
very source the pure precepts of sacred science. He departed, staff in
hand, alone, and without a guide, but his heart filled with superhuman
courage. He first proceeded due south, and reached, after long and
laborious journeying, the frontiers of the province of Yun-Nan, quite at
the extremity of the Chinese empire. Then, instead of pursuing the
previous direction, he turned towards the north-west, along the banks of
the great river Yarou-Dsangbo. He reached, at length, the sacred town of
the kingdom of Oui. {48} As he was about to continue on his way, a _Lha_
(spirit), all radiant with light, stayed him, and prohibited his further
progress. "Oh, Tsong-Kaba," said he, "all these vast regions belong to
the great empire which has been granted to thee. It is here thou art
ordained to promulgate the rites of religion and its prayers. It is here
will be accomplished the last evolution of thy immortal life."
Tsong-Kaba, docile to the supernatural voice, entered the _Land of
Spirits_ (Lha-Ssa), and selected an humble dwelling, in the most solitary
quarter of the town.
The monk of the tribe of Amdo soon attracted disciples; and before long,
his new doctrine and the innovations which he introduced into the
Lamanesque ceremonies, created considerable excitement. At length,
Tsong-Kaba resolutely put himself forward as a reformer, and began to
make war upon the ancient worship. His partisans increased from day to
day, and became known as the Yellow Cap Lamas, in contradistinction to
the Red Cap Lamas, who supported the old system. The king of the country
of Oui, and the Chakdja, the Living Buddha, and chief of the local
Lamanesque hierarchy, became alarmed at this new sect that was
introducing confusion into religious ceremonies. The Chakdja sent for
Tsong-Kaba, in order to ascertain whether his knowledge was so profound,
so marvellous, as his partisans pretended; but the reformer refused to
accept the invitation. Representing a religious system which was to
supersede the old system, it was not his business, he considered, to
perform an act of submission.
Meantime the Yellow Caps became, by degrees, the predominant sect, and
the homage of the multitude was turned towards Tsong-Kaba. The Buddha
Chakdja, finding his authority repudiated, made up his mind to go and
visit the little Lama of the province of Amdo, as he contumeliously
designated the reformer. At this interview, he proposed to have a
discussion with his adversary, which he flattered himself would result in
the triumph of the old doctrine. He repaired to the meeting with great
pomp, surrounded with all the attributes of his religious supremacy. As
he entered the modest cell of Tsong-Kaba, his high red cap struck against
the beam of the door, and fell to the ground, an accident which everybody
regarded as a presage of triumph for the Yellow Cap. The reformer was
seated on a cushion, his legs crossed, and apparently took no heed to the
entrance of the Chakdja. He did not rise to receive him, but continued
gravely to tell his beads. The Chakdja, without permitting himself to be
disconcerted either by the fall of his cap, or by the cold reception that
was given him, entered abruptly upon the discussion, by a pompous
eulogium of the old rites, and an enumeration of the privileges which he
claimed under them. Tsong-Kaba, without raising his eyes, interrupted
him in these terms: "Let go, cruel man that thou art, let go the louse
thou art crushing between thy fingers. I hear its cries from where I
sit, and my heart is torn with commiserating grief." The Chakdja, in
point of fact, while vaunting his own virtues, had seized a louse under
his vest, and in contempt of the doctrine of transmigration, which
forbids men to kill anything that has life in it, he was endeavouring to
crack it between his nails. Unprovided with a reply to the severe words
of Tsong-Kaba, he prostrated himself at his feet, and acknowledged his
supremacy.
Thenceforward, the reforms proposed by Tsong-Kaba encountered no
obstacle; they were adopted throughout Thibet, and afterwards became, by
imperceptible degrees, established in all the kingdoms of Tartary. In
1409, Tsong-Kaba, then 52 years old, founded the celebrated monastery of
Kaldan, three leagues from Lha-Ssa; it still flourishes, containing
upwards of 8,000 Lamas. In 1419, the soul of Tsong-Kaba, who had become
Buddha, quitted the earth and returned to the Celestial Realm, where it
was admitted into the Heaven of Rapture. His body, which remained in the
Lamasery of Kaldan, preserves to this day, it is alleged, all its
original freshness, and, moreover, by a perennial miracle, lies a little
above the earth, without being supported or raised upon anything. It is
added, that the mouth still, from time to time, addresses words of
encouragement to those Lamas who have made marked progress towards
perfection--words altogether inaudible for the less eminent of the
community.
Besides the reformation which Tsong-Kaba introduced into the liturgy, he
rendered himself further famous by a new edition of the "Body of
Doctrine," left by Chakdja-Mouni. The most important of his other works
is entitled _Lam-Rim-Tsien-Bo_ (the Progressive Path to Perfection).
Upon the most superficial examination of the reforms and innovations
introduced by Tsong-Kaba into the Lamanesque worship, one must be struck
with their affinity to Catholicism. The cross, the mitre, the dalmatica,
the cope, which the Grand Lamas wear on their journeys, or when they are
performing some ceremony out of the temple, the service with double
choirs, the psalmody, the exorcisms, the censer, suspended from five
chains, and which you can open or close at pleasure; the benedictions
given by the Lamas by extending the right hand over the heads of the
faithful; the chaplet, ecclesiastical celibacy, spiritual retirement, the
worship of the saints, the fasts, the processions, the litanies, the holy
water, all these are analogies between the Buddhists and ourselves. Now,
can it be said that these analogies are of Christian origin? We think
so. We have indeed found, neither in the traditions nor in the monuments
of the country, any positive proof of their adoption, still it is
perfectly legitimate to put forward conjectures which possess all the
characteristics of the most emphatic probability.
It is known that, in the fourteenth century, at the time of the
domination of the Mongol emperors, there existed frequent relations
between the Europeans and the peoples of Upper Asia. We have already, in
the former part of our narrative, referred to those celebrated embassies
which the Tartar conquerors sent to Rome, to France, and to England.
There is no doubt that the barbarians who thus visited Europe must have
been struck with the pomp and splendour of the ceremonies of Catholic
worship, and must have carried back with them into the desert enduring
memories of what they had seen. On the other hand, it is also known
that, at the same period, brethren of various religious orders undertook
remote pilgrimages for the purpose of introducing Christianity into
Tartary; and these must have penetrated at the same time into Thibet,
among the Si-Fan, and among the Mongols on the Blue Sea. Jean de
Montcorvin, Archbishop of Peking, had already organized a choir of Mongol
monks, who daily practised the recitation of the psalms, and the
ceremonies of the Catholic faith. Now, if one reflects that Tsong-Kaba
lived precisely at the period when the Christian religion was being
introduced into Central Asia, it will be no longer matter of astonishment
that we find, in reformed Buddhism, such striking analogies with
Christianity.
And may we not proceed to lay down a proposition of a more positive
character? This very legend of Tsong-Kaba, which we heard in the very
place of his birth, and from the mouth of several Lamas, does it not
materially strengthen our theory? Setting aside all the marvellous
features which have been added to the story by the imagination of the
Lamas, it may be fairly admitted that Tsong-Kaba was a man raised above
the ordinary level by his genius, and also, perhaps, by his virtue; that
he was instructed by a stranger from the West; that after the death of
the master the disciple, proceeding to the West, took up his abode in
Thibet, where he diffused the instruction which he himself had received.
May it not be reasonably inferred that this stranger with the great nose
was an European, one of those Catholic missionaries who at the precise
period penetrated in such numbers into Upper Asia. It is by no means
surprising that the Lamanesque traditions should have preserved the
memory of that European face, whose type is so different from that of the
Asiatics. During our abode at Kounboum, we, more than once, heard the
Lamas make remarks upon the singularity of our features, and say,
roundly, that we were of the same land with the master of Tsong-Kaba. It
may be further supposed that a premature death did not permit the
Catholic missionary to complete the religious education of his disciple,
who himself, when afterwards he became an apostle, merely applied
himself, whether from having acquired only an incomplete knowledge of
Christian doctrine, or from having apostatized from it, to the
introduction of a new Buddhist Liturgy. The feeble opposition which he
encountered in his reformation, would seem to indicate that already the
progress of Christian ideas in these countries had materially shaken the
faith of Buddha. We shall by-and-by inquire whether the numerous
analogies between the Buddhists and the Catholics are an obstacle or an
aid to the propagation of the faith in Tartary and Thibet.
The reformation of Tsong-Kaba triumphed in all the regions comprised
between the Himalaya mountains, the frontiers of Russia, and the Great
Wall of China. It even made its way into some provinces of the Celestial
Empire, into Kan Sou, for example, Chan-Si, Petche-Li, and all
Mantchouria. The bonzes have retained the ancient rites, with the
exception only of a few innovations which have been adopted in particular
localities. There is now a regular distinction understood between the
two classes of Lamas, the yellow and the grey; that is to say, those who
follow the reformation and those who persist in the elder worship. These
two sects, which no doubt at one time treated each other as rivals, and
made war upon each other, now live in perfect harmony. The Bonzes and
the Lamas regard themselves as all of the same family.
The tribe of Amdo, previously altogether obscure and of no importance
whatever, has, since the reformation of Buddhism, acquired a prodigious
celebrity. The mountain at the foot of which Tsong-Kaba was born, became
a famous place of pilgrimage. Lamas assembled there from all parts to
build their cells, and thus by degrees was formed that flourishing
Lamasery, the fame of which extends to the remotest confines of Tartary.
It is called Kounboum, from two Thibetian words signifying Ten Thousand
Images, and having allusion to the tree which, according to the legend,
sprang from Tsong-Kaba's hair, and bears a Thibetian character on each of
its leaves.
It will here be naturally expected that we say something about this tree
itself. Does it exist? Have we seen it? Has it any peculiar
attributes? What about its marvellous leaves? All these questions our
readers are entitled to put to us. We will endeavour to answer as
categorically as possible.
Yes, this tree does exist, and we had heard of it too often during our
journey not to feel somewhat eager to visit it. At the foot of the
mountain on which the Lamasery stands, and not far from the principal
Buddhist temple, is a great square enclosure, formed by brick walls.
Upon entering this we were able to examine at leisure the marvellous
tree, some of the branches of which had already manifested themselves
above the wall. Our eyes were first directed with earliest curiosity to
the leaves, and we were filled with an absolute consternation of
astonishment at finding that, in point of fact, there were upon each of
the leaves well-formed Thibetian characters, all of a green colour, some
darker, some lighter than the leaf itself. Our first impression was a
suspicion of fraud on the part of the Lamas; but, after a minute
examination of every detail, we could not discover the least deception.
The characters all appeared to us portions of the leaf itself, equally
with its veins and nerves; the position was not the same in all; in one
leaf they would be at the top of the leaf; in another, in the middle; in
a third, at the base, or at the side; the younger leaves represented the
characters only in a partial state of formation. The bark of the tree
and its branches, which resemble that of the plane tree, are also covered
with these characters. When you remove a piece [Picture: The Tree of Ten
Thousand Images] of old bark, the young bark under it exhibits the
indistinct outlines of characters in a germinating state, and, what is
very singular, these new characters are not unfrequently different from
those which they replace. We examined everything with the closest
attention, in order to detect some trace of trickery, but we could
discern nothing of the sort, and the perspiration absolutely trickled
down our faces under the influence of the sensations which this most
amazing spectacle created. More profound intellects than ours may,
perhaps, be able to supply a satisfactory explanation of the mysteries of
this singular tree; but as to us, we altogether give it up. Our readers
possibly may smile at our ignorance; but we care not, so that the
sincerity and truth of our statement be not suspected.
The Tree of the Ten Thousand Images seemed to us of great age. Its
trunk, which three men could scarcely embrace with outstretched arms, is
not more than eight feet high; the branches, instead of shooting up,
spread out in the shape of a plume of feathers, and are extremely bushy;
few of them are dead. The leaves are always green, and the wood, which
is of a reddish tint, has an exquisite odour, something like that of
cinnamon. The Lamas informed us that in summer, towards the eighth moon,
the tree produces large red flowers of an extremely beautiful character.
They informed us also that there nowhere else exists another such tree;
that many attempts have been made in various Lamaseries of Tartary and
Thibet to propagate it by seeds and cuttings, but that all these attempts
have been fruitless.
The Emperor Khang-Hi, when upon a pilgrimage to Kounboum, constructed, at
his own private expense, a dome of silver over the Tree of the Ten
Thousand Images; moreover, he made a present to the Grand Lama of a fine
black horse, capable of travelling a thousand lis a day, and of a saddle
adorned with precious stones. The horse is dead, but the saddle is still
shown in one of the Buddhist temples, where it is an object of special
veneration. Before quitting the Lamasery, Khang-Hi endowed it with a
yearly revenue, for the support of 350 Lamas.
The fame of Kounboum, due in the first instance to the celebrity of
Tsong-Kaba, is now maintained by the excellent discipline of the
Lamasery, and the superiority of its teaching. Its Lamas are deemed
students throughout their lives, for religious knowledge is reputed
inexhaustible. The students are distributed into four sections, or
faculties, according to the nature of the special studies to which they
desire to apply themselves. 1. The Faculty of Mysticism, which
comprehends the rules of contemplative life, and the examples exhibited
in the career of the Buddhist saints. 2. The Faculty of Liturgy,
comprising the study of religious ceremonies, with the expounding of all
that appertains to Lamanesque worship. 3. The Faculty of Medicine, which
applies itself to the four hundred and forty maladies of the human frame,
to medical botany, and to the pharmacopoeia. 4. The Faculty of Prayers,
the most esteemed of all, the best paid, and, as a matter of course, the
most numerous.
The voluminous works which serve as the basis of instruction in prayers,
are divided into thirteen series, which represent, as it were, so many
degrees in the hierarchy. The place which each student occupies in the
schoolroom and the temple service, depends upon the series of theological
works through which he has passed. Among the Lamas, you see old men
proclaiming, by their low position in the hierarchy, their idleness or
incapacity; and, on the other hand, mere youths elevated, by their
application and their ability, to the highest ranks.
In order to obtain a degree in the Faculty of Prayers, all that is
required from the student is to recite, without stopping, the books he
has been directed to study. When he believes himself quite up, he gives
intimation of this belief to the Grand Lama of prayers, in the form of a
rich khata, a dish of raisins, and some ounces of silver, in ingots, the
amount depending upon the degree at which he aims; he also makes presents
to the Lama examiners. Although it is, of course, perfectly understood
that the judges are incorruptible, yet at Kounboum, as elsewhere, people
do say that a few offerings to the academy are not without their effect
at an examination. Men are men everywhere!
Before the principal temple of the Lamasery, there is a large square
court, paved with broad stones, and surrounded with twisted columns,
covered with coloured sculptures. It is in this enclosure that the Lamas
of the Faculty of Prayers assemble at the lecture hour, which is
announced to them by the sound of a marine conch; here they sit,
according to their rank, upon the bare stones, undergoing, in winter, the
cold, the frost, and the snow; and in summer, the rain and the sun's
heat. The professors alone are under shelter; they sit upon a sort of
platform, covered with a tent. It is a singular spectacle to see all
these Lamas with their red scarfs and great yellow mitres, so huddled
together that you cannot see the flagstones on which they sit. After
some of the students have given out the lesson of the day, the
professors, in turn, give commentaries, vague and incomprehensible as the
text itself, but nobody makes any objection; the explanation is quite
near enough. Besides, the universal conviction is that the sublimity of
a doctrine is in exact proportion to its obscurity and its
unintelligibility.
The lesson generally concludes with a thesis, supported by a student
previously named for that purpose, and whom the other students are
entitled to question, upon whatever subject comes into their heads at the
time. There is nothing more preposterous than these theses, which nearly
remind one of those famous discussions of the schools in the middle ages,
where there were such furious argumentations _de omni re scibili_. At
Kounboum the rule is for the conqueror to mount on the shoulders of the
conquered, and to be carried by him in triumph right round the walls of
the school. One day Sandara the Bearded came home from lecture, his face
radiant with unwonted smiles. We soon learned that he had been the hero
of the theses: he had defeated his competitor upon the important question
why poultry and other winged creatures are destitute of one of the vital
functions common to all other animals. We mention this particular
instance, because it will give an idea of the elevation and grandeur of
Lamanesque education.
At certain periods of the year, the Living Buddha, the Grand Superior of
the Lamasery, himself appears in person, and gives, in state, official
expoundings of the Sacred Books. These commentaries, though not a bit
more learned or more lucid than those of the professors, are received as
authority. The Thibetian language is alone used in the schools.
The discipline of the Lamasery is vigilant and severe. In the Faculties,
during the lectures, and in the temples, during the recitation of
prayers, you see Lama censors leaning upon long iron rods, and
maintaining order and silence among the students. The least infraction
of the rules is at once visited with a reprimand and, if necessary, with
blows of the iron rod, the old Lamas being equally liable to both the one
and the other, with the young Chabis.
A certain number of Lamas form the police of the Lamasery; they are
attired in the same manner as the other Lamas, only their dress is grey,
and their mitre black. Day and night they perambulate the streets of the
city, armed with a great whip, and re-establish order wherever their
interposition has become necessary. Three tribunals, presided over by
Lama judges, have jurisdiction in all matters that are above the
immediate authority of the police. Those who are guilty of theft, to
however trifling an amount, are first branded on the forehead and on each
cheek with a hot on, and then expelled from the Lamasery.
The Buddhist monasteries, though similar in many respects to our own,
exhibit essential differences. The Lamas are subject, it is true, to one
same rule, and to one same discipline, but it cannot be said that they
live in community. You find among them all the graduated shades of
poverty and wealth that you see in mundane cities. At Kounboum we often
observed Lamas clothed in rags, begging, at the doors of their rich
brethren, a few handfuls of barley meal. Every third month the
authorities make a distribution of meal to all the Lamas of the
Lamaseries, without distinction, but the quantity is altogether
inadequate. The voluntary offerings of the pilgrims come in aid, but,
besides that these offerings are uncertain, they are divided among the
Lamas according to the position which each occupies in the hierarchy, so
that there are always a great many who never receive any thing at all
from this source.
Offerings are of two sorts, tea offerings and money offerings. The first
is operated in this fashion: the pilgrim who proposes to entertain the
brotherhood, waits upon the superiors of the Lamasery, and, presenting to
them a khata, announces that he shall have the devotion to offer to the
Lamas a general or special tea. The tea-general is for the whole
Lamasery without distinction; the tea-special is given only to one of the
four faculties, the selection being with the pilgrim. On the day filed
for a tea-general, after the repetition of morning prayer, the presiding
Lama gives a signal for the company to retain their seats. Then forty
young Chabis, appointed by lot, proceed to the great kitchen, and soon
return, laden with jars of tea with milk; they pass along the ranks, and
as they come to each Lama, the latter draws from his bosom his wooden
tea-cup, and it is filled to the brim. Each drinks in silence, carefully
placing a corner of his scarf before his cup, in order to modify the
apparent anomaly of introducing so material a proceeding as tea-drinking
into so spiritual a spot. Generally there is tea enough presented to go
round twice, the tea being stronger or weaker according to the generosity
of the donor. There are some pilgrims who add a slice of fresh butter
for each Lama, and magnificent Amphytrions go the length, further, of
oatmeal cakes. When the banquet is over, the presiding Lama solemnly
proclaims the name of the pious pilgrim, who has done himself the immense
credit of regaling the holy family of Lamas; the pilgrim donor prostrates
himself on the earth; the Lamas sing a hymn in his favour, and then march
out in procession past their prostrate benefactor, who does not rise
until the last of the Lamas has disappeared.
Offerings of this sort are very little for each individual Lama; but when
you reflect that on such occasions there are assembled together more than
4,000 tea-drinkers, you may easily estimate that the aggregate expense
becomes a very serious affair. In the Lamasery at Kounboum, one single
tea-general, without either butter or cakes, costs fifty ounces of
silver, or about twenty pounds.
Money offerings are still more expensive, for they are always accompanied
with a tea-general. The money is not distributed at service time. After
prayers, the presiding Lama announces that such a pilgrim, of such a
place, has offered so many ounces of silver to the holy family of Lamas,
and that the whole sum equally divided produces such a quotient. In the
course of the day, the Lamas proceed to the Offering-office, where their
respective proportion is scrupulously delivered to them.
There is no particular period or day fixed for the reception of
offerings: they are always welcome; however, at the four great festivals
of the year, they are more numerous and more important than at other
times, on account of the greater number of pilgrims. After the Feast of
Flowers, the King of Souniout, who was at Kounboum, made an offering,
before he returned into Tartary, of six hundred ounces of silver, and a
tea-general for eight days! with butter and cakes; the total expense
amounted to six hundred pounds! When the offering is made by a
distinguished personage, it is customary for the Living Buddha to be
present at the ceremony, and he receives for his especial share an ingot
of silver weighing fifty ounces, a piece of red or yellow silk, a pair of
boots, and a mitre, arranged in a basket decorated with flowers and
ribands, and covered with a rich khata. The pilgrim prostrates himself
on the steps of the altar, where the Living Buddha is seated, and places
the basket at his feet. A Chabi takes it up, and in return, presents to
the pilgrim a khata in the name of the Living Buddha, whose business
throughout is to preserve the impassibility and dignity befitting his
assumed divinity.
Besides the distributions and the offerings the Lamas of Kounboum employ
various means of improving their temporal condition. Some of them keep
cows, and sell to their colleagues the milk and butter which help to
season their tea and oatmeal. Others form themselves into a joint stock
company, and undertake the preparation of the teas-general which the
pilgrims present to the community: others are tailors, dyers, bootmakers,
hatters, and so on, and make up, for a fixed remuneration, the clothes of
the Lamas. Lastly, a few of the number have shops, wherein they sell, at
enormous profit, various goods, which they procure from Tang-Keou-Eul or
Si-Ning-Fou.
In the class of industrial Lamas there is, however, a certain number who
derive their livelihood from occupations which seem more comformable with
the spirit of a religious life, namely, the printing and transcribing the
Lamanesque books. Our readers are, perhaps, aware that the Thibetian
writing proceeds horizontally, and from left to right. Though the idiom
of the Lamas is alphabetical, much in the manner of our European
languages, yet they make no use of moveable type; stereotype printing on
wood is alone practised. The Thibetian books resemble a large pack of
cards; the leaves are moveable, and printed on both sides. As they are
neither sewn nor bound together, in order to preserve them, they are
placed between two thin boards, which are fastened together with yellow
bands. The editions of the Thibetian books printed at Kounboum are very
rude, the letters are sprawling and coarse, and in all respects very
inferior to those which emanate from the imperial printing press at
Peking. The manuscript editions, on the contrary, are magnificent; they
are enriched with illustrative designs, and the characters are elegantly
traced. The Lamas do not write with a brush like the Chinese, but use
little sticks of bamboo cut in the form of a pen; their inkstand is a
little copper box, resembling a jointed snuff-box, and which is filled
with cotton saturated with ink. The Lamas size their paper, in order to
prevent its blotting; for this purpose, instead of the solution of alum
used by the Chinese, they sprinkle the paper with water mixed with
one-tenth part of milk, a simple, ready, and perfectly effective process.
[Picture: Buddhic Prayer]
Sandara the Bearded did not belong to any of the classes of industrials
that we have enumerated; he had a business of his own, namely, that of
_taking_ in the strangers whom devotion or other motives brought to the
Lamasery. The Mongol-Tartars in particular afforded him profitable
employment in this way. On their arrival he would introduce himself in
the character of _cicerone_, and, thanks to the easy, seductive elegance
of his manners and conversation, he always managed to get engaged as
their man of business during their stay. At Kounboum itself Sandara's
reputation was by no means unequivocal. The better Lamas shunned him,
and some of them went so far as to give us a charitable hint not to
confide too much in his fine words, and always to keep an eye upon our
purse when in his company. We learned that, compelled to quit Lha-Ssa
for some knavery, he had vagabondized for three years through the
provinces of Sse-Tchouen and Kan-Sou, as a strolling player and
fortune-teller. We were not at all surprised at this information. We
had ourselves remarked that whenever Sandara became frankly himself, his
manner was always that of an actor.
One evening, when he seemed in a more amiable humour than ordinary, we
thought we would extract from him some of his old adventures. "Sandara,"
said we, "the chattering Lamas here pretend that on your way from Thibet,
you remained three years in China." "The words are truth." "They say,
too, that you are a capital hand at stage recitations." Sandara rose,
clacked a sort of prelude with his fingers, threw himself into a
theatrical attitude, and recited, with emphasis, some Chinese verses. "A
Lama comedian!" said we, laughingly; "this is a marvel indeed!" "No,
no!" cried he; "I was first a Lama, then a comedian, and now I am a Lama
again. Come," continued he, resuming his accustomed seat, "since the
chatterers have spoken to you of my adventures, I will give you the real
history of them.
"After remaining for ten years at Lha-Ssa, in the Lamasery of Sera, a
longing for my country took possession of my thoughts; the Three Vales
occupied my soul. The malady at length became so powerful, that I could
not resist it. I accordingly departed; having as my travelling
companions four Lamas of Amdo, who were also returning home. Instead of
pursuing the eastern route we proceeded southwards, for in that direction
the desert is not wholly uninhabited. We journeyed, pack on back, and
staff in hand. If on our way we came to a black tent, we sought its
hospitality, otherwise we had to pass the night in the depths of some
ravine, or beneath some rock. You know that Thibet is a country covered
with great mountains; we had accordingly a continuous series of
ascendings and descendings. Although it was summer, we frequently
encountered heavy falls of snow. The nights were very cold, but during
the day, especially in the valleys, we were almost killed with the heat.
"We walked on merrily, however. We were all in good health and in good
humour, more particularly when the shepherds had made us a present of a
kid, or a good lump of butter. In the country through which we passed,
we saw some very singular animals; they were not so big as an ordinary
cat, and they were covered with a sort of hair as hard as iron needles.
Whenever one of these creatures perceived us, it immediately rolled
itself up, so that you could no longer distinguish head, tail, or feet,
and became, as it were, a great ball, all bristling with long, hard
thorns. At first these beasts frightened us; we could not comprehend at
all what they were, for the books of prayer say not a word about them.
However, by degrees we got courage enough to examine them closely. As
these balls were too prickly to be touched with the hand, we placed a
stick horizontally across one of them, and then pressed down both ends,
until we made the ball open itself a little, and then there came out a
little face, like a man's, that looked at us fixedly. We cried out in
great terror, and ran away as hard as we could. At last, however, we
grew accustomed to the little animals, and they even served us for an
amusement, for it was good fun to turn them over and over down the hills,
with the iron ends of our staves.
"We also met with worms of a very surprising kind. One day when it was
very hot, we were journeying along a little stream that meandered through
a valley, in which the grass grew very high. Towards noon, after
drinking tea, we lay down and slept on the edge of the stream. You know
that, according to the rule of Tsong-Kaba, the yellow-mitred Lamas do not
wear trousers. When we woke up, we found a number of worms sticking to
our legs; they were of a grey colour, and as big as one's finger. We
tried to get them off, but could not; and as we did not experience any
pain from them, we waited to see what would be the end of the affair.
By-and-by the beasts swelled, and when they had become quite round and
large, they dropped off themselves. Oh! Thibet is a singular country.
You see animals there that are found nowhere else. Lamas who have not
travelled in the country won't believe what we tell them about it."
"They are wrong, then," said we, "for what you have just said is in
perfect conformity with the truth. These curious animals that you
describe are not inhabitants of Thibet only; they are very common in our
country. Those which are enveloped with sharp thorns, we call hedgehogs;
and the great worms we call leeches." "What! have you seen animals of
the kind?" "Often." "I'm glad to hear it, for you'll be able to confirm
what we say to any Lamas that don't believe us."
"Well, we went on quite comfortably, till we came to the Eul Mountain.
This mountain is very lofty, and covered with a great forest of pine and
holly; we rested at the foot of it during a whole day, in a black tent.
When night came, two of our number said: 'The evening is fine, the moon
bright; we can't do better than cross the mountain in the cool of the
night. In the morning it will grow hot, and we shall find it much more
laborious to climb the mountain then.' 'No,' objected the others, 'night
is for wild beasts; men should only travel by day.' Thus, you see, we
disagreed about the matter. The two first persisted; they took up their
iron-pointed staves, fastened their packs on their shoulders, and went on
their way. This, you will admit, was an ill step to take. When pilgrims
have said: 'Let us journey together,' they should not part company.
"Well, when day broke, we also went on our way--we three who remained of
the five. Just as we were reaching the summit of the Eul Mountain,
'Tsong-Kaba,' cried I, 'here is an iron-pointed staff on the ground.'
'Why,' said one of my companions, looking at the staff, 'this is Lobzan's
staff.' We examined it closely, and clearly recognised it. 'This,' said
we, 'is what people get by travelling at night. They drop something or
other, and there is not light enough for them to find it again.' We went
on. After a short further and very rugged ascent, we stepped on the
plateau of the mountain. We had no sooner done so, than all three sent
forth a cry of terror; for we saw before us another iron-pointed staff,
Lama's clothes torn in pieces, pieces of human flesh, and bones broken
and gnawed. The earth torn up, and the grass trodden down, indicated
that a severe struggle had taken place on the spot. It was obvious at
once that some wild beasts, tigers or wolves, had killed and devoured our
companions. I stood for a moment panic-struck at the horrible spectacle.
Then I wept like a child. We rushed down the other side of the mountain
with fear-impelled speed. From that moment our journey was a sad and
silent one. Only, when we came to a black tent, we would recount to the
shepherds the awful catastrophe of our poor comrades, and the relation
afforded some slight alleviation of our grief.
"Three moons after our departure from Lha-Ssa, we arrived at the frontier
of China. There we separated; the two Lamas of Amdo turned to the north,
towards their own country; while I, crossing the Wall of Ten Thousand
Lis, entered the province of Sse-Tchouen. After a few days' march, I
found in an inn, a company of comedians. All night, these people did
nothing but sing, joke, and drink rice-wine. 'In this country of
Sse-Tchouen,' said the manager of the company to me, 'there are no Lamas.
What do you propose to do with that red robe and that yellow hat of
yours?' 'You are quite right,' said I; 'in a country of Lamas, to be a
Lama is well; but in a land of comedians, one must be a comedian. Will
you take me into your company?' 'Bravo! bravo!' cried everybody; 'you
shall be one of us.' And so saying, each made me a low bow, which I
returned by putting my tongue in my cheek, and scratching my ear,
according to the Thibetian manner of saluting. At first, I took the
matter as a joke; but by-and-by upon reflecting that I had no means left,
I thought I might as well take the manager at his word, and accordingly I
became a member of the corps.
"Next day I packed up my religious costume, and assumed a mundane suit.
As my memory had been long disciplined by the study of prayers, I found
little trouble in learning a part in a play, and in a few days I became
quite a first-rate comedian. We gave representations, during upwards of
a year, in all the towns and villages of Sse-Tchouen. The company then
resolving to visit the province of Yun-Nan, I quitted them, because that
expedition would have carried me too far from my native Three Vallies.
After the feast of separation, accordingly I proceeded on my way to the
paternal roof. The journey occupied nearly two years. At every place I
came to, I stopped a few days and gave representations, practising as a
merry-andrew, and making a comfortable thing enough of it, for one always
gets more by performing on one's own account. I entered my native
village in grand style, mounted on a magnificent ass I had bought at
Lan-Tcheou, and with twelve ounces of silver in my pocket. I gave a few
representations to my countrymen, who were amazed at my skill; but I had
soon to give up my new profession.
"One evening when the family were assembled to hear some of my Thibetian
stories, my mother maintained profound silence and her face manifested
utter grief; soon I observed the tears trickling down her cheeks.
'Mother,' asked I, 'why do you weep? In my story was there anything to
excite your tears?' 'Thy story,' she replied, 'produces upon me no
impression whatever, agreeable or disagreeable; it strikes upon my ears,
but makes no way to my heart. That which moves, that which afflicts me,
is the thought that when thou left us, fourteen years ago, to visit the
Land of Saints, thou wert clothed in the sacred habit of the Lamas, and
that now thou art a layman and a buffoon.' These words confounded me.
After a moment's silence I rose and cried emphatically: 'It is written in
the Holy Doctrine, that it is better to honour one's father and mother
than to serve the spirits of heaven and earth. Therefore, mother, say
what you would have me do, and your son will reverentially obey you.'
'Throw aside those mundane clothes,' said my mother, 'cut off that tress
of hair, and re-enter the family of the saints.' I had nothing to say in
reply, but prostrated myself thrice on the ground, in token of
submission. When a mother speaks, one must obey; filial piety is the
basis of all good doctrine. In translating for you the ten great
commandments of Jehovah, I remember that the fourth said: 'Thou shalt
honour thy father and thy mother.'
"Next morning I resumed my Lama dress, and a few days after proceeded to
Kounboum, where I am labouring to sanctify myself."
These last words of Sandara the Bearded clearly merited to be received
with a horse laugh, but we restrained ourselves by dint of biting our
lips, for we had experienced that, notwithstanding his immense zeal for
sanctification, our worthy tutor had not as yet attained any very great
results in the matter of patience and mildness.
This summary of the adventures of Sandara, at once explained to us how it
was that upon all occasions he manifested such marked predilection for
the men and things of China. The rules bequeathed by Tsong-Kaba
interdicted to the Lamas the use of garlic, brandy, and tobacco; garlic
being prohibited because it is unbecoming to present one's self before
the image of Buddha with bad breath, offensive in itself, and capable of
infecting the perfume of the incense; brandy, because this fatal liquor
disturbs the reason and excites the passions; and tobacco, because it
engenders idleness, and absorbs precious hours that ought to be devoted
to the study of prayers and of doctrine. Despite these prohibitions, so
soundly based, the Lamas--such of them, at least, as sanctify themselves
after the manner of Sandara--do not hesitate to smoke, to drink, and to
season their oatmeal with garlic. All this, however, is done secretly,
and without the knowledge of the police. In the Lamasery of Kounboum,
Sandara was the patron and introducer of the Chinese hawkers who deal in
these contraband articles, and aided them in the sale of their goods, for
a small commission.
A few days after the Feast of Flowers, we vigorously resumed our
Thibetian studies under the direction of Sandara, who came every morning
to work with us. We occupied ourselves in the translation of an
abridgment of Sacred History from the creation to the preaching of the
Apostles. We gave to this work the dialogue form; the two interlocutors
being a Lama of Jehovah and a Lama of Buddha. Sandara fulfilled his
functions altogether as a matter of business. The favourable tendencies
which he at first manifested, when we were at Tang-Keou-Eul, his
crossings, his admiration of the Christian doctrine, had been all a mere
farce. Religious feelings had no hold upon his grasping, hardened heart.
He had acquired, by his long abode among the Chinese, a sneering,
cold-blooded, carping incredulity, which he seemed to delight in parading
upon all occasions. In his estimation, all religions were so many
devices invented by the wise for the more facile and effective
despoilment of the witless. Virtue, with him, was a vain word, and the
man of merit, he who made the most of his fellow men.
Despite, however, these sceptical and impious opinions, Sandara could not
prevent himself from feeling high admiration of the Christian doctrine.
He was especially struck with the concatenation of the historical facts
which he translated for us. He found in them a character of
authenticity, of which the fables accumulated in the Buddhist books are
wholly destitute; he admitted this, not unfrequently, but always in an
unguarded moment, for his aim was to support in our presence his
melancholy part of a free-thinker. When he was with the Lamas, he was
more at his ease; and there he did not hesitate to declare that as to
religious doctrine, we knew more about it than all the living Buddhas put
together.
After some time, we began to make a certain sensation in the Lamasery;
the Lamas talked a good deal to one another about the two Lamas of
Jehovah, and the new doctrine they taught. It was remarked that we were
never seen to prostrate ourselves before Buddha; that, thrice a day, we
said prayers which were not Thibetian prayers; that we had a language of
our own, which nobody else understood, but that with other people we
talked Tartarian, Chinese, and a little Thibetian. Here was more than
enough to excite the curiosity of the Lamanesque public. Every day we
had visitors, and the conversation with them always and altogether turned
upon religious questions. Among all the Lamas who visited us, we did not
find one of the same incredulous stamp with Sandara the Bearded; they
all, on the contrary, seemed sincerely religious and full of faith; many
of them attached the utmost importance to the study and knowledge of
truth; and we found the same men coming again and again to seek
instruction from us in our holy religion.
The instruction we communicated was altogether historical in its plan,
everything being carefully excluded which could suggest dispute, or
arouse the spirit of contention; we gave our friends a simple and concise
outline of our religion, leaving them to derive thence, for themselves,
conclusions against Buddhism. Proper names and dates, precisely set
forth, produced more effect upon them than the most logical reasoning.
When they had thoroughly mastered the names of Jesus, of Jerusalem, of
Pontius Pilate, the date of four thousand years since the creation of the
world, and the names of the twelve Apostles, they had no longer any
doubts as to the Redemption, or as to the Preaching of the Gospel. The
connection which they observed between the history of the Old Testament
and that of the New, amounted, in their eyes, to demonstration. The
mysteries and the miracles created no difficulty in their minds.
After all we have seen in our long peregrination, and especially during
our abode in the Lamasery of Kounboum, we are persuaded that it is by
instruction, and not by controversy, that the conversion of the heathen
is to be efficaciously operated. Polemics may reduce an adversary to
silence, may often humiliate him, may sometimes irritate him, but they
will never convince him. When Jesus Christ sent forth his disciples, he
said to them: Go forth and teach all nations, which does not mean: go
forth and hold controversies with all nations. In our days, two schools
of philosophy, the one recognising Descartes for its head, the other
Lamennais, have much disputed the question whether paganism is a crime or
an error; it appears to us to be neither the one nor the other, but
simply the effect of ignorance. The spirit of a pagan is enveloped in
darkness. Carry light within that darkness, and the darkness will
disappear: the pagan needs neither the thesis of the Cartesians, nor the
requisitory of the Lamennaisians: all he wants is instruction.
The eagerness of the Lamas to visit us, and especially their favourable
tendencies towards Christianity, gave, after a while, umbrage to the
zealous tenacity of Sandara; he turned desperately sulky, and after going
through the lesson of the day, in the driest and briefest manner
possible, he would say not another word to us for the rest of the
twenty-four hours, but observe towards us the most contumelious silence.
If we asked him in the humblest manner the Thibetian name of some object,
or the meaning of some particular phrase in the Dialogues, he would not
condescend to a word of reply. In this extremity we usually had recourse
to our neighbour, the young student in medicine, who always gave us the
information we needed with the most frank cordiality; and although he was
not very learned in Thibetian, we found him of very great utility. His
open, good-natured character, moreover, encouraged us to ask him many
questions respecting some of the Lama practices, which we desired to
understand. In return for these services, we aided, with all our hearts,
his desire to become acquainted with the Christian religion. Far
different from Sandara, he was full of respect for the truths we
announced to him; but his timid, irresolute temperament kept him from
openly abjuring Buddhism. His idea was, that he could be, at one and the
same time, a good Christian and a fervent Buddhist; in his prayers, he
invoked alternately Tsong-Kaba and Jehovah, and he carried his simplicity
so far as to ask us sometimes to take part in his religious practices.
[Picture: Sending Horses to Travellers]
One day he proposed to us a service of devotion in favour of all the
travellers throughout the whole world. "We are not acquainted with this
devotion," said we; "will you explain it to us?" "This is it: you know
that a good many travellers find themselves, from time to time, on
rugged, toilsome roads. Some of these travellers are holy Lamas on a
pilgrimage; and it often happens that they cannot proceed by reason of
their being altogether exhausted; in this case we aid them by sending
horses to them." "That," said we, "is a most admirable custom, entirely
conformable with the principles of Christian charity; but you must
consider that poor travellers such as we are not in a position to
participate in the good work; you know that we possess only a horse and a
little mule, which require rest, in order that they may carry us into
Thibet." "Tsong-Kaba!" ejaculated the Lisper, and then he clapped his
hands together, and burst into a loud laugh. "What are you laughing at?
What we have said is the simple truth: we have only a horse and a little
mule." When his laughter at last subsided: "It was not that I was
laughing at," said he; "I laughed at your misconceiving the sort of
devotion I mean; what we send to the travellers are paper horses." And
therewith he ran off to his cell, leaving us with an excellent occasion
for laughing in our turn at the charity of the Buddhists, which we thus
learned consisted in giving paper horses to travellers. We maintained
our gravity, however, for we had made it a rule never to ridicule the
practices of the Lamas. Presently the Lisper returned, his hands filled
with bits of paper, on each of which was printed the figure of a horse,
saddled and bridled, and going at full gallop. "Here!" cried the Lisper,
"these are the horses we send to the travellers. To-morrow we shall
ascend a high mountain, thirty lis from the Lamasery, and there we shall
pass the day, saying prayers and sending off horses." "How do you send
them to the travellers?" "Oh! the means are very easy. After a certain
form of prayer, we take a packet of horses which we throw up into the
air, the wind carries them away, and by the power of Buddha they are then
changed into real horses, which offer themselves to travellers." We
candidly told our dear neighbour what we thought of this practice, and
explained to him the grounds upon which we declined to take any part in
it. He seemed to approve of our sentiments on the subject; but this
approval did not prevent him from occupying a large portion of the night
in fabricating, by means of the press, a prodigious number of horses.
Next morning, before daybreak, he went off, accompanied by several
colleagues, full, like himself, of devotion for poor travellers. They
carried with them a tent, a boiler, and some provisions. All the morning
the wind blew a hurricane; when, towards noon, this subsided, the sky
became dark and heavy, and the snow fell in thick flakes. We awaited,
with anxious impatience, the return of the Stutterer. The poor wretch
returned in the evening, quite worn out with cold and fatigue. We
invited him to rest for awhile in our tent, and we gave him some tea with
milk, and some rolls fried in butter. "It has been a dreadful day," said
he. "Yes, the wind blew here with great violence." "I'll venture to
affirm it was nothing here to what we found it on the top of the
mountain: the tent, the boiler--everything we had with us was carried
away by a regular whirlwind, and we were obliged to throw ourselves flat
on the ground in order to save ourselves from being carried away too."
"It's a sad pity you've lost your tent and boiler." "It is, indeed, a
misfortune. However, it must be admitted that the weather was very
favourable for conveying horses to the travellers. When we saw that it
was going to snow, we threw them all up into the air at once, and the
wind whisked them off to the four quarters of the world. If we had
waited any longer, the snow would have wetted them, and they would have
stuck on the sides of the mountain." Altogether this excellent young man
was not dissatisfied with his day's work.
The twenty-fifth of each moon is the day devoted to the transmission of
horses to poor travellers. The practice is not a general rule; but is
left to the devotion of individuals. The twenty-eighth of the moon is
set apart for another species of religious exercise, in which all the
Lamas are required to participate. On the twenty-seventh the Stammerer
gave us notice of the ceremony in these words: "To-morrow night we shall,
perhaps, prevent your sleeping, for we shall have to celebrate our
nocturnal prayers." We paid no special attention to this intimation,
conceiving that it simply meant that in the course of the night, the
Lamas would recite prayers in their cells, as they not unfrequently did.
We accordingly retired to rest at our usual hour, and fell asleep.
Conformably with the warning of the Stammerer, our slumbers did not
remain long uninterrupted. First we seemed to dream that we heard a sort
of concert by a great multitude of voices up in the air. Imperceptibly
these vague, confused sounds became loud and distinct. We awoke and
heard clearly enough the chanting of Lamanesque prayers. In the
twinkling of an eye, we were up and dressed and out in the courtyard,
which was illumined with a pale light that appeared to descend from
above. In his wonted corner sat old Akaye telling his beads. "Akaye,"
asked we, "what is this strange noise?" "The nocturnal prayers. If you
want to see more of them you had better go on to the terrace." There was
a ladder resting in the most accommodating manner against the wall. We
hastily ascended it, and became spectators of a most singular sight. The
terraces were illuminated by red lanterns suspended from long poles, and
all the Lamas, attired in their state mantles and yellow mitres, were
seated on the roofs of their houses chanting their prayers with a slow
and monotonous voice. On the roof of our own house we found the
Stammerer, the Kitat-Lama, and his Chabi, wholly absorbed with the
ceremony. We took care not to disturb them, and contented ourselves with
merely looking on and listening. Those innumerable lanterns, with their
red, fantastic glare, the buildings of the Lamasery vaguely illumined by
the reflection of their trembling light, the four thousand voices
combining in one immense concert, accompanied from time to time by the
sound of trumpets and marine conchs--all this produced an effect that
agitated the soul with a sort of vague terror.
After having gazed for awhile at this strange spectacle, we descended
into the courtyard, where we found old Akaye still in the same place and
the same position. "Well," said he, "you have seen the ceremony of
nocturnal prayers?" "Yes, but we don't understand what they precisely
mean. Would it be troubling you too much to ask from you some
explanation of the matter?" "Not at all. These prayers were instituted
for the purpose of driving away demons. You must know that this country
was once fearfully infested with demons, who caused maladies in the herds
and spoiled the milk of the cows; they often invaded the cells of the
Lamas, and at times carried their audacity to the excess of penetrating
into the temple in the hour of general prayer, their presence being
indicated by the confusion and discordance which immediately prevailed in
the psalmody. During the night they assembled in large numbers in the
ravine, where they frightened everybody with cries and howlings so
strange in their character that no man could imitate them. A Lama, full
of learning and piety, invented the nocturnal prayers, and the demons
have since almost entirely disappeared from the district. A few come
here occasionally, but they don't do any mischief as they used to do."
"Akaye," asked we, "have you ever chanced to see any of these demons?"
"No, never; and I'm sure you have not seen any of them." "What makes you
suppose so?" "Because the demons only appear to wicked Lamas, and the
good Lamas never see them." At this moment the prayer of the Lamas on
the house-tops ceased, the trumpets, the bells, the drums, and the marine
conchs sounded all at once three different times; the Lamas, then, all
sent forth together hideous cries and yells, like those of wild beasts,
and the ceremony terminated. The lanterns were extinguished, and silence
resumed its sway. We bade old Akaye good night, and once more went to
sleep.
We had been residing at Kounboum more than three months, enjoying the
friendly sympathies of the Buddhist monks and the protection of the
authorities. But for some time past we had been in flagrant opposition
to a leading rule of the Lamasery. Strangers who pass through Kounboum,
or who merely reside there for a short time, may dress as they please.
Those persons, on the contrary, who are connected in any way with the
Lamasery, or who are making any stay in the place, are required to wear
the sacred dress of the Lamas, that is to say, a red gown, a small
dalmatica without sleeves and showing the arm, a red scarf, and a yellow
mitre. This rule of uniformity is very strictly enforced; and
accordingly, one fine morning, the Grand Discipline-Lama sent an official
formally to request that we would observe the statutes of the Lamasery.
We replied that, not being of the religion of Buddha, we could not adopt
the sacred dress of the Lama, without insulting our own holy religion;
but that as we did not wish to create the slightest confusion in the
establishment, we were ready to quit it, if we could not obtain a
dispensation in the matter of costume.
Several days passed without any thing further being said on this
unpleasant subject. Meantime Samdadchiemba arrived with the three
camels, which he had been pasturing in a valley of Koukou-Noor. If we
had to remove, it was clear that his return was most opportune.
By-and-by, the Lamanesque government once more sent us their envoy, to
say that the rule of the Lamasery was inflexible; that they grieved that
our sublime and sacred religion did not permit us to comply with it; but
that although we could not remain in the Lamasery of Kounboum, they would
gladly retain us in the neighbourhood, and that to this end they invited
us to go and take up our abode at Tchogortan, where we might wear what
dress we pleased.
We had heard a great deal about the little Lamasery of Tchogortan, which
serves as a sort of country house and botanical garden for the Faculty of
Medicine. It stands within half-an-hour's walk of Kounboum. The Grand
Lamas and students of the medical section proceed thither every year,
towards the close of summer, and remain generally for about a fortnight,
collecting medicinal plants on the surrounding hills. During the
remainder of the year most of the houses are empty, and you scarcely see
a single soul, except a few contemplative Lamas who have hollowed out
cells for themselves in the most rugged declivities of the mountain.
The proposition of the Lamanesque government appeared to us altogether
eligible, for the fine weather was just setting in; winter in town,
spring in the country--this was admirable! Our three months abode at
Kounboum had made us tolerably conversant with Lama manners; we
accordingly purchased a khata and a small dish of raisins, with which we
repaired to the Lama administrator of Tchogortan, who received us in the
most affable manner, and promised at once to give orders for the
preparation of a suitable abode for us. After giving a splendid Feast of
Farewell to old Akaye, the Kitat-Lama, and the Stammerer, we loaded our
camels with our baggage and gaily proceeded on our way to the little
Lamasery.
[Picture: Chapter Tailpiece]
[Picture: Lamasery of Tchogortan]