The place where the ferry-boat was frozen in for the winter is called

New Lake (see map, p. 90). Just at this spot the Tarim bends southwards,

falling farther down into a very shallow lake called Lop-nor. The whole

country here is so flat that with the naked eye no inequalities can be

detected. Therefore the river often changes its bed, sometimes for short

and sometimes for long distances. Formerly the river did not bend

southwards, but proceeded straight on eastwards, terminating in another

lake also called Lop-nor, which lay in the northern part of the desert,

and which is mentioned in old Chinese geographies.

The peculiarity of Lop-nor is, then, that the lake moves about, and, in

conjunction with the lower course of the Tarim, swings like a pendulum

between north and south. I made many excursions in that part of the

desert where the Lop-nor formerly lay, and mapped out the old river-bed

and the old lake. There I discovered ruins of villages and farms,

ancient canoes and household utensils, tree trunks dry as tinder and

roots of reeds and rushes. In a mud house I found also a whole

collection of Chinese manuscripts, which threw much light on the state

of the country at the time when men could exist there. These writings

were more than 1600 years old.

The explanation of the lake's wanderings is this. At the time of high

water the Tarim is always full of silt, and the old lake was very

shallow. The lake, therefore, was silted up with mud and decaying

vegetation, and by the same process the bed of the river was raised. At

last came the time when the Tarim sought for an outlet to the south,

where the country was somewhat lower. The old bed was dried up by

degrees and the water in the lake evaporated. The sheet of water

remained, indeed, for a long time, but it shrank up from year to year.

At last there was not a drop of water left, and the whole country dried

up. The poplar woods perished, and the reeds withered and were blown

away by the wind. The men left their huts and moved down the new water

channel to settle at the new lake, where they erected new huts. The

Tarim and Lop-nor had swung like a pendulum to the south, and men,

animals, and plants were obliged to follow. The same thing then occurred

in the south. The new river and lake were silted up and the water

returned northwards. Thus the water swung repeatedly from north to

south, but of course many hundreds of years elapsed between the

vibrations.

At the present day the lake lies in the southern part of the desert; it

is almost entirely overgrown with reeds, and the poplar woods grow only

by the river. The few natives are partly herdsmen, partly fishermen;

they are of Turkish race and profess the religion of Islam; they are

kind-hearted and peaceable, and show great hospitality to strangers.

Their huts are constructed of bundles of reeds bound together; the

ground within is covered with reed mats, and the roof consists of boughs

covered with reeds. The men spend a large part of their time in canoes,

which are hollowed poplar trunks, and are therefore long, narrow, and

round at the bottom. The oars have broad blades and drive the canoes at

a rapid pace. Narrow passages are kept open through the reeds, and along

these the canoes wind like eels. The men are very skilful in catching

fish, and in spring they live also on eggs, which they collect from the

nests of the wild geese among the reeds. The reeds grow so thickly that

when they have been broken here and there by a storm one can walk on

them with six feet of water beneath.

Tigers were formerly common on the banks of Lop-nor, and the natives

used to hunt them in a singular manner. When a tiger had done mischief

among the cattle, the men would all assemble from the huts in the

neighbourhood at the thickets on the bank of the river where they knew

that the tiger was in hiding. They close up round him from the land

side, leaving the river-bank open. Their only weapons are poles and

sticks, so they set fire to the copse in order to make the beast leave

his lair. When the tiger finds that there is no way out on the land

side, he takes to the water to swim to some islet or to the other shore

of the lake, but before he is far out half a dozen canoes cut through

the water and surround him. The men are armed only with their oars. The

canoes can move much faster than the tiger, and one shoots quickly past

him, and the men in the bow push his head under water with their

oar-blades. Before the tiger has risen again the canoe is out of reach.

The tiger snorts and growls and puffs madly, but in a moment another

canoe is upon him and another oar thrusts him down deeper than before.

This time he has barely reached the surface before a third canoe glides

up, and his head is again shoved under water. Soon the tiger begins to

tire and to gasp for breath. He has no opportunity of using his fangs

and claws, and can only struggle for his life by swimming. Now the

first canoe has circled round again, and the man in the bow pushes the

tiger down with all his strength and holds him under water as long as he

can. This goes on until the tiger can struggle no longer and is drowned.

Then a rope is tied round his neck, and with much jubilation he is towed

to the shore.

The climate at Lop-nor is very different in winter and summer. In winter

the temperature falls to 22° below zero, and rises in summer to 104°.

Large variations like this always occur in the interior of the great

continents of the world, except in the heart of Africa, close to the

equator, where it is always warm. On the coasts the variation is

smaller, for the sea cools the air in summer and warms it in winter. In

the Lop-nor country the rivers and lakes are frozen hard in winter, but

in summer suffocating heat prevails. Men are tortured by great swarms of

gnats, and cattle are devoured by gadflies. It has even happened that

animals have been so seriously attacked by gadflies that they have died

from loss of blood. Fortunately, the flies come out only as long as the

sun is up, and therefore the animals are left in peace at night. During

the day horses and camels must be kept among the reeds, where the flies

do not come.

Incredible numbers of wild geese and ducks, swans and other swimming

birds breed at Lop-nor, and the open water is studded all over with

chattering birds. In late autumn they fly southwards through Tibet, and

in winter the lakes are quiet, with yellow reeds sticking up through the

ice.

WILD CAMELS

The level region over which the Lop-nor has wandered for thousands of

years from north to south is called the Lop desert. Its stillness is

broken only from time to time by easterly storms which roll like thunder

over the yellow clay ground. In the course of ages these strong spring

storms have ploughed out channels and furrows in the clay, but otherwise

the desert is as level as a frozen sea, the places where Lop-nor

formerly spread out its water being marked only by pink mollusc shells.

On the north the Lop desert is bounded by the easternmost chains of the

Tien-shan, which the Chinese also call the "Dry Mountains." They deserve

the name, for their sides are hardly ever washed by rain; but at their

southern foot a few salt springs are to be found. Round them grow reeds

and tamarisks, and even in other places near the mountains some

vegetation struggles for existence.

This is the country of wild camels. Wild camels live in herds of half a

dozen head. The leader is a dark-brown stallion; the mares are lighter

in colour. Their wool is so soft and fine that it is a pleasure to pass

one's hand over it. Several herds or families are often seen grazing on

the same spot. They look well-fed, and the two humps are firm and full

of fat. In spring and summer they can go without water for eight days,

in winter for two weeks. For innumerable generations they have known

where to find the springs: the mothers take their young ones to them,

and when the youngsters grow up they in their turn show the springs to

their foals. They drink the water, however salt it may be, for they have

no choice, but they do not stay long at the meadows by the springs, for

their instinct tells them that where water is to be found there the

danger is great that their enemies may also come to drink.

Against danger they have no other protection than their sharply

developed senses. They can scent men at a distance of twelve miles. They

know the odour of a camping-ground long after the ashes have been swept

away by the wind, and they avoid the spot. Tame camels passing through

their country excite their suspicion; they do not smell like wild ones.

They are shy and restless and do not remain long at one pasture, even if

no danger threatens.

In some districts they are so numerous that the traveller cannot march

for two minutes without crossing a spoor. Where the tracks all converge

towards a valley between two hills, they probably lead to a spring. On

one occasion when our tame camels had not had water for eleven days,

they were saved by following the tracks of their wild relations.

IX

IN THE FORBIDDEN LAND (1901-2, 1906-8)

THE PLATEAU OF TIBET

South of Eastern Turkestan lies the huge upheaval of the earth's crust

which is called Tibet. Its other boundaries are: on the east, China

proper; on the south, Burma, Bhutan, Sikkim, Nepal, and British India;

on the west, Kashmir and Ladak. Political boundaries, however, are of

little and only temporary importance. They seldom remain unchanged from

century to century, for from the earliest times a nation as it increased

in strength has always extended its domain at the expense of its

neighbours.

The earth's crust, on the other hand, remains unchanged--if we disregard

the continual work performed by rain and streams, weather and wind,

which tends to fill up the hollows with mud and sand, to cut the valleys

ever deeper, and to diminish the mountain masses by weathering. However

powerfully these forces may have acted, Tibet still remains the highest

mountain land of the world.

If you lay your left hand on a map of Tibet so that the part nearest the

wrist touches the Pamir, the flat of the hand covers the region of

central Tibet, where there is no drainage to the ocean, but where the

country falls instead into a number of isolated lake basins. Your thumb

will represent the Himalayas, the forefinger the Trans-Himalaya, the

middle finger the Karakorum, the third finger the Arka-tagh, and the

little finger the Kuen-lun. The highest mountain ranges of the world are

under your fingers; and also, as the longest finger is the middle of the

five, so the Karakorum is the central range of Tibetan mountains.

Now let a little stream of water fall on the back of your hand as you

hold it on a table with the fingers spread out. You will see that a tiny

quantity remains on the back of the hand, but that the greater part runs

away between the fingers. Thus it is in Tibet. The water poured on your

hand represents the rain of the south-west monsoon, which falls more

abundantly on the eastern part of the country than on the western. The

water which stays on the back of the hand represents the small scattered

salt lakes on the plateau country which has no drainage to the sea,

while the large quantity which runs off between your fingers represents

the large rivers which flow between the ranges.

[Illustration: TIBET.]

Of these rivers two stream eastwards: the Yellow River (the Hwang-ho),

which falls into the Yellow Sea, and the Blue River (the

Yang-tse-kiang), which empties its waters into the Eastern Sea. The

others run southwards, the Mekong into the China Sea, the Salwin,

Irawaddy, and Brahmaputra into the great inlet of the Indian Ocean which

is called the Bay of Bengal. A large quantity of water runs off along

the outer side of your thumb; this is the Ganges, which comes down from

the upper valleys of the Himalayas. And, far to the west, nearest to the

wrist, you find two rivers with which you are already acquainted: the

Indus, which flows southwards into the Arabian Sea, and the Tarim, which

runs north and east and falls into Lop-nor.

The Himalayas are the loftiest range on earth, and among their crests

rise the highest peaks in the world. Three of them should be remembered,

for they are so well known: Mount Everest, which, with its 29,000 feet,

is the very highest summit in the world; Kinchinjunga (28,200 feet), and

Dhwalagiri (26,800 feet). Mount Godwin-Austen in the Karakorum is only

about 650 feet lower than Mount Everest.

The Himalayas present a grand spectacle when seen from the south. No

other mountain region in the world can vie with it in awe-inspiring

beauty. If we travel by rail from Calcutta up to Sikkim we see the

snow-clad crest of the Himalayas in front and above us, and Kinchinjunga

like a dazzling white pinnacle surmounting the whole. We see the sharply

defined snow limit, and the steep, wooded slopes below. If it is early

in the morning and the weather is fine, the jagged, snowy crest shines

brightly in the sun, while the flanks and valleys are still hidden in

dense shadow. And during the journey to the great heights we shall

notice that the flora changes much in the same way as it does from South

Italy to the North Cape. The last forms of vegetation to contend against

the cold are mosses and lichens. Then we come to the snow limit, where

the mountains and rocks are bare.

North and Central Tibet have a mean elevation of 16,000 feet; that is to

say, one is almost always at a greater height than the summit of Mont

Blanc. Where the plateau country is so exceedingly high the mountain

ranges seem quite insignificant. We have spoken of five great ranges,

but between these He many smaller, all running east and west.

What a fortunate thing it is for the people of Asia that the interior of

the continent rises into the tremendous boss called Tibet! Against its

heights the water vapour of the monsoon is cooled and condensed, so that

it falls in the form of rain and feeds the great rivers. Were the

country flat like northern India or Eastern Turkestan, immense tracts of

the interior of Asia would be complete desert, as in the interior of

Arabia; but as it is, the water is collected in the mountains and runs

off in all directions. Along the rivers the population is densest;

around them spring up cities and states, and from them canals branch off

to water fields and gardens.

You know, of course, that Asia is the largest division of land in the

world, and that Europe is little more than a peninsula jutting out

westwards from the trunk of Asia. Indeed, Asia is not much smaller than

Europe, Africa, and Australia put together. Of the 1550 millions of men

who inhabit the world, 830 millions, or more than half, live in Asia.

If, now, you take out your atlas and compare southern Europe and

southern Asia, you will find some very curious similarities. From both

these continents three large peninsulas point southwards. The Iberian

Peninsula, consisting of Spain and Portugal, corresponds to the Arabian

Peninsula, both being quadrangular and massive. Italy corresponds to the

Indian Peninsula, both having large islands near their extremities,

Sicily and Ceylon. The Balkan Peninsula corresponds to Further India

(the Malay Peninsula), both having irregular, deeply indented coasts

with a world of islands to the south-east, the Archipelago and the Sunda

Islands.

Tibet may be likened to a fortress surrounded by mighty ramparts. To the

south the ramparts are double, the Himalayas and the Trans-Himalaya, and

between the two is a moat partly filled with water--the Upper Indus and

the Upper Brahmaputra. And Tibet is really a fortress and a defence in

the rear of China. It is easily conceivable that a country surrounded by

such huge mountain ranges must be very difficult of access, and the

number of Europeans who have crossed Tibet is very small.

The inaccessible position of the country has also had an influence on

the people. Isolated and without communication with their neighbours,

the people have taken their own course and have developed in a peculiar

manner within their own boundaries. The northern third of the country is

uninhabited. I once travelled for three months, and on another occasion

for eighty-one days, without seeing a single human being. The middle

part is thinly peopled by herdsmen, who roam about with their flocks of

sheep and yaks, and live in black tents. Many of them also are skilful

hunters of yaks and antelopes. Others gather salt on the dried-up beds

of lakes, pack it in double-ended bags, and carry it on sheep to barter

it for barley in the southern districts, which are the home of the great

majority of Tibet's two or three million inhabitants. There are to be

found not only nomads, but also settled people, dwelling in small

villages of stone huts in the deeper river valleys, especially that of

the Brahmaputra, and cultivating barley. A few towns also exist here;

they are all small, the largest being Lhasa and Shigatse.

When our journey takes us to India again we shall have an opportunity of

learning about the religion of Buddha, which is called Buddhism. In a

different form this religious creed found its way into Tibet a thousand

years ago. Before this time a sort of natural religion prevailed, which

peopled the mountains, rivers, lakes, and air with demons and spirits.

Much of the old superstition was absorbed into the new teaching, and the

combination is known by the name of Lamaism. There are 620 millions of

Christians in the world and 400 million Buddhists; and of the Buddhists

all the Tibetans and Mongolians, the Buriats in eastern Siberia, the

Kalmukhs on the Volga, the peoples of Ladak, northern Nepal, Sikkim, and

Bhutan are Lamaists.

They have a great number of monks and priests, each of whom is called a

Lama. The principal one is the Dalai Lama, in Lhasa, but almost on a par

with him is the Tashi Lama, the head of Tashi-lunpo, the large monastery

at Shigatse. The third in rank is the High Lama at Urga in northern

Mongolia. These three and some others are incarnated deities. The Dalai

Lama never dies; the god that dwells in him merely changes his earthly

body, just as a snake when it casts its skin. When a Dalai Lama dies it

means that the divinity, his soul, sets out on its wanderings and passes

into the body of a boy. When the boy is found he becomes the Dalai Lama

of Lhasa. Lamaists believe, then, in the transmigration of souls, and

the end, the fullest perfection, is peace in Nirvana.

There are many monasteries and nunneries in the upper Brahmaputra

valley. The temple halls are adorned with images of the gods in metal or

gilded clay, and butter lamps burn day and night in front of them. Monks

and nuns cannot marry, but among the ordinary people the singular custom

prevails that a wife can have two or several husbands. Among Mohammedans

the case is just the reverse: men can have several wives.

ATTEMPT TO REACH LHASA

It was from Lop-nor in the year 1901 that I penetrated into this lofty

mountain land for the third time. The summer had just set in with its

suffocating dust storms, and we longed to get up into the fresh, pure

air. The caravan was large, for I had sixteen Mohammedan servants from

Eastern Turkestan, two Russian and two Buriat Cossacks, and a Mongolian

Lama from Urga. Provisions for seven months, tents, furs, beds, weapons,

and boxes were carried by 39 camels, 45 horses and mules, and 60 asses;

and we also had 50 sheep for food, several dogs, and a tame stag.

When all was ready we set out towards the lofty mountains and crossed

one range after another. When we reached the great heights the caravan

lost strength day by day. The atmosphere is so rare that a man cannot

breathe without an effort, and the slightest movement produces

palpitation of the heart. The grazing becomes more scanty the higher you

go, and many of the caravan animals succumbed. At last we seldom

travelled more than twelve miles in a day.

After forty-four days' march due southwards we came to a part of the

country where footprints of men were seen in several places, and Lhasa

was only 300 miles away. Up to this time all Europeans who had tried to

reach the holy city had been forced by Tibetan horsemen to turn back.

The Tibetans are at bottom a good-tempered, decent people, but they will

not allow any European to enter their country. They have heard that

India and Central Asia have been conquered by white men, and fear that

the same fate may befall Tibet. Two hundred years ago, indeed, Catholic

missionaries lived in Lhasa, and the town was visited in 1845 by the

famous priests Huc and Gabet from France. Since then two Europeans who

had made the attempt to reach the place had been murdered, and others

had to turn back without success.

Now it was my turn to try my luck. My plan was to travel in disguise

with only two followers. One was the Mongolian Lama, the other the

Buriat Cossack, Shagdur. The Buriats are of Mongol race, speak

Mongolian, and are Lamaists. They have narrow, rather oblique eyes,

prominent cheek-bones, and thick lips. The dress of both peoples is the

same--a skin coat with long sleeves and a waistbelt, a cap, and a pair

of boots with turned-up toes. My costume was of exactly the same kind,

and everything we took with us--tent, boxes, cooking utensils, and

provisions--was of Mongolian style and make. The European articles I

required--instruments, writing materials, and a field-glass--were

carefully packed in a box. For defence we had two Russian rifles and a

Swedish revolver. Of the caravan animals, five mules and four horses, as

well as two dogs, Tiger and Lilliput, were to go with us. I rode a

handsome white horse, Shagdur a tall yellow horse, and the Lama a small

greyish-yellow mule. The baggage animals were led by my men and I rode

behind. During the first two days we had a Mohammedan with us, Ördek,

but he was to go back to headquarters, where all the rest of the caravan

were ordered to await our return.

We were to ride south-eastwards and endeavour to strike the great

Mongolian pilgrim route to Lhasa. Many Mongolians betake themselves

annually in large armed caravans to the holy city to pay homage to the

Dalai Lama, and obtain a blessing from him and the Tashi Lama. Perhaps

it was wrong of me to give myself out for a Lamaist pilgrim, but there

seemed no other means of getting to the forbidden city.

We left the main camp on July 27, and those we left behind did not

expect ever to see us again. The first day we did not see a living

thing, and the second day we rode twenty-five miles farther without

hindrance. Our camp that day was situated on open ground beside two

lakes, and to the south-east stood some small hills, in the

neighbourhood of which our animals grazed. Ördek was to watch them

during the night in order that we might have a good sleep, for when he

left us we should have to guard them ourselves.

Here my disguise was improved. My head was shaved so that it shone like

a billiard ball. Only the eyebrows were left. Then the Lama rubbed fat,

soot, and brown colouring-matter into the skin, and when I looked in a

small hand-glass I could hardly recognise myself; but I seemed to have a

certain resemblance to my two Lamaist retainers.

In the afternoon a storm broke out from the north, and we crept early

into our little thin tent and slept quietly. At midnight Ördek crept

into the tent and whispered in a trembling voice that robbers were

about. We seized our weapons and rushed out. The storm was still raging,

and the moon shone fitfully between the riven clouds. We were too late.

With some difficulty we made out two horsemen on the top of the hills

driving two loose horses before them--we found afterwards that one was

my favourite white horse, the other Shagdur's yellow one. Shagdur sent a

bullet after the scoundrels, but it only hastened their pace.

It was still dark, but there was no more sleep for us. We settled

ourselves round a small blaze, boiled rice and tea, and lighted our

pipes. When the sun rose we were ready to go forward. First we examined

the tracks of the thieves and found that they had come down on us with

the wind, and had thus eluded the watchfulness of the dogs. One of the

men had crept along a rain furrow right among the grazing horses, and,

jumping up, had frightened the best two off to leeward. There a mounted

Tibetan had taken them in hand and chased them on in front of him. The

third had waited with his comrade's horse and his own, and then he also

had made off. They had no doubt been watching us all day. Perhaps they

already knew that we came from my headquarters, and they might even send

a warning to Lhasa.

Ördek was beside himself with fright at having to make the two days'

journey back on foot and quite alone. We heard afterwards that he did

not dare to go back on our trail, but sneaked like a wild cat along all

the furrows, longing for night; but when darkness came he was still more

terrified and thought that every stone was a lurking villain. A couple

of wild asses nearly frightened him out of his senses, and made him

scuttle like a hedgehog into a ravine. When he arrived in the darkness

of night at the main camp, the night watchman took him for a stranger

and raised his gun. But Ördek shouted and waved his arms, and when he

got to his tent he lay down and slept heavily for two whole days.

We three pilgrims rode on south-eastwards, and pitched our tent on open

ground by a brook twenty-five miles farther on. Our positions were now

reversed; Shagdur was the important man and I was only a mule-driver.

With the Cossacks I always spoke Russian, but now no language must be

used but Mongolian, which the Lama had been teaching me for a long time

previously. After dinner I slept till eight o'clock in the evening, and

when I awoke I found my two comrades in a state of the greatest anxiety,

for they had seen three Tibetan horsemen spying upon us from a long

distance. We must therefore expect fresh trouble at any moment.

The night was divided into three watches, from nine o'clock to midnight,

midnight to three o'clock, and three o'clock to six o'clock, and usually

I took the first and the Lama the last. The animals were tethered to a

rope fastened to the ground in the lee of the tent, and Tiger was tied

up in front of them and Lilliput behind them.

At half-past eight Shagdur and the Lama were asleep in the tent, and my

first night watch began. I strolled backwards and forwards between Tiger

and Lilliput, who whined with pleasure when I stroked them. The sky was

covered with dense black clouds, lighted from within by flashes of

lightning, while thunder rolled around us and rain streamed down in a

perfect deluge. It beat and rang on the Mongolian stewpans left out at

the fireplace. Sometimes I tried to get a little shelter in the tent

opening, but as soon as the dogs growled I had to hurry out again.

At last it is midnight and my watch is at an end; but Shagdur is

sleeping so soundly that I cannot find it in my heart to waken him. I am

just thinking of shortening his watch by half an hour when both dogs

begin to bark furiously. The Lama wakes up and rushes out, and we steal

off with our weapons in the direction in which we hear the tramp of a

horse going away through the mud. In a little while all is quiet again,

and the dogs cease to bark. I wake up Shagdur and creep into my berth in

my wet coat.

Next day we travel on under a sky as heavy as lead. No human beings or

nomad tents are to be seen, but we find numerous tracks of flocks of

sheep and yaks, and old camping-grounds. The danger of meeting people

increased hourly, and so did my anxiety as to how the Tibetans would

treat us when we were at last discovered.

On July 31 the rain was still pouring down. We were following a clear,

well-trodden path, along which a herd of yaks had recently been driven.

After a while we came up with a party of Tangut pilgrims, with fifty

yaks, two horses, and three dogs. The Tanguts are a nomadic people in

northeastern Tibet, and almost every second Tangut is also a robber. We

passed them safely, however, and for the first time encamped near a

Tibetan nomad tent occupied by a young man and two women.

While the Lama was talking with these people, the owner of the tent came

up and was much astonished to find an unexpected visitor. He followed

the Lama to our tent and sat down on the wet ground outside the

entrance. His name was Sampo Singi, and he was the dirtiest fellow I

ever saw in my life. The rain-water dropped from his matted hair on to

the ragged cloak he wore; he wore felt boots but no trousers, which

indeed almost all Tibetan nomads regard as quite, superfluous.

Sampo Singi blew his nose with his fingers, making a loud noise, and he

did it so often that I began to think that it was some form of

politeness. To make sure I followed his example. He showed not the

slightest suspicion, only looked at our things and gave us the

information we wanted. We had a journey of eight days more to Lhasa, he

assured us. Then Shagdur gave him a pinch of snuff which made him sneeze

at least fifty times. We laughed at him when he asked whether we put

pepper in our snuff, whereupon, in order to keep up our story, Shagdur

roared at me, "Do not sit here and stare, boy; go and drive in the

cattle." I started up at once, and had a terrible job to get the animals

in to the camp.

We had an undisturbed night, thanks to the neighbourhood of the nomads,

for they too had fierce dogs and arms. Early in the morning Sampo came

with another man and a woman to visit us. We had asked if we might buy

some food from them, and they brought several choice things with them--a

sheep, a large piece of fat, a bowl of sour milk, a wooden bowl of

powdered cheese, a can of milk, and a lump of yellow cream cheese. Then

came the question of payment. Our money consisted of Chinese silver

pieces, which are valued by weight, and are weighed out with a pair of

small scales. Sampo Singi, however, would take only silver coins from

Lhasa, of which we had none. Fortunately I had provided myself with two

packages of blue Chinese silken material in Turkestan, and a length of

that is a substitute for silver of all kinds. The Tibetans became quite

excited when they heard the rustle of the silk, and after the usual

haggling and bargaining we came to an agreement.

The sheep was then slaughtered, some fat pieces were fried over the

fire, and after a solid breakfast, of which a share was bestowed on the

dogs, we bade farewell to the Tibetans and rode on through the valley,

still in pouring rain. Soon we came to the right bank of a broad river

which was composed of about twenty arms, four of which were each as

large as an ordinary stream. Without hesitation our courageous little

Lama rode straight out into the rapid turbid current, and Shagdur and I

followed. When we had crossed about half the river we rested a while on

a small mud flat, from which neither bank could be seen owing to the

rain. On all sides we were surrounded by swiftly flowing water, yet it

seemed as if the water was standing still while the small sandbank

rushed up the river at a terrific pace.

The Lama again started off with his mule into the water, but he had not

gone many steps before the water rose to the root of the animal's tail.

He was also leading the mule which carried our two hide trunks, which

until the water soaked into them acted like corks. In this way the mule

lost her footing on the bottom of the river, swung round, and was

quickly carried down-stream. We saw her disappear in the rain and

thought that it was certainly her last journey, but she extricated

herself in a marvellous manner. Near the left bank of the river she

managed to get her hoofs on the bottom again, and clambered up; and what

was most singular, the two trunks were still on her back.

At length we all got safely across, and rode on. My boots squelched, and

water dropped from the corners of the boxes. Our camp that evening was

truly wretched--not a dry stitch on us, continuous rain, almost

impossible to make a fire. At length, however, we succeeded in keeping

alight a small smoking fire of dung. That night I did not keep watch a

minute after midnight, but waked up Shagdur mercilessly and crept into

bed.

On August 2 we made only fifteen and a half miles. The road was now

broad and easy to follow. On the slope of a hill was encamped a large

tea caravan; its twenty-five men were sitting round their fires, while

the three hundred yaks were grazing close at hand. The bales of tea were

stacked up in huge piles; it was Chinese tea of poor quality compressed

into cakes like bricks, and therefore called "brick-tea." Every cake is

wrapped in red paper, and about twenty cakes are sewed up together into

a hide tightly bound with rope. The caravan was bound for Shigatse. As

we rode by, several of the men came up to us and put some impertinent

and inconvenient questions. They were well armed and looked like

robbers, so we politely refused their proposal that we should travel

together southwards. We pitched our camp a little farther on, and next

morning we saw this curious and singular caravan pass by. It was a great

contrast to the fine camel caravans of Persia and Turkestan, for it

marched like a regiment in separate detachments of thirty or forty yaks

each. The men walked, whistling and uttering short sharp cries; ten of

them carried guns slung on their backs, and all were bareheaded,

sunburnt, and dirty.

The whole of the next day we remained where we were in order to dry our

things, and the Lama again stained my head down to the neck and in the

ears. The critical moment was approaching.

On August 4 we met a caravan of about a hundred yaks, accompanied by

armed men in tall yellow hats; but they took us for ordinary pilgrims

and did not trouble themselves about us. Then we rode past several

tents, and when we reached the top of the next pass we saw that tents

lay scattered about on the plain like black spots, fourteen together in

one place. We were now on the great highway to Lhasa.

The next day we came to a flat open valley, where there were twelve

tents. Three Tibetans came to our tent there at dusk, and had a long

conversation with the Lama, who was the only one of us who understood

Tibetan. When he came back to us he was quite overcome with fright. One

of the three men, who was a chief, had told him that information had

come from yak-hunters in the north that a large European caravan was on

the way. He had a suspicion that one of us might be a white man, and he

ordered us on no account to move from where we were. In fact, we were

prisoners, and with great anxiety we awaited the morning, when our fate

would be decided. All night a watch was kept round our tent, as we knew

by the fires, and next day we were visited by several parties, both

influential chiefs and ordinary nomads, who warned us, if we valued our

lives, to wait there till the Governor of the Province arrived.

In the meantime they did all they could to frighten us. Troops of

horsemen in close order dashed straight towards our tent, as if they

meant to stamp us into the earth, and so finish us off at once. On they

rushed, the horses' hoofs ringing on the bare ground and the riders

brandishing their swords and lances above their heads and uttering the

wildest shrieks. When they were so near that the mud was splashed on to

the tent, they suddenly opened out to right and left, and returned in

the same wild career to the starting-point. This martial manoeuvre was

repeated several times.

During the following days, however, they behaved in a more peaceful

fashion, and eventually we came to be on quite a friendly footing with

most of our neighbours. They visited us constantly, gave us butter,

milk, and fat, and when it rained crept coolly into our tent, which

became so crowded that we could hardly find room for ourselves. They

informed us that the Dalai Lama had given orders that no harm should be

done to us, and we saw that messengers on horseback rode off daily along

the roads leading to Lhasa and the Governor's village. We did not know

where our seven baggage and riding animals were, but we made it clear to

the Tibetans that, as they had stopped us against our will, they must be

answerable for the safety of our animals and possessions.

On August 9 things at last began to look lively. A whole village of

tents sprang up at some distance from us, and round the new tents

swarmed Tibetans on foot and horseback. A Mongolian interpreter escorted

by some horsemen came to our tent.

"The Governor, Kamba Bombo, is here, and invites you to-day to a feast

in his tent."

"Greet Kamba Bombo," I answered, "but tell him that it is usual first to

pay a visit to the guests one invites."

"You must come," went on the interpreter; "a sheep roasted whole is

placed in the middle of the tent, surrounded by bowls of roasted meal

and tea. He awaits you."

"We do not leave our camp. If Kamba Bombo wishes to see us he can come

here."

"If you will not come with me I cannot be responsible for you to the

Governor. He has ridden day and night to talk with you. I beg you to

come with me."

"If Kamba Bombo has anything to say to us, he is welcome. We ask nothing

from him, only to travel to Lhasa as peaceful pilgrims."

Two hours later the Tibetans came back again in a long dark line of

horsemen, the Governor riding on a large white mule in their midst. His

retinue consisted of officials, priests, and officers in red and blue

cloaks carrying guns, swords, and lances, wearing turbans or

light-coloured hats, and riding on silver-studded saddles.

When they came up, carpets and cushions were spread on the ground, and

on these Kamba Bombo took his seat. I went out to him and invited him

into our poor tent, where he occupied the seat of honour, a maize sack.

He might be forty years old, looked merry and jovial, but also pale and

tired. When he took off his long red cloak and his _bashlik_, he

appeared in a splendid dress of yellow Chinese silk, and his boots were

of green velvet.

The interview began at once, and each of us did his best to talk the

other down. The end of the matter was a clear declaration on his part

that if we tried to move a step in the direction of Lhasa our heads

should be cut off, no matter who we were. We did our best, both that day

and the next, to get this decision altered, but it was no use and we had

to yield to superior force.

So we turned back on the long road through dreary Tibet, and eventually

regained our headquarters in safety.

THE TASHI LAMA

Thus it was that we came back to the little town of Leh, the capital of

Ladak, and again saw the winter caravans which come over the lofty

mountains from Eastern Turkestan on their way with goods to Kashmir.

Then several years passed, but in August, 1906, I was once more in Leh,

having travelled (as has been described) across Europe to

Constantinople, over the Black Sea, through Persia and Baluchistan, then

by rail to Rawalpindi, in a tonga to Kashmir, and lastly on horseback to

Leh. On this occasion the caravan consisted of twenty-seven men and

nearly a hundred mules and horses, besides thirty hired horses, which

were to turn back when the provisions they carried had been consumed.

Our course lay over the lofty mountains in northern Tibet, and for

eighty-one days we did not see a single human being. But when we turned

off to the right and came to more southern districts of the country, we

met with Tibetan hunters and nomads, from whom we purchased tame yaks

and sheep, for the greater part of our animals had perished owing to the

rarefied air, the poor and scanty pasture, and the cold and the wind.

The temperature had on one occasion fallen as low as 40° below zero.

After wandering for about six months we came to the Upper Brahmaputra,

which is the only place where the Tibetans use boats, if indeed they can

be called boats at all. They simply take four yak hides, stretch them

over a framework of thin curved ribs and sew them together, and then the

boat is ready; but it is buoyant and floats lightly on the water. When

we were only a day's journey from Shigatse, the second town of Tibet,

the caravan was ferried across the river. I myself with two of my

servants took my seat in a hide boat, dexterously managed by a Tibetan,

and we drifted down the Brahmaputra at a swinging pace.

A number of other boats were following the same fine waterway. They were

full of pilgrims flocking to the great Lama temple in Shigatse. Two days

later was the New Year of the country, and then the Lamaists celebrate

their greatest festival. Pilgrims stream from far and near to the holy

town. Round their necks they wear small images of their gods or

wonder-working charms written on paper and enclosed in small cases, and

many of them turn small praying mills, which are filled inside with

prayers written on long strips of paper. When the mills revolve all

these prayers ascend up to the ears of the gods--so easy is it to pray

in Tibet! All the time a man can continue his conversation with his

fellow-travellers.

[Illustration: PLATE XI. TASHI-LUNPO.

From a sketch by the Author.]

Many of the pilgrims, however, like all Tibetans, murmur the sacred

formula _Om mane padme hum_ over and over again. These four words

contain the key to all faith and salvation. They signify "O, jewel in

the lotus flower, amen." The jewel is Buddha, and in all images he is

represented as rising up from the petals of a lotus flower. The more

frequently a man repeats these four words, the greater chance has he of

a happy existence when he dies and his soul passes into a new body.

We reached Shigatse and pitched our tents in a garden on the outskirts

of the town. Outside Shigatse stands the great monastery of Tashi-lunpo

(Plate XI.), in which dwell 3800 monks of various grades, from fresh

young novices to old, grey high priests. They all go bareheaded and

bare-armed, and their dress consists of long red sheets wound round the

body. The priest who is head of all is called the Tashi Lama; he is the

primate of this part of Tibet and enjoys the same exalted rank and

dignity as the Dalai Lama in Lhasa. He has a great reputation for

sanctity and learning, and pilgrims stand for hours in a queue only to

receive a word of blessing from him.

This Tashi Lama was then a man of twenty-seven years of age, and had

held the position since he was a small boy. He invited me to the great

festival in the temple on New Year's Day. In the midst of the temple

town is a long court surrounded by verandahs, balconies, and platforms.

Round about are seen the gilded copper roofs over the sanctuaries and

mausoleums where departed high priests repose. Everywhere the people are

tightly packed, and the visitors from far and near are dressed in their

holiday clothes, many-coloured and fine, and decorated with silver

ornaments, coral and turquoise. The Tashi Lama has his seat in a balcony

hung with silken draperies and gold tassels, but the holy countenance

can be seen through a small square opening in the silk.

The festival begins with the entry of the temple musicians. They carry

copper bassoons ten feet long, so heavy that their bells have to rest on

the shoulder of an acolyte. With deep, long-drawn blasts the monks

proclaim the New Year, just as long ago the priests of Israel announced

with trumpet notes the commencement of the year of jubilee. Then follow

cymbals which clash in a slow, ringing measure, and drums which rouse

echoes from the temple walls. The noise is deafening, but it sounds

cheerful and impressive after the deep stillness in the valleys of

Tibet.

After the musicians have taken their places in the court the dancing

monks enter. They are clad in costly garments of Chinese silk, and

bright dragons embroidered in gold flash in the folds as the sunlight

falls on them. The faces of the monks are covered by masks representing

wild animals with open jaws and powerful tusks. The monks execute a slow

circular dance. They believe, and so do all the people, that evil

spirits may be kept at a distance and driven away by this performance.

The next day I was summoned to the Tashi Lama. We passed along narrow

paved lanes between the monastery walls, through narrow gloomy passages,

up staircases of polished wood, and at last reached the highest floor of

the monastery, where the Tashi Lama has his private apartments. I found

him in a simple room, sitting cross-legged in a window recess from which

he can see the temple roofs and the lofty mountains and the sinful town

in the valley. He was beardless, with short-cut brown hair. His

expression was singularly gentle and charming, almost shy. He held out

his hands to me and invited me to take a seat beside him, and then for

several hours we talked about Tibet, Sweden, and this vast, wonderful

world.

WILD ASSES AND YAKS

If I had counted all the wild asses I saw during my travels in Tibet the

number would amount to many, many thousands. Up in the north, in the

very heart of the highland country, and down in the south, hardly a day

passed without our seeing these proud, handsome animals, sometimes

alone, sometimes in couples, and sometimes in herds of several hundred

head.

The Latin name for the wild ass, _Equus kiang_, indicates his close

relationship to the horse, and "kiang" is what he is called by the

people of Tibet. The wild ass is as large as an average mule, with

well-developed ears, and a sharp sense of hearing; his tail is tufted at

the end, and he is reddish-brown in colour, except on the legs and

belly, where he is white. When he scents danger he snorts loudly, throws

up his head, cocks his ears, and expands his nostrils; he is more like a

fine ass than a horse, but when you see him wild and free on the salt

plains of Tibet, the difference between him and an ass seems even

greater than between an ass and a horse. My own horses and mules seemed

sorry jades by the side of the "kiangs" of the desert.

On one occasion my Cossacks caught two small foals which as yet had no

experience of life and the dangers of the desert. They stood tied up

between the tents and made no attempt to escape. We gave them meal mixed

with water, which they supped up eagerly, and we hoped that they would

thrive and stay with us. When I saw how they pined for freedom, however,

I wanted to restore them to the desert and to their mother's care. But

it was too late; the mothers would have nothing to do with them after

they had been in the hands of men, so we had to kill them to save them

from the wolves. Thus strict is the law of the wilderness: a human hand

is enough to break the spell of its freedom.

We cannot travel back to India without having become acquainted with the

huge ox which runs wild over the loftiest mountains of Tibet. He is

called "yak" in Tibetan, and the name has been transferred to most

European languages. He is closely akin to the tame yak, but is larger

and is always of a deep black colour; only when he is old does his head

turn grey. The tame yak, on the other hand, is often white, brown, or

mottled. Common to both are the peculiar form and the abundant wool.

Seen from the side, the yak seems humpbacked. The back slopes down from

the highest point, just over the forelegs, to the root of the tail,

while the neck slopes down still more steeply to the scrag. The animal

is exceedingly heavy, strong and ungainly, and the points of the thick

horns are often worn and cracked in consequence of severe combats

between the bulls.

As the yak lives in a temperature which in winter falls below the

freezing-point of mercury (-40°), he needs a close warm coat and a

protective layer of fat under the hide; and he is, in fact, so well

provided with these that no cold on earth can affect him. When his

breath hangs in clouds of steam round his nostrils he is in his element.

Singular, too, are the fringes of wool a foot long which skirt the lower

parts of his flanks and the upper parts of his forelegs. They may grow

so long as to touch the ground as the yak walks. When he lies down on

the stone-hard, frozen, and pebbly ground, these thick fringes serve as

cushions, and on them he lies soft and warm.

On what do these huge fleshy animals live in a country where, broadly

speaking, nothing grows and where a caravan may perish for want of

fodder? It often happened that we would march for several days together

without seeing a blade of grass. Then we might come to a valley with a

little scanty hard yellow grass, but even if we stayed over a day the

animals could not get nearly enough to eat. Not until we have descended

to about 15,000 feet above sea-level do we find--and then only very

seldom--a few small, miserable bushes; and to reach trees we must

descend another 3000 feet lower. In the home of the wild yaks the ground

is almost everywhere bare and barren, and yet these great beasts roam

about and thrive excellently. They live on mosses and lichens, which

they lick up with the tongue, and for this purpose their tongues are

provided with hard, sharp, horny barbs like a thistle. In the same way

they crop the velvety grass, less than half an inch high, which grows on

the edges of the high alpine brooks, and which is so short that a horse

cannot get hold of it.

On one occasion I made an excursion of several days from the main

caravan, accompanied by only two men. One was an Afghan named Aldat. He

was an expert yak-hunter, and used to sell the hides to merchants of

Eastern Turkestan to be made into saddles and boots. We had encamped

about 600 feet higher than the summit of Mont Blanc, and the air was so

rarefied that if we took even a few steps we suffered from difficulty in

breathing and palpitation of the heart.

When the camp was ready, Aldat came and asked me to look at a large yak

bull grazing on a slope above my tent. As we needed flesh and fat, I

gave him permission to shoot it and to keep the hide. The bull had not

noticed us, for he was to windward, and thought of nothing but the juicy

moss. Water melted from the snow trickled among the stones, the wind

blew cold, and the sky was overcast--true yak weather. With his gun on

his back, Aldat crept up a hollow. At last he pushed himself along on

his elbows and toes, crouching on the ground like a cat prowling after

prey. At a distance of thirty paces he stopped behind a scarcely

perceptible ridge of stones and took careful aim. The yak did not look

up, not suspecting any danger. He had roamed about for fifteen years on

these peaceful heights near the snow-line and had never seen a man. The

shot cracked out and echoed among the mountains. The yak jumped into the

air, took a few uncertain steps, stopped, reeled, tried to keep his

balance, fell, lifted himself, but fell again heavily and helplessly to

the ground, and lay motionless. It was stone dead, and in an hour was

skinned and cut up.

This took place on September 9. On the 23rd of the same month the

relations of the yak bull might have seen from a distance a strange

procession. Some men carried a long object to the edge of a grave which

had just been dug, lowered it into the trench, covered it with a skin

coat, and filled in the grave with stones and earth. Into this simple

mound was thrust a tent pole, with the wild yak's bushy tail fastened to

the top; and the man who slumbered under the hillock was Aldat himself,

the great yak-hunter.

X

INDIA

FROM TIBET TO SIMLA

Right up in Tibet lie the sources of the Sutlej, the largest affluent of

the Indus. With irresistible force it breaks through the Himalayas in

order to get down to the sea, and its valley affords us an excellent

road from the highlands of Tibet to the burning lowlands of India. On

this journey we pass through a succession of belts of elevation, and

find that various animals and plants are peculiar to different heights.

The tiger does not go very high up on the southern flanks of the

Himalayas, but the snow leopard is not afraid of cold. The tame yak

would die if he were brought down to denser strata of air, and Marco

Polo's sheep would waste away on the forest-clothed heights; but wolves,

foxes and hares occur as frequently in India as in Tibet.

The boundaries of the flora are more sharply defined. Below the limit of

eternal snow (13,000 feet) ranunculus and anemones, pedicularis and

primulas are found just as they are in our higher latitudes with

corresponding conditions of temperature. At 12,000 feet lies the limit

of forest, beyond which the birch does not go, but where pine-trees

still thrive. Between 10,000 and 6000 feet are woods of the beautiful

and charming conifer called the Himalayan cedar, which is allied to the

cedar of Lebanon. At 7000 feet the limit of subtropical woods is

crossed, and the oak and the climbing rose are seen. Just below 3500

feet the tropical forest is entered, with acacias, palms, bamboos, and

all the floral wealth of the Indian jungle.

The Sutlej grows bigger and bigger the further we descend, and we ride

on shaking bridges across innumerable tributaries. The atmosphere

becomes denser, and breathing easier. We no longer have a singing in

the ears, or palpitations or headache as on the great heights, and the

cold has been left behind. Even in the early morning the air is warm,

and soon come days when we look back with regret to the cool freshness

up in Tibet. One of my dogs, a great shaggy Tibetan, suffered severely

from the increasing heat, and one fine day he turned right about and

went back to Tibet.

[Illustration: PLATE XII. SIMLA.]

The first town that we come to is called Simla (Plate XII.). It is not

large, having barely 15,000 inhabitants, but it is one of the most

beautiful towns in the world, and one of the most powerful, for in its

cedar groves stands a palace, and in the palace an Imperial throne. The

Emperor is the King of England, whose power over India is entrusted to a

Viceroy. In summer enervating heat prevails over the lowlands of India,

and all Europeans who are not absolutely tied to their posts move up to

the hills. The Viceroy and his staff, the government officials, the

chief officers of the army, civil servants and military men all fly with

their wives up to Simla, where the leaders of society live as gaily as

in London. During this season the number of inhabitants rises to 30,000.

The houses of Simla are built like swallows' nests on steep slopes. The

streets, or rather roads, lie terraced one above another. The whole town

is built on hills surrounded by dizzy precipices. Round about stand

forests dark and dense; but between the cedars are seen far off to the

southwest the plains of the Punjab and the winding course of the Sutlej,

and to the north the masses of the Himalayas with their eternal

snowfields. It is delightful to go up to Simla from the sultriness of

India, and perhaps still more delightful to come down to Simla from the

piercing cold of Tibet.

DELHI AND AGRA

From Simla we go down by train through hundreds of tunnels and round the

sharpest curves, over countless bridges and along dizzy precipices, to

the lowlands of the Punjab. It is exceedingly hot, and we long for a

little breeze from Tibet's snowy mountains.

Time flies by till we reach Delhi, situated on the Jumna, one of the

affluents of the Ganges. Delhi was the capital of the empire of the

Great Moguls,[11] and in the seventeenth century it was the most

magnificent city in the world.

[Illustration: MAP OF INDIA, SHOWING JOURNEY FROM NUSHKI TO LEH (pp.

82-88), AND THE JOURNEY FROM TIBET THROUGH SIMLA, ETC., TO BOMBAY

(pp. 130-142).]

Many proud monuments of this grandeur still remain, notably the splendid

building of pure white marble called the Hall of Private Audience, where

in the open space surrounded by a double colonnade the Great Mogul was

wont to dispense justice and receive envoys. In the sunshine the marble

columns seem to be translucent, and light-blue shadows fall on the

marble floor. The walls and pillars are inlaid with costly stones of

various shapes: lapis-lazuli and malachite, nephrite and agate. In the

throne-room used to stand the famous "Peacock Throne" of the Great

Mogul. The whole throne was covered with thick plates of gold and

studded all over with diamonds. In the year 1749 the Persian king, Nadir

Shah, came to Delhi, defeated the Great Mogul and carried off treasures

to the value of fifty-six million pounds. Among other valuables he

seized was the famous diamond called the "Koh-i-noor," or "Mountain of

Light," now among the British crown jewels. He also carried off the

Peacock Throne, which alone was worth eleven million pounds. It is to

this day in the possession of the Shahs of Persia, but all the diamonds

have been taken out one after another by the successors of Nadir Shah

when they happened to be in difficulties. The gold plates are left,

however, and on the back still glitter the golden peacocks which give

the throne its name.

If we stroll for some hours through the narrow streets and interesting

bazaars of Delhi and push our way among bustling Hindus and Mohammedans,

we can better appreciate the vaulted arches of the Hall of Private

Audience and can also understand the Persian inscription to be read

above the entrance: "If there be an Elysium on earth, it is here."

Farther down the Jumna stands Agra, and here we make another break in

our railway journey eastwards. Agra also was for a time the capital of

the Great Mogul empire, and in the seventeenth century the emperor who

bore the name of Shah Jehan erected here an edifice which is still

regarded as one of the most beautiful in the world (Plate XIII.). It is

called the "Taj Mahal," or "royal palace," and is a mausoleum in memory

of Shah Jehan's favourite wife, Mumtaz, by whose side he himself reposes

in the crypt of the mosque. It is constructed entirely of blocks of

white marble, and took twenty-seven years to build and cost nearly two

million pounds of our money.

The garden which surrounds the sanctuary is entered through a large gate

of red sandstone. In a long pool goldfish dart about under floating

lotus blossoms, and all around is luxuriant verdure, the dwelling-place

of countless singing birds; the air is filled with the odour of jasmine

and roses, and tall, slender cypresses point to heaven.

Straight in front the marble Taj Mahal rises from a terrace, dazzling

white in the sunshine--a summer dream of white clouds turned to stone, a

work of art which only love could conjure out of the rubbish of earth.

The airy cupola, the arched portals, and bright white walls are

reflected in the pool. At each of the four corners of the terrace stands

a tall slender minaret, also of white marble, and in the centre the huge

dome rises to a height of 240 feet. In the great octagonal hall below

the dome, within an enclosure of marble filigree work, stand the

monuments over Shah Jehan and his queen Mumtaz. The actual sarcophagi

are preserved in the vault beneath.

The four façades of this wonderful building are all alike, but the

background of green vegetation and the changes of light seem always to

be producing new effects. Sometimes a faint green reflection from the

foliage can be seen in the white marble; in the full sunshine it is like

snow; in shadow, light blue. When the sun sinks in the red glow of

evening, the whole edifice is bathed in orange light; and later comes

the moonlight, which is perhaps the most appropriate of all. Steamy and

close, hot and silent, now lies the garden; the illumination is icy

cold, the shadows deep black, the dome silvery white. The mysterious

sounds of the jungle are heard around, and the Jumna rolls down its

turbid waters to meet the sacred Ganges.

BENARES AND BRAHMINISM

In the drainage basin of the Ganges, through which the train is again

carrying us south-eastwards, 100 million human beings, mostly Hindus,

have their home. The soil is exceedingly fertile, and supports many

large towns, several of them two or three thousand years old, besides

innumerable villages. Here the Hindu peasants have their huts of

bamboo-canes and straw-matting, and here they cultivate their wheat,

rice, and fruits.

Our next stay is at Benares--the holiest city in the world, if holiness

be measured by the reverence shown by the children of men. Long before

Jerusalem and Rome, Mecca and Lhasa, Benares was the home and heart of

the ancient religion of India, and it still is the centre of

Brahminism and Hinduism. There are more than 200 millions of Hindus in

the world, and the thoughts of all of them turn to Benares. All Hindus

long to make a pilgrimage to their holy city. The sick come to recover

health in the waters of the sacred Ganges, the old travel hither to die,

and the ashes of those who die in distant places are sent to Benares to

be scattered over the waters of salvation. In Benares, moreover, Buddha

preached 500 years before Christ, and at the present day he has more

than 400 million followers; so to Buddhists also Benares is a holy

place.

[Illustration: PLATE XIII. THE TAJ MAHAL.]

The Hindus have three principal gods: Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, the

preserver; and Siva, the destroyer. From these all the others are

derived: thus, for example, Kali represents only one of the attributes

of Siva. To this goddess children were formerly sacrificed, and when

this was forbidden by the British Government goats were substituted. But

we have not yet done with divinities. The worship of the Hindus is not

confined to their gods. Nearly all nature is divine, but above all, cows

and bulls, apes and crocodiles, snakes and turtles, eagles, peacocks and

doves. It is not forbidden to kill, steal and lie, but if a Hindu eats

flesh, nay, if he by chance happens to swallow the hair of a cow, he is

doomed to the hell of boiling oil. He becomes an object of horror to

all, but above all to himself. For thousands of years this

superstitution has been implanted in the race, and it remains as strong

as ever.

Ever since India, or, as the country is called in Persia, Hindustan, was

conquered by the invading Aryans from the north-west--and this was quite

4000 years ago--the Hindus have been divided into castes. The

differences between the different castes are greater than that between

the barons and the serfs in Europe during the Middle Ages. The two

highest castes were the Brahmins (or priests) and the warriors. Now

there are a thousand castes, for every occupation constitutes an

especial caste: all goldsmiths, for example, are of the same caste, all

sandal-makers of another, and men of different castes cannot eat

together, or they become unclean.

* * * * *

Early in the morning, just before the day has begun to dawn in the east,

let us hire a boat and have ourselves rowed up and down the Ganges. In

this way we obtain an excellent view of this wonderful town as it

stretches in front of us along the left bank of the river--a great heap

of closely packed buildings, houses, walls and balconies, and an

endless succession of pagodas with lofty towers (Plate XIV.). From the

top of the bank, which is about 100 feet high, a broad flight of steps

runs down to the river, and stone piers jut out like jetties into the

water. Between these are wooden stages built over the surface of the

river and covered with straw thatch and large parasols or awnings. This

is the gathering place of the faithful. They come from every furthest

corner of the city to the sacred river to greet the sun when it

rises--brown, half-naked figures, with light clothing, often only a

loincloth, of the gaudiest colours. The whole bank of the river teems

with men.

An elderly Brahmin comes down to a jetty and squats on his heels. His

head is shaved, with the exception of a tuft on the crown. He dips his

head in the river, scoops some water up and rinses his mouth with it. He

calls on Ganges, daughter of Vishnu, and prays her to take away his

sins, the impurity of his birth, and to protect him throughout his life.

Then, after repeating the twenty-four names of Vishnu, he stands up and

calls out the sacred syllable "Om," which includes Brahma, Vishnu, and

Siva. Lastly he invokes the earth, air, sky, sun, moon, and stars, and

pours water over his head.

The rim of the rising sun is seen above the jungle on the right bank of

the Ganges. Its appearance is saluted by all the thousands of pious

pilgrims, who sprinkle water with their hands in the direction of the

sun, wading out into the long shallow margin of the river. The old

Brahmin has squatted down again and performs the most incomprehensible

movements with his hands and fingers. He holds them in different

positions, puts them up to the top of his head, his eyes, forehead,

nose, and breast, to indicate the 108 different manifestations of

Vishnu. If he forgets a single one of these gestures, all his worship is

in vain. The same ceremony has to be repeated in the afternoon and

evening, and in the intervals the devout Brahmin has other religious

duties to perform in the temples.

Here an old man lies stretched out on a bed of rags. He is so thin that

his skin hangs loosely over his ribs, and though his body is brown, his

beard is snow-white. He has come to Benares to die beside the holy

Ganges, which flows from the foot of Vishnu. There stands a man in the

prime of life, but a leper, eaten away with sores. He has come to

Benares to seek healing in the waters of life. Here, again, is a young

woman, who trips gracefully down the stone steps bearing a water jug

on her head. She wades into the river until the water comes up to her

waist; then she drinks from her hand, sprinkles water towards the sun,

pours water over her hair, fills her pitcher, and goes slowly up again,

while the holy Ganges water drips from the red wrap which is wound round

her body. And all the other thousands who greet the sun with oblation of

water from the sacred river are convinced that he who makes a pilgrimage

to Benares and dies within the city walls obtains forgiveness for all

his sins.

[Illustration: PLATE XIV. BENARES.]

Like the Buddhists, the Hindus believe in the transmigration of souls. A

Hindu's soul must pass through more than eight million animal forms, and

for all the sins he has committed in the earlier forms of his existence,

he must suffer in the later. Therefore he makes offerings to the gods

that he may soon be released from this eternal wandering and attain the

heaven of the faithful. In the endless chain of existence this short

morning hour of prayer on the banks of the Ganges is but a second

compared to eternity.

* * * * *

In the evening, when the hottest hours of the day are past, let us again

take a boat and drift down slowly past the stone steps and jetties of

Benares. Noiseless, muddy, and grey the sacred river streams along its

bed. What quantities of reeking impurities there are in this water of

salvation! Whole bundles of crushed and evil-smelling marigolds, refuse,

rags and bits, bubbles and scum, float on its surface.

Down a steep lane a funeral procession approaches the bank at a quick

pace. The strains of anything but melodious music disturb the quiet of

the evening, and the noise of drums is echoed from the walls of the

pagodas. The corpse is borne on a bier covered with a white sheet, and

men of the caste of body-burners arrange it on the pyre, a pile of wood

stacked up by the waterside. Then they set fire to the dry shavings, and

the wood pile crackles. Thick clouds of smoke rise up and the smell of

burned flesh is borne on the breeze.

The body-burners have been sparing of fuel, however, and when the heap

of wood has burned down to ashes, the half-consumed and blackened corpse

still remains among the embers, and is then thrown out into the river.

THE LIGHT OF ASIA

In the sixth century before Christ, an Aryan tribe named Sakya dwelt in

Kapilavastu, 120 miles north of Benares. The king of the country had a

son, Siddharta, gifted with supernatural powers both of body and mind.

When the prince had reached his eighteenth year he was allowed to choose

his bride, and his choice fell on the beautiful Yasodara; but in order

to obtain her hand he had to vanquish in open contest those of his

people who were most proficient in manly exercises. First came the

bowmen, who shot at a copper drum. Siddharta had the mark moved to

double the distance, but the bow that was given him broke. Another was

sent for from the temple--of unpolished steel, so stiff that no one

could bend it to get the loop of the string into the groove. To

Siddharta, however, this was child's play, and his arrow not only

pierced the drum, but afterwards continued its flight over the plain.

The second trial was with the sword. With a single stroke each of the

other competitors cut through the trunk of a fine tree, but with

lightning rapidity Siddharta's blade cut clean through two trunks

standing side by side. As the trees remained unmoved, the other

competitors were jubilant and scoffed at the prince's blunt sword, but a

light puff of wind rustled through the tops of the trees and both fell

to the ground.

The last trial was to subdue a wild horse which no one could ride. Under

Siddharta's powerful hand it became gentle and obedient as a lamb.

Then the prince led his bride to the splendid palace of Kapilavastu. The

king feared that the wickedness, poverty, and misfortune which prevailed

in the world without might trouble the prince's mind, and he therefore

had a high wall built round the palace, and guards posted at the gates.

The prince was never to pass out through them.

For some time the prince lived happily in his paradise, but one day he

was seized with a desire to see the condition of men out in the world.

The king gave him permission to leave the palace grounds, but issued

orders that the town should be decorated as for a festival, and that all

the poor, crippled, and sick people should be kept out of sight. The

prince drove through the streets in his carriage drawn by bulls. There

he saw an old man, worn and bent, who held out his withered hand,

crying, "Give me an alms, to-morrow or the next day I shall die." The

prince asked whether this hideous creature, so unlike all the others he

had seen, was really a man, and his attendant replied that all men must

grow old, feeble, and miserable like the one in front of them. Troubled

and thoughtful Siddharta returned home.

After some time he begged his father to let him see the town in its

everyday state. Disguised as a merchant, and accompanied by the same

attendant who was with him on the first occasion, he went through the

streets on foot. Everywhere he saw prosperity and industry, but suddenly

he heard a whining cry beside him: "I am suffering, help me home before

I die." Siddharta stopped and found a plague-stricken man, unable to

stir, his body covered with blotches. He asked his attendant what was

the matter, and was told that the man was ill.

"Can illness afflict all men?"

"Yes, Sire, it comes sneaking like a tiger through the thicket, we know

not when or wherefore, but all may be stricken down by it."

"Can this unfortunate man live long in such misery, and what is the

end?"

"Death."

"What is death?"

"Look! here comes a funeral. The man who lies on the bamboo bier has

ceased to live. Those who follow him are his mourning relations. See how

he is now laid on a pyre, down there on the bank, and how he is burnt;

soon all that is left of him will be a little heap of ashes."

"Must all men die?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Myself also?"

"Yes."

More sorrowful than ever he returned home, and in his soul a longing

ripened to save mankind from suffering, care, and death. He heard a

voice, "Choose between a royal crown and the beggar's staff, between

worldly power and the lonely desolate paths which lead to the redemption

of mankind."

His resolution was soon taken. In the night he stole gently to

Yasodara's couch, and looked his last on his young wife sleeping on a

bed of roses, with her new-born son in her arms. Then he left behind all

he loved, bade his groom saddle his horse, and rode to the copper gates,

now watched by a treble guard. A magic wind passed over the watchmen,

and they fell into a deep sleep, while the massive gates opened

noiselessly of themselves.

When he was far away from Kapilavastu, he sent his servant back with the

horse and its royal trappings, changed clothes with a tattered beggar,

and went on alone. Then he met the odious tempter, the power of evil,

who offered him dominion over the four great continents if he would only

abandon his purpose. He overcame the tempter, and continued his journey

until he came to another kingdom, where he settled in a cave and

attempted to convince the Brahmins that Brahma could not be a god, since

he had created a wretched world. The Brahmins, however, received him

with suspicion, so he retired to a lonely country where, with five

disciples, he devoted himself to deep meditation and self-mortification.

In time he came to see that it was no use to torture and enfeeble the

body, which is after all the abode of the soul, and accordingly began to

take food again. Then his disciples abandoned him, for at that time

self-mortification was regarded as the only path to salvation. Siddharta

was then alone, and under the sacred fig-tree still shown in India he

gained wisdom and enlightenment, and became Buddha.

Then he came to Benares, and won back his first disciples; and his

society, the brotherhood of the yellow mendicant monks, spread ever more

and more. In the rainy season, from June to October, he taught in

Benares, and in the fine weather he wandered from village to village.

"To abstain from all evil, to acquire virtue, to purify the heart--that

is the religion of Buddha"; so he preached. At the age of eighty years

he died in 480 B.C.

Buddha was a reformer who wished to instil new life into the religious

faith of the Hindus. Many of the leading brothers of his order were

Brahmins. He rejected the Vedic books, self-mortification, and

differences of caste, preached philanthropy, and taught that the way to

Nirvana, the paradise of peace and perfection, is open to all. He left

no writings behind, but his doctrines were preserved in the memory of

his disciples, who long after wrote them down. The five chief precepts

are, "Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not commit

adultery, thou shalt not lie, and thou shalt not drink strong drinks."

To-day, 2500 years after his death, the doctrine of Buddha has spread

over immense regions of eastern Asia--over Japan, China, Korea,

Mongolia, Tibet, Further India, and Ceylon--and the country north of the

Caspian Sea. Innumerable are the images of Buddha to be found in the

temples of eastern Asia, and he himself has been called the "Light of

Asia."

BOMBAY

After we leave Benares the railway turns south-eastwards to the wide

delta country where the Ganges and the Brahmaputra meet, and where

Calcutta, the capital of India,[12] stands on one of the arms of the

river. The town itself is flat and monotonous, but it is large and

wealthy and contains more than a million inhabitants. The climate is

very damp and hot, the temperature even in winter being about 95° in the

shade. Accordingly in the summer the Viceroy and his government move up

to Simla in the cool of the hills.

From Calcutta we travel by train right across to the western coast of

the Indian Peninsula, to a more beautiful and more pleasant city--indeed

one of the most beautiful cities of the world. Bombay is the gate to

India, for here the traveller ends his voyage from Europe through the

Suez Canal and begins his railway journey to his destination. It is a

great and wealthy commercial town, having about 800,000 inhabitants, and

innumerable vessels lie loading or unloading in the splendid harbour.

Here we find the last remnant of a people formerly great and powerful.

About six or seven hundred years before the birth of Christ lived a man

named Zoroaster. He founded a religion which spread over all Persia and

the neighbouring lands, and under its auspices Xerxes led his immense

armies against Greece. When the martial missionaries of Islam

overwhelmed Persia in 650 A.D. many thousands of the followers of

Zoroaster fled to India, and a remnant of this people still live in

Bombay and are called Parsees.

They are clever and prosperous merchants, many of them being

multi-millionaires, and they own Bombay and control its trade. Their

faith involves a boundless reverence for fire, earth, and water. As the

earth would be polluted if corpses were buried in it, and as fire would

be dishonoured by burning bodies, they deposit their dead within low

round towers, called the Towers of Silence. There are five of these

towers in Bombay. They all stand together on a high hill, rising from a

peninsula which runs out into the sea. The body is laid naked within the

walls of the tower. In the trees around large vultures perch, and in a

few minutes nothing but the skeleton is left of the corpse. Under the

cypresses and the fine foliage trees in the park round the Towers of

Silence the family of the deceased may abandon themselves to their

grief.

THE USEFUL PLANTS OF INDIA

In India we find a flora nearly allied to that which flourishes in

tropical Africa, a soil which freely affords nourishment to both wild

and cultivated plants, an irrigation either supplied directly by the

monsoon rains or artificially conducted from the rivers. It is true that

we travel for long distances, especially in north-western India, through

true desert tracts, but other districts produce vegetation so dense and

luxuriant that the air is filled with reeking, choking vapour as in a

huge hothouse.

First there are bananas, the cucumber-shaped fruits which are the food

of millions of human beings. From India and the Sunda Islands this

beneficent tree has spread to Africa and the Mediterranean coasts, to

Mexico and Central America. Its floury-white flesh, juicy and

saccharine, fragrant and well-flavoured, is an excellent article of

food. The large leaves of the banana are useful for various

purposes--sunshades, roof thatch, etc.

When the hot season comes, how pleasant it is to dream in the shadow of

the mango-tree! The tree is about sixty feet high, and the shadow

beneath its bluish-grey leathery leaves is close and dense. The pulp of

the fruit is golden yellow and juicy, rich in sugar and citric acid. It

is difficult to describe the taste, for it is very peculiar; but it is

certainly delicious.

From their home in China and Cochin China the orange and its smaller

brother, the mandarin, have spread over India and far around. Amongst

the many other fruits which abound in India are grapes, melons, apples

and pears, walnuts and figs. Figs are green before they ripen, and then

they turn yellow. The fig-tree is distributed over the whole world

wherever the heat is sufficient. It is mentioned both in the Old and the

New Testament. Under a kind of fig-tree Buddha acquired wisdom in the

paths of religion, and therefore the tree is called _Ficus religiosa_.

_Nymphæa stellaris_, the lotus flower, which, like the water-lily,

floats on water, is another plant of great renown among Buddhists. The

lotus is an emblem of their religion, as the Cross is of Christianity.

In India a large quantity of rice is cultivated. In the north-eastern

angle of the Indian triangle, Bengal and Assam, in Burma, on the

peninsula of Further India (the Malay Peninsula), as well as in the

Deccan, the southern extremity of the triangle, rice cultivation is

extensively developed. Wheat is grown in the north-west, and cotton in

the inland parts of the country. The cotton bush has large yellow

flowers, and when the fruit, which is as large as a walnut, opens, the

inside shows a quantity of seeds closely covered with soft woolly hairs.

The fruit capsules are plucked off and dried in the sun. The fibre is

removed from the seeds by a machine, and is cleaned and packed in bales

which are pressed together and confined by iron bands, and then the

article is ready for shipping to the manufacturing towns, of which

Manchester is the most important. In India and Arabia the cotton bush

has been cultivated for more than 2000 years, and Alexander the Great

introduced it into Greece. Now there are plantations all over the world,

but nowhere has the cultivation reached such perfection as in the United

States of America.

Crops which during recent decades have shown enormous development are

those known as india-rubber and gutta-percha, so much being demanded by

the bicycle and motor industries. In the year 1830, 230 tons of rubber

were imported into Europe; in 1896, 315,500 tons. The demand became so

great that a reckless and barbarous exploitation took place of the

trees, the inspissated and dried sap of which is rubber, this tough

resisting and elastic gum which renders such valuable services to man.

In Borneo ten trees were felled for every kilogramme of gutta-percha.

Now more prudent and sensible methods have been introduced. In Ceylon,

Java, and the Malay Peninsula there are large plantations which make

their owners rich men. In India the Brazilian tree (_Hevea_) is the most

productive of all the rubber-yielding varieties. A cross cut is made in

the trunk of the tree, and the milky juice runs out and is collected

into receptacles. Then it is boiled, stirred, compressed, and spread on

tinned plates, rolled up and sent in balls into the market. At present

Brazil supplies two-thirds of all the rubber used.

Then we have all the various spices--cinnamon, which is the bark on the

twigs of the cinnamon-tree; pepper, carried into Europe by Alexander;

ginger, and cardamoms. There is sesamum, from the seeds of which a fine

edible oil is pressed out, and then tea, coffee, and tobacco. A plant

which is at once a blessing and a curse, and which is extensively

cultivated in India, is the poppy. When the outer skin of the fruit

capsule is slit with a knife, a milky juice oozes out which turns brown

and coagulates in the air, and is called opium. The opium which Europe

requires for medicinal purposes comes from Macedonia and Asia Minor. But

the opium grown in Persia and India goes mostly to China, into which

country it was introduced by the Tatars at the end of the seventeenth

century. The Chinese smoke opium in specially-made pipes. A small pea of

opium is pressed into the bowl of the pipe and held over the flame of a

lamp. The smoke is inhaled in a couple of deep breaths. Another pellet

is treated in the same way. Soon the opium-smoker falls into a trance

full of dreams and beautiful visions. He forgets himself, his cares and

his surroundings, and enjoys perfect bliss. He then sleeps soundly, but

when he awakes the reality seems more gloomy and dreary than ever, and

he suffers from excruciating headache. All he cares for is the opium

pipe. Men who fall a victim to this vice are lost; they can only be

cured when confined in homes. In Persia opium is usually smoked in

secret dens, for there the habit is considered shameful, but in China

both men and women smoke openly.

The sugar-cane is also grown over immense fields in India. The juice

contains 20 per cent of sugar. In Sanscrit, the old language of India,

it is called _sakhara_. The Arabs, who introduced it to the

Mediterranean coasts, called it _sukhar_. And thus it is called, with

slight modifications, in all the languages of Europe and many of those

of Asia.

We must also not forget the countless palms which wave their crowns in

the tepid winds of the monsoons. There are the date palms, the coconut

palms, the sago palm, and a multitude of others. The sago palm, from the

pith of which sago grains are prepared, is a remarkable plant. It

flowers only once and then dies. This occurs at an age of twenty years

at most.

The soil of India supports many kinds of useful trees--sandalwood, which

is employed in the construction of the finer kinds of furniture; ebony,

with its dark wood; the teak-tree, which grows to a height of 130 feet,

and forms immense forests in both the Indian peninsulas and in the Sunda

Islands. It is hard and strong, like oak, and nails do not rust in it.

It is therefore used in shipbuilding, and also frequently in the inside

of modern warships. The sleeping and refreshment carriages of railway

trains are usually built of teak.

Lastly, there is the blue vegetable substance called indigo, which is

obtained from small bushes or plants by a simple process of

fermentation. It is mostly used to dye clothing, and has been known in

Europe since the Indian campaign of Alexander.

WILD ELEPHANTS

The home of the wild elephant is the forests of India, the Malay

Peninsula, Ceylon, Sumatra, and Borneo, while another species is found

in Africa. They live in herds of thirty or forty, and every herd forms a

separate community. The leader of the herd is a full-grown bull with

large, strong tusks, whom all the others obey with the greatest

docility. When they wander through the forest, however, or fly before

danger, the females go in front and set the pace, for they alone know

how fast their young ones can travel. Their senses of smell and hearing

are remarkably acute; they are of a good-tempered and peaceable

disposition, and do not care to expose themselves to unnecessary risks.

They are therefore not very dangerous to man, unless when attacked; but

man is their worst enemy.

In India wild elephants are caught to be tamed and employed in labour.

They are captured in various ways, but usually tame elephants are used

to decoy the wild ones. Expert elephant-catchers hide themselves as well

as they can on the backs of tame animals and drive them into a herd of

their wild relations. When a full-grown male has been separated from the

herd, he is beset on all sides by his pursuers and prevented from

sharing in the flight of his companions. They do him no injury, but only

try to tire him out. It may be two whole days before he is so exhausted

that, come what may, he must lie down to sleep. Then the men drop down

from the tame animals and wind ropes round his hind legs, and if there

is a tree at hand they tie him to it.

In Ceylon there are wonderfully smart and expert elephant-catchers who

hunt their game in couples without the help of tame decoys. They search

through the woods and thickets and follow a spoor when they come across

it, being able to judge from the footprints how long ago the trail was

tramped out, how many elephants there were, and whether they were going

fast or slowly. The smallest mark or indication on the way, which a

stranger would not notice, serves as a guide to them. When they have

found the troop they follow it silently as shadows; they creep and

crawl and sneak along the woodland paths as cautiously as leopards. They

never tread on a twig which might crack, they never brush against a leaf

which might rustle. The elephants, for all their fine scent and sharp

hearing, have no suspicion of their proximity. The men lie in wait in a

close thicket where the elephants can only move slowly, throw a noose of

ox hide before the animal's hind leg, and draw it tight at the right

moment. Then the elephant finds out his danger, and, trumpeting wildly,

advances to attack, but the men scurry like rats through the brushwood

and strengthen the snares time after time until the animal is fast.

In India whole herds are also captured at once, and this is the most

wonderful sight it is possible to conceive. A place is known in the

forest where a herd of perhaps a hundred animals has made its home.

Natives who are experienced in elephant-catching are called out, and all

the tame elephants procurable are assembled. A chain of sentinels is

posted round the herd, making a circle of several miles. The men

construct a fence of bamboos as quickly and quietly as possible, and

keep to their posts for nearly ten days. The elephants become restless

and try to break through, but wherever they turn they are met with cries

and shouts, blank gunshots and waving torches. They retire again to the

middle of the enclosure. If they make an attempt in another direction,

they are met in the same way, and at last, submitting to their fate,

they stand in the middle where they are least disturbed.

Meanwhile within the circle a very strong enclosure has been erected of

poles, trunks, and sticks 12 feet high, with a diameter of 160 feet at

most. The entrance, which is 12 feet broad, can be closed in a moment by

a huge falling wicket or gate. Now it stands open, and from the two

sideposts run out two long palisades of stakes, forming an open passage

to the entrance. The two fences diverge outwards and are nearest to each

other at the entrance.

When all is ready the great ring of beaters closes up round the herd,

and scares and chases them with shouts and noise towards the opening

between the palings. Fresh parties of beaters rush up, and when the

elephants can find no other way free they dash in between the fences and

into the pen, whereupon the entrance is closed with the heavy gate. They

are caught as in a trap. They may, indeed, gather up their strength and

try to break through the fence of poles, but it is too stoutly built

and the beaters outside scare them away.

[Illustration: PLATE XV. TAME ELEPHANTS AND THEIR DRIVERS.]

The imprisoned animals are left in peace for forty-eight hours, and when

they have become quiet the most difficult and dangerous part of the

exploit begins. Mounted on well-trained tame elephants, the most expert

and experienced elephant-catchers enter the enclosure. They are active

as cats, quick in their movements, bold, courageous, and watchful. Ropes

are hung round the tame elephants so that their riders may have

something to hold on by in case they are attacked and have to lower

themselves down the flanks of their animals. These know by the signs

given to them by the riders what they have to do, and the rider holds in

his hand a small iron spike which he presses against the elephant's neck

to make him move forwards, backwards, to right or left. A rider

approaches a selected victim. If he turns to attack, another tame

elephant comes up and gives him a thrust with his tusks. Choosing his

time, the rider throws a noose round the head of the wild animal. The

tame one helps with his trunk to place the noose right. The other end is

made fast round the trunk of a tree. When the animal is thus secured the

rider slips down to the ground and throws another noose round his hind

legs, and the end of this rope is also fastened to a tree. Thus he is

rendered harmless, and he struggles and tugs in vain to get loose.

Meanwhile the other tame elephants with their riders help to catch and

fetter their wild relations.

Then the captives, well and securely bound, are led one after another

out of the enclosure and are fastened to trees in the forest. Here they

have for a long time to accustom themselves to man and the society of

tame elephants, and when they have lost all fear, spitefulness, and

wildness they are led into the villages to be regularly broken in and

trained to work in the service of their capturers.

It is pleasant to see tame elephants at work, or bathing in the rivers

with their drivers (Plate XV.). They carry timber, they carry goods

along the high-roads, they are useful in many ways where great strength

is needed. The Maharajas of India always keep a well-filled elephant

stable, but employ the animals mostly for tiger-hunting and riding. The

elephant is to them a show animal which is never absent on occasions of

ceremony. Old well-trained animals which carry themselves with royal

dignity fetch, therefore, a very high price.

THE COBRA

The cobra, or spectacled snake, is the most poisonous snake in India. It

is very general in all parts of India, in Further India, in southern

China, in the Sunda Islands, and Ceylon. Its colour is sometimes

yellowish, shading into blue, sometimes brown, and dirty white on the

under side. It is about five feet long. When it is irritated it raises

up the front part of its body like a swan's neck, spreads out the eight

foremost pairs of ribs at the sides, so that a hat or shield-shaped hood

is formed below the head. The rest of the body is curled round, and

gives the creature firm support when it balances the upper part of its

body ready to inflict its poisonous bite with lightning speed. On the

back of its hood are yellow markings like a pair of spectacles.

The cobra lives in old walls or heaps of stone and timber, under roots,

or in dead trunks in the forest, in fact anywhere where he can find a

sheltered hole. He does not avoid human dwellings, and he may often be

seen, heavy and motionless, rolled up before his hole. But as soon as a

man approaches he glides quickly and noiselessly into his hole, and if

attacked defends himself with a weapon which is as dangerous as a

revolver.

He is a day snake, but avoids sunshine and heat and prefers to seek his

food after sunset. He should more properly be described as a snake of

the twilight. He glides under the close brushwood of the jungle in

pursuit of lizards and frogs, birds, eggs, and rats or other small

animals that come in his way. On his roamings he also climbs up trees

and creeping plants, and swims across large streams. It might be thought

that a vessel anchored off the coast would be safe from cobras, but

cases have been known of these snakes swimming out, crawling up the

anchor chains, and creeping on board.

The female lays a score of long eggs as large as a pigeon's, but with a

soft shell. The male and female are believed to entertain a great

affection for each other, for it has been noticed that when one of them

is killed, the other is shortly seen at the same spot.

The Hindus regard the cobra as a god, and are loath to kill him. Many

cannot bring themselves to do so. If a cobra comes into a hut, the owner

sets out milk for him and protects him in every way, and when the

reptile becomes practically tame and finds that he is left undisturbed,

he does his host no harm. But if the snake kills any one in the hut, he

is caught, carried to a distance, and let loose. If he bites a man and

then is killed, the bitten man must also die. If he meets with an

unfriendly reception in a hut, he brings ruin to the inmates; but if he

is hospitably entertained, he brings good fortune and prosperity. If a

serpent-charmer kills a cobra, he loses for ever his power over snakes.

It is natural that a creature which is treated with such reverence must

multiply excessively. About twenty thousand men are killed annually in

India by snakes.

The cobra's poison is secreted in glands, and is forced out through the

poison teeth when these pierce through the skin of a man or animal. Its

effect is virulent when it enters the blood. If the bite pierces a large

artery, death follows surely and rapidly. Otherwise the victim does not

die for several hours, and may be saved by suitable remedies applied

immediately. A dog when bitten begins to bark and howl, vomits, and

jumps about in the greatest uneasiness and despair. In a short time he

becomes weak and helpless and dies. If the same cobra bites several

victims one after the other within a couple of hours, the first dies,

the second becomes violently ill, while the third is less affected. This

is, of course, due to the fact that the contents of the poison glands

become gradually exhausted; but they soon collect again.

When a man is bitten, his body becomes deadly cold, and every sign of

life disappears. His breathing and pulse cannot be perceived at all. He

loses consciousness and feeling and cannot even swallow. With judicious

treatment the small spark of life still left may be preserved. For about

ten days, however, the invalid remains very feeble, and then a slow

improvement sets in. But as a rule the man dies, for in the Indian

jungle help is seldom at hand, and the end soon comes. If the victim

lies for two whole days as though dead, and yet does not actually die,

it may be hoped that his body is throwing off the effect of the poison.

There are many extraordinary men in India. In Benares especially, but

also in any other town, the shrivelled self-torturers called "fakirs"

may be seen in the streets. They are stark naked save for a small

loin-cloth. They are miserable and thin as skeletons, and their whole

bodies are smeared with ashes. They sit motionless at the street corners

of Benares, always in the same posture. One sits cross-legged with his

arms stretched up. Try to hold your arms straight up only for five

minutes, and you will feel that they gradually grow numb. But this man

always sits thus. His arms seem to become fixed in this unnatural

position. As he never uses them they wither away in time. Compared with

his large head they might belong to a child. Another purposely

extinguishes the light of his eyes by staring day after day straight at

the sun with wide-open eyes.

Among the curiosities of India are also the snake-charmers. There are

several varieties of them, and it seems difficult to distinguish exactly

between them. Some appear to be themselves afraid of the snakes they

exhibit, while others handle them with a remarkable contempt of danger.

Some pull out the snake's poison fangs so that they may always be safe,

while others leave them in, and then everything depends on the charmer's

skill and dexterity and the quickness with which he avoids the bite of

the snake. It frequently happens that the charmer is bitten and killed

by his own snakes.

It is not true, as was formerly believed, that the snake-charmer can

entice snakes out of their holes by the soothing tones of his flute and

make them dance to his piping. The dancing is a much simpler affair.

When the captured snake rears up and sways the upper part of his body to

and fro, the charmer holds out some hard object, perhaps a fragment of

brick. The snake bites, but hurts himself, and after a while gives up

biting. Then the charmer can put his hand in front of the snake's head

without being bitten. But when the snake is irritated he still assumes

the same attitude of defence, swaying to and fro, and thus he seems to

be dancing to the sound of the flute.

There are, however, some daring charmers who, by the strains of their

instrument and the movements of their hands, seem to exercise a certain

power over the cobra. They seem to throw the snake into a short faint or

stupor, a kind of hypnotic sleep. The charmer takes his place in a

courtyard, and the spectators gather round him at a safe distance. He

has his cobra in a round, flat basket. The basket he places on the

ground and raises the cover. Then he rouses and provokes the snake to

make it lift up the upper part of its body and expand its hood with the

spectacles. All the time he plays his flute with one hand. With the

other he makes waving, mesmeric passes. The snake gradually becomes

quiet and calm, and the charmer can press his lips against the scales of

its forehead. Then the charmer throws it on one side with a sudden

movement, for the snake may have waked up again and be just on the point

of biting.

All depends on the charmer's quickness and his knowledge of the snake's

disposition. The slightest movement of its muscles and the expression of

its eyes is sufficient to indicate the snake's intentions to the

charmer. It is said that an expert charmer can play with a freshly

caught snake as easily as with an old one. The art consists in lulling

the snake to sleep and perceiving when the dangerous moment is coming.

During the whole exhibition the monotonous squeak of the flute never

ceases. Courage and presence of mind are necessary for such a dangerous

game.

Europeans who have seen these snake-men catch cobras say that their

skilfulness and boldness are remarkable. They seize the snake with bare

hands as it glides through the grass. This is a trick of legerdemain in

which everything depends on the dexterity of the fingers and a quickness

greater than that of the snake itself. The snake-catcher seizes the tail

with his left hand and passes the right with lightning rapidity along

the body up to the head, which he grips with the thumb and forefinger so

that the snake is held as in a vice. Probably the trick consists in

depriving the snake of support to its body with the left hand and

producing undulations which annul those of the reptile itself.

When charmers go out to catch snakes they are always in parties of two

or three. Some of them take with them antidotes to snake bites. If a man

is bitten, a bandage is wound tightly above the wound and the poison is

sucked out. Then a small black stone, as large as an almond, is laid on

the wound. This absorbs blood and some at least of the poison. Adhering

fast to the wound, it does not fall off until it has finished its work.

That so many men die of snake bites is, of course, because assistance

comes too late.

When the charmer begins to play with a cobra he fixes his eyes on it and

never removes them for a second. And the same is true of the cobra, which

keeps its eyes constantly on the charmer. It is like a duel in which

one of the combatants is liable to be killed if he does not parry at

the right moment. Still more watchful is a cobra when he fights with a

mongoose. The mongoose is a small beast of prey of the Viverridæ family.

It is barely as large as a cat, has a long body and short legs, and is

the deadly enemy of the cobra. There is a splendid story in Mr. Kipling's

_Jungle Book_ of how a pet mongoose--"Rikki-tikki-tavi"--killed two large

cobras.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Delhi is again to be the capital of the Empire of British India

(see footnote on p. 141).

[12] At the great Durbar held at Delhi on December 12, 1911, King George

V. announced that the capital of India would be transferred from

Calcutta to Delhi.

XI

FROM INDIA TO CHINA (1908)

THE INDIAN OCEAN

On October 14, 1908, we leave Bombay in the steamer _Delhi_,[13] which

is bound for Shanghai with passengers and cargo. The _Delhi_ is a fine

steamer, 495 feet long, and of 8000 tons burden; it is one of the great

fleet of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company (usually

known as the P. & O.), which receives an annual subsidy from the

Government to carry the mails to India and Australia. We cast off from

the quay, and in about an hour's time are slowly drawing out between the

ends of the harbour breakwaters; then the steamer glides more quickly

over the bay between innumerable vessels under different flags, and

Bombay lies behind us with its large houses, its churches, towers, and

chimneys, and its dense forest of ships' masts.

Soon the city has disappeared and we are out on the Indian Ocean. The

weather is fine; there is no sea on, only the faintest swell; sailing

boats lie motionless waiting for a wind, and only a faint breeze renews

the air under the awnings of the promenade deck. It is so warm and

sultry that starched shirts and collars become damp and limp after a

couple of hours. We gradually draw off from the coast, but still the

mountain chain known as the Western Ghâts, which extends to the southern

extremity of India, is visible.

Next morning we leave Goa behind, and at noon have the Laccadive group

of islands to starboard. The coast of India is still in sight--a belt of

sand, over which the surf rolls in from the sea, surmounted by a fringe

of coco-palms. On the morning of October 17 we pass the southernmost

point of India, Cape Comorin. Here our course is changed to southeast,

and about midday the coast of Ceylon can be distinguished on the

horizon. From a long distance we can see the white band of breakers

dashing against the beach, and as we approach closer a forest of steamer

funnels, sails, and masts, and beyond them a long row of Asiatic and

European buildings. That is Colombo, the capital of Ceylon, and a very

important port for all vessels which ply between Europe and the Far

East. Gently the _Delhi_ enters the passage between the harbour moles,

and is at once surrounded by a fleet of rowing boats from the shore.

Singalese and Hindus swarm up the gangways, and throw themselves with

much jabbering on the traveller's possessions. They are scantily clothed

with only a shirt or a white sash round the loins and a cloth or a comb

on the head.

We go on shore and find in the principal streets of the town a curious

jumble of copper-brown coloured people, carriages, tramways, and small,

two-wheeled "rickshas" which are pulled by half-naked men. The huts of

the natives and the dwelling-houses of the Europeans nestle among groves

of the slender coco-palm.

The next day the steamer _Moldavia_ (also belonging to the P. & O.)

arrived from England, and was moored close to the _Delhi_ in order to

transfer to her passengers and goods for the Far East, after which the

_Moldavia_ was to continue her voyage for two weeks more to Australia.

When all is ready the _Delhi_ swings out to sea again, the band of the

_Moldavia_ playing a march and her crew and passengers cheering. In the

evening we double the southern point of Ceylon, turning due east--a

course we shall hold as far as the northern cape of Sumatra, 1000 miles

away.

THE SUNDA ISLANDS

On the morning of October 21 all field-glasses are pointed eastwards.

Two small, steep islands stand up out of the sea, a white ring of surf

round their shores, and beyond them several other islands come into

sight, their woods ever green in the perpetual summer of these hot

regions. Now islands crop up on all sides, and we are in the midst of

quite an archipelago. To the south-west we can see rain falling over

Sumatra.

Asia is the largest continent of the world. It has three other divisions

of the world as its neighbours, Europe, Africa, and Australia, and Asia

is more or less connected with these, forming with them the land of the

eastern hemisphere, while America belongs to the western hemisphere.

Europe is so closely and solidly connected with Asia that it may be said

to be a peninsula of it. Africa is joined to Asia by an isthmus 70 miles

broad, which since 1869 has been cut through by the Suez Canal. On the

other hand, Australia is like an enormous island, and lies quite by

itself; the only connection between it and Asia consists of the two

series of large islands and innumerable small ones which rise above the

surface of the intervening sea. The western chain consists of the Sunda

Islands, the eastern of the Philippines and New Guinea. Sumatra is the

first island of the immense pontoon bridge which extends south-eastwards

from the Malay Peninsula. The next is Java, and then follows a row of

medium-sized islands to the east.

[Illustration: THE SUNDA ISLANDS.]

The animal and vegetable life of these islands is very abundant. In

their woods live elephants, rhinoceroses, and tapirs; in the brushwood

lurk tigers and panthers; and in the depths of their primeval forests

dwell monkeys of various species. The largest is the orang-utang, which

grows to a height of five feet, is very strong, savage and dangerous,

and is almost always seen on trees. On these islands, too, grow many

plants and trees which are invaluable to the use of man--sugar-cane,

coffee and tea, rice and tobacco, spices, coco-palms, and the tree the

bark of which yields the remedy for fever, quinine. This remedy is

needed not least on the Sunda Islands themselves, for fever is general

in the low-lying districts round the coasts, though the climate 4000 or

5000 feet above sea-level, among the mountains which occupy the interior

of the islands, is good and healthy.

The equator passes through the middle of Sumatra and Borneo, and

therefore perpetual summer with very moist heat prevails in these

islands. The only seasons really distinguishable are the rainy and dry

seasons, and the Sunda Islands constitute one of the rainiest regions in

the world. The people are Malays and are heathen, but along the coasts

Mohammedanism has acquired great influence. The savage tribes of the

interior have a blind belief in spirits, which animate all lifeless

objects, and the souls of the dead share in the joys and sorrows of the

living.

The larger Sunda islands are four: Sumatra, Java, Borneo, and Celebes.

Java, one of the most beautiful and most productive countries in the

world, has an area nearly equal to that of England without Wales, and

its population is also nearly the same--about 30 millions. Sumatra,

which the _Delhi_ has just left to starboard, is three times the size of

Java, but has only one-seventh of its population. The curiously shaped

island of Celebes, again, is about half the size of Sumatra, while

Borneo is the third largest island on the globe not ranking as a

continent, its area being about 300,000 square miles. The Sunda Islands

are subject to Holland, only the north-eastern part of Borneo belonging

to England.

In the strait between Sumatra and Java lies a very small volcanic

island, Krakatau, which in the summer of 1883 was the scene of one of

the most violent eruptions that have taken place in historic times. The

island was uninhabited, and was only visited occasionally by fishermen

from Sumatra; but if it had been inhabited, not a soul would have

survived to relate what took place, for on two other islands which lay a

few miles distant the inhabitants were killed to the last man.

The outburst proper began on August 26, and the fire-breathing mountain

cast out such quantities of ashes that a layer three feet thick was

deposited on the deck of a vessel which happened at the time to be a

considerable distance off. It lightened and thundered, the sea was

disturbed, and many boats were sunk or hurled up on land. The next day

the island fell in and was swallowed up by the sea, only a few

fragments of it being left. Thereupon a huge wave, 100 feet high, poured

over the neighbouring coasts of Sumatra and Java, washing away towns and

villages, woods and railway lines, and when it retreated the country was

swept bare, and corpses of men and animals lay all around. This wave was

so tremendous that it was propagated as far as the coasts of Africa and

America, and it was thus possible to calculate the speed with which it

had traversed the oceans. The noise produced by the eruption was so

great that it was heard even in Ceylon and Australia, at a distance of

2000 miles. If this outburst had taken place in Vienna, it would have

been heard all over Europe and a considerable distance beyond its

limits. Loose ashes ejected from the volcano fell over the earth,

covering an area considerably larger than France, and 40,000 persons

perished.

PENANG AND SINGAPORE

The _Delhi_ holds her course for Penang, a town on a small island close

to the coast of the Malay Peninsula. At length land is sighted straight

ahead, and the letter-writers make haste to get their correspondence

ready. We glide into a beautiful sound, the anchor rattles out, and we

are at once surrounded by a swarm of curious boats which come to

establish communication between the vessel and the town.

The main street of Penang--with its large buildings, hotels, banks,

clubs, and commercial houses--presents much the same appearance as

almost always meets the eye in the port towns on the south coast of

Asia. The small single-seated "ricksha" is drawn by a Chinaman in a

loose blue blouse, bare-legged, and with a pointed straw hat on his

head. We go out to the Botanical Gardens, and find them really

wonderful. There are trees and plants from India, the Sunda Islands, and

Australia, all labelled with their English and scientific names. Monkeys

climb actively among the trees, and sit swinging on the boughs, and a

high waterfall tumbles down a cliff surrounded by dense luxuriant

vegetation.

Darkness falls suddenly, as always in the tropics, and is accompanied by

pelting rain. In a few moments all the roads are under water. The rain

pours down, not in drops but in long streams of water, and we are wet

through long before we reach the pier where the launch is waiting.

Soon after we get on board, the _Delhi_ moves out into the night down

the Strait of Malacca. Singapore is only thirty hours' voyage ahead, and

the steamer follows closely the coast of the Malay Peninsula. At sunrise

on October 24 we arrive. Singapore is the chief town of the Malay

Peninsula, which is subject to Great Britain, and contains nearly a

quarter of a million inhabitants--Europeans, Malays, Indians, but mostly

Chinese. All steamers to and from the Far East call at Singapore, which

is also the chief commercial emporium for the Sunda Islands and the

whole of the Dutch Archipelago. It lies one degree of latitude north of

the equator, and the consequence is that there is a difference of only

three degrees of temperature between winter and summer. It is always

warm, and rain falls almost every day.

At five o'clock the same afternoon the _Delhi_ steams out again,

accompanied by a swarm of light canoes rowed by naked copper-brown Malay

boys. These boys swim like fishes, and they come out to the steamers to

dive for silver coins which the passengers throw into the sea for them.

When the _Delhi_ increases her pace, they drop behind and paddle back to

the harbour with the proceeds of their diving feats. The sound gradually

widens out, and as long as twilight lasts the land and islands are in

sight. Then we turn off north-eastwards, leaving the equator behind us,

and steer out over the Chinese Sea after having doubled the southernmost

extremity of the Asiatic mainland.

UP THE CHINA SEA

In two days we had left Cochin-China, Saigon, and the great delta of the

Mekong behind us, and when on October 27 we came into contact with the

current from the north-east which sweeps along the coast of Annam, the

temperature fell several degrees and the weather became fresher and more

agreeable. The north-east monsoon had just set in, and the farther we

sailed northwards the harder it would blow in our faces. We had then to

choose between two routes--either out to sea with heavy surge and

boisterous wind; or along the coast, where the current would similarly

hinder us. Whichever way was chosen the vessel would lose a couple of

knots in her speed. The captain chose the course along the coast.

The eastern part of the peninsula of Further India consists of the

French possessions, Cambodia, Cochin-China, Annam, and Tonkin. Hanoi,

the capital of Tonkin, is the headquarters of the Governor-General of

all French Indo-China. To the south Saigon is the most important town;

it is situated in the Mekong delta, which is increasing in size every

year by the addition of the vast quantities of silt carried down by the

great river. The country abounds in wild animals, elephants, tigers,

rhinoceroses, alligators, poisonous snakes, monkeys, parrots, and

peacocks. In area the French possessions are about half as large again

as France itself, and the population is about 20 millions.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING VOYAGE FROM BOMBAY TO HONG KONG (pp. 152-160).]

A large part of Further India is occupied by the kingdom of Siam, which

lies between the lower courses of the Mekong and the Salwin, both of

which rise in eastern Tibet. Siam is about two-thirds the size of French

Indo-China, but has only 9 million inhabitants of various

races--Siamese, Chinese, Malays, and Laos. Bangkok, the capital of the

King of Siam, contains half a million inhabitants, and is intersected by

numerous canals, on which a large proportion of the people live in

floating houses. There are many fine and famous pagodas, or temples,

with statues of Buddha. Some of them are of gold. In Siam the Buddhist

religion has been preserved pure and uncorrupted. The white elephant is

considered sacred, and the flag of Siam exhibits a white elephant on a

red field. The Siamese are of Mongolian origin, of medium, sturdy build,

with a yellowish-brown complexion, but are not highly gifted. They are

addicted to song, music, and games, and among their curious customs is

that of colouring the teeth black.

[Illustration: PLATE XVI. ON THE CANTON RIVER.]

On the morning of October 29 we steam past a fringe of islets, the

beautiful and charming entrance to Hong Kong. The north-east monsoon is

blowing freshly, and the salt foam hisses round the bow of the _Delhi_

and falls on the deck in fine spray lighted by the sun. There is little

sea, for we are in among the islands which check and subdue the violence

of the waves. At noon we glide in between a small holm and the island

into the excellent and roomy harbour of Hong Kong, well sheltered on all

sides from wind and waves. A flotilla of steam launches comes out to

meet us as we glide slowly among innumerable vessels to our anchorage

and buoys. Here flutter in the wind the flags of all commercial nations;

the English, Chinese, Japanese, American, and German colours fly side by

side. The water in the harbour basin is so shallow that the turn of the

propeller stirs up the greyish-brown mud from the bottom.

Victoria is the chief town of Hong Kong, and contains nearly the half of

the population, which amounts to 440,000 souls, most of them Chinese.

There are five important points on the sea-route to the Far

East--Gibraltar, Aden, Colombo, Singapore, and Hong Kong--and all of

them are in the hands of England.