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FROM

POLE TO POLE

A BOOK FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

BY

SVEN HEDIN

DR. SVEN HEDIN IN TIBETAN DRESS.

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO
1914
First Edition 1912
Reprinted 1914

PUBLISHERS' NOTE

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LIST OF MAPS

PART I

I

ACROSS EUROPE

Stockholm to Berlin

Our journey begins at Stockholm, the capital of my native country. Leaving Stockholm by train in the evening, we travel all night in comfortable sleeping-cars and arrive next morning at the southernmost point of Sweden, the port of Trelleborg, where the sunlit waves sweep in from the Baltic Sea.

Here we might expect to have done with railway travelling, and we rather look for the guard to come and open the carriage doors and ask the passengers to alight. Surely it is not intended that the train shall go on right across the sea? Yet that is actually what happens. The same train and the same carriages, which bore us out of Stockholm yesterday evening, go calmly across the Baltic Sea, and we need not get out before we arrive at Berlin. The section of the train which is to go on to Germany is run by an engine on to a great ferry-boat moored to the quay by heavy clamps and hooks of iron. The rails on Swedish ground are closely connected with those on the ferry-boat, and when the carriages are pushed on board by the engine, they are fastened with chains and hooks so that they may remain quite steady even if the vessel begins to roll. As the traveller lies dozing in his compartment, he will certainly hear whistles and the rattle of iron gear and will notice that the compartment suddenly becomes quite dark. But only when the monotonous groaning and the constant vibration of the wheels has given place to a gentle and silent heaving will he know that he is out on the Baltic Sea.

We are by no means content, however, to lie down and doze. Scarcely have the carriages been anchored on the ferry-boat before we are on the upper deck with its fine promenade. The ferry-boat is a handsome vessel, 370 feet long, brand-new and painted white everywhere. It is almost like a first-class hotel. In the saloon the tables are laid, and Swedish and German passengers sit in groups at breakfast. There are separate rooms for coffee and smoking, for reading and writing; and we find a small bookstall where a boy sells guidebooks, novels, and the Swedish and German newspapers of the day.

MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM STOCKHOLM TO BERLIN.

The ferry-boat is now gliding out of the harbour, and every minute that passes carries us farther from our native land. Now the whole town of Trelleborg is displayed before our eyes, its warehouses and new buildings, its chimneys and the vessels in the harbour. The houses become smaller, the land narrows down to a strip on the horizon, and at last there is nothing to be seen but a dark cloud of smoke rising from the steamers and workshops. We steam along a fairway rich in memories, and over a sea which has witnessed many wonderful exploits and marvellous adventures. Among the wreckage and fragments at its bottom sleep vikings and other heroes who fought for their country; but to-day peace reigns over the Baltic, and Swedes, Danes, Russians, and Germans share in the harvest of the sea. Yet still, as of yore, the autumn storms roll the slate-grey breakers against the shores; and still on bright summer days the blue waves glisten, silvered by the sun.

Four hours fly past all too quickly, and before we have become accustomed to the level expanses of the sea a strip of land appears to starboard. This is Rügen, the largest island of Germany, lifting its white chalk cliffs steeply from the sea, like surf congealed into stone. The ferry-boat swings round in a beautiful curve towards the land, and in the harbour of Sassnitz its rails are fitted in exactly to the railway track on German soil. We hasten to take our seats in the carriages, for in a few minutes the German engine comes up and draws the train on to the land of Rügen.

The monotonous grind of iron on iron begins again, and the coast and the ferry-boat vanish behind us. Rügen lies as flat as a pancake on the Baltic Sea, and the train takes us through a landscape which reminds us of Sweden. Here grow pines and spruces, here peaceful roe-deer jump and roam about without showing the slightest fear of the noise of the engine and the drone of the carriages.

Another ferry takes us over the narrow sound which separates Rügen from the mainland, and we see through the window the towers and spires and closely-packed houses of Stralsund. Every inch of ground around us has once been Swedish. In this neighbourhood Gustavus Adolphus landed with his army, and in Stralsund Charles XII. passed a year of his adventurous life.

In the twilight the train carries us southwards through Pomerania, and before we reach Brandenburg the autumn evening has shrouded the North German lowland in darkness. The country is flat and monotonous; not a hill, hardly even an insignificant mound, rises above the level expanse. Yet the land has a peculiar attraction for the stranger from Sweden. He thinks of the time when Swedish gun-carriages splashed and dashed through the mud before the winter frost made their progress still more difficult and noisy. He thinks of heroic deeds and brave men, of early starts, and horses neighing with impatience at the reveille; of victories and honourable peaces, and of the captured flags at home.

If he is observant he will find many other remembrances in the North German low country. Boulders of Swedish granite lie scattered over the plain. They stand out like milestones and mark the limits of the extension of the Scandinavian inland ice. During a colder period of the world's history all northern Europe was covered with a coat of ice, and this period is called the Ice Age. No one knows why the ice embraced Scandinavia and the adjacent countries and swept in a broad stream over the Baltic Sea. And no one knows why the climate afterwards became warmer and drier, and forced the ice to melt away and gradually to leave the ground bare. But we know for a fact that the boulders in northern Germany were carried there on the back of an immense ice stream, for they are composed of rocks which occur only in Scandinavia. The ice tore them away from the solid mountains; during its slow movement southwards it carried them with it, and when it melted the blocks were left on the spot.

At last points of light begin to flash by like meteors in the night. They become more and more numerous, and finally come whole rows and clusters of electric lamps and lighted windows. We are passing through the suburbs of a huge city, one of the largest in the world and the third largest in Europe—Berlin.

Berlin

If we spread out on the table a map of Europe on which all the railways are indicated by black lines, the map will look like a net with irregular meshes. At all the knots are towns, large centres of population which are in constant communication with one another by means of the railways. If we fix our eyes on North Germany, we see what looks like an enormous spider's web, and in the middle of it sits a huge spider. That spider is called Berlin. For as a spider catches its prey in an ingeniously spun net, so Berlin by its railways draws to itself life and movement not only from Germany but from all Europe—nay, from the whole world.

If we could fly some hundreds of miles straight up into the air and had such sharp eyes that we could perceive all the coasts and boundaries of Europe, and plainly distinguish the fine lines of the railways, we should also see small, dark, short forms running backwards and forwards along them. We should see, as it were, a teeming ant-hill, and after every ant we should see a small puff of smoke. In Scandinavia and Russia the bustle would seem less lively, but in the centre of Europe the ants would scurry about with terrible activity.

Whether it was winter or summer, day or night, the bustle would never grow less. From our elevated point of view we should see innumerable trains flying in the night like glow-worms in every direction. Ceaselessly they rush between cities and states, between the sea-coast and the inland districts, and to and from the heart of Europe. For during the last twenty years Berlin has become the heart of Europe. London is situated on an island, and Paris is too near the margin of the Continent. But in Berlin several of the greatest railway routes meet, and whether the traveller goes from Paris to St. Petersburg, from Stockholm to Rome, or from Hamburg to Vienna, he has always to pass through Berlin.

In the city which is "the heart of Europe" we must expect to find the main thoroughfares crowded with foot-passengers of all nationalities, and vehicles of every conceivable kind—motor cars, electric trams, horse omnibuses, vans, cabs, carts, and so on. Yet in spite of their endless streams of traffic, the streets of Berlin are not noisy—not nearly so noisy as those of Stockholm—for they are paved with asphalt and wood, and most of the conveyances have rubber tyres on their wheels. As in other large cities, the streets are relieved of a great deal of traffic by trains which run right through the town and round its suburbs, either up in the air on viaducts, or underground in tunnels lighted by electricity. At the Frederick Street Station of the City Railway, which lies in the centre of the town, a train arrives or departs every other minute of the day and of a good part of the night as well.

Not far off is a square—the "King's Place"—where a monument to commemorate the victory of the Germans over the French, in 1871, lifts its spire above the city, with three rows of cannon captured in France in its recesses. Close at hand, too, are the shady walks in the "Tiergarten" (Park), where all Berlin is wont to enjoy itself on Sundays. When we turn eastwards, we have to pass through a great colonnade, the Brandenburg Gate, with Doric pillars supporting the four-horsed chariot of the goddess of victory in beaten copper. Here the German army entered Berlin after the conquest of France and the founding of the German Empire.

On the farther side of this gate stretches one of the most noted streets in Europe. For if Berlin is the heart of Germany, so is the street called "Unter den Linden" (Under the Lime-Trees) the centre and heart of Berlin. There are, indeed, streets which are longer, for this extends only two-thirds of a mile, but hardly any which are broader, for it is 66 yards across. Between its alternate carriage-roads and foot-walks four double rows of limes and chestnuts introduce a refreshing breath of open country right into the bosom of the great town of stone, with its straight streets and heavy, grey square houses. As we wander along "Unter den Linden" we pass the foreign embassies and the German government offices, and, farther on, the palace of the old Kaiser Wilhelm, which is unoccupied and has been left exactly as it was in his lifetime. He used to stand at a corner window on the ground floor, and look out at his faithful people.

PLATE I. BERLIN.

It is now just noon. Splendid carriages and motor cars sweep past, and the crush of people on the pavements is great. We hear the inspiriting music of a military band, and the Imperial Guard marches down the street, followed by crowds of eager sightseers. Keeping time with the music we march with them past the great Royal Library to where Frederick the Great looks down from his tall bronze horse on the children of to-day. On the one side is the Opera House, on the other is the University, with its ten thousand students, and farther on the Arsenal, with its large historical collections of engines of war. We cross over the "Schlossbrücke" (Palace Bridge), which throws its arch over the River Spree, and follow the parade into the "Lustgarten" (Pleasure Garden). The band halts at the foot of the statue of Frederick William III. and the people crowd round to listen, for now one piece is played after another. Thus the good citizens of Berlin are entertained daily.

There are several noteworthy buildings round the Lustgarten, among them many art museums and picture galleries, as well as the Cathedral and the Royal Palace (Plate I.). It looks very grand, this palace, though it does not stand, as it should, in the middle of a great open space, but is hemmed in by the streets around it.

Perhaps it would interest you to hear about a ball at the Imperial Court of Germany. At the stroke of nine our carriage drives in under the archway of the Palace. The carpeted staircases are lined by "Beef-eaters," in old-fashioned uniforms, as motionless as if they were cast in wax. They do not turn even their eyes as the guests pass, much less their heads. Now we are up in the state rooms, and move slowly over the brightly polished floor through a suite of brilliant apartments glittering with electric light. Pictures of the kings of Prussia stand out against the gilt leather tapestry. At last we reach the great throne-room, which takes its name from the black eagles on the ceiling.

On the right is the Royal Palace, on the left the Cathedral, with the Lustgarten in front. In the foreground is the River Spree.]

What a varied scene awaits us here! Great ladies in costly dresses adorned with precious stones of great value, diamonds flashing and sparkling wherever we look, generals and admirals in full dress, high officials, ambassadors from foreign lands, including those of China and Japan. Here comes a great man to whom all bow; it is the Imperial Chancellor.

Chamberlains now request the guests to range themselves along the walls of the throne-room. A herald enters and strikes his silver staff against the floor, calling out aloud "His Majesty the Emperor!" All is silent as the grave. Followed by the Empress, the princes and princesses, William II. passes through the room and greets his guests with a manly handshake. He begins with the ladies and then passes on to the gentlemen and speaks to every one. The Swedish Minister presents me, and the Emperor begins immediately to ask about Asia. He speaks of Alexander's great campaign through the whole of western Asia, and expresses his astonishment that a man's name can live with undiminished renown through two thousand years. He points to the eagles on the ceiling, and asks if I do not see a resemblance to the Chinese dragon. He talks of Tibet and the Dalai Lama, and of the great stillness in the heart of the desert.

Soon the orchestra strikes up and the guests begin to dance. The only one who seems unconcerned is the Emperor himself. An expression of deep seriousness lies like a mask on his powerful face. Is it not enough to be the Emperor of the German federation, with its four kingdoms, Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony, and Würtemberg, its six grand duchies, its many duchies and electorates, its imperial territory, Alsace-Lorraine, and its three free towns, Hamburg, Lübeck, and Bremen? Does he not rule over sixty-five million people, over 207 towns of more than 25,000 inhabitants, and seven of more than half a million, namely Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, Dresden, Leipzig, Breslau, and Cologne? Has he not by the force of his own will created a fleet so powerful as to arouse uneasiness in England, the country which has the sole command of the sea? And is he not the commander-in-chief of an army which, on a war footing, is as large as the whole population of Scotland? All this might well make him serious.

Berlin to Constantinople

The next stage of our journey is from Berlin to Vienna, the capital of Austria. The express train carries us rapidly southward through Brandenburg. To the west we have the Elbe, which flows into the North Sea at Hamburg; while to the east streams the Oder, which enters the Baltic Sea at Stettin. But we make closer acquaintance only with the Elbe, first when we pass Dresden, the capital of Saxony, and again when we have crossed the Austrian frontier into Bohemia, where in a beautiful and densely-peopled valley clothed with trees the railway follows the windings of the stream. When the guard calls out at a large and busy station "Prague," we are sorry that we have no time to stay a few days and stroll through the streets and squares of one of the finest and oldest towns of Europe. The engine's whistle sounds again and the train carries us swiftly onwards to Vienna, the capital of the Emperor Francis Joseph, who alone is more remarkable than all the sights of the city.

Vienna is a fine and wealthy city, the fourth in Europe, and, like Berlin, is full of centres of human civilisation, science and art. Here are found relics of ancient times beside the grand palaces of the present day, the "Ring" is one of the finest streets in the world, and the tower of St. Stephen's Church rises up to the sky above the two million inhabitants of the town. Vienna to a greater extent than Berlin is a town of pleasure and merry genial life, a grand old aristocratic town, a town of theatres, concerts, balls, and cafés. The Danube canal, with its twelve bridges, passes right through Vienna, and outside the eastern outskirts the Danube itself, in an artificial bed, rolls its dark blue waters with a melodious murmur, providing an accompaniment to the famous Viennese waltzes.

If Vienna is, then, one of the centres of human knowledge and refinement, and if there are a thousand wonderful things to behold within its walls, yet it contains nothing more remarkable than the old Emperor. Not because he is so old, or because he still survives as one of the last of an almost extinct generation, but because by his august personality he keeps together an empire composed of many different countries, races, and religious sects. Fifty millions of people are ranged under his sceptre. There are Germans in Austria, Chechs in Bohemia, Magyars in Hungary, Polacks in Galicia, and a crowd of other peoples; nay, even Mohammedans live under the protection of the Catholic throne.

His life has abounded in cares and vicissitudes. He has lived through wars, insurrections, and revolutions, and with skill and tact has held in check all the contending factions which have striven and are still striving to rend asunder his empire. It is difficult to imagine the Austro-Hungarian monarchy without him. With him it perhaps stands or falls; therefore there is no one in the present day whose life is of greater importance to humanity. He has been the object of murderous attempts: his wife was assassinated, his only son perished by a violent death. He is now eighty-two years old, and he has worn the imperial crown for sixty-four years. Since 1867 he has been king of Hungary. During his reign the industry, trade, agriculture, and general prosperity of his dominions have been enormously developed. And the most remarkable of all is that he still carries his head high, is smart and upright, and works as hard as a labourer in the Danube valley.

The fortunes of Austria and Hungary are still more closely united with and dependent on the great river Danube. Certainly in the north we have the Elbe and the Dniester, and in the south several small rivers which enter the Adriatic Sea. But otherwise all the rivers of the monarchy belong to the Danube, and collect from all directions to the main stream. The Volga is the largest river of Europe and has its own sea, the Caspian. The Danube is the next largest and has also its sea, the Black Sea. Its source is also "black," for it takes its rise in the mountains of the Black Forest in Baden, and from source to mouth it is little short of 1800 miles.

The Danube flows through Bavaria, Austria, and Hungary, forms the boundary between Rumania and Bulgaria, and touches a small corner of Russian territory. It has sixty great tributaries, of which more than half are navigable. Step by step the volume of the main stream is augmented. We can see that for ourselves on our way through Europe. At Budapest, which is cut in two by the river, and where five handsome bridges connect the banks, we seem almost to be on a lake. The Elizabeth Bridge has a span of 950 feet. Farther down, on the frontier of Wallachia, the river is nearly two-thirds of a mile wide; but here the current is slow; creeks of stagnant water are formed, and marshes extend far along the banks. And at the point where the Rumanian railway crosses the Danube, we find at Chernovodsk a bridge over the river which is nearly 2-1/2 miles long and is the longest in all the world. Not far from here the waters of the Danube part into three arms and form a broad delta at the mouth. There grow dense reeds, twice as high as a man, on which large herds of buffaloes graze, where wolves still seek their prey, and where water-fowl breed in millions. If we look carefully at the map, we shall see that Central Europe is occupied mostly by the Danube valley, and that this valley, with its extensive lowlands, is bounded by the best-known mountains of Europe; in the north by the mountains of South Germany and Bohemia and the Carpathians, in the south by the Alps and the mountains of the Balkan Peninsula.

MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM BERLIN TO CONSTANTINOPLE.

From Budapest the train takes us over the Hungarian plain, a very singular country, like a trough, for it is surrounded by mountains on all sides. There is abundance of rain, especially up on the mountain slopes. The winter is cold and the summer warm, as is always the case in countries far removed from the sea. Dust and sand storms are common, and in some parts blown sand collects into dunes. Formerly the Hungarian lowland was a fertile steppe, where Magyar nomads roamed about on horseback and tended their cattle and their enormous flocks of sheep. But now agriculture is extended more and more. Wheat, rye, barley, maize, rice, potatoes, and wine are produced in such quantities that they are not only sufficient for the country's needs, but also maintain a considerable export trade. Round the villages and homesteads grow oaks, elms, lime-trees, and beeches; poplars and willows are widely distributed, for their light seeds are carried long distances by the wind. But in the large steppe districts where marshes are so common the people have no other fuel but reeds and dried dung.

Cattle-raising has always been an important occupation in Hungary. The breed of cows, oxen, and buffaloes is continually being improved by judicious selection, and all kinds of sheep, goats, and pigs are kept in great numbers, while the rearing of fowls, bee-keeping, the production of silk from silkworms, and the fishing industry are also highly developed. To the nomads, who wander from one locality to another with their herds, horses are necessary, and it is therefore quite natural that Hungary should be rich in horses—splendid animals of mixed Tatar and Arabian blood.

This country, where all wealth grows and thrives, and where the land, well and uniformly watered, contributes in such a high degree to the well-being of man, is flat and monotonous when viewed from the train. We see herds with their mounted herdsmen, we see villages, roads and cottages, but these do not give us any very clear conception of the country. Therefore it is advisable to spend a few hours in the agricultural exhibition at Budapest, where we can see the most attractive models illustrating Hungarian rural life, from pastures and farmyards to churned butter and manufactured cheeses, from the silk-worm in the chrysalis to the valuable silken web. We can see the life of farmers in the country homesteads, in simple reed huts or tents, the various crops they grow on their fields, the yellow honeycombs taken from the hives in autumn, tanned leather and the straps, saddles, and trunks that are made of it. We can see the weapons, implements, and spoil of the Hungarian hunter and fisherman, and when we come out of the last room we realise that this country is wisely and affectionately nursed by its people, and therefore gives profit and prosperity in exchange.

With unabated speed the train rushes on over the plain, and at length rattles across a bridge over the Danube into Belgrade, the capital of Servia. Here we bid good-bye to the Danube and follow the Morava valley upwards. The Servian villages of low white houses, with pyramidal roofs of tiles or thatch, are very pretty and picturesquely built; and above them, green heights, wooded slopes, flocks and herds, and peasants in bright-coloured motley clothes following the plough. Small murmuring brooks dance in merry leaps down to the Morava, and the Morava itself flows to the Danube. We are still in the drainage basin of this river, and, when we have crossed the whole of Servia, passed over a flat mountain ridge and left Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, behind us and have come to another stream, even this is one of the affluents of the Danube.

During a large part of our journey we are therefore strongly impressed by this mighty stream, and perceive that it is a condition of existence to whole peoples and States. Innumerable boats navigate its channel—from rowing-boats, ferries, and barges to steamers of heavy freight. They maintain communication between the series of towns with walls and houses reflected in the gliding water. Their wharves are frequently in connection with trains; and many railways have been built with an eye to the traffic on the Danube. In early times, when the migrations of people from the east streamed over Europe, the Danube valley was generally utilized; and still at the present day the river affords an advantageous channel of communication between the western and eastern parts of the Continent.

Night jealously conceals from our eyes the kingdom of Bulgaria, as we travel through its southern part along the river Maritza, which flows southwards. We do not leave its valley until we are beyond the Turkish frontier and Adrianople. Here we are in the broadest part of the Balkan Peninsula; and amidst the regular swaying of the train we lie thinking of the famous Balkan lands which extend to the south—Albania, with its warlike people among its mountains and dales; Macedonia, the country of Alexander the Great; Greece, in ancient times the centre of learning and art. When day dawns we are in Turkey, and the sun is high when the train comes to a standstill in Constantinople.

Constantinople

PLATE II. CONSTANTINOPLE.

From the highest platform of the lofty tower which rises from the square in the centre of the promontory of Stambul a wonderful view can be obtained of the city and its surroundings—a singular blending of great masses of houses and glittering sheets of blue water. Stambul is the Turkish quarter. It consists of a sea of closely-built wooden houses of many colours. Out of the confusion rise the graceful spires of minarets and the round domes of mosques (Plate II.). Just below your feet is the great bazaar—the merchants' town; and farther off is St. Sophia, the principal mosque. Like Rome, the city is built on seven hills. In the valleys between, shady trees and gardens have found a site. Far to the west are seen the towers on the old wall of Stambul.

PLAN OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

Before you to the north, on the point of a blunt promontory, stand the two quarters called Galata and Pera. There Europeans dwell, and there are found Greeks and Italians, Jews and Armenians, and other men of races living in the adjacent countries—in the Balkan Peninsula, in Asia Minor and Caucasia.

Between this blunt peninsula and Stambul an inlet runs north-westwards deep into the land. Its name is the Golden Horn, and over its water priceless treasures have from time immemorial been transported in ships.

Turn to the north-east. There you see a sound varying little in breadth. Its surface is as blue as sapphire, its shores are crowned by a whole chaplet of villages and white villas among luxuriant groves. This sound is the Bosporus, and through it is the way to the Black Sea. Due east, on the other side of the Bosporus, Scutari rises from the shore to the top of low hills. Scutari is the third of the three main divisions of Constantinople. You stand in Europe and look over the great city intersected by broad waterways and almost forget that Scutari is situated in Asia.

Turn to the south. Before your eyes lies the Sea of Marmora, a curious sheet of water which is neither a lake nor a sea, neither a bay nor a sound. It is a link between the Black and Aegean Seas, connected by the Bosporus with the former, and by the Dardanelles, the Hellespont, with the latter. The Sea of Marmora is 130 miles long. Seven miles to the south the Princes' Islands float on the water like airy gardens, and beyond in the blue distance are seen the mountains of Asia Minor.

You will acknowledge that this view is very wonderful. Your eyes wander over two continents and two seas. You are in Europe, but on the threshold of Asia; and when you look down on the Turks swarming below, and at the graceful white boats darting across the sound, you may almost fancy that you are in Asia rather than in Europe. You will also notice that this fairway is an important trade route. Innumerable vessels pass daily through the Bosporus to the coasts of Bulgaria, Rumania, Russia, and Asia Minor, and as many out through the Dardanelles to Greece and the Archipelago and to the coasts of the Mediterranean.

Close beneath you all the colours and outlines are distinct. The water of the Bosporus is vividly blue, and the villas dazzlingly white. On the Asiatic side stand woods of dark-green cypresses, and outside the western wall Turks slumber in the deepest shade; cypresses, indeed, are the watchmen of the dead. And all round the horizon this charming landscape passes into fainter and lighter tones, light-blue and grey. You cannot perceive clearly where the land ends and sea and sky begin. But here and there the white wings of a sailing vessel flutter or a slight puff of smoke floats above a steamer.

A continuous murmur reaches your ears. It is not wind, nor the song of waves. It is the combined voice of nature and human labour. It is like the buzzing round a beehive. Now and then you distinguish the cry of a porter, the bell of a tramcar, the whistle of a steamer, or the bark of a dog. But, as a rule, all melt together into a single sound. It is the ceaseless noise that always hovers over the chimneys of a great city.

The Church of the Divine Wisdom

Let us now go down to the great mosque on the point. On the top of the principal dome we see a huge gilded crescent. This has glittered up there for 450 years, but previously the cupola was adorned by the Christian Cross. How came the change about?

Let us imagine that we are standing outside the church and let the year be 548 A.D. One of the finest temples of Christendom has just been completed by the first architect of his time from Asia Minor. The work has occupied sixteen years, and ten thousand workmen have been constantly engaged at it. But now it is finished at last, and the Church of the Divine Wisdom, Hagia Sophia, is to be consecrated to-day.

The great Emperor of the Byzantine realm, Justinian, drives up in a chariot drawn by four horses. He enters the temple attended by the Patriarch of Constantinople. The building is as large as a market-place, and the beautiful dome, round as the vault of heaven, is 180 feet above the floor. Justinian looks around and is pleased with his work. The great men of the church and empire, clad in costly robes, salute him. He examines the variegated marble which covers the walls, he admires the artistically arranged mosaic on the gold groundwork of the dome, he is amazed at the hundred columns which support the cupolas and galleries, some of dark-green marble, others of dark-red porphyry. The Emperor's wealth is inexhaustible. Has he not presented to the church seven crosses of gold, each weighing a hundred pounds? Does not the Church of the Divine Wisdom possess forty thousand chalice veils all embroidered with pearls and precious stones? Are there not in the sacristy twenty-four Bibles, which in their gold-studded cases weigh two hundred pounds each? Are not pictures of the Redeemer, of the Mother of God, of angels, prophets and evangelists suspended between the twelve columns of solid silver which are the Holy of Holies in the temple? Are not the faithful moved to tears at the sight of the crucifix and at the remembrance that the gilded cross of silver is an exact copy of that which, more than five hundred years ago, was set up by Roman barbarians at Jerusalem?

Justinian turns round and examines the panels of the three doors which are said to have been made of wood from Noah's ark. The doors of the main entrance are of solid silver, the others are beautifully inlaid with cedar-wood, ivory, and amber. Above his head silver chandeliers swing in chains; some of them form together a cross, and are a symbol of the light of heaven hovering over the darkness of earthly life. The vault is flooded with light; and in the mosaic he sees the meek saints kneeling before God in silent supplication. Below the vault he sees the four cherubims with two pairs of wings. He thinks of the first chapter of Ezekiel: "And the likeness of the firmament upon the heads of the living creature was as the colour of the terrible crystal ... and I heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of great waters." He also calls to mind the book of Exodus, ch. xxxvii.: "Even to the mercy-seatward were the faces of the cherubims." It was the same here in his own church.

Inspired by humility before God and pride before his fellowmen, the Emperor Justinian moves to his prie-dieu. He falls on his knees and exclaims: "God be praised who has thought me worthy to bring such a work to completion! I have surpassed thee, O Solomon."

Then the pipes and drums strike up, and the glad songs of the people echo among the houses, which are decorated by webs of costly brocade hanging from the windows. The festival is prolonged for fourteen days; casksful of silver coins are distributed among the multitude, and the Emperor feasts the whole city.

Then follow new centuries and new generations in the footsteps of the old. The bones of Christians moulder under the grave mounds, but still the temple remains as before. There priests and patriarchs and fathers of the Church assemble to Church Councils, and the great festivals of the year are celebrated under its vault. Nearly a thousand years of the stream of time have passed away, and we come to May 29, 1453.

May is a fine month in Constantinople. The summer is in all its glory, the gardens are gorgeous in their fresh verdure, the clear waters of the Bosporus glitter like brightly polished metal. But what a day of humiliation and terror was this day of May, 1453! In the early morning tidings of misfortune were disseminated among the citizens. The Turkish Sultan had stormed in through the walls with his innumerable troops. Beside themselves with fright, men, women, and children fled to St. Sophia, leaving their homes and goods to be plundered. A hundred thousand persons rushed in and locked and barred all the church doors behind them. They trusted that the conqueror would not dare to desecrate so holy a place. Abashed before the holiness of God, he would bow down in the dust and leave them in peace. And according to a prophecy the angel of God would descend from heaven in the hour of need and rescue the church and the city.

The Christians waited, praying and trembling. Then the wild fanfares of the Mohammedan trumpets were heard from the nearest hills. Piercing cries of anguish echoed from the vaulting, mothers pressed their children to their hearts, husbands and wives embraced each other, galley slaves with chains still on their wrists tried to hide themselves in the darkness behind the pillars.

The axes of the Mohammedans ring against the doors. Splinters of costly wood fly before the blows. Here a gate cracks, there another is broken in. The janissaries rush in, thirsting for blood. The Prophet has commanded that his doctrines shall be spread over the earth by fire and sword. They are only too ready to obey this order. Already steeped in blood from the combat outside the walls, they continue to gather in the harvest with dripping scimitars. The defenceless are fastened together with chains and driven out like cattle.

Then comes the turn of the holy edifice. The mosaics are hacked to pieces with swords and lances, the costly altar-cloths are taken from their store-room, the church is plundered of its gold and silver, and rows of camels and mules are led in on to the temple floor to be laden with the immense treasures. Full of fanatical religious hatred, swarms of black-bearded Turks rush up to the figure of the crucified Redeemer. A Mohammedan presses his janissary's cap over the crown of thorns. The image is carried with wild shrieks round the church, and presumptuous voices call out scornfully, "Here you see the God of the Christians."

At the high altar a Greek bishop stood in pontifical robes and read mass over the Christians in a loud and clear voice. His voice never trembled for a moment. He wished to give his flock heavenly consolation in earthly troubles. At last he remained alone. Then he broke off the mass in the middle of a sentence, took the chalice, and ascended the steps leading to the upper galleries. The Turks caught sight of him and rushed after him like hungry hyænas.

He is already up in the gallery. He is surrounded on all sides by soldiers with drawn swords and lowered spears. Next moment he must fall dead over the communion chalice. No escape, no rescue is possible. Before him stands the grey stone wall.

But, lo! a door opens in the wall, and when the bishop has gone in the wall closes up again. The soldiers stand still in astonishment. Then they begin to attack the wall with spears and axes. But it is no use. They renew their efforts, but still in vain.

Four centuries and a half have passed since then, and still the Greeks cherish a blind faith that the day will come when St. Sophia will be restored to Christian uses, when the wall will open again and the bishop will walk out with the chalice in his hand. Calm and dignified he will descend the stairs, cross the church, and mount up to the high altar to continue the mass from the point where he was interrupted by the Turks.

Let us return to the savage soldiery. All the doors stand open, and the midday sun shines in through the arched windows. The pillage and tumult have reached their height when a fiery horse carries a rider up to the main entrance. He is attended by Mohammedan princes, generals, and pashas.[1] His name is Mohammed II., the Conqueror, the Sultan of the Turks. He is young and proud and has a will of iron, but he is solemn and melancholy. He dismounts and passes on foot over this floor, over the marble slabs trodden a thousand years ago by the Emperor Justinian.

The first thing he sees is a janissary maliciously aiming his axe at the marble pavement. The Sultan goes up to him and asks, "Why?" "In the cause of the faith," answers the soldier. Then the Sultan draws his sabre, and, cutting the man down, exclaims, "Dogs, have you not loot enough? The buildings of the city are my property." And, kicking the dying man aside, he ascends a Christian pulpit, and in a thundering voice dedicates the Church of the Holy Wisdom to Islam.

Four and a half centuries have passed down the stream of time since the day when the cross was removed and the crescent raised its horn above the Church of the Holy Wisdom. The Turks have erected four minarets round the dome, and every evening from the platforms of these minarets sounds the voice of the muezzin, summoning the faithful to prayer. He wears a white turban and a long mantle down to his feet. To all four quarters of the city the call rings out with long, silvery a-sounds and full, liquid l's: "God is great (four times repeated). I bear witness that there is no god but God (twice repeated). I bear witness that Mohammed is the Apostle of God (twice repeated). Come to prayers! Come to prayers! Come to salvation! Come to salvation! God is great. There is no god but God."

Now the sun sinks below the horizon, and a cannon shot thunders forth. We are in the month of fasting, during which the Mohammedans do not eat, drink, or smoke each day so long as the sun is up. Thus the Prophet commands in the Koran, their holy book. The firing of the gun proclaims the end of the fast for to-day, and when the faithful have refreshed themselves with the smoking rissoles and rice puddings, or fruit, coffee, and water-pipes which stand ready, they turn their steps to the old Church of the Divine Wisdom, which still retains its Greek name. Round the minarets thousands of lamps are lighted, and between the towers the sacred names hang in flaming lights. Inside the mosque, on chains fifty feet long, hang chandeliers, full of innumerable oil-lamps in small round glass bowls, and on extended lines hang other lamps as close as the beads of a rosary. The floor of the mosque is a sea of light, but the interior of the dome is hid in gloom. Huge green shields affixed to the columns bear in golden letters the names of Allah, Mohammed and the saints, and the characters are thirty feet high.

The faithful have already filled the floor, which is covered with straw matting. Shoes must be left outside on entering the mosque, and a man must wash his arms, hands, and face before he goes in. Now the Turks stand in long rows, white and green turbans and red fezes with black tassels all mixed together. All turn their faces towards Mecca. All hands go up together to the height of the face and are stretched out flat, the thumbs touching the tip of the ear. Then they bend the body forward, resting their hands on their knees. Next they fall on their knees and touch the floor with their foreheads. "Prayer is the key to Paradise," says the Koran, and every section of the prayer requires a certain posture.

A priest stands in a pulpit and breaks in on the solemn silence with his clear musical voice. The last word dies away on his lips, but the echo lingers long in the dome, hovering like a restless spirit among the statues of the cherubim.

Among us at home there are people who are ashamed of going to church. A Mohammedan may neglect his religious duties, but he always regards it as an honour to fulfil them. When we come to Persia or Turkestan we shall often see a caravan leader leave his camels in the middle of the march, spread out his prayer-mat on the ground, and recite his prayers. They do not do it thoughtlessly or slovenly: you might yell in the ear of a Mohammedan at prayer and he would take no notice.

"There is no god but God!" The words sound like a trumpet-blast, as a summons over boundless regions of the Old World. From its cradle in Arabia, Islam has spread over all the west and centre of Asia, over the southern parts of the continent, over certain regions in south-eastern Europe, and over half Africa. It is no wonder that Mohammedan missionaries find it easy to convert the blacks of Africa. Mohammed promises them Paradise after death, and Paradise is only a continuation of worldly pleasures—a place where the blessed dwell under palms which continually bear fruit, where clear springs leap forth, and where flutes and stringed instruments make music in eternal summer.

The Bazaars of Stambul

As a child Fatima Hanum played in one of the narrow streets of Stambul. When she was old enough, her parents betrothed and married her to Emin Effendi, the son of an influential pasha. She knew little of him beyond that he was rich and was considered a good match. His house was situated in one of the larger streets of Scutari, and consisted of two wings completely cut off from each other. In the one the husband had his apartments, in the other lived the women. For Fatima is not alone; her husband has three other wives, and all four have male and female slaves who guard them strictly.

Poor Fatima is thus unfortunate from the first. She cannot live happily with a man whose affection is not hers alone, and it is difficult for her to live in peace with the three other women who have the same rights as herself. Her life is empty and wearisome, and her days are passed in idleness. For hours she stands behind the lattice in the oriel window which projects over the street and watches the movement going on below. When she is tired of this she goes in again. Her room is not large. In the middle splashes a small fountain. Round the walls extend divans. She sinks moodily on to one of them and calls a female slave, who brings a small table, more like a stool. Fatima rolls a cigarette, and with dreamy eyes watches the blue rings as they rise to the ceiling. Again she calls the slave. A bowl of sweets is brought, she yawns, takes a bit of sweetmeat, and throws herself on the soft cushions.

Then she drinks a glass of lemonade and crosses the room to a leather trunk, which she unlocks. In the trunk lie her ornaments: bracelets of gold, pearl necklaces, earrings of turquoise, and many cloths of coloured silk. She puts a necklace round her neck, adorns her fingers with rings, and winds thin silken veils round her head. When she is ready she goes up to the mirror and admires her own beauty. She is really handsome. Her skin is white and soft, her eyes are black, her hair falls in dark waves over her shoulders. She is not pleased with the colour of her lips. The slave brings out a small pot of porcelain and with a pencil paints Fatima's lips redder than the coral which the Hindu dealers sell in the bazaar. Then the eyebrows are not dark enough, so they are blackened with Indian ink.

When Fatima is tired of examining her own features in the mirror she puts back her ornaments into the chest and locks it securely. A staircase leads down from her room to the garden. There she saunters for a time, enjoying the perfume of roses and jasmine, and stands before the cage of singing birds to amuse herself with them. One of the other wives comes down to the harem garden and calls out to her: "You are as ugly as a monkey, Fatima; you are old and wrinkled and your eyes are red. Not a man in all Stambul would care to look at you." Fatima answers: "If Emin Effendi had not been tired of you, old moth-eaten parrot, he would not have brought me to his harem." And then she hurries up to her room again to ask the mirror if it is true that her eyes are red.

In order to forget her vexation she decides to go over to the great bazaar in Stambul. The slave envelops her in a voluminous kaftan[2] in which her white hands with yellow-stained nails disappear among the folds. She slips into her shoes, which are like slippers with turned-up points, and puts on the most important garment of all—the veil. Its upper part covers the head and the forehead down to the eyebrows, while the lower part hangs down over the chin, mouth, and part of the nose. A woman does not show her face to any man but her husband. Of late years many women transgress this rule and let the lower part of the veil fall so low that most of the face is seen. Fatima, however, does not go with the new fashion. She shows only her eyes, but her glances are enough to let the man in the street perceive that she is beautiful. None of them is so impertinent as to look at her or speak to her. Only Europeans she meets turn round.

The slave does not go with her. She stops at the quay where the caiques, or long rowing-boats, lie. The boatmen rise and scream together. Each one extols with words and gestures the excellences of his boat. She makes her choice, and steps in and sits down on the cushions. The caique is narrow and sharp as a canoe, painted white, with a gold border on the gunwale. Two powerful men take their oars, and the caique darts over the blue waters of the Bosporus. Half-way between Scutari and Stambul, Fatima looks eagerly down the Sea of Marmora. She longs for an hour of freedom, and orders the boatmen to change the direction. The wind is fresh, so they pull in their oars and hoist the sail, and the boat glides southward at a rapid pace. But Fatima is capricious, and is soon tired of the Sea of Marmora, and orders the men to steer to the nearest quay in Stambul. She gives them two silver coins, which they take without a word of thanks or civility. She hastens up to the great bazaar and steps from the hot sunlight of the streets into cool shade and gloom.

For the bazaars are like tunnels. They are streets and lanes covered with vaults of stone, where daylight penetrates sparingly through the cupolas in the roof. Here the heat of summer is not felt, and you can walk dry-shod on stormy and rainy days. You are soon accustomed to the darkness, but have great difficulty in finding the way unless you have been born in Stambul and have often passed through this labyrinth. The passages are quite narrow, but yet wide enough to allow droshkies[3] and carts to pass through.

The bazaar, then, is an underground town in itself, a town of tradesmen and artisans. On either side of every street is an endless row of small open shops, the floors of which are raised a little above the level of the street, and serve also as counters or show stands. The shops are not mixed up together, but each industry, each class of goods, has its own street. In the shoemakers' street, for example, shoes of all kinds are set out, but the most common are slippers of yellow and red leather, embroidered and stitched with gold, for men, women, and children, for rich and poor. For a long distance you can see nothing but slippers and shoes right and left.

You are very glad when the shoe department comes to an end and you come to a large street where rich shopkeepers sell brocades of silver, gold, and silk. It is best not to take much money with you to this street, or you will be tempted to buy everything you see. Here lie mats from Persia, embroidered silken goods from India, shawls from Kashmir, and the finest work of southern Asia and northern Africa. Poor Fatima! Her husband is wealthy enough, but he has no mind to let her scatter his money about in the great bazaar. With sad looks she gazes at the turquoises from Nishapur, the rubies from Badakshan, the pearls from the coast of Bahrein, and the corals from the Indian Ocean.

When she has spent all the silver coins she has with her, she turns to leave, but it is a long way to the entrances of the bazaar. She passes through the street of the metalworkers and turns off at the armourers' lane. There the noise is deafening: sledge hammers and mallets hammer and beat, for the shops of the bazaar are workshops as well.

Again she turns a corner. Evidently she has lost her way, for she stands and looks about in all directions. She has now come to a passage where water-pipes and all articles connected with smoking are sold. Then she turns in another direction. An odour tells her a long distance off that she is coming to the street of spice-dealers. She has to ask her way almost at every step.

Not only in Constantinople but in all parts of the Turkish Empire, and all over the Mohammedan world, goods are bought and sold in these half-dark tunnels which are called bazaars. It is the same in the Mohammedan towns of North Africa, in Arabia, Asia Minor, Persia, Caucasia, Afghanistan, India, and Turkestan. Wherever minarets rise above the dwellings of men and the muezzin sings out his everlasting "There is no god but God," the exchange of wares and coin is carried on in dark bazaars. The great bazaar in Stambul is one of the richest, but even where the bazaars are small and insignificant the same order prevails, the same mode of life. Among Turkish men and women of high rank stroll poor ragamuffins and dervishes or begging monks. A caravan of camels moves slowly through the crowd, bringing fresh supplies to the tradesmen from a steamboat quay or from the railway station. The camels have scarcely disappeared in the darkness before a train of mules with heavy bales follows in their track. A loud-voiced man offers for sale grapes and melons he carries in a basket, while another bears a water-bottle of leather.

And all the races which swarm here! The great majority are, of course, Turks, but we also see whole rows of shops where only Persians trade. We see Hindus from India, Egyptians from Cairo, Arabs from the coasts of the Red Sea, Circassians and Tatars from the Caucasus and the Crimea, Sarts from Samarkand and Bokhara, Armenians, Jews, and Greeks, and not infrequently we meet a negro from Zanzibar or a Chinaman from the farthest East.

It is a confusion of shopmen and customers, brokers and thieves from all the East. A noise and bustle, a deafening roar which never ceases all day long, a hurrying, a striving and eagerness to clear the stock and gain money. If the prices were fixed, business would soon be done. But if you have taken a fancy to a Kurdish mat and ask the price, the tradesman demands a quite absurd sum. You shrug your shoulders and go your way. He calls out another, lower price. You go on quietly, and the man comes running after you and has dropped his price to the lowest. In every shop bargains are made vociferously in the same way. There is a continual buzz of voices, now and then interrupted by the bells of caravans.

The illumination is dim. The noonday sun penetrates only through openings in the vault and forms patches of light. Dust floats about in the shafts of light, mixed with smoke from water-pipes. The greater the distance the dimmer this confined air appears. There is also an indescribable odour. The smell of men and animals, of dusty goods, of rank tobacco, of rotting refuse, strong spices, fresh, juicy fruit—all mixed together into a peculiar odour which is characteristic of all Oriental bazaars.

The bazaar of Stambul contains a great deal besides. On the northern side is a line of old caravanserais, massive stone buildings of several storeys, with galleries, passages, and rooms, and with a large open court in the centre. Here resort the wholesale merchants, and here are their warehouses and stocks. Lastly, cafés and eating-houses are found in the tunnelled streets, baths and small oratories, so that a man can pass his whole day in the bazaar without needing to go home. He can obtain all he wants in the vicinity of his shop.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "Pasha" is an honorary title given to officials of high rank in Turkey and Egypt, as to governors of provinces, military commanders, etc.

[2] A garment worn throughout the Levant, consisting of a long gown fastened by a girdle and having sleeves reaching below the hands.

[3] A "droshky" is a low, four-wheeled, open carriage, plying for hire. The word is Russian.

II

CONSTANTINOPLE TO TEHERAN (1905)

The Black Sea

Attended by the cavass[4] of the Swedish Embassy, old Ali, I drove down to the quay on a fresh, sunny October morning, loaded all my boxes on board a caique, and was rowed by four men out to the Bosporus between anchored sailing vessels, steamers, and yachts. On arriving at the gangway of a large Russian steamer, I waited until all my luggage was safe on board and then followed it.

The anchor is weighed, the propeller begins to turn, and the vessel steers a course northwards through the Bosporus. With my field-glasses I settle down on a bench in the stern and take farewell of the Turkish capital. How grand, how unforgettable is this scene! The white, graceful minarets shoot up to heaven from the sea of houses, and the cypresses—tall, grave, and straight as kings—also seem to point out to the children of earth the way to Paradise. Everywhere the houses mount up the hills, ranged like the rows of seats in a theatre. The whole is like a gigantic circus with an auditorium for more than a million Turks, and the arena is the blue water of the Bosporus.

The steamer carries us away relentlessly from this charming picture. As dreams fade away in the night, so the white city is concealed by the first promontories. Then I change my place and look ahead. Perhaps the view is even more beautiful in this direction. The sound is like a river between steep, rocky shores, but in the mouth of every valley, and wherever the margin of the shore is flat, stand white villas and mansions, villages, walls and ruins, gardens and groves. The Bosporus is barely twenty miles long. In some places its breadth is less than a third of a mile, in others two-thirds. Old plane-trees spread their crowns over fresh meadows, and laurels, chestnuts, walnuts, and oaks afford deep shade. White dolphins skim along the water, and a school of porpoises follows in the wake of the boat, waiting for the refuse from the cook's galley. They are dark, soft, and smooth, their backs shining like metal, and they can easily be seen several feet below the surface. A single flap of the tail fin gives them a tremendous impulse, and they come up to the surface like arrows discharged by the gods of the sea, and describe beautiful somersaults among the waves. They could easily overtake us if they liked, but they content themselves with following close behind us hour after hour.

To the left we have the European coast, to the right the Asiatic. The distance is always so small that the Europeans can hear the bark of the Asiatic dogs. Here is Terapia, with the summer villas of Christians and the ambassadors' palaces. Turkish coffee-houses are erected on the shore, and their balconies hang over the water. Farther on there is a large valley with an ancient plane-tree with seven trunks which are called "the seven brothers." According to tradition Godfrey de Bouillon with his crusaders reposed under its shade in the winter of 1096-1097, when he marched to recover the holy sepulchre and win the sounding title of "King of Jerusalem."

Now the channel widens out and the coasts of the two continents diverge from each other. We see the horizon of the Black Sea opening before us, and the vessel begins to pitch. Lighthouses stand on either side of the entrance, which is commanded by batteries high above it. We roll out into the sea, and half an hour later we can hardly see the break in the coast-line which marks the end of the Bosporus.

We make straight for Sebastopol, near the southernmost point of the Crimea. This is the station of the Russian Black Sea fleet, but the Russians have little pride in it, for the Turks control the passage to the Mediterranean, and without the consent of the other great Powers the Russian warships cannot pass through. The Black Sea is, of course, open to the mercantile vessels of all nations.

You know, of course, that Europe has four landlocked seas, the Baltic, the Mediterranean, the Black and Caspian Seas. The Baltic is enclosed all round by European coasts; the Black and Caspian Seas belong to both Europe and Asia; while the Mediterranean lies between the three continents of the Old World—Europe, Asia, and Africa. Now the Baltic, Black, and Caspian Seas are of about the same size, each having an area about three times that of England and Wales. The Baltic is connected with the Atlantic by several sounds between the Danish islands and Scania. The Black Sea has only one outlet, the Bosporus. The Caspian Sea has no outlet at all, and is really a lake.

The Baltic is very shallow, its maximum depth, south-east of the Landsort lighthouse, being 250 fathoms. Next comes the Caspian Sea with a depth of 600 fathoms. The singular feature of this, the largest lake in the world, is that its surface lies 85 feet below that of the Black Sea. This last is the deepest of the three, for in it a sounding of 1230 fathoms has been taken.

All three seas are salt, the Baltic least and the Caspian most. Four great rivers enter the Black Sea, the Danube, Dniester, Dnieper, and Don. It therefore receives large volumes of fresh water. But along the bottom of the Bosporus an undercurrent of salt water passes into the Black Sea, which is compensated for by a surface stream of less salt and therefore lighter water flowing to the Mediterranean.

The Black Sea is not blacker than any other sea, nor is the White Sea white, the Yellow Sea yellow, or the Red Sea red. And so no faith should be accorded to the story of a captain in the Mediterranean who wished to sail to the Red Sea but went to the Black Sea—because he was colour-blind!

But now we can continue our heaving course, still accompanied by dolphins and porpoises. We look in at the harbour of Sebastopol, we anchor in open roadsteads off Caucasian towns, we moor our cables to the rings on the quay of Batum, and finally drop our anchor for the last time at a short distance from the coast of Asia Minor.

Proud and bright, with forest-clad heights in the background, Trebizond bathes in the rays of the midday sun. Small rowing-boats come out from the land to take passengers and goods to the quay. The Turkish boatmen scream all together, but no one listens to them. Every one is glad to be landed safe and sound with his baggage.

Trebizond to Teheran

Trebizond was a Greek colony seven hundred years before the birth of Christ, and from time immemorial Persian trade has made its way to the Black Sea by the road which still runs through Tabriz to Teheran, a distance of 800 miles. This traffic is now on the decline, for modern means of communication have taken the place of the old caravans, and most of their trade has been diverted to the Suez Canal and the Caucasian railways. Many large caravans, however, still journey to and fro along this road, which is so well made that one can drive not only to Tabriz, but still further to Teheran. It may, indeed, be softened by autumn rains or frozen hard on the high plateaus of Turkish Armenia, and the speed is not great when the same horses have to be used for distances of 160 miles.

It was a lively cavalcade that pounded and rattled over the Turkish and Persian roads in November, 1905. I was by no means alone. The Governors of Trebizond and Erzerum were so good as to provide me with an escort of six armed troopers on sturdy horses. In front rides a Turkish soldier on a piebald horse, carrying his carbine in a sling over his back, his sabre and dagger hanging at his side, and wearing a red fez with a white pagri[5] wound round it as a protection from sun and wind. Then I come in my carriage, drawn by three horses. Old Shakir, the coachman, is already my friend; it is he who prepares my meals and looks after me generally. I am well wrapped up in a Caucasian cloak, with a bashlik[6] over my cap, and lean back comfortably and look at the country as we drive along. Behind the carriage ride two soldiers on brown horses, engaged in a lively conversation and wondering whether they will be well tipped. Then come two clumsy carts, on which all my baggage is firmly secured. They have their own drivers and men, and are escorted by three troopers.

In this manner I travelled from Trebizond to Teheran. To the ceaseless rattle of the wheels and the heavy tramp of the horses' hoofs, I plunged day by day deeper into Asia. Soon the blue expanse of the Black Sea passed out of sight, as the road with many steep and sudden bends wound up to the top of a pass. On the other side it descended with as many windings to the bottom of a valley. And thus we went up and down till we were up at length on the level Armenian tableland.

MAP SHOWING (a) JOURNEY FROM CONSTANTINOPLE TO TEHERAN (pp. [26-33]); (b) LATTER PART OF JOURNEY TO BAKU (pp. [34-35]); AND (c) JOURNEY FROM BAKU ACROSS PERSIA TO BAGHDAD AND BACK TO TEHERAN (pp. [37-45]).

Here there is a complete change. During the first days after leaving the coast, we had driven through a beautiful and constantly changing landscape. We had passed through woods of coniferous trees and among rustling foliage of yellow leaves. Sometimes we had been hundreds of feet above an abyss, at the foot of which a bluish-green stream foamed between rounded rocks. Beside the road we had seen rows of villages and farms, with houses and verandahs of wood, where Turks sat comfortably in their shops and cafés; and we had met many small caravans of horses, asses, and oxen carrying hay, fruit, and bricks between the villages. We always began our day's march in the early morning, for the nights were mild and the sun had scarcely risen before it felt pleasant.

But up here on the plateau it is different. No firs adorn the mountain flanks, no foliaged trees throw their shade over the road. No creaking carts, laden with timber and drawn by buffaloes and oxen, enliven the way. The villages are scattered, and the houses are low cabins of stone or sun-dried clay. The Turkish population is blended with Armenians. The road becomes worse and more neglected as the traffic falls off. The air is cool, and there are several degrees of frost in the night.

When we have passed Erzerum, where the Christian churches of the Armenians stand side by side with the mosques of the Turks, we journey, as it were, on a flat roof sloping down slightly on three sides, each with a gutter leading into its own water-butt. These water-butts are the Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, and the Persian Gulf, and they are always big enough to hold all the water, however hard it may rain on the stony roof which rises between Caucasia, Asia Minor, and Mesopotamia. The gutters are, of course, the rivers, the greatest of which is the Euphrates.

Now the road is very bad. There has been rain in the autumn; and now that it is freezing, the mud, all cut up by deep wheel-ruts, is as hard as stone. My vehicle shakes and jolts me hither and thither and up and down, and when we arrive at the village where we are to pass the night, I feel bruised all over. Shakir makes tea and boils eggs, and after supper I roll myself in my cloak and go to sleep.

It is pitch-dark when I am called, and still dark when we make a start by the light of lanterns. After a little a curious sound is heard across the plain. The clang becomes louder, coming nearer to us, and tall, dark ghosts pass by with silent steps. Only bells are heard. The ghosts are camels coming from Persia with carpets, cotton, and fruit. There are more than three hundred of them, and it is a long time before the road is clear again. And all the time there is a ringing as from a chime of bells.

For many thousands of years the same sound has been heard on the caravan routes. It is the same with the roar of the waters of the Euphrates and Tigris. Mighty powers have flourished and passed away on their banks, whole peoples have died out, of Babylon and Nineveh only ruins are left; but the waters of the rivers murmur just the same, and the caravan bells ring now as in the days when Alexander led the Macedonian army over the Euphrates and Tigris, when the Venetian merchant Marco Polo travelled 620 years ago between Tabriz and Trebizond by the road we are now driving along, when Timur the Lame defeated the Turks and by this road carried the Sultan Bayazid in an iron cage to exhibit him like a wild beast in the towns of Asia.

A white morning cloud seems to be floating over the grey mountains to the east, but when the sun rises it is seen to be a cone as regular as the roof of an Armenian church. It is the snow-capped top of Mount Ararat, where the ark landed when the great flood went down. The summit is always covered with snow, for the mountain is a thousand feet higher than Mont Blanc.

Now we are not far from the frontier, where Kurdish brigands render the country unsafe, but once over the border into Persian territory there is no danger. We are now in the north-western corner of Persia, in the province of Azerbeijan, which is populated mainly by Tatars. The capital of the province is Tabriz, once the chief market for the trade of all northern Persia with Europe. Here goods were collected from far and near, packed in mats of bast and bound with ropes so as to form bales, which were laden on fresh camels and carried in fourteen days to Trebizond.

Now not more than a fifth part of this trade remains, but still the caravan life is the same, and as varied as ever. The Tatar leader rides in front; beside every seventh camel walks a caravan man, who wears a black lambskin cap, a blue frockcoat, a girdle round the waist, and pointed shoes. Each is armed with a dagger, for the Tatars are often at feud with the Turks and Armenians, and the dagger has a groove on each side of the blade to allow the blood of the victim to run off. Many a caravan leader has spent the greater part of his life in travelling to and fro between Tabriz and Trebizond. On every journey he has seen Ararat to the north of the road, like a perpetually anchored vessel with its mainsail up; and he knows that the mountain is a gigantic frontier beacon which marks the spot where Russia, Turkey, and Persia meet.

On December 13 I arrived at Teheran, having driven 800 miles in a month. India was still 1500 miles off, and the route lies almost entirely through deserts where only camels can travel. I therefore bought fourteen fine camels, and took six Persians and a Tatar into my service.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] A government servant or courier.

[5] A light scarf wound round a hat or helmet in tropical countries, especially India.

[6] A kind of cloth hood covering the ears.

III

THROUGH THE CAUCASUS, PERSIA, AND MESOPOTAMIA (1885-6)

St. Petersburg to Baku

On August 15, 1885, I went by steamer to St. Petersburg. There I entered a train which ran south-eastwards through Moscow to Rostov, at the mouth of the Don, and thence on to the Caucasus; and for four days I sat in my compartment, letting my eyes rove over the immense steppes of Russia. Hour after hour the train rolled along. A shrill whistle startles the air when we come to a station, and equally sharply a bell rings once, twice, and thrice when our line of carriages begins to move on again over the flat country. In rapid course we fly past innumerable villages, in which usually a whitewashed church lifts up its tower with a green bulb-shaped roof. Homesteads and roads, rivers and brooks, fruitful fields and haystacks, windmills with long revolving arms, carts and wayfarers, all vanish behind us, and twilight and night four times envelop huge Russia in darkness.

At last the mountains of the Caucasus appear in front of us, rising up to the clouds like a light-blue wall. The whole range seems so light and impalpable that we can scarcely believe that the very next day we shall be driving up its valleys and over heights which are more than 16,000 feet above the sea-level. The distance is still great, but the white summit of Mount Kazbek shines out amidst the blue.

At length we arrive at Vladikavkas, the end of the railway,[7] and begin our journey of 130 miles over the mountains. My travelling companions hired a carriage, and at every stage we had to change horses. I sat on the box, and at the turns I had to hold on lest I should be thrown off down into the abyss at the side of the road.

We constantly meet peasants with asses, or shepherds with flocks of goats and sheep. Now comes a group of Caucasian horsemen in black sheepskin coats and armed to the teeth; then the post-cart, packed full of travellers; then again a load of hay drawn by oxen or grey buffaloes.

The higher we ascend, the grander and wilder the mountains become. Sometimes the road is blasted out of perpendicular walls of rock, and heavy masses of mountain hang like a vault above us. At dangerous slopes, where the road is exposed to avalanches in spring, it runs through tunnels of masonry. When an avalanche dashes furiously down the mountain it leaps over these tunnels and continues down on the other side without doing the road any harm.

We have now reached the highest point of the road, and after a journey of twenty-eight hours we arrive at Tiflis, the largest town in Caucasia, and one of the most curious towns I have seen. The houses hang like clusters of swallows' nests on the slopes on both sides of the Kura River, and the narrow, dirty streets are crowded with the fifteen different tribes who dwell in Caucasia.

While the road leading to Tiflis over the mountains is grand, a more dreary country can hardly be conceived than that crossed by the railway between Tiflis and Baku: endless steppes and deserts, greyish-yellow and desolate, with occasionally a caravan of slowly moving camels. A violent storm arose as we drew near the sea. Dust rose up in clouds and penetrated through all the chinks of the compartment, the air became thick, heavy, and suffocating, and outside nothing could be seen but a universal grey veil of impenetrable mist. But the worst was that the storm struck the train on the side, and at last the engine was scarcely able to draw the carriages along. Twice we had to stop, and on an ascent the train even rolled back a little.

However, in spite of all, we at last reached the shore of the Caspian Sea, where clear green billows rose as high as a house and thundered on the strand. At seven o'clock in the evening we were at Baku, and drove ten miles to Balakhani, where I remained seven months.

I remember that time as if it were yesterday. I struggled hopelessly with the Russian grammar, but made great progress in Persian, and learned to talk the Tatar language without the least difficulty. Meanwhile I indulged in plans for a great journey to Persia. How it was to be managed I did not know, for my means were not large. But I made up my mind that through Persia I would travel, even if I went as a hired servant and drove other people's asses along the roads.

PLATE III. OIL-WELL AT BALAKHANI.
A fountain of oil forced up by natural pressure.

The whole country round Baku is impregnated with petroleum, which collects in vast quantities in cavities in the earth. To reach the oil a tower of wood 50 to 65 feet high is erected, and a line with a powerful borer runs over a block at the top. A steam-engine keeps the line in constant motion, perpendicularly up and down, and the borer eats deeper and deeper into the earth. The first section of piping which is forced down into the bore-hole is about 40 inches in diameter. When this can go no farther the boring is continued with a smaller borer, and a narrower tube is thrust down within the first. And so the work is continued until the petroleum level is reached and the valuable oil can be pumped up.

But it often happens that the oil is forced up through the pipe by the pressure of gas in the bowels of the earth, and when I was at Balakhani we often used to go out and look at this singular display. With a deafening roar, a thick greenish-brown jet shot up out of the ground and right through the derrick (Plate III.). It was visible from a long distance, for it might be as much as 200 feet high, and the oil was collected within dams thrown up around. If there was a strong wind the jet would be dispersed, and a dark mist would lie like a veil over the ground to leeward. In Balakhani one can hardly look out of the door without one's clothes being smeared with oil, and the odour can be perceived a dozen miles away. Not a blade of grass grows in this neighbourhood; all that one sees is a forest of derricks. Lines of pipes convey the oil from the borings to the "Black Town" of Baku, which is full of oil refineries (over 170 in all) emitting vast volumes of smoke, black and greasy buildings, and pools of oil refuse. When the crude natural oil is purified, it is distributed far and wide in special railway trucks like cisterns, and in special tank steamers, into which the petroleum is pumped, and which carry nothing else.

In the Baku oil-fields there are now (1910) no fewer than 4094 bores, of which 2600 are productive. Last year they yielded about eight million tons of raw petroleum, some of them having sometimes given nearly 300 tons in twenty-four hours by pumping, and 2000 when the oil shot out of the ground itself. The value on the spot is now about 20 shillings a ton. The deepest boring is sunk 2800 feet into the earth.

Late one evening in February, 1886, the dreadful cry of "Fire! Fire!" was heard outside our house. The very thought of fire is enough to raise terror and consternation throughout this oil-soaked district. We hurry out and find the whole neighbourhood illuminated with a weird, whitish light, as bright as day. The derricks stand out like ghosts against the light background. We make for the place and feel the heat increasing. Bright white flames shoot up fantastically into the air, sending off black clouds of smoke. One derrick is in flames and beside it a pool of raw petroleum is burning. A Tatar had gone to the derrick with a lantern to fetch a tool. He lost his lantern, and only just escaped with his life before the oil-soaked derrick took fire.

It is vain to fight against such a fire. The fire-engine came, and all the hoses were at work, but what was the use when the jets of water were turned to steam before they reached the burning surface of the oil pool? The chief thing is to keep the fire from spreading, and if that is done, the oil is left to bubble and burn until not a drop is left.

Across Persia

It was an adventurous journey that I commenced from Baku on April 6, 1886. I had a travelling companion, a young Tatar, Baki Khanoff, about £30 in my pocket, two changes of clothes and underclothing, a warm coat, and a rug—all, except what I wore, packed in a Tatar bag. In a small leather bag suspended by a strap from the shoulder I kept a revolver, a sketch-book, a note-book, and two maps of Persia. Baki Khanoff had a large cloak, a silver-mounted gun, and a dagger. Half the money we had was sewed up in belts round our waists. The equipment was therefore small for a journey of 2000 miles, through Persia and back.

For two days and a night we were compelled by a violent storm on the Caspian Sea to wait on board before the vessel could take us to the Persian coast. As soon as we landed we were surrounded by Persians, who, with loud voices and lively gestures, extolled the good qualities of their horses. After a cursory examination we chose two small, squat steeds, secured our baggage behind the saddles, mounted, and rode through dark woods and fragrant olive groves higher and higher towards the Elburz Mountains.

We passed a night up on the heights in a village called Karzan. When we set out next day it was snowing fast, and had snowed so thickly all night that all the country was buried under deep drifts. We muffled ourselves up as well as we could, mounted our horses, and rode on, accompanied by their owner.

The snow fell silently in large, whirling flakes. Down in the valley it melted off our clothes, but higher up on the open, windy heights it froze to a cake of ice, and before long our clothes on the windward side were converted into a thick cuirass which prevented every movement. At last we were practically frozen fast in the saddle. Our hands were benumbed, the reins fell on the horses' necks, our eyes were sore from the snowstorm which dashed straight into our faces. I was so stiff that I lost all feeling in my arms and legs, tumbled off my horse, and went on foot, but I had to hold on to the animal's tail lest I should lose my way in the blinding snow.

We could not go on long in this way, for we could not see where we were going, so we decided to turn in at the first village on the road. Some squalid huts soon came in sight through the snow. Outside one of them we tied up our horses, shook off the snow, and entered a dark cabin with an earthen floor. Here a large fire was lighted, and we sat down beside it in a close circle with some other travellers who arrived at the same time. The place had a low roof and was small, damp, and full of vermin, but at any rate it was pleasant to warm ourselves and dry our clothes. When Baki Khanoff had made tea, cooked eggs, and brought out bread and salt, it was almost cosy. The company consisted of four Tatars, two Persians, and myself, and the seven of us had to share the space for the night. When the fire died down the close heat was succeeded by a damp coolness, but at twenty-one years of age one is not particular.

Eventually we reached Teheran, the capital of Persia, safe and sound, and there I stayed a short time as the guest of a fellow-countryman. When I continued my journey southwards I had to travel alone, for Baki Khanoff had caught fever and had to turn back to Baku.

Our journey to Teheran had been very expensive, but my good countryman replenished my purse, so that I had again about £30 sewed up in my waistbelt when I started off once more on April 27. The road is divided by stations where horses are changed and you can pass the night if you wish. A man accompanies you on every stage, and for a small silver coin you can buy eggs and bread, a chicken, melons and grapes.

Sometimes the stable-boy who accompanies a traveller takes the best horse for himself and gives the other to the traveller. This happened to me on the road between the town of Kashan and the mountain village of Kuhrud. As soon as I became aware of the trick, I exchanged horses with my attendant, who dropped behind after some hours' journey, for his sorry jade could go no farther. For four hours I rode along narrow paths in complete darkness. I feared that I had gone astray, and, tired and sleepy, I was on the point of coming to a halt, intending to tie the horse to a tree and roll myself up in my rug for the night, when I saw a light gleam through the darkness. "Hurrah! that is the station-house of Kuhrud." But when I came nearer I perceived that the light came from a nomad's tent. I rode up and called out to the people. No one answered, but I could see by the shadows on the cloth that the tent was inhabited. After shouting again without receiving an answer, I tied up the horse, lifted up the tent-flap, and asked my way to Kuhrud. "Cannot one sleep in peace in the middle of the night?" came a voice from inside. "I am a European and you must show me the way," I returned sharply. Then a man came out; he was as silent as a dummy, but I understood that I was to follow him, leading my horse by the rein. He wound about in the dark among bushes, and when he had led me to a brook a foot deep, skirted on both sides by thick olive woods, he pointed uphill and vanished in the darkness without saying a word. I mounted again and let the horse take care of himself, and two hours later he stopped all right before the station-house. It was pleasant to have reached my journey's end at last, for I had been riding for fifteen hours, and the evening meal tasted better than usual. Then I lay down full length on the floor, with the saddle for a pillow and the rug over me. I made use of no other bed on this journey.

A few days more on the great caravan road and we rode into the old capital of Persia, Ispahan, with its many memorials of departed greatness, its mosques with tall, graceful minarets, and its bazaars full of the products of Persian handicrafts and industries—carpets, silken materials, embroideries, shawls, lacquered work, water-pipes, porcelain, and bronze vessels representing peacocks and elephants.

Farther south I came to Persepolis, so famous in ancient times, where the great Persian kings, Xerxes and Darius, had their palaces. The country round about is now inhabited only by some poor shepherds and their flocks, but fine remains of the palaces still stand, in spite of the 2400 years which have passed over them. Not far from Persepolis lies one of the most noted towns of Persia, Shiraz, abounding in rose gardens and country-houses, spring water and canals. The town is famous above all, because here the immortal poets of Persia sang their most beautiful songs.

When we came near the Persian Gulf the climate became hotter, and one day the temperature was 102° in the room where I was staying. People therefore travel in the night. On the last stage the groom, who was an old man, could not keep up with me, for I rode fast; so I went on all night alone, keeping my revolver handy in case robbers showed themselves. I was glad when the sun rose, lighting up the smooth mirror of the Persian Gulf, and on May 22 I arrived at the town of Bushire, on its eastern coast.

The Persian Gulf is an inlet of the Indian Ocean, and is enclosed between Persia and Arabia. The island of Bahrein on the Arabian coast is well known; it is under British protection, and here in summer and autumn pearl fishing is carried on, the annual export of these beautiful precious stones being now about £900,000. As many as a thousand boats, with crews of thirty thousand men, are engaged in the industry. The owner of each boat engages a number of divers, who work for him, and he sells his pearls to the Indian markets. The diver seldom goes down to a greater depth than seven fathoms, and remains at most fifty seconds under water. He has wax in his ears, his nose is closed by a clip, and with a stone at his feet and a rope round his waist he jumps overboard and disappears into the depths. When he reaches the bottom of the sea he gathers into a basket tied in front of him as many shells as he can get hold of, and at a given signal is hauled up by the rope to the surface again. Then the owner of the boat opens the shells and takes out the costly pearls, which are of different values, according to their size and other qualities.

Arabia

Between the Persian Gulf on the north-east and the Red Sea on the south-west, the Mediterranean on the north-west and the Indian Ocean on the south-east, lies the long, bulky peninsula which is called Arabia, and is as large as a third of Europe. Most of the coast-land is subject to the Sultan of Turkey, but the people in the interior are practically independent. They are a wild and warlike pastoral people, called Beduins. Only certain parts of the country are inhabited, the rest being occupied by terrible deserts and wastes, where even now no European has set his foot.

Near the coast of the Red Sea are two Arab towns which are as holy and full of memories to Mohammedans all over the world as Jerusalem and Rome to Christians. At Mecca the prophet Mohammed was born in the year A.D. 570, and at Medina he died and was buried in 632. He was the founder of the Mohammedan religion, and his doctrine, Islamism, which he proclaimed to the Arabs, has since spread over so many countries in the Old World that its adherents now number 217 millions.

To all the followers of Islam a pilgrimage to Mecca is a most desirable undertaking. Whoever has once been there may die in peace, and in his lifetime he may attach the honourable title of Hajji to his name. From distant countries in Africa and from the innermost parts of Asia innumerable pilgrims flock annually to the holy towns.

Adjoining Arabia on the north-east lies the country called Mesopotamia, through which flow the rivers Euphrates and Tigris. An English steamer carried me from Bushire up the turbid waters of the Tigris, and from the deck I could see copper-brown, half-naked Arabs riding barebacked on handsome horses. They feed their flocks of sheep on the steppe, holding long lances in their hands. Sometimes the steamer is invaded by a cloud of green grasshoppers, and one can only escape them by going into one's cabin and closing both door and windows. Round the funnel lie heaps of grasshoppers who have singed themselves or are stupefied by the smoke.

After a voyage of a few days up the river I come to Baghdad, which retains little of its former magnificence. In the eleventh century Baghdad was the greatest city of the Mohammedans, and here were collected the Indian and Arabic tales which are called the Thousand and one Nights. Not far from Baghdad, but on the Euphrates, lay in early ages the great and brilliant Babylon, which had a hundred gates of brass. By the waters of Babylon the Jewish captives hung up their harps on the willows, and of Babylon Jeremiah prophesied: "And Babylon shall become heaps, a dwelling place for dragons, an astonishment, and an hissing, without an inhabitant."

Baghdad to Teheran

When I reached Baghdad I had only a little over £5 left, all in Persian silver kran, a kran being worth about seven-pence; and I could not get any more money until I reached Teheran, 600 miles away. I knew that if I could only get as far as the town of Kermanshah, a distance of 200 miles, I could then take service in a caravan; but it would be unpleasant to tramp on foot the whole way, and receive no pay other than a little bread and a few cucumbers and melons.

Just in the nick of time, however, I made the acquaintance of a caravan owner who was starting immediately for Kermanshah with English merchandise. The goods were loaded on fifty asses, and were accompanied by ten Arab traders on horseback. Eight pilgrims and a Chaldean merchant had joined the party. I, too, might go with them on paying fifty kran for the hire of a mule; food and drink I must provide for myself.

It was a pleasant journey which began at ten o'clock on the evening of June 6. Two Arabs led me on my mule slowly and solemnly through the narrow streets of Baghdad in the warm summer night. An oil lamp flickered dully here and there, but the bazaars were brisk and lively. Here sat thousands of Arabs, talking, eating, drinking, and smoking. It was the month of fasting, when nothing is eaten until after sunset.

The two Arabs conducted me into the court of a caravanserai, where the traders were just making preparations to start. When I heard that they would not be ready before two o'clock in the morning, I lay down on a heap of bales and slept like a top.

Two o'clock came much sooner than I wished. An Arab came and shook me, and, half asleep, I mounted my mule. To the shouts of the drivers, the tinkle of the small bells, and the ding-dong of the large camel-bells the long caravan passed out into the darkness. Soon we had the outermost courts and palm groves of Baghdad behind us, and before us the silent, sleeping desert.

No one troubled himself about me; I had paid for the mule and might look after myself. Sometimes I rode in front, sometimes behind, and occasionally I almost went to sleep in the saddle. The body of a dead dromedary lay on the road, and a pack of hungry jackals and hyænas were feasting on the carcase. When we came near them they ran away noiselessly to the desert, only to return when we were past. Farther on some fat vultures kept watch round the body of a horse, and raised themselves on their heavy wings as we approached.

PLATE IV. A PERSIAN CARAVANSERAI.

After a ride of seven hours we reached a caravanserai, where the Arabs unloaded their animals and said that we were to stay there all day. It was as warm as in an oven, and there was nothing to do but lie and doze on the stone floor.

Next night we rode eight hours to the town of Bakuba, which is surrounded by a wood of fine date-palms. Here we encamped in the court of a huge caravanserai (Plate IV.). I was sitting talking to one of my travelling companions when three Turkish soldiers came and demanded to see my passport. "I have no passport," I replied. "Well, then, pay us ten kran apiece, and you shall pass the frontier all the same." "No, I will not pay you a farthing," was the answer they got. "Take that rug and the bag instead," they cried, and made for my things. This I could not stand, and gave the man who seized my bag such a blow on the chest that he dropped his booty, and the same with the man with the rug. The scoundrels were making to rush at me together, when two of my Arabs came up to my assistance. To avoid further unpleasantness I went to the governor, who for six kran gave me a passport.

I had now become so friendly with the Arabs that I obtained the loan of a horse instead of a mule. We set out again at nine o'clock, and rode all night in the most brilliant moonshine. I was so sleepy that sometimes I dozed in the saddle, and once, when the horse shied at a skeleton on the road, I was roused up and fell off, while the horse ran off over the steppe. After much trouble one of the caravan men caught him again, and I slept no more that night.

As usual we stayed over the day at the next village. I was tired of travelling in this fashion, moving so slowly and seeing so little of the country. When, then, an old Arab belonging to the caravan came riding up from Baghdad on a fine Arab horse, I determined to try to get away from my party with his assistance. He consented to accompany me if I paid him twenty-five kran a day. At first we kept near the caravan, but as soon as the moon had set we increased our pace, and when the sound of the bells grew faint behind us we trotted off quickly through the night.

We arrived safely at Kermanshah on June 13. After paying the old Arab I had only sixpence left! I could not engage a room or buy anything to eat, and the prospect of going begging among Mohammedans was certainly not attractive. Fortunately I had heard of a rich Arab merchant, Agha Hassan, who lived in this town, and I directed my steps to his handsome house. In my dusty riding-boots, and whip in hand, I passed through many fine rooms until at last I found myself in the presence of Agha Hassan, who was sitting with his secretary in the midst of books and papers. He wore a white silk mantle embroidered with gold, a turban on his head and spectacles on his nose, and looked both friendly and dignified.

"How are you, sir?" he asked. "Very well, thank you," I responded. "Where have you come from?" "From Baghdad." "And where are you going?" "To Teheran." "Are you an Englishman?" "No, I am a Swede." "Swede? What is that?" "Well, I come from a country called Sweden." "Whereabouts does it lie?" "Far away to the north-west, beyond Russia." "Ah, wait, I know! You are no doubt from Ironhead's country?" "Yes, I am from the country of Charles XII." "I am very glad to hear it; I have read of Charles the Twelfth's remarkable exploits; you must tell me about him. And you must tell me about Sweden, its king and army, and about your own home, whether your parents are still living, and if you have any sisters. But first you must promise to stay as my guest for six months. All that I have is yours. You have only to command." "Sir, I am very thankful for your kindness, but I cannot avail myself of your hospitality for more than three days." "You surely mean three weeks?" "No, you are too good, but I must go back to Teheran." "That is very tiresome, but, however, you can think it over."

A servant conducted me to an adjoining building, which was to be mine during my stay, and where I made myself at home in a large apartment with Persian rugs and black silk divans. Two secretaries were placed at my disposal, and servants to carry out my slightest wish. If I desired to eat, they would bring in a piece of excellent mutton on a spit, a chicken boiled with rice, sour milk, cheese and bread, apricots, grapes, and melons, and at the end of the meal coffee and a water-pipe; if I wished to drink, a sweet liquor of iced date-juice was served; and if I thought of taking a ride in order to see the town and neighbourhood, pure-blooded Arab horses stood in the court awaiting me.

Before the house lay a peaceful garden surrounded by a wall, and with its paths laid with marble slabs. Here lilacs blossomed, and here I could dream the whole day away amidst the perfume of roses. Gold-fishes swam in a basin of crystal-clear water, and a tiny jet shot up into the air glittering like a spider's web in the sunshine. I slept in this enchanting garden at night, and when I awoke in the morning I could hardly believe that all was real; it was so like an adventure from the Thousand and one Nights. My rich host and my secretaries did not suspect that I had only sixpence in my pocket.

When the last day came I could no longer conceal my destitute condition. "I have something unpleasant to confide to you," I said to one of the secretaries. "Indeed," he answered, looking very astonished. "Yes, my money has come to an end. My journey has been longer than I expected, and now I am quite cleared out." "What does that matter? You can get as much money as you like from Agha Hassan."

It had struck midnight when I went to take farewell of my kind host. He worked all night during the fasting month. "I am sorry that you cannot stay longer," he said. "Yes, I too am sorry that I must leave you, and that I can never repay your great kindness to me." "You know that the road through the hills is unsafe owing to robbers and footpads. I have therefore arranged that you shall accompany the post, which is escorted by three soldiers."

Having thanked him once more, I took my leave. A secretary handed me a leather purse full of silver. The post rider and the soldiers were ready; we mounted, rode slowly through the dark, narrow streets of the town, at a smart trot when the houses were scattered, and then at full gallop when the desert stretched around us on all sides. We rode 105 miles in sixteen hours, with three relays of horses and barely an hour's rest. We stayed a day at Hamadan, and then rode on to the capital, with nine relays of fresh horses. During the last fifty-five hours I never went to sleep, but often dozed in the saddle. At length the domes of Teheran, its poplars and plane-trees, stood out against the morning sky, and, half-dead with weariness, and ragged and torn, I rode through the south-western gate of the city.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] At the time of this journey, the railway ended at Vladikavkas. Since then, however, it has been extended to Baku along the northern side of the Caucasus and the coast of the Caspian (see map, p. 30).

IV

THE PERSIAN DESERT (1906)

Across the Kevir

We must now resume the journey to India. You will remember (see p. 33) that after arriving at Teheran from Trebizond I made up a caravan consisting of six Persians, one Tatar, and fourteen camels. On January 1 everything is ready. The camels are all laden; thick rugs cover their backs to prevent them being rubbed sore by the loads, and the humps stick up through two round holes in the cloths in order that they may not be crushed and injured.

The largest camels go first. Each has its head adorned with a red embroidered headstall, studded with shining plates of metal and red and yellow pompons, and a plume waves above its forehead. Round the chest is a row of brass sleigh-bells, and one large bell hangs round the neck. Two of these bells are like small church bells; they are so big that the camels would knock their knees against them if they were hung in the usual way, so they are fastened instead to the outer sides of a couple of boxes on the top of the loads. The camels are proud of being decked so finely; they are conscious of their own importance, and stalk with majestic, measured strides through the southern gate of Teheran.

PLATE V. THE AUTHOR'S RIDING CAMEL, WITH GULAM HUSSEIN.

My riding camel is the largest in the caravan (Plate V.). He has thick brown wool, unusually long and plentiful on his neck and chest. His loads form a small platform between the humps and along his flanks, with a hollow in the middle, where I sit as in an armchair, with a leg on each side of the front hump. From there I can spy out the land, and with the help of a compass put down on my map everything I see—hills, sandy zones, and large ravines. Camels put out the two left legs at the same time, and then the two right legs. Their gait is therefore rolling, and the rider sits as in a small boat pitching and tossing in a broken sea. Some people become sea-sick from sitting all day bobbing between the humps, but one soon becomes accustomed to the motion. When the animal is standing up it is, of course, impossible to mount on his back without a ladder, so he has to lie down to let me get on him. But sometimes it happens that he is in too great a hurry to rise before I am settled in my place, and then I am flung back on to my head, for he lifts himself as quickly as a steel spring, first with the hind legs and then with the fore. But when I am up I am quite at home. Sometimes, on the march, the camel turns his long neck and lays his shaggy head on my knee. I pat his nose and stroke him over the eyes. It is impossible to be other than good friends with an animal which carries you ten hours a day for several months. In the morning he comes up to my tent, pushes his nose under the door-flap, and thrusts his shaggy head into the tent, which is not large, and is almost filled up when he comes on a visit. After he has been given a piece of bread he backs out again and goes away to graze.

The ring of bells is continually in my ears. The large bells beat in time with the steps of the camels. Their strides are long and slow, and a caravan seldom travels more than twenty miles in a day.

Our road runs south-eastwards. We have soon left behind us the districts at the foot of the Elburz Mountains, where irrigation canals from rivers are able to produce beautiful gardens and fruitful fields. The farther we proceed the smaller and more scattered are the villages. Only along their canals is the soil clothed with verdure, and we have scarcely left a village before we are out on the greyish-yellow desert, where withered steppe shrubs stand at wide intervals apart. Less and less frequently do we meet trains of asses bound for Teheran with great bundles of shrubs and bushes from the steppe to be used as fuel. The animals are small and miserable, and are nearly hidden by their loads. Their nostrils are cruelly pierced, so that they may be made to go quicker and keep up longer. They look sleepy and dejected, these small, obstinate donkeys which never move out of the way. Their long ears flap backwards and forwards, and their under-lips hang down like bags.

At the very last village on the edge of the desert we stay two days to prepare ourselves for the dangers ahead of us. The headman of the village owns ten camels, which he will gladly hire us for a few days; they are to carry trusses of straw and water in leathern bags. Our own camels are already fully laden, and the hired camels are only to give us a start. When they turn back we shall have to shift for ourselves.

After we have left this village not a sign of life is visible. Before us to the south-east small isolated hills stand up like islands in the sea, and beyond them the horizon of the desert lies as level as that of the ocean. Through this great sandy waste the caravans travel from oasis to oasis, but in the north there is a tract, called the Kevir, within which not the smallest oasis can be found. Not a clump of grass, not even a blade, is to be seen, for the desert is saturated with salt, and when it rains in winter the briny clay becomes as slippery as ice. And this is precisely the place we are making for.

We travelled a whole month before we came to the point where we intended to make the attempt to cross the Kevir. Hitherto everything had continued in a steady course, and one day had been like another. It was winter and we had fully 25 degrees of frost in the night: one day it snowed so thickly that the foremost camels in the train were seen only as faint shadows. For several days mist lay so dense over the desert that we had to trust chiefly to the compass. Sometimes we travelled for four or five days without finding a drop of water, but we had all we needed in our leathern bags.

At the edge of the sandy desert, where high dunes are piled up by the wind, tamarisks and saxauls were often growing. Both are steppe bushes which grow to a height of several feet; their stems are hard and provided us with excellent fuel. My servants gathered large faggots, and the camp fires flamed up brightly and grandly, throwing a yellow light over the silent waste.

From a village called Jandak I set out with only two men and four camels, but we had to wait for four days on the edge of the salt desert because of rain. When rain falls in the Kevir the whole desert soon becomes a sea of slippery mud, and camels cannot walk without slipping and falling. Whole caravans have perished in this cruel desert by being overtaken by rain, and in many other cases the men only have managed to escape with the loss of their camels and their merchandise. It was therefore fortunate for us that we were overtaken by rain before we were out on the slippery clay. We waited till the desert had dried up again, and then we joined forces with a caravan which came from the south.

It was pitch dark when we began to move. A fire was set going, and the camels were laden by its light. Then we started, the fire disappeared, and night and the desert lay before us. Only the ring of bells disturbed the silence. We could not see where we were going, but had to trust our riding camels. The Persians marched all the morning and most of the day without a halt; the strength of both men and camels is strained to the uttermost in order to get through the desert before the next rain comes—and it may come at any moment.

After a short rest we hasten northwards again, for there is no question of halting for the night. The darkness seems interminable, but at length it begins to grow light again. Still the Persians do not stop, so there is nothing for me to do but to struggle to keep up with them. "Keep awake, sir!" shouts Gulam Hussein; "you can sleep when we get to the other side." Another day passes, and again we rest awhile to give the camels some straw and to drink a cup of tea ourselves. Scarcely have we begun to enjoy the rest, however, when the chimes of the bells ring out again. The caravan is already on the move, so we pack up and follow in its trail.

The sky seems very unpromising, and is clouded all over. The desert is as level as a floor; not a mound as high as a kneeling camel. The sun sinks in the west. Like a red-hot cannon-ball it shines through a rift between dark clouds, and a shaft of dazzling red rays streams over the desert, the surface of which shines like a purple sea. To the north the sky is of a dark violet colour, and against this background the camels stand out brick-red.

The sun sets, the colours grow pale, and the long shadows which the camels lately cast far away over the ground fade away. Another night rises up from the east. It grows darker and darker, the caravan is lost to view, but the bells ring out with a clear resonance. On we go without stop or rest. This night is more trying, for we had not a wink of sleep the night before.

The clouds break in the zenith, and the moon looks down on our progress. The camels are seen again and shadows fall again over the desert. Here it is as bare and desolate as on the face of the moon.

At midnight the sky becomes dark once more. The Persians have clambered up on to their camels, and the swaying motion soon carries them into the land of dreams. Soon no one is awake but the leader, who guides the first camel, and myself, who am riding on the last. Suddenly heavy drops begin to fall, and in a minute the rain pelts down on camels, loads, and sleepers.

In a second the pace of the caravan is changed. Hear how hurriedly and anxiously the bells swing and beat! They peal as if to awaken soldiers and citizens in a burning town. Now the rain patters down on the level desert and the camels begin to slip. We must hasten if our lives are dear to us, or the desert will suck us in at the eleventh hour. The men shout to urge on the camels. Now the bells clang as though to wake up the dead to judgment.

There goes a camel down in the mire. Poor animals, they are lost on such ground, for they have not hoofs like horses, but soft callous pads. When they slip they do so thoroughly and suddenly. All four legs fly up in one direction, and the heavy body with the loads thumps down in the other. It is bad enough for the camel, but still worse for his rider. A moment before he sat so well packed up, longing for the edge of the desert sea, and now he lies sprawling in the slush.

One after another the camels fall and have to be helped up again. All this causes delay, and meanwhile the clay is gradually becoming softer. At every step the camels sink in deeper, the rain still pelts down, and the bells ring jerkily. If they cease to ring, it will be because the desert has conquered; at this very moment they stop.

"What is the matter?" I call out.

"We are at the Devil's ditch," answers a voice in the darkness.

The bells ring slowly again as the camels wade one after the other through a trench full of salt water. I tighten my knees when my turn comes. I cannot see the water, but I hear it spurting and splashing round the legs of the camels in front of me. Now my camel slides down a nasty mud bank. He slithers and wriggles about to keep himself up, and then he, too, tramps through the water and scrambles up the other side.

"Tamarisks," I hear some one shout. Welcome sound! It means that we are safe, for nothing grows in the salt desert. When we come to the first tamarisks we are again on sandy ground. Then all danger is past, and what does it matter if we are dead tired? Two more hours and we reach a village. There Gulam Hussein makes ready a chicken and some eggs, and then I lie down in a hut and sleep as I have never slept before.

The Oasis of Tebbes

Any one who has not travelled himself for weeks together through the desert can scarcely conceive what it is to come at length to an oasis. An oasis is to the desert wanderer what a peaceful island with its sheltered anchorage is to mariners. Oases are like stars in the dark vault of heaven, like moments of happiness and prosperity in a man's life. If you had roamed for two months in the wilderness, like myself and my Persians, you would be able to understand our feelings when we at last saw the date-palms of Tebbes beckoning to us in the distance (see map, p. [73]).

PLATE VI. TEBBES.
The tree in the foreground is a huge tamarisk.

A lofty minaret rises above the little town, which is surrounded by a wall (Plate VI.). Within are old buildings, mosques, and a fort with towers. Outside the town are tilled fields and palm groves.

Spring had come when we pitched our tents on a meadow in the shade of thick dark-green palms. There was a rustle and pleasant whisper among the hard fronds when the spring storms swept over the country. We were tired of the everlasting dull yellow tint of the desert and were delighted with the fresh verdure. Outside my tent purled a brook of fine cool water, all the more agreeable after the intense drought of the desert. A nightingale sang in the crown of the palm above my tent. He plays an important part in Persian poetry under the name of bulbul.

If you were in some mysterious manner transferred to Tebbes, you would on the very first evening wonder what was the curious serenade which you heard from the desert. If you sat at the fall of day reading at the door of your tent, you would look up from your book and listen. You would have an uneasy feeling and be uncomfortable at being alone in the tent. But after the same serenade had been repeated every evening as regular as the sunset, you would become accustomed to it, and at length trouble yourself no more about it.

It is only the jackals singing their evening song. The word "jackal" is Persian, and the jackal is allied to the dog, the wolf, and the fox. He is a beast of prey and seeks his food at night. He is not large, is yellowish-grey in colour, has pointed ears and small, keen eyes, and holds his tail erect, not hanging down like the wolf's. Nothing edible comes amiss to him, but he prefers chickens and grapes to fallen caravan animals. If he can find nothing else, he steals dates in the palm gardens, especially when ripe fruits have fallen after heavy storms. The jackal is, indeed, a shameless, impudent little rascal. One night a pack of jackals sneaked into our garden and carried off our only cock under the very noses of the dogs. We were awakened by the noise of a terrible struggle between the two forces, but the jackals got the better of it and we heard the despairing cackle of the cock dying away in the desert.

Heaven knows where the jackals remain as long as the sun is up! In zoological text-books it is stated that they dwell in holes, but I could see no holes round Tebbes, and yet jackals come in troops to the oasis every night. They are as mysterious as the desert; they are found everywhere and nowhere.

As soon as the sun sinks below the horizon and the darkness spreads its veil over the silent desert, and the palms doze off, waiting for the return of the sun, then begins the jackals' serenade. It sounds like a short, sharp laugh rising and falling, a plaintive whine increasing in strength and dying away again, answered by another pack in another direction; a united cry of anguish from children in trouble and calling for help. They say to one another, "Comrades, we are hungry, let us seek about for food," and gather together from their unknown lairs. Then they steal cautiously to the skirts of the oasis, hop over walls and bars and thieve on forbidden ground.

These insignificant noisy footpads live on the refuse and offal of the desert from Cape Verde in the uttermost west of the Old World to the interior of India; but their home is not in the silent desert alone. When the military bands strike up at the clubs in Simla, you have only to put your head out of the window to hear the mournful, piteous, and distressed howl of the jackals.

They are not always to be treated lightly, for in 1882 jackals killed 359 men in Bengal alone. Especially are they a terrible danger when hydrophobia rages among them, as the experiences of the last Boundary Commission in Seistan showed. A mad jackal sneaked into the camp one night and bit a sleeping man in the face. Within six weeks the man was dead. Others stole into the natives' huts and lay in ambush, waiting for an opportunity to bite. Perhaps the worst incident occurred on a dark winter's night, when a north wind was raging and sweeping the dust along the ground. A mad jackal came into the Englishmen's camp and crept into a tent where several men were sleeping. Fortunately he only set his teeth in a felt rug. This wakened the sleepers, however, and they at once started up and looked for weapons. The camp consisted of three sections, and more than a hundred tethered camels. In the pitchy darkness it was impossible to see where the jackal went, but the camels could be heard shrieking with fear, and thus it was only too clear where the brute was. When day broke seventy-eight bitten dromedaries were counted. They were isolated from the others, and killed as soon as they showed signs of sickness, while the dogs and goats which had been bitten by the jackal were shot at once.

Twenty years ago I myself had a little adventure with jackals. I was riding with a couple of servants and some horses to the Caspian shore from the interior of Persia, and encamped one evening at a village in the Elburz Mountains. The caravanserai was notorious for its vermin, so I preferred to make myself comfortable in a garden with fruit trees and poplars, protected by a wall five feet high and without any gates. We had to climb over the wall in order to get in. I had a saddle for a pillow and lay wrapped in a felt rug and a cloak. The remains of my supper, bread, honey, and apples, stood on my two small leather trunks. When it grew dark my men went off to the village and I rolled myself up and went to sleep.

Two hours later I was awakened by a scratching noise at the trunks and sat up to listen, but could hear nothing but the murmur of a small brook close at hand. The darkness was intense, only a little starlight passing faintly through the foliage. So I went to sleep again. A little later I was roused once more by the same noise, and heard a tearing and tugging at the straps. Then I jumped up and distinguished half a dozen jackals disappearing like shadows among the poplars. There was no more sleep for me that night. It was all I could do to keep the importunate beasts at a distance. If I kept quiet for a minute they were up again, tearing the leathern straps, and would not make off until I struck a box with my riding whip. They soon became accustomed even to this and drew back only a few steps. Then I remembered the apples, and as soon as the jackals crept up again, I threw one of them with all my strength into the ruck, and used them as missiles till the last apple had disappeared into the darkness. Most of my shots were misses, for I only once heard a howl from one of the impudent animals.

The night seemed endless, but at length the day dawned between the poplars, and the jackals jumped quietly over the wall. Then I should have liked some breakfast, but there was not a bit of the supper left; the jackals had taken it all. However, I had a sound sleep instead. I heard afterwards that the jackals in that country are so vicious that two or three of them will attack a man, so in future I always had my servants sleeping near me.

While speaking of jackals we must not forget the hyæna, for this animal is one of the denizens of the desert, though it is of another genus. The hyæna is a singular animal, neither dog nor cat, but a mixture of both and larger than either. It is of a dirty greyish-brown colour with black stripes or patches, has a rounded head with black muzzle and eyes, and short hind legs, so that the bristly back slopes downwards. It prowls about for food at night, and in western Persia comes down from its hiding-places in the mountains to the caravan roads in quest of fallen asses, horses and camels. If corpses are not buried deep enough it scratches them up from beneath the tombstones, for it lives almost exclusively on dead and corrupted flesh.

Thus the four-footed inhabitants of the desert prowl around the outskirts of Tebbes and share the country with panthers, wild asses and graceful elegant gazelles. Tebbes itself lies lonely and forgotten like an island in the ocean.

The principal caravan road connecting the oasis with the outer world runs north-eastwards to the holy town of Meshed, whither many pilgrims flock. From Meshed it is only a few days' journey through a mountainous tract to the frontier between Persia and Russian Asia. There lie Transcaspia, Samarcand, Bukhara, Turkestan, and the Kirghiz Steppe. This road would take us out of our way to India, but while we halt at Tebbes I can tell you something about the country it passes through.

V

ON THE KIRGHIZ STEPPE (1893-5)

Into Asia from Orenburg

I started my journey across the Kirghiz Steppe in November, 1893, from Orenburg on the Ural River, which for some distance forms the boundary between Asia and Europe. I travelled in a stout tarantass, the common means of conveyance on Russian country roads; it consists of a sort of a box on two bars between the wheel axles, with a hood but no seat. The bottom is filled with hay, on which are spread a mat, cushions and pillows, furs and felt rugs, for the cold is intense. There are ninety-nine stages and changes of horses between Orenburg and Tashkent, the capital of Russian Turkestan. At the post-houses nothing can be got but tea, so provisions for nineteen days had to be taken with us, as well as sawn wood, rope and tools in case anything should break, and a large pot of cart-grease to keep the wheels cool. My boxes and trunks are wrapped in bast-matting and secured with strong ropes to the driver's box and behind the tarantass. It takes time to get everything ready, and it is late in the afternoon before the first team of three post-horses is led out and harnessed to the vehicle. I take my largest fur coat and pack myself in among the cushions and felt rugs. The carriage is open in front and the whirling snow which sweeps round the corners flies straight into my face. The driver takes his seat on the box, shouts shrilly and cracks his whip, and we dash along the streets of Orenburg in the snow and twilight to the lively jingle of the bells.

MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM ORENBURG TO THE PAMIR (pp. [55-71]).

The lights come to an end and the night is intensely dark when we come out to the high-road leading into Asia. The bells worn by the middle horse on a necklace round his neck ring in frequent beats. This horse always goes at a trot, being harnessed between the shafts with a high wooden arch above his neck, but the two outside horses go at a canter. The horses are accustomed to this pace and action, and a rapidly moving team is a fine sight. After three hours a yellow light is seen through the swirling snow, and the team dashes into a yard and comes to a halt at the steps of a house. As I have been already tossed about a good deal, I am glad to jump out and get a glass of tea. The horses are taken into the stable, and a fresh team is led out to take their place in the still warm harness.

The samovar, or Russian tea-urn, is boiling in the great room. While I am drinking my first glass of tea the stamping and rattle is heard of two other teams which roll into the yard. It is the post; and the courier enters covered with snow and with icicles on his beard. He is a good fellow, and we become acquainted at once and travel together to Orsk. He has travelled for twenty years with the mails between the two towns and must have covered altogether a distance as far as from the earth to the moon and six thousand miles besides.

My new driver now appears and calls out "The troika[8] is ready." Then I pack myself in again among the cushions and rugs and off we speed once more through the darkness and snow.

After forty-eight hours we are in Orsk, which also stands on the Ural River; and when we leave this town with fresh horses and steer southwards we are on Asiatic ground, in the vast Kirghiz Steppe, which extends from Irkutsk to the Caspian Sea, from the Ural River to the Syr-darya.[9] It is extremely flat and looks like a frozen sea. Day after day we drive southwards, the horses ready to run away; there is nothing to drive over, no ditches to fall into, no stones to carry away a wheel. The hoofs hammer on the hard ground, the wheels creak, I and my things are shaken and thrown about in the carriage, the coachman plants his feet firmly against the foot-board lest he should tumble off, and on we go over the flat dreary steppe. As we drive on day and night the tarantass seems always to be in the centre of the same unbroken landscape, always at the same distance from the horizon.

Here live the Kirghizes, a fine race of graziers and horsemen. They support themselves by their large flocks of sheep, and also own numerous horses and camels, as well as cattle. Therefore they are dependent on the grass of the steppe, and wander like other nomads from pasture to pasture. When their flocks have eaten up the grass at one place, they roll up their black tents, pack all their belongings on camels and migrate to another spot. They are a freeborn, manly people and love the boundless steppe. Life in the open air and on the level country, which affords grazing to their flocks, has sharpened their intellect to a wonderful degree. They never forget a place they have once seen. If the steppe plants grow closer or thinner, if the ground shows the slightest inequality, if there is grey or black gravel of different coarseness—all these details serve as marks of recognition. When we rest a minute halfway between two post-houses to let the horses breathe, the Kirghiz driver turns round and says, "Yonder rides a Kirghiz on a dappled mare." Yet on directing my field-glass towards the indicated spot, I can only see a small dot, and cannot distinguish what it is.

The stations on our road are usually small solid wooden houses with two lamp-posts at the door and a white board, on which are written the distances to the next stations in each direction. In some places there is no house at all but only a black Kirghiz tent, and instead of a stable fences of sticks and reeds afford the horses shelter. At one such station three camels are harnessed to the tarantass, and the clumsy animals waddle along so that their humps bob and roll on their backs. The reason for this change is that we are now on the shore of the Sea of Aral, where the soft yielding drifts make it impossible for horses to draw the tarantass. The two rivers, the Syr-darya (or Jaxartes) and the Amu-darya (or Oxus), which rise in the Pamir, flow into the Sea of Aral. The Cossacks carry on a profitable sturgeon fishery in this lake, which in area is not very much smaller than Scotland, and contains a great number of small islands—whence its name, for the word aral means "island."

With fresh horses we speed along the bank of the Syr-darya. Here grow small woods and thickets where tigers stalk their prey, and in the dense reed beds wild boars dig up roots. The shy gazelles like the open country, hares spring over the shrubs, ducks and geese quack on the banks, and flocks of pheasants lure the traveller to sport. The setting sun sheds a gleam of fiery red over the steppe, and as it grows dim the stars begin to twinkle. The monotonous ring of the bells and the shouts of the driver never cease, whether we are near the river or far off in the dreary steppe. The ground becomes soft and swampy. The wheels cut like knives into the mud. We move more and more slowly and heavily, and at last stick fast in the mire. The driver shouts and scolds, and cracks his whip over the team. The middle horse rears, one of the outside horses jibs and the other gathers himself together for a spring which makes the traces break with a loud report. Then the driver jumps down and says, "You must wait here, sir, while I ride back for two more horses." And he trots off in the darkness. After waiting about two hours I hear the tramp of horses in the distance. Now the team is made ready, the two extra horses are attached in front, the coachman takes his place on the box, and with united strength our animals drag the heavy vehicle up out of the slough. We roll and jolt on again with lumps of wet clay dropping and splashing round the wheels.

Samarcand and Bukhara

Russian Central Asia has ten million inhabitants and an area twelve times as large as the British Isles. The part which is called Turkestan extends between Eastern Turkestan and the Caspian Sea, the Kirghiz Steppe, Afghanistan, and Persia. The greater part is occupied by blown sand, the "Red Sand" and the "Black Sand." Right through the desert flow the two rivers, the Syr-darya and Amu-darya. Two railway lines cross Turkestan, one from the Kirghiz Steppe to Tashkent, the other from the Caspian Sea to Tashkent and Ferghana. Ferghana is the most fruitful part of Turkestan and lies between mountains in its eastern portion.

Tashkent, the capital of Turkestan, has 200,000 inhabitants, and is the headquarters of the governor-general. South-west of Tashkent is the district of Samarcand, with a capital of the same name. South-west of Samarcand again, on the north of the Amu-darya, stretches a country called Bukhara, ruled by an Emir, a prince under the supremacy of Russia.

Close to the Caspian Sea, on the east, there is a large area of country called Transcaspia. Central Asia was conquered by Russia forty-five years ago, Transcaspia thirty years ago. Transcaspia is inhabited by Turkomans, a powerful and warlike people, who in former times used to make raids into northern Persia, carrying off men and women, whom they sold as slaves in the markets of Bukhara and Samarcand. General Skobeleff put a check to their domination when he invaded the country in 1880. In order to convey troops and war material into the country a railway was laid down through the desert. It runs from one oasis to another, and hardy desert shrubs were planted or upright palings erected to protect the line from the drifting sand.

When the Turkomans were attacked by the Russians, they withdrew within the walls of the large fortress which is called "The Green Hill." They numbered about 45,000 in all—men, women and children—and they believed that the fortress was impregnable. The Russian general, Skobeleff, had a mine carried under the wall. Inside the fortress the Turkomans heard the soldiers working underground with picks and crowbars, but did not understand what was intended. They supposed that the soldiers would crawl up out of a hole one after another and therefore they assembled with shining weapons above the place of danger. Consequently when the mine exploded a large number of unfortunates were killed, and the enemy stormed in over the ruins of the wall.

A fearful massacre followed of all those who did not seek safety in flight. The Persian slaves and some thousands of women were spared. Twenty thousand bodies lay in heaps within and without the fortress. The Turkomans will never forget that day. The cavalry band played at the head of the columns during the fight. Old Turkomans still remember the strains. They cannot hear regimental bands without weeping for some relative who fell at "The Green Hill." Here was the death-bed of their freedom and they were swallowed up by mighty Russia.

I have crossed Turkestan many times by rail, in tarantass, and on horseback. I have strolled for weeks through the narrow picturesque streets and the gloomy bazaars of the old town called Bukhara, the "Blessed." There silk is produced and carpets are woven; great caravans pass by laden with cotton; disfigured by sores, lepers sit begging in front of the mosques; mulberry trees raise their crowns above artificial ponds. From the summit of a tall minaret criminals used to be thrown down to be dashed to pieces on the street.

Sixty years ago there ruled in Bukhara a cruel Emir who took a delight in torturing human beings. A mechanician from Italy fell into his clutches and was sentenced to death. The Italian promised that if his life were spared he would construct a machine wherewith the Emir could measure the flight of time. His prayer was granted and he made an ordinary clock. This called forth the Emir's astonishment and admiration, and the Italian lived in high favour for a time. Later on, however, the tyrant wished to force him to embrace Islamism, but he steadfastly refused. At that time there was in Bukhara a cave called "the bugs' hole," and into this the unfortunate man was thrown to be eaten up by vermin. Seventy years ago two Englishmen languished in this abominable place.

There are towns in Asia with names which impress us as soon as we hear them, like Jerusalem, Mecca, Benares, Lhasa. Samarcand is one of these. It is not a place of pilgrimage, but it is an ancient town and famous among the Mohammedans of Asia. It was already in existence when Alexander the Great conquered Central Asia. Since then vast swarms of men and migrations of peoples have swept over this region. The Arabs have subdued it, countless hordes of Mongols have passed through it pillaging and devastating, and now at last it lies under the sceptre of the Tsar. Samarcand attained the height of its splendour during the rule of the powerful Timur. When he died in the year 1405 he had conquered all Central Asia, Persia, Mesopotamia, South Russia, Turkey, India and many other countries. This Timur the Lame was not only a great general but a man of culture, for he loved art and science, and listened willingly to the songs of the poets. He built his own mausoleum, which still rears its melon-shaped dome above Samarcand, and had carved in raised letters on a marble tablet the words: "If I still lived, mankind would tremble."

Timur had a wife, Bibi, whom he dearly loved. She expressed a wish that her coffin should not be buried but should remain above ground, and therefore Timur caused to be erected the handsome mosque-tomb which still bears her name. When it was finished the Queen went, attended by her slaves, to inspect her last resting-place. A poisonous snake crept from under an arch. Those present wished to kill it, but the Queen forbade them and caressed the snake, which offered her no harm. When at length she died she was decked with all her jewels—costly pearls, necklaces, and gold bangles—and her coffin was placed in the vault. One night thieves broke into the tomb, opened the coffin and took all the Queen's ornaments; but when they were sneaking off with their booty the snake crept out and bit them so that they died immediately.

The great market-place of Samarcand is one of the finest squares I have seen in Asia. There carts and caravans swarm, there fruit sellers and pitcher-makers take their stand, there dancing dervishes beg for alms. On all four sides stand stately buildings erected by Timur and his successors. Their façades, cupolas and minarets are covered with blue faïence, burned and glazed tiles in varied patterns and texts from the holy book of Islam, the Koran. It is worth while to ascend one of the lofty minarets to take a look over Samarcand. Hence we see innumerable gray mud houses with courts in the centre, pools, canals and gardens, and in the maze of streets, squares and lanes moves a stream of people of Turkish and Persian race. The dark-blue cupolas stand out against the light-blue sky, and are surrounded by luxuriant dark-green vegetation. In autumn the gardens assume a bright yellow tint. In winter the whole country is often buried in snow, and only the bright blue cupolas rise above the whiteness. Samarcand is the "blue" town, just as Jaipur in India is the "pink" town.

The Pamir

To the south-east of Samarcand stand the huge highlands of the Pamir, called by its inhabitants the "Roof of the World," for it seems to them to rise like a roof above all the rest of the earth. From this great centre run the lofty mountain ranges of the earth, the Himalayas, the Trans-himalaya, Karakorum, Kuen-lun, and the Tien-shan on the east, the Hindu-Kush on the west. If you examine the map you will see that most of the ranges of Asia and Europe, and the most important, are connected with it. The Tibetan ranges extend far into China and beyond the Indian peninsula. The Tien-shan is only the first link in a series of mountains which stretch north-eastwards throughout Asia. The continuation of the Hindu-Kush is found in the mountains of northern Persia, in the Caucasus and the chains of Asia Minor, the Balkan Peninsula, the Alps and Pyrenees. The Pamir is like the body of a cuttlefish, which throws out arms in all directions. The Pamir and all the huge mountain ranges which have their roots in this ganglion are the skeleton of Asia, the framework round which the lowlands cling like masses of muscle. Rivers, streams, brooks, and rivulets, are the arteries and capillaries of the Asiatic body. The deserts of the interior are the sickly consumptive parts of the body where vitality is low, while the peninsulas are the limbs which facilitate communication between different peoples across the intervening seas.

In the month of February, 1894, I was at Margelan, which is the capital of Ferghana, the granary of Central Asia, a rich and fruitful valley begirt on all sides by mountains. I had got together a small reliable caravan of eleven horses and three men, one of them being Islam Bay, who was afterwards to serve me faithfully for many years. We did not need to take tents with us, for the Governor gave orders to the Kirghizes, to set up two of their black felt tents wherever I wished to pass the night. We had a good supply of provisions in our boxes, straw and barley in sacks, and steel spades, axes, and alpenstocks, for we had to travel through deep snow, and over smooth, slippery ice. We forgot to procure a dog, but one came to us on the way, begging to be allowed to follow us.

We march southwards up on to the Pamir, following a narrow valley where a foaming stream tumbles over ice-draped boulders. We cross it by narrow, shaking bridges of timber which look like matches when we gaze down on them in the valley bottom from the slopes above. It thaws in the sun, but freezes at night, and our path is like a channel of ice running along the edge of a vertical precipice. We have several Kirghizes with us to give assistance. One of them leads the first horse, which carries two large sacks of straw with my tent bed between them. The horse is shod and can keep his feet on ice, but at one place the path slopes to the edge. The horse stumbles, tries in vain to recover his foothold, rolls over the edge, falls into the chasm, and breaks his back on the bank of the river. The straw is scattered among the stones, my bed dances along the stream, and all the men rush down to save what they can.

Now steps are cut in the ice and the path is strewn with sand. The higher we go the worse the travelling. A Kirghiz leads each horse by the bridle, while another holds on to his tail to help him if he stumbles. To ride is impossible; we crawl along on hands and feet. Darkness follows twilight; the rushing water of the stream gives forth a sound of metallic clearness. We have been travelling more than twelve hours when at last the valley opens, and we see blazing camp fires in front of Kirghiz tents.

We mount higher day after day. We cross a pass, and at this giddy height I experience the unpleasant feelings of mountain sickness—splitting headache, nausea, and singing in the ears. On the further side one of the affluents of the Amu-darya flows westwards. This valley, the Alai, is broad and open, but full of snow in winter. We make our entry into the Alai valley in a howling snowstorm and wade and plunge through drifts. Two Kirghizes go in front with sticks to mark out the way, in order that the horses may not sink in the snow. Our little caravan moves slowly and painfully. One day the snow is so deep that we have to hire four camels, which are led in front of the caravan to tramp out a narrow path for the horses. Everything is white, sky and earth run into one another, and there is nothing black to be seen but the men, camels, and horses.

At every camp we find excellent felt tents set up in readiness for us. Once we had only a short distance to go before reaching camp when we were stopped by a trench filled with snow ten feet deep. The first horse disappeared in a moment as though he had fallen through a trap-door. His load was taken off, and he was pulled up with ropes. Then the Kirghizes thought of a grand way of getting over the treacherous snow. They took the felt covers of the tent and spread them over the snow and led the horses one by one over this yielding bridge.

All this journey we waded and plunged through snowdrifts. One day I sent a horseman on in front to examine the road, and only the horse's head and the rider could be seen above the snow. Another time there was no Kirghiz tent as usual, and we bivouacked round a fire behind a wall of snow in a temperature of 29° below freezing-point. The Kirghizes who should have furnished us with a tent had been delayed on a pass by an avalanche of snow which overwhelmed forty sheep. Six men had struggled on to meet us, but two had stuck fast and were abandoned in the snow. Of the four who arrived in a sorry condition, one had his foot frozen and another had become snow-blind. The Kirghizes usually protect their eyes by a long lock of horse-hair hanging down over the forehead from beneath the cap, or blacken the eye cavities and nose with charcoal.

Wolves swarm in these mountains, and we often saw the spoor of these blood-thirsty robbers. Hunger makes them very daring, and they do great damage to the flocks of the Kirghizes, as they will kill even when they do not wish to eat. A single wolf had recently worried 180 sheep belonging to a Kirghiz. A travelling Kirghiz was attacked in this neighbourhood by a pack of wolves, and when the body was found a couple of days later only the skull and skeleton were left. Another Kirghiz, who was mounted, was attacked and killed, horse and all. Two of my guides had fallen in with twelve wolves the winter before, but fortunately they were armed and killed two of them, which were at once devoured by their comrades.

It is not difficult to imagine the terrible plight of an unarmed Kirghiz attacked by wolves. They track him by scent and pursue him. Their wicked eyes glow with fury and blood-thirstiness. They wrinkle up their upper lips to leave their fangs exposed. Their dripping tongues hang out of their jaws. The traveller hears their sneaking steps behind him, and turning round can distinguish in the dusk their grey coats against the white snow. He grows cold with fright, and putting up a prayer to Allah, springs and dashes through the drifts in the hope of reaching the nearest village of tents.

Every now and again the wolves halt and utter their awful prolonged howl, but in an instant they are after the man again. Every minute they become bolder. The man flies for his life. They know that he cannot hold out long. Now they catch hold of a corner of his fur coat, but let go when he throws his cap at them. They pounce upon it and tear it in pieces. This only whets their appetites. The poor man staggers on until he can hardly put one foot before another, and is almost at his last gasp. This is the moment, and the wolves throw themselves upon him from all sides. He screams, and fights with his hands; he draws out his knife and stabs into the pack in front of him, but a large wolf springs upon him from behind and brings him to the ground. There he has at any rate his back protected, but the eyes and teeth of the wolves gleam above him in the darkness, and he stabs at them with his knife. They know that he will tire of this game soon. Two wolves tear open his boots to get at his feet. He cannot reach them with his knife, so he sits up, and at the same moment the leader seizes him by the neck so that the blood spurts out over the white snow. The wolves have now tasted blood and nothing can restrain them. The man is beside himself and throws himself about thrusting desperately with his knife. The wolves attack him from behind and he falls again on his back. Now his knife moves more slowly. The wolves yelp, bark and pant, and the froth hangs round their teeth. The unfortunate man's eyes grow dim and he closes them, consciousness leaves him and he drops the knife from his hand, and the largest wolf is about to plunge his fangs into his throat. But suddenly the leader stops and utters a short bark, which in wolf's language is equivalent to an oath, for at the foot of an adjacent hill are seen two mounted Kirghizes, who have come out to seek their comrade. The wolves disappear like magic. The poor man lies quite motionless in his tattered furs, and the snow around is stained red with blood. He is unconscious, but is still breathing and his heart beats. His friends bind up his wounds with their girdles and carry him on the back of a horse to the tent, where he soon comes back to life beside the flames of the evening fire.

Of course the Kirghiz must hate wolves. But the animals are cunning and seldom expose themselves to gunshot. Woe to the wolf that is wounded or caught! He is not killed, but the most cruel tortures are devised for him.

When heavy winter snow falls in the Alai valley, the wolves return to the higher wilds of the Pamir where the snow lies less deep, and here they chase the wild sheep, Ovis Poli, as it is named after its discoverer, Marco Polo. It has large, round, elegantly curved horns and is somewhat larger than the wild sheep of Tibet. The wolves chase Marco Polo's sheep by a cunningly devised method. They hunt up a herd and single out some less cautious or less quick-footed member. This animal is forced by a watch posted ready beforehand to take refuge on a projecting rock which is surrounded by wolves. If they can get up to the sheep they take him easily, but if not, they wait till his legs give way with weariness and he falls into the jaws of his pursuers.

Many a time I have met wolves in various parts of Asia, and many sheep, mules, and horses of mine have they destroyed. How often has their dismal howl sounded outside my tent, as though they were calling for my flesh and blood!

We had ridden 300 miles when we came to a small Russian frontier fort which rears its simple walls on the middle of the "Roof of the World," beside one of the headwaters of the Amu-darya. On the other side of the frontier lies the Eastern Pamir, in the dominion of the Emperor of China.

"The Father of Ice-Mountains"

Wherever one may be in the Eastern Pamir one sees the Mus-tagh-ata, the "Father of Ice-Mountains," rear its rounded summit above all the other peaks (see map, p. 56). Its height is 25,800 feet, and accordingly it is one of the loftiest mountains in the world. On its arched crest snow collects, and its under layers are converted by pressure into ice. The mountain is therefore crowned by a snow-covered ice-cap. Where there are flat hollows round the summit, in these also snow is piled up as in bowls. It glides slowly down with its own weight, and by pressure from above is here also converted into ice. Thus are produced great tongues of ice, which move downwards exceedingly slowly, perhaps only a few yards in the year. They are enclosed between huge steep ridges, from which time after time gravel and blocks of stone fall down on to the ice and are carried down to lower levels. The further the ice descends the warmer becomes the air, and then the ice melts in the sun. As it melts below, the stream of ice is forced down from above, so that its lowest margin is always to be found in the same place. The gravel and boulders are brought down thither and piled up together so as to form great mounds and ridges, which are called moraines. The ice-stream itself is called a glacier. Many such tongues of ice fringe Mus-tagh-ata on all sides. They are several miles long and half a mile to a mile broad. The surface is very uneven and consists of innumerable knobs and pyramids of clear ice.

I made several excursions on the glaciers of Mus-tagh-ata on foot or on yaks. One must be well shod so as not to slip, and one must look out for crevasses. Once we were stopped by a crevasse several yards broad and forty-five feet deep. When we stooped over the brim and looked down, it had the appearance of a dark-blue grotto with walls of polished glass, and long icicles hung down from the edges. Streamlets of melted ice run over the surface of the glacier, sometimes flowing quietly and gently as oil in the greenish-blue ice channels, sometimes murmuring in lively leaps. The water can be heard trickling and bubbling at the bottom of the crevasses, and the surface brooks often form fine waterfalls which disappear into chasms of ice. On warm days when the sun shines, thawing proceeds everywhere, and the water trickles, bubbles, and runs all about the ice. But if the weather is dull, cold, and raw, the glaciers are quieter, and when winter comes with its severe cold they are quite hard and still, and the brooks freeze into ice.

The yaks of the Kirghizes are wonderfully sure-footed, and one can ride on them over slippery hillocky ice where a man could not possibly walk. The yak thrusts down his hoofs so that the white powdered ice spurts up around him, and if the slope is so steep that he cannot get foothold, he stretches out all four legs and holds them stiff and rigid as iron and thus slides down without tumbling. Sometimes I rode over moraine heaps of huge granite blocks piled one upon another. Then I had to take a firm grip with my knees, for the yak springs and jumps about like a lunatic.

Accompanied by specially selected Kirghizes, I tried four times to climb to the top of the "Father of Ice-Mountains," but always without success. Our camp was pitched high up among the moraines. Islam Bay, six Kirghizes, and ten yaks were in readiness before sunrise, and we took with us ample provisions, fur coats, spades and alpenstocks, food and a tent. At first we climbed up over gravel, and then over snow which became deeper the higher we went. As the air became rarer, respiration was more difficult, and even the yaks halted frequently to recover their breath. The Kirghizes walked on foot and urged the animals up towards the giddy heights. It took us the whole day to reach a point 20,700 feet above sea-level. At this point we halted for the night, intending to push on higher in the morning, but two of the Kirghizes were so overcome with weariness and headaches that they asked to be allowed to go down again. The others shovelled away the snow and pitched the little tent within a wall of snow. A fire was kindled and the tea-kettle put on, but our appetites were poor, as we were suffering from mountain sickness. The ten yaks stood tethered in the snow outside, and the Kirghizes curled themselves up in their skin coats like hedgehogs. The full moon soared like a silvery white balloon just above the top of the mountain, and I left the tent to enjoy this never-to-be-forgotten spectacle. The glacier below us lay in shadow in its deep bed, but the snow-fields were dazzling white. The yaks stood out jet black against the snow, their nostrils steaming, and the snow crunching under them. Light white clouds floated rapidly from the mountain under the moon. At last I returned to the tent. The fire had died down, and the recently melted snow had frozen into ice. There was a smell of damp and smoke inside, and the men groaned and complained of headache and singing in the ears. I crawled under my furs, but could not sleep. The night was quiet, but at times a dull report was heard when a crevasse was formed in the ice or a boulder fell from the mountain-side.

When I crawled out from under my furs in the morning, a violent snowstorm was sweeping along the flanks of the mountain. Through the dense cloud of whirling snow we could not see our way, and it would have been death to mount to still higher regions. We might be glad if we could struggle down again alive in such weather, so down we started through the drifts, down headlong. We all needed a thorough rest after this experience.

On another occasion we had a perilous adventure on the rounded ice-cap of Mus-tagh-ata. We were marching upwards as usual, suspecting no danger, when the foremost yak, which carried two large bundles of fuel, suddenly sank through the snow and disappeared. Fortunately he was held fast by his horns, a hind leg, and the faggots, and there he hung suspended over a dark yawning chasm. The snow had formed a treacherous bridge over a large crevasse in the ice, and this bridge gave way under the weight of the yak. We had all the trouble in the world to haul him up again with ropes.

A Kirghiz Gymkhana

At the foot of Mus-tagh-ata there is a level and extensive valley, where grass thrives luxuriantly. The black tents of the Kirghizes stand scattered about like spots on a panther's skin. I hired one of these tents for the summer of 1904, and spent several very interesting months in studying the habits and mode of life of the people. If the weather was fine, I made long excursions on horseback or on a yak, and compiled a map of the surrounding country. If rain poured down, I kept inside my own tent, or visited my Kirghiz neighbours and talked with them, for by that time I had learned to speak their language.

Round the large hive-shaped tents fierce dogs keep watch, and small naked sunburnt children tumble about in play. They are charmingly sweet, and it is hard to believe that they will grow up into tall rough half-wild Kirghizes. But all children are attractive and lovable before life and mankind have hardened them. In the tent sit the young women, spinning thread or weaving cloth; the older women are busy with the sour milk and butter behind a partition in the tent, or perhaps they are sitting round a pot, cooking meat. A fire is always burning in the middle of the tent, and the smoke finds its way out through a round opening in the top. The young men are out with the sheep or are looking after the yaks grazing in the mountains. The older men repair saddles and boots, make harness for horses or household utensils. Sometimes they go hunting after wild sheep and goats. When the sun sets the sheep are driven into folds near the tent; the women milk the ewes and yak-cows. During the night a watch is kept on account of the wolves. The Kirghizes are Mohammedans, and are often heard intoning Arabic prayers outside the tents.

Not many days had passed before I was on friendly terms with all the Kirghizes. They perceived that I wished them well, and was glad to live among them. They came from far and near and gave me presents—sheep and milk, wild sheep they had shot, and mountain partridges. All my servants except Islam Bay were Kirghizes, and they followed me willingly wherever I chose to travel.

One day the chiefs of the Kirghizes decided to hold a grand festival in my honour. It was to be a baiga, or gymkhana, and early in the morning small parties of horsemen were seen gathering to the great plain where the wild sport was to take place.

When the sun was at its height I was escorted to the arena by forty-two Kirghizes, who rode beside and behind me. In their best clothes, coloured mantles with girdles and embroidered caps, and with their daggers and knives, fire steel, pipe and tobacco box rattling at their sides, they presented a stately and festal appearance. Among them might be noticed the chief of the Kirghizes who lived on the eastern side of Mus-tagh-ata. His long mantle was dark blue, his girdle light blue; on his head he had a violet cap with a gold border, and at his side dangled a scimitar in a black scabbard. The chief himself was tall, with a thin black beard, scanty moustaches, small oblique eyes and high cheek bones, like most Kirghizes.

The plain in front of us was black with horsemen and horses; there was bustle, neighing, and stamping on all sides. Here the high chief, Khoat Bek, a hundred and eleven years old, sits firmly and surely in his saddle, though bent by the weight of years. His large aquiline nose points down to his short white beard, and on his head he wears a brown turban. He is surrounded by five sons, also grey-bearded old men, mounted on tall horses.

Now the performance began. The spectators rode to one side, leaving an open space in front of us. A horseman dashed forward with a goat in his arms, dismounted, and let the poor animal loose near to us. Another Kirghiz seized the goat by the horn with his left hand, cut off its head with a single blow of his sharp knife, allowed the blood to flow, and then took the goat by the hind legs and rode at full speed round the plain. A troop of riders appeared in the distance and drew near at a furious pace. The hoofs of eighty horses beat the ground and the deafening noise was mingled with wild cries and the rattle of stirrup irons. They rushed swiftly past us in a cloud of dust, making a current of air like a storm of wind. The first rider threw the dead goat, which was still warm, in front of me, and then they whirled off like thunder over the plain.

"Ride back a little, sir," called out some chiefs, "there will be wild work now." We had hardly time to draw back far enough before the excited troop came rushing along, with their horses in a lather, like an avalanche from the mountains. Round the goat there was an inextricable confusion of men and horses, only partially visible in the dust. They were struggling for the goat, and the one who gets it is the winner. They crush together and tear and push; horses shy, rear, or fall down, while other horses leap over them. Holding on to their saddles the horsemen bend down towards the ground and feel for the hide. Some have fallen off and are in danger of being tramped upon, while others are hanging half under their horses.

Still worse becomes the tumult when a couple of men on yaks push themselves into the scrimmage. The yaks prod the horses' loins with their horns. The horses are irritated and kick, and the yaks defend themselves; then there is a perfect bullfight in full swing.

A strong fellow has now succeeded in getting a firm hold of the goat. His horse knows what to do, and backs with his rider out of the scrimmage and flies swiftly as the wind in a wide course round the plain. The others pursue him, and as they turn back they look as if they mean to ride over us with irresistible force. At the last moment, however, the horses stop as if turned to stone; and then the struggle begins again. Many have their faces covered with blood, others have their clothes torn, caps and whips lie scattered over the arena, and one or two horses are lamed.

"It is very well for us who are old that we are not in the crush," I said to Khoat Bek.

"Ah, it is nearly a hundred years ago since I was as old as you are now," the old man answered with a smile.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] A team of three horses abreast.

[9] The word "darya" means "river."

VI

FROM PERSIA TO INDIA (1906)

Tebbes to Seistan

Now we can return to Tebbes and continue our journey to India.

The camels are laden, we mount, the bells ring again, and our caravan travels through the desert for days and weeks towards the south-east. At length we come to the shore of a large lake called the Hamun, which lies on the frontier between Persia and Afghanistan. The Amu-darya forms the boundary between Bukhara and Afghanistan, the northern half of which is occupied by the Hindu-kush mountains. The name means "slaughterer of Hindus," because Hindus who venture up among the mountains after the heat of India have every prospect of being frozen to death in the eternal snow. Large quantities of winter snow are melted in spring, and then rivers and streams pour through the valleys to collect on the plains of southern Afghanistan into a large river called the Hilmend, which flows into the Hamun. As there are no proper boats or ferries on the lake, we had here to take farewell of the camels who had served us so faithfully and had carried us and our belongings through such long stretches of desert. We were sorry to part with them, but there was nothing for it but to sell them to the only dealer who would take them off our hands.

Reeds and rushes grow in abundance along the flat shores of the Hamun, but no trees. The natives build their huts of reeds, and also a curious kind of boat. Handfuls of dry, yellow reeds of last year's growth are tied together into cigar-shaped bundles, and then a number of such bundles are bound together into a torpedo-like vessel several yards long. When laden this reed boat floats barely four inches above the water, but it can never be filled and made to sink by the waves. It is true that the bundles of reeds might be loosened and torn apart by a high sea, but the natives take good care not to go out in bad weather.

It took fourteen of these reed boats to accommodate our party and its belongings. A half-naked Persian stood at the stern of each boat and pushed the vessel along by means of a long pole, for the lake though twelve miles broad is only five or six feet deep. A fresh breeze skimmed the surface when we came out of the reeds into the open lake, and it was very refreshing after weeks of the dry oppressive heat of the desert.

MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM TEHERAN TO BALUCHISTAN
(pp. [46-54] and [72-81]).

After crossing the Hamun we had not more than a couple of hours' ride to the capital of Seistan, Nasretabad. Five months before us another guest had arrived, the plague; and just at the time the black angel of death was going about in search of victims. He took the peasant from the plough and the shepherd from his flock; and the fisherman, who in the morning had gone cheerily to set his nets in the waters of the Hamun, in the evening lay groaning in his hut with a burning fever.

Asia is the birth-place of the ruling peoples, the Aryans, and of the yellow race; it is the cradle of the great religions, Buddhism, Christianity, and Mohammedanism; and it is also the breeding-place of fearful epidemic diseases which from time to time sweep over mankind like devastating waves. Among these is the "Black Death," the plague which in the year 1350 carried off twenty-five millions of the people of Europe. Men thought that it was a divine punishment. Some repented and did penance; others gave themselves up to drunkenness and other excesses. They had then no notion of the deadly bacteria, and of the serum which renders the blood immune from their attacks.

In 1894 a similar wave swept from China through Hong Kong to India, where three millions of human beings died in a few years. I remember a small house in the poor quarter of Bombay which I visited in 1902. The authorities had given orders that when any one died of the plague a red cross should be painted beside the doorpost of the house. And this small house alone had forty crosses.

And now in 1906 the plague had reached Seistan. From the roof of the house where I lived with some English officers, we could see the unfortunate people carrying out their dear ones to the grave. We could see them wash the bodies in a pool outside the walls, and then resume their sad procession. The population of the small town seemed in danger of extermination, and at length the people fled in hundreds. An English doctor and his assistant wished to help them by means of serum injections, but the Mohammedan clergy, out of hatred of the Europeans, made the people believe that it was the Christians who had let loose the disease over the country. Deluded and excited, the natives gathered together and made an attack on the British Consulate, but were repulsed. Then they went back to their huts to die helplessly.

They tried as far as possible to keep the cases of death secret and carried out the corpses at night. Soon the deaths were so frequent that it was impossible to dig proper graves. Those, therefore, who thought of the hyænas and jackals, digged their own graves beforehand. Processions round the mosque of the town were instituted, with black flags and a sacrificial goat at the head, and the mercy of Allah was implored. But Allah did not hear, and infection was spread among the people who flocked together to the processions.

Under the microscope the deadly microbes appear only as quite small elongated dots, though they are magnified twelve hundred times. They live in the blood of rats, whose parasites communicate the infection to human beings. It is therefore most important to exterminate all rats when an outbreak of plague occurs. The disease is terribly infectious. In a house where the angel of death descends and carries off a victim, all the inmates die one after another. Stupidly blind, the natives did not understand what was good for them, and could not be induced to burn infected clothes and the whole contents of a plague-stricken house. They would not part with their worldly goods and preferred to perish with them.

In one house dwelt a poor carpenter with his wife, two half-grown sons and a daughter. For two days the father had been oppressed by a feeling of weakness, and then, his body burning with fever, he lay raving in a corner on the floor of stamped earth. He was indifferent to everything and wished only to be left in peace. If his wife threw a rug over him he groaned, for the lymph glands, which swell up in large tumours, are exceedingly painful. In a couple of days the microbes penetrate from the tumour into the blood and the unfortunate man dies of blood poisoning. The vermin under the man's clothes leave the body as soon as the blood ceases to flow. Then is the danger greatest for the survivors who stand mourning round the deathbed, for the vermin seek circulating blood and carry infection from the corpse with them. It is useless to warn the natives of the danger, for they do not believe a word of it—and so die in their turn.

A Baluchi Raid

We were glad to leave a country where the plague had taken up its abode and to hasten away to the desert tracts of Baluchistan, which still separated us from India. My old servants had taken their departure, and a new retinue, all Baluchis, accompanied me.

We rode jambas, or swift-footed dromedaries, which for generations have been trained for speed. Their legs are long and thin, but strong, with large foot pads which strike the hard ground with a heavy tapping sound as they run. They carry their heads high and move more quickly than the majestic caravan camels; but when they run they lower their heads below the level of the hump and keep it always horizontal.

Two men ride on each jambas, and therefore the saddle has two hollows and two pairs of stirrups. A peg is thrust through the cartilage of the nose and to its ends a thin cord is attached. By pulling this to one side or the other the dromedary may be turned in any direction. My courser had a swinging gait but did not jolt; and I sat comfortably and firmly in the saddle as we left mile after mile behind.

It is not more than thirty or forty years ago since the Baluchis used to make raids into Persian territory, and although much better order is maintained now that the country is under British administration, an escort is still necessary—I had six men mounted on dromedaries and armed with modern rifles. This is how a raid is conducted.

One evening Shah Sevar, or the "Riding King," the warlike chieftain of a tribe in western Baluchistan, sits smoking a pipe by the camp fire in front of his black tent, which is supported by tamarisk boughs (Plate VII.). The tale-teller has just finished a story, when two white-clad men with white turbans on their heads emerge from the darkness of the night. They tie up their dromedaries, humbly salute Shah Sevar, who invites them to sit down and help themselves to tea from an iron pot. Other men come up to the fire. All carry long guns, spears, swords, and daggers. Some lead two or three dromedaries each.

PLATE VII. A BALUCHI NOMAD TENT.

Fourteen men are now gathered round the fire. There is a marked silence in the assembly, and Shah Sevar looks serious. At length he asks, "Is everything ready?"

"Yes," is the reply from all sides.

"Are the powder and shot horns filled?"

"Yes."

"And the provisions packed in their bags?"

"Yes—dates, sour cheese, and bread for eight days."

"I told you the day before yesterday that this time we shall strike at Bam. Bam is a populous town. If we are discovered too early the fight may be hot. We must steal through the desert like jackals. The distance is three hundred miles, four days' journey."

Again Shah Sevar stares into the fire for a while and then asks, "Are the jambas in good condition?"

"Yes."

"And ten spare dromedaries for the booty?"

"Yes."

Then he rises and all the others follow his example. Their wild, bold faces glow coppery-red in the light of the fire. They consider petty thieving a base occupation, but raiding and pillaging an honourable sport, and boast of the number of slaves they have captured in their day.

"Mount," commands the chieftain in a subdued voice. Muskets are thrown over the shoulder and rattle against the hanging powder-horn and the leather bag for bullets, flint, steel, and tinder. Daggers are thrust into belts, and the men mount without examining the saddle-girths and bridles, for all has been carefully made ready beforehand. The spear is secured in front of the saddle. "In the name of Allah," calls out Shah Sevar, and the party rides off through the night at a steady pace.

The path they follow is well known and the stars serve as guides. Day breaks, the sun rises, and the shadows of the dromedaries point towards Bam over the hard yellow sand where not a shrub grows. Not a word has been spoken during the night, but when the first seventy miles have been traversed the chief says, "We will rest a while at the Spring of White Water." On arriving at the spring they refill their water-skins and let the dromedaries drink. Then they go up into the neighbouring hills and wait till the hot hours of the day are over. They never encamp at the springs, for there they are likely to meet with other people.

At dusk they are in the saddle again. They ride harder than during the first night and travel till they come to a salt spring. The third night the dromedaries begin to breathe more heavily, and when the sun rises flecks of white froth hang from their trembling lips. They are not tired but only a little winded, and they press on through clouds of dust without their riders having to urge them.

Now the party leaves behind it the last desert path, which is only once in a while used by a caravan, and beyond it is a perfect wilderness of hardened salt-impregnated mud. Nothing living can be seen, not even a stray raven or vulture which might warn the people in Bam of their danger. Without rest the robber band pushes on all day, as silent as the desert, the only sounds being the long-drawn breathing of the dromedaries and the rasping sound of their foot-pads on the ground. When the reflection of the evening sky lies in purple shades over the desert, they have only ten or twelve miles more to go.

Shah Sevar pulls up his dromedary and orders a halt in muffled tones, as though he feared that his voice might be heard in Bam. With a hissing noise the riders make their animals kneel and lie down, and then they spring out of the saddle, and tie the end of the cord round the dromedaries' forelegs to prevent the animals from getting up and making a noise and thus spoiling the plan. All are tired out and stretch themselves on the ground. Some sleep, others are kept awake by excitement, while four riders go scouting in different directions. Bam itself cannot be seen, but the hill is visible at the foot of which the town stands. The men long for night and the cover of darkness.

The day has been calm and hot, but now the evening is cool and the shadows dense. A faint breeze comes from the north, and Shah Sevar smiles. If the wind were from the east, he would be obliged to make a detour in order not to rouse the dogs of the town. It is now nine o'clock and in an hour the people of Bam will be asleep. The men have finished their meal, and have wrapped up the remainder of the dates, cheese, and bread in their bundles and tied them upon the dromedaries.

"Shall we empty the waterskins so as to make the loads lighter for the attack?" asks a Baluchi.

"No," answers Shah Sevar; "keep all the water that is left, for we may not be able to fill the skins in the town before our retreat."

"It is time," he says; "have your weapons ready." They mount again and ride slowly towards the town.

"As soon as anything suspicious occurs I shall quicken my pace and you must follow. You three with the baggage camels keep in the rear."

The robbers gaze in front like eagles on their prey, and the outlines of the hill gradually rise higher above the western horizon. Now only three miles remain, and their sight, sharpened by an outdoor life, distinguishes the gardens of Bam. They draw near. The bark of a dog is heard, another joins in—all the dogs of the town are barking; they have winded the dromedaries.

"Come on," shouts the chief. With encouraging cries the dromedaries are urged forward; their heads almost touch the ground; they race along while froth and dust fly about them. The dogs bark furiously and some of them have already come out to meet the dromedaries. Now the wild chase reaches the entrance to the town. Cries of despair are heard as the inhabitants are wakened; and women and wailing children escape towards the hill. The time is too short for any organised defence. There is no one to take the command. The unfortunate inhabitants run over one another like scared chickens and the riders are upon them. Shah Sevar sits erect on his dromedary and leads the assault. Some jump down and seize three men, twelve women, and six children, who are hastily bound and put in charge of two Baluchis, while others quickly search some houses close at hand. They come out again with two youths who have made a useless resistance, a couple of sacks of grain, some household goods, and all the silver they could find.

"How many slaves?" roars Shah Sevar.

"Twenty-three," is answered from several directions.

"That is enough; pack up." The slaves and the stolen goods are bound fast on dromedaries. "Quick, quick," shouts the chief. "Back the way we came." In the hurry and confusion some of the animals get entangled in one another's ropes. "Back! Back!" The chieftain's practised eye has detected a party of armed men coming up. Three shots are heard in the darkness, and Shah Sevar falls backwards out of the saddle, while his dromedary starts and flies off into the desert. The rider's left foot is caught fast in the stirrup and his head drags in the dust. A bullet has entered his forehead, but the blood is staunched by the dust of the road. His foot slips out of the stirrup, and the "Riding King" lies dead as a stone outside Bam.

Another robber is severely wounded and is cut to pieces by the townsmen. Bam has waked up. The entangled dromedaries with their burdens of slaves and goods are captured, but the rest of the party, twelve riders with ten baggage camels, have vanished in the darkness, pursued by some infuriated dogs. Sixteen of the inhabitants of the town are missing. The whole thing has taken place in half an hour. Bam sleeps no more this night.

Now the dromedaries are urged on to the uttermost; they have double loads to carry, but they travel as quickly as they came. The kidnapped children cease to cry, and fall asleep with weariness and the violent swaying motion. The party rides all night and all the next day without stopping, and the robbers often look round to see if they are pursued. They rest for the first time at the salt spring, posting a look-out on an adjacent mound. They eat and drink without losing a minute, and get ready for the rest of the ride. The captives are paralysed with fright; the young women are half choked with weeping, and a little lad in a tattered shirt goes about crying vainly for his mother. The eyes of the captives are blindfolded with white bandages that they may not notice the way they are travelling and try later to escape back to Bam. Then the headlong ride is resumed, and after eight days the troop of riders is back at home with their booty, but without their chief.

Innumerable raids of this kind have scourged eastern Persia, and in the same way Turkomans have devastated Khorasan in the north-east. On the eastern frontier it is the Kurds who are the robbers. In this disturbed frontier region there is not a town without its small primitive mud fort or outlook tower.

Scorpions

On running dromedaries we now ride on eastwards through northern Baluchistan. Dry, burnt-up desert tracts, scantily clothed with thistles and shrubs, moving dunes of fine yellow sand, low hill ridges disintegrated by alternate heat and cold—such is the country where a few nomads wander about with their flocks, and the stranger often wonders how the animals find a living. In certain valleys, however, there is pasture and also water, and sometimes belts of thriving tamarisks are passed, and bushes of saxaul with green leafy branches, hard wood, and roots which penetrate down to the moisture beneath the surface.

The great caravan road we are following is, however, exceedingly desolate. Only at the stations is water to be found, and even that is brackish; but the worst trial is the heat, which now, at the end of April, becomes more oppressive every day. The temperature rises nearly up to 105-1/2° in the shade, and to ride full in the face of the sun is like thrusting one's head into a blazing furnace. When there is a wind we are all right, and the sand whirls like yellow ghosts over the heated ground. But when the air is calm the outlines of the hills seem to quiver in the heat, and the barrel of a gun which has been out in the sun blisters the hands on being touched. In the height of the summer the Baluchis wrap strips of felt round their stirrup-irons to protect the dromedaries from burns on the flanks.

This region is one of the hottest in the world. The sun stands so high at mid-day that the shadows of the dromedaries disappear beneath them. You long for sunset, when the shadows lengthen out and the worst of the heat is over. It is not really cool even at night, when, moreover, you are plagued with whole swarms of gnats.

Baluchistan and Persia abound with scorpions, which are indeed to be found in all the hot regions of the five continents. About two hundred species have been distinguished. Some are quite small, others six inches long. Some are dark-brown, others reddish, and others again straw-yellow, as in Baluchistan. The body consists of a head and thorax without joints, and a hinder part of seven articulated rings, besides six tail rings. The last ring, the thirteenth, contains two poison glands and is furnished with a sting as fine as a needle. The poison is a fluid clear as water.

Scorpions live in rotten tree-trunks, under stones, on walls, and as they like warmth they often enter houses and huts, and creep into clothes and beds.

The scorpion leaves his dark den at night and sets out on the hunt. He holds his tail turned up over his back, in order to keep his sting from injury and to be ready at once for attack or defence. When he meets with a desirable victim, such as a large spider, he darts quickly forward, seizes it with his claws, which are like those of crabs, raises it above his head in order to examine it with his eyes, which are turned upwards, and gives it the death-stroke with his sting. Then he sucks up the softer parts and grinds the harder between his jaws.

The young ones, which are active as soon as they are born, are like the old ones from the first day, but are light-coloured and soft. They crawl about their mother's back and legs and do not leave her body for some time. When that happens the mother dies, having meanwhile wasted away.

The sting of large scorpions is dangerous even to human beings. Cases have been known of a man dying in great agony twelve hours after being stung. Others get cramp, fever, and pains before they begin to recover. A man who has often been stung becomes at last insensible to the poison.

Many a time I have found scorpions in Asiatic huts, in my tent, on my bed, and under my boxes, but I have never been stung by one. On the other hand, it has been the fate of many of my servants, and they told me that it was difficult to find out where the scorpion had stung them, for their bodies sweated and burned equally intensely all over. In Eastern Turkestan it is the practice to catch the scorpion which has stung a man and crush him into a paste, which is laid over the puncture made by the sting. But whether this is a real cure I do not know.

The Indus

After travelling 1500 miles on camels and dromedaries, the whistle of an engine sounds like the sweetest music to the ear. At Nushki (see map, p. 132), the furthermost station of the Indian railway, I took leave of my Baluchi servants, stepped into a train, and was carried past the garrison town of Quetta south-eastwards to the Indus. Here we find that one branch of the railway follows the river closely on its western bank to Karachi, one of the principal seaports of British India. Our train, however, carries us northwards along the eastern bank to Rawalpindi, an important military station near the borders of Kashmir.

MAP OF NORTHERN INDIA, SHOWING RIVERS AND MOUNTAIN RANGES.

In the large roomy compartment it is as warm as it was lately in Baluchistan, or nearly 107°. To shade the railway carriages from the burning sun overhead, they are provided with a kind of wooden cover with flaps falling down half over the windows. The glass is not white, as in European carriage windows, but dark blue or green, otherwise the reflexion of the sunlight from the ground would be too dazzling. On either side two windows have, instead of glass, a lattice of root fibres which are kept wet automatically night and day. Outside the window is a ventilator, which, set in action by the motion of the train, forces a rapid current of air through the wet network of fibres. Thereby the air is cooled some eighteen or twenty degrees, and it is pleasant to sit partly undressed in the draught.

Look a moment at the map. South of the Himalayas the Indian peninsula forms an inverted triangle, the apex of which juts out into the Indian Ocean like a tooth, but the northern part, at the base, is broad. Here flow the three large rivers of India, the Indus, the Ganges, and the Bramaputra. The last mentioned waters the plains of Assam at the eastern angle of the triangle. On the banks of the Ganges stands a swarm of famous large towns, some of which we shall visit when we return from Tibet. The Ganges and Bramaputra have a delta in common, through which their waters pass by innumerable arms out into the Bay of Bengal.

At the western angle of the triangle the Indus streams down to the Arabian Sea. The sources of the Indus and Bramaputra lie close to each other, up in Tibet, and the Himalayas are set like an immense jewel between the glistening silver threads of the two rivers. On the west the Indus cuts through a valley as much as 10,000 feet deep, and on the east the Bramaputra makes its way down to the lowlands through a deep-cut cleft not less wild and awesome.

The Indus has several tributaries. In foaming waterfalls and roaring rapids they rush down from the mountains to meet their lord. The largest of them is called the Sutlej, and the lowlands through which it flows are called the Punjab, a Persian word signifying "five waters." The Indus has thirteen mouths scattered along 150 miles of coast, and the whole river is 2000 miles long, or somewhat longer than the Danube.

In the month of July, 325 years before the birth of Christ, Aristotle's pupil, Alexander, King of Macedonia, floated down the Indus with a fleet of newly built ships and reached Pattala, where the arms of the delta diverge. He found the town deserted, for the inhabitants had fled inland, so he sent light troops after them to tell them that they might return in peace to their homes. A fortress was erected at the town, and several wharves on the river bank.

He turned over great schemes in his mind. Had he not at twenty years of age taken over the government of the little country of Macedonia, and subdued the people of Thrace, Illyria, and Greece? Had he not led his troops over the Hellespont, defeated the Persians, and conquered the countries of Asia Minor, Lycia, Cappadocia, and Phrygia, where with a blow of his sword he had severed the Gordian knot, a token of supremacy over Asia? At Issus, on the rectangular bay facing Cyprus, he had inflicted a crushing defeat on the great King of Persia, Darius Codomannus, who with the united forces of his kingdom had come to meet him. At Damascus he captured all the Persian war funds, and afterwards took the famous commercial towns of the Phoenicians, Tyre and Sidon. Palestine fell, and Jerusalem with the holy places. On the coast of Egypt he founded Alexandria, which now, after a lapse of 2240 years, is still a flourishing city. He marched through the Libyan desert to the oasis of Zeus Ammon, where the priests, after the old Pharaonic custom, consecrated him "Son of Ammon."

He passed eastwards into Asia, crossed the Euphrates, defeated Darius again at the Tigris, and reduced proud Babylon and Shushan, where 150 years previously King Ahasuerus, who reigned "from India even unto Ethiopia over an hundred and seven and twenty provinces," made a feast for his lords and "shewed the riches of his glorious kingdom and the honour of his excellent majesty." Then he advanced to Persepolis and set on fire the palace of the Great King to show that the old empire had passed away. Pursuing Darius through Ispahan and Hamadan, he afterwards turned aside into Bactria, the present Russian Central Asia, and marched northwards to the Syr-darya and the land of the Scythians. Thence, with an army of more than a hundred thousand men, he proceeded southwards and conquered the Punjab and subdued all the people living west of the Indus.

Now he had come to Pattala, and he thought of the victories he had gained and the countries he had annexed. He had appointed everywhere Greeks and Macedonians to rule in conjunction with the native princes and satraps.[10] The great empire must be knit together into a solid unity, and Babylon was to be its capital. Only in the west there was still an enormous gap to be conquered, the desert through which we have lately wandered on the way from Teheran through Tebbes and Seistan and Baluchistan.

In order to reduce the people living here he despatched a part of his host by a northerly route through Seistan to north Persia. He himself led forty thousand men along the coast. Twelve thousand men were to sail and row the newly-built ships along the coast of the Arabian Sea, through the Straits of Hormuz, and along the northern coast of the Persian Gulf to the mouth of the Euphrates. No Greek had ever navigated this sea before, and with the vessels of the period the enterprise was a most dangerous one, as absolutely nothing was known about the coast to be followed. But it was necessary, for Alexander wished to secure for himself the command of the sea route between the mouths of the Euphrates and Indus, so as to connect the western and eastern parts of his kingdom. It was to supply the fleet with provisions and water that he chose for himself the dangerous desert route along the coast. Of the 40,000 men who accompanied him on this march, no less than 30,000 died of thirst! The high admiral, Nearchus of Crete, performed his task with brilliant success. His voyage was one of the most remarkable ever achieved on the oceans of the globe. The chart he compiled is so exact that it may be used at the present day, though the coast has since then undergone changes in some places and has been further silted up with sand and made shallower.

Alexander would not let his fleet start on its adventurous voyage before he was himself convinced of the navigability of the Indus and had acquainted himself with the aspect of the great ocean. Accordingly he sailed down the western arm of the Indus with the swiftest vessels of the fleet—thirty-oared boats, and small triremes, or vessels whereon the 150 naked oarsmen sat on three tiers of benches above one another with oars of different lengths projecting through port-holes in the hull. The vessels were protected by troops which followed them on the bank.

In the midst of summer, when the river is at its highest level and overflows the banks for miles, it is no pleasure excursion to steer ungainly boats between banks of sand and silt without pilots. On the second day a strong southerly storm arose, and the dangerous waves in the whirlpools of the current capsized many vessels and damaged others. Alexander made for the bank to look for fishermen who might act as pilots, and under their guidance he continued his voyage. The river became wider and wider, and the fresh salt breeze from the ocean became ever more perceptible; but the wind increased, for the south-west monsoon was at its height. The grey turbid water rose in higher billows and made rowing difficult, for the oars either did not touch the water or dipped too deeply into it. It was the flood tide running up from the sea which impeded their progress, but the ebb and flow of the sea was new to them. Eventually Alexander sought the shelter of a creek, and the vessels were dragged ashore. Then came the ebb, and the water fell as though it were sucked out into the sea. The boats were left high and dry, and many of them sank deep in the mud. Astonished and bewildered, Alexander and his men could get neither forward nor backward. They had just made preparations to get the ships afloat, when the tide returned and lifted them.

Now they went farther down-stream and came in contact with the raging surf of the monsoon, which advances in light-green foam-crowned waves far into the mouth and changes the colour of the river water. The collision of the Indus current with the rising tide fills the fairway with whirlpools and eddies, which are exceedingly dangerous even for the best of vessels of the present day. Several ships were lost, some being thrown up on the banks, while others dashed together and went to pieces.

After they had taken note of the regular rise and fall of the tide, they could avoid danger, and the fleet arrived safely at an island where shelter could be obtained by the shore and where fresh water was abundant. From here the foaming, roaring surf at the very mouth of the Indus could be seen, and above the rolling breakers appeared the level horizon of the ocean.

With the best of the vessels Alexander went out to ascertain whether the surf could be passed through without danger and the open sea be reached. The trial proved successful, and another island was found, begirt on all sides by open sea. The ships then returned in the dusk to the larger island, where a solemn sacrifice was made to Ammon to celebrate the first sight of the sea and of the margin of the inhabited world towards the south.

Next day Alexander rowed right out to sea to convince himself that no more land existed, and when he had advanced so far that nothing but sky and rolling billows could be seen from the uppermost benches of the triremes, he offered sacrifices to Poseidon, the god of the sea, to the Nereids, and to the silver-footed sea-goddess Thetis, the mother of Achilles, father of his race. And he besought the favour of all the gods in the great enterprise which had brought him to the mouth of the Indus, and their protection for his fleet on its dangerous voyage to the Euphrates; and when his prayer was ended he cast a golden goblet into the sea.

Alexander died at Babylon at the age of thirty-three. His world-embracing campaign spread Greek enlightenment over all western Asia, and his eventful life did not pass like a meteor into the night of time without leaving a trace behind.

Kashmir and Ladak

When I arrived at Rawalpindi the first thing I did was to order a tonga for the drive of 180 miles to Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. A tonga is a two-wheeled tilted cart drawn by two horses, which are changed every half hour, for as long as the pair are on the way they go at full speed. The road was excellent, and we left the hot suffocating steam of India below us as we ascended along the bank of the Jhelum River. Sometimes we dashed at headlong speed over stretches of open road bathed in sunlight; sometimes through dark cool tunnels where the driver blew a sonorous signal with his brass horn; and then again through rustling woods of pine-trees.

PLATE VIII. SRINAGAR AND THE JHELUM RIVER.

Srinagar is a beautiful city, intersected as it is by the rippling Jhelum River and winding canals (Plate VIII.). The houses on their banks rise up directly from the water, and long, narrow, graceful boats pass to and fro, propelled at a swift pace by broad-bladed oars in the hands of active and muscular white-clad Kashmiris.

Kashmir is one of the native states of our Indian Empire, and its inhabitants number about three millions. Many of them are artistic and dexterous craftsmen, who make fine boxes and caskets inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and ebony; beautifully chased weapons; tankards, bowls, and vases of beaten silver with panthers and elephants on the sides, chasing one another through the jungle. The saddlery and leather work of all kinds cannot be surpassed, but most famous of all the manufactures are the soft, dainty Kashmir shawls, so fine that they can be drawn through a finger ring.

Round about the Kashmir valley stand the ridges and snow-clad heights of the Himalayas, and among them lie innumerable valleys. Up one of these valleys toiled our caravan of thirty-six mules and a hundred horses, and after a journey of some 250 miles to the eastward we arrived again at the banks of the Indus and crossed it by a swaying bridge of wood. Two days later the poplars of Leh stood in front of us.

This little town is nearly 11,500 feet above sea-level. It contains an open bazaar street, and a mound above the town is crowned by the old royal castle. Leh, as well as the whole of the district of Ladak, is subject to the Maharaja of Kashmir, but the people are mostly of Tibetan race and their religion is Lamaism.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] A "satrap" was originally a governor of a province in ancient Persia.

VII

EASTERN TURKESTAN (1895)

The Takla-makan Desert

We are now on the high road between India and Eastern Turkestan, the most elevated caravan route in the world. Innumerable skeletons of transport animals lie there, marking where the road passes through snow. After a month's journey over the cold, lofty mountains we come to the town of Yarkand, in the spacious, flat, bowl-shaped hollow, surrounded on all sides except the east by mountains, which is called Eastern Turkestan.

To the south stand the immense highlands of Tibet, where the great rivers of India and China take their rise. On the west is the Pamir, the "Roof of the World," where the two great rivers of the Sea of Aral begin their course. On the north lie the Tien-shan, or Mountains of Heaven, which are continued farther north-eastwards by the Altai and several other mountain systems, among which the gigantic rivers of Siberia have their origin. Within this ring of mountains, at the very heart of the great continent of Asia, lies this lowland of Eastern Turkestan, like a Tibetan sheepfold enclosed by enormous walls of rock.

In its northern part a river called the Tarim flows from west to east. It is formed by the Yarkand-darya and the Khotan-darya on the south, and receives other affluents along its course, for water streams down from the snowfields and glaciers of the wreath of mountains enclosing Eastern Turkestan. The head-waters of the Tarim leap merrily down through narrow valleys among the mountains, but the great river is doomed never to reach the sea. It terminates and is lost in a desert lake named Lop-nor.

Trees grow along this river, mostly small, stunted poplars, but the wooded belts along the banks are very narrow; soon the trees thin out and come to an end, steppe shrubs and tamarisks take their place, and only a mile or two from the river there is nothing but deep sand without a sign of vegetation. The greater part of Eastern Turkestan is occupied by the desert called Takla-makan, the most terrible and dangerous in the world.

MAP OF EASTERN TURKESTAN, SHOWING JOURNEYS DESCRIBED ON pp. [89-110].

A belt of desert runs through the whole of Asia and Africa, like a dried-up river bed. This belt includes the Gobi, which extends over most of Mongolia, the Takla-makan, the "Red Sand" and the "Black Sand" in Russian Turkestan, the Kevir and other deserts in Persia, the deserts of Arabia, and lastly the Sahara. In this succession of deserts extending over the Old World from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic the Takla-makan is, then, a link.

Across a Sea of Sand

In the beginning of April, 1895, I had reached the Yarkand-darya and had encamped at a village, Merket, on its eastern bank. My plan was to cross the Takla-makan desert, which stretches away to the eastward, and to reach the river Khotan-darya, which flows northwards, the distance being 180 miles. My caravan consisted of four servants and eight camels; and we took provisions for two months—for we intended afterwards to travel on to Tibet—and water for twenty-five days in four iron cisterns.

We started on April 10. A white camel was led in front by a man we called the guide, because every one said that he had often been in the desert seeking for treasure. My riding camel was led by a white-bearded man named Muhamed Shah. Kasim came at the end of the file, and the faithful Islam Bay, who superintended the whole, was my confidential servant. We had also two dogs, Yolldash and Hamra, three sheep, ten hens, and a cock. The last did not like riding on a camel. He was always working his way out through the bars of his cage, and fluttering down to the ground with a loud crow.

For the first few days all went on quietly and satisfactorily. At night we could always obtain water for the camels and other animals by digging, and thus we saved the fresh river-water in our tanks. But the sand became gradually higher and forced us to diverge to the north-east. On April 18 we came to a morass surrounded by wood so thick that we had to clear a way with the axe. Next day we encamped on the shore of a lake of beautiful blue water where ducks and geese were swimming about, and my tent was set up under a couple of poplars.

Another day's march led us along the shore of a long lake with bare banks. We encamped at its southern extremity and rested a day, for here nothing could be seen towards the south and west but yellow sand. The guide asserted that it was four days' journey eastwards to the river Khotan-darya, and this statement agreed approximately with existing maps, but I took the precaution of ordering the men to take water for ten days.

On April 23 we left the last bay of the last lake to plunge into the high sand. All vegetation came to an end, and only in some hollow a solitary tamarisk was still to be seen. The sandhills became ever higher, rising to as much as 100 feet.

The next day we marched on in a violent storm. The sand swept down in clouds from the crests of the dunes, penetrating into our mouths, noses, and eyes. Islam Bay led our train and looked for the easiest way for the camels. We noticed, however, that they were already beginning to get tired. Sometimes they fell in the sand, and their loads had to be taken off before they could get up again. When the tent was set up we had made only eight miles. Now there was not a sign of life, not a moth fluttered round my candle, not a wind-borne leaf was seen in the boundless yellow sand.

On the morning of the 25th I made a terrible discovery: two cisterns were empty and the other two contained only enough water for two days. Henceforth Islam Bay was put in charge of the cisterns. The water was treasured like gold and served out in driblets.

I travelled on foot to spare my riding camel and encourage the men. The caravan moved more slowly through the murderous sands. One camel, called Old Man, lagged behind. We waited an hour, and gave him a mouthful of water and a handful of hay from his own pack-saddle. When we went on, he was led slowly after us by Muhamed Shah.

With Islam I measured out the last drops of water on the night of the 26th. There were about two small cups daily for each of us for three days. The next day we plunged again into terrible sand, the dunes being 200 feet high. In the evening we saw dense rain-clouds in the west, and hoped that Heaven would have compassion on us. The clouds spread out and came still nearer. All our vessels were made ready, and the tent was stretched on the ground to collect the sweet water which was to save us. We waited in vain, for the clouds dispersed and yielded us not a drop.

The two tired-out camels had been abandoned at the beginning of the day, and we had thrown away a stove, a carpet, my tent-bed, and two empty water cisterns.

On April 28 we were awakened by a north-easterly storm, one of those "black storms" which stir up the drift-sand in dense clouds and turn day into night. All the camp was buried in sand. Only the nearest camels could be seen, and their track was immediately obliterated. We had to keep all together lest we should lose one another. It was quite possible to lose the caravan at a distance of a few paces, and that meant death. We were almost suffocated by the volumes of sand which whirled about us, and had to rest frequently to get our breath. The camels lay down with their heads to leeward, and we thrust our faces under them that we might not be choked with sand.

Then we went on with faltering steps. A camel fell and I sent two men after him. They came back directly, saying that the track was smoothed out by the wind and that they dared not lose sight of us. That was the third victim. At the evening camp everything not absolutely indispensable was sorted out to be left behind, and a stick was set up on the nearest dune with a newspaper wrapped round it so that we might find the place again if we obtained water soon. There was still a little water left in the two cans, but next morning Islam came and told me that one of them was empty. There can be little doubt that the guide was the thief who had robbed us all. With failing steps we struggled on all day among the high sand dunes.

On the morning of the 30th there was less than two-thirds of a pint of water left in the last can. While the others were engaged in loading the camels, Islam surprised the guide as he stood with the can to his mouth. Islam fell upon him furiously, threw him to the ground, and would have killed him if I had not come up in time. Only one-third of a pint was now left. At mid-day I moistened the men's lips with the corner of a handkerchief dipped in water. In the evening the last drops were to be distributed, but when the time came the can was found to be absolutely empty. Kasim and Muhamed, who led the camels, had drunk it all.

The End of the Caravan

The night was cold, but the sun had not long risen on May 1 before the heat spread over the dunes. The men drank the last of some rancid vegetable oil which had been intended for the camels. I was tortured with thirst, as I had not drunk a drop of water the day before, and before that only a few mouthfuls. Thirst is a fearful thing, driving one to despair, and almost depriving one of reason. As the body dries up, the desire for water leaves one no peace. We had a flask of Chinese spirits which were intended for a cooking stove. I now drank about a tumblerful of it to give my body a little moisture, and then I threw the flask away and let its dangerous contents run out into the sand.

The insidious liquor undermined my strength. When the caravan toiled on through the dunes I could not follow it. I crept and staggered in its track. The bells rang out clearly in the quiet air, but the sound became fainter, and at length died away in the distance. The silent desert lay around me—sand, sand, sand in all directions.

Following slowly in the footsteps of the others, I came at last to the crest of a dune, where I saw that the camels of the caravan had laid themselves down. Muhamed Shah was on his knees imploring help from Allah. Kasim was sitting with his face in his hands, weeping and laughing alternately. Islam, who had been exploring in front, came back and proposed that we should look for a place where we could dig for water (Plate IX.). I therefore mounted the white camel, after his load—ammunition boxes, two European saddles, and a number of other articles—had been thrown away, but the animal would not get up. We then decided to stay where we were and wait for the cool of evening, and the tent was set up to afford us shade. Even Yolldash and the sheep came in.

PLATE IX. DIGGING FOR WATER IN THE TAKLA-MAKAN.

At mid-day a gentle breeze sprang up, and the air felt pleasant and refreshing. We killed the cock and drank its blood. Then Islam turned the head of the sheep towards Mecca, cut off its head, and collected the blood in a pail, but it was thick and smelt offensively, and not even the dog Yolldash would touch it.

We now sorted out all our belongings, taking with us only what was absolutely necessary at the moment, and leaving everything else behind in the tent. The guide had lost his reason and filled his mouth with sand, thinking it was water. He and old Muhamed Shah, who was also dying, had to be left behind.

At seven o'clock I mounted the white camel. Islam led the train and Kasim urged the animals on. The funeral bells, now rang for the last time. From a high sandy crest I turned a farewell glance at the death camp. The tent marked out a dark triangle against the lighter background, and then vanished behind the sand.

The night descended sadly and silently over the earth. We tramped through loose sand, up and down, without seeing where we were going. I jumped down from my camel, lighted the lantern, and walked on in front to see where it was easiest for the camels to follow.

Then Islam reeled up to me and whispered that he could go no farther. I bade him farewell, cheered him up, told him to rest and then follow in my track, abandoning everything. The camels were lying half-dead with necks stretched out. Kasim alone was fit to accompany me farther. He took a spade and a pail and the paunch of the sheep. I had only my watch, compass, a penknife, a pen, and a scrap of paper, two small tins of lobster and chocolate, a small box, matches and ten cigarettes. But the food gave us little satisfaction, for when the mouth, palate, and throat are as dry as the outer skin it is impossible to swallow.

It was exactly twelve o'clock. We had been shipwrecked in the midst of the desert sea, and were now trying to reach a coast. The lantern stood burning beside Islam Bay, but the light was soon hidden by the dunes.

We were clad as lightly as possible. Kasim had a thin jacket, wide trousers, and boots, but he had forgotten his cap, so I lent him my pocket handkerchief to wind round his head. I wore a white Russian cap, stiff Swedish shoes, woollen underclothing, and a white suit of thin cotton cloth. I had changed my clothes at the death camp that I might have a neat clean shroud if I died.

We pushed on with the energy of despair, but after two hours we were so sleepy that we had to rest a while. The coolness of the night woke us up at four o'clock, and we kept on the march till nine. Then we rested again and walked on farther till twelve o'clock, when we were again overcome by weariness and the burning heat of the day. In a sandy slope facing northwards Kasim digged out cool sand in which we burrowed stark naked with only our heads out. To protect ourselves from sunstroke we made a screen by hanging up clothes on the spade. At six o'clock we got up again and walked for seven hours. Our strength was giving way, and we had to rest more frequently. At one o'clock we were slumbering on a dune.

There we lay quite three hours, and then went on eastwards. I always held the compass in my hand. The next day had dawned, May 3, when Kasim stopped, caught hold of my shoulder, and pointed eastwards without saying a word. A small dark speck was seen in the distance; it was a green tamarisk! Its roots must go down to the water below the surface, or it could not live in the desert sea. We thanked God when we came up to it. We had now some hope of safety, and we chewed the soft needles of the tamarisks like beasts. We tarried a while under its slight shadow, and then walked till half-past nine, when we fell down with faintness at another bush.

We again undressed and buried ourselves in sand, lying without speaking a word for quite nine hours. At dusk we dragged ourselves on again with halting steps. After three hours of march Kasim again stopped suddenly. Something dark peeped out from among the dunes—three fine poplars with sappy foliage. The leaves were too bitter to eat, but we rubbed them on the skin until it became moist.

Here we tried to dig a well, but the spade fell out of our powerless hands. We then lay down and scraped with our hands, but could not do much. Instead we collected all the dry branches we could find and made a blazing fire as a beacon for Islam, and to attract attention from the east, for we knew that a caravan road ran along the Khotan river.

At four o'clock on May 4 we moved on again, but after five hours we were utterly exhausted. We threw ourselves heedlessly on the sand, for Kasim was unable to dig the usual burrow. I wriggled naked into the cool dune and lay there ten hours without closing an eye.

When at last the shadows spread over the earth and I was ready to set out, Kasim murmured that he could go no farther. I did not even remember to bid him farewell when I went on my way alone through the darkness and sand. Just after midnight I sank down by a tamarisk. The stars twinkled as usual, and not a sound was audible. Only the beat of my heart and the ticking of my watch broke the awful silence. Then I heard a rustling sound in the sand. "Is that you, Kasim?" I asked. "Yes, sir," he whispered back. "Let us go a little farther," I said, and he followed me with trembling legs.

We were not troubled now so much by thirst, for our bodies had become as dry as parchment and seemed to have lost all feeling; but our strength was at an end. We crawled for a long distance on our hands and feet, dazed and indifferent, as if we were walking in our sleep.

But soon we waked up into full consciousness. Dumb with astonishment we stopped before the trail of men. Shepherds from the river must have seen our fire the day before and have come to look for us. We followed the trail up a high dune where the sand was closely packed and the marks were more distinct. "It is our own trail," said Kasim in a despairing voice. We had gone round in a circle, and now we could do no more for a while. Sad and worn out, we fell down in the track.

It was May 5. We had slept half an hour. It was four o'clock, and a vague light heralding the ruddy dawn rose up above the eastern horizon. Kasim looked dreadfully ill; his tongue was swollen, white and dry, his lips bluish. He complained of a spasmodic hiccough that shook his whole body, a sign of the approach of death. The thick blood flowed sluggishly in his veins. Even the eyes and joints were dry. We had struggled bravely, but now the end was near.

But when the sun rose we saw a dark line on the eastern horizon. The sight filled us with thankfulness, for we knew that it must be the wood on the bank of the Khotan river. Now we exerted ourselves to the uttermost, for we must reach it before we sank with thirst and exhaustion. A number of poplars grew in a hollow. "Let us dig here; it is a long distance to the woods"; but the spade again slipped out of our hands, and we could only stumble and crawl on eastwards.

At last we were there. I seemed to be roused from a fearful dream, a terrible nightmare. Green and luxuriant stood the trees in front of us, and between them grew grass and weeds where numerous spoors of wild animals were visible—tigers, wolves, foxes, stags, antelopes, gazelles, and hares. The birds were singing their morning song and insects buzzed in the air. Life and joyousness reigned everywhere.

It could not now be far to the river. We tried to pass through the wood, but were stopped by impenetrable brushwood and fallen trunks. Then we came to a path with plain traces of men and horses. We decided to follow it, for surely it would lead to the bank, but not even the hope of a speedy deliverance could enable us to keep on our feet. At nine o'clock, when the day was already burning hot, we tumbled down in the shade of a couple of poplars. Kasim could not last much longer. His senses were clouded. He gasped for breath and stared with vacant eyes at the sky. He made no answer even when I shook him. I took off my clothes and crept down into a hole between the tree roots. Scorpions inhabited the dry trees and their marks were visible everywhere, but the poisonous reptiles left me in peace.

Water at Last

I lay for ten hours wide awake. At seven o'clock I took the wooden haft of the spade and went alone through the wood, for Kasim could not move. I dropped down again and again on fallen trunks to rest; a few more staggering steps and again a rest on a stump. When I could not hold myself up, I crawled inch by inch through the brushwood, tearing my hands and clothes. It grew dusk and then dark in the wood. I felt sleep gradually creeping over me to rob me of life. For if I had fallen asleep now, I should never have awakened again. My last struggle was, then, against drowsiness.

Then the wood suddenly came to an end and the bed of the Khotan river lay before me. But the bottom was dry, as dry as the sand in the desert! I was at the summer margin of the river, where water only flows when the snow melts on the mountains to the south. But I was not going to die on the bank; I would cross the whole bed before I gave myself up for lost. The bed was a mile and a quarter broad, a terrible distance for my strength. I walked slowly with the spade-handle for a stick, crawling for long distances and often resting and exerting all the force of my will to resist sleep. Hitherto we had been always making eastwards, but this night I walked involuntarily south-east. It was as though I were guided by an unseen hand.

The crescent moon threw a pale light over the dry riverbed. I went towards the middle and expected to see a silvery streak glisten on a sheet of water. After an interval, which seemed endless, I descried the line of wood on the eastern bank. It became more distinct. A fallen poplar lay projecting over a hollow in the river-bed and on the bank were close thickets of bushes and reeds. I rested once more. Was it possible that the whole bed was dry? I felt that all my remaining strength would be needed to reach the bank. Was I to die of thirst in the middle of a river-bed? I rose painfully to walk the last bit, but I had not taken many steps before I stopped short. A duck rose on whirring wings, I heard the plashing sound of water, and the next moment I stood at the edge of a fresh, cool, beautiful pool.

I fell on my knees and thanked God for my marvellous escape. Then I took out my watch and felt my feeble pulse, which beat forty-nine. Then I drank, slowly at first and then more freely. A deal of water was needed to slake such a thirst; I drank and drank until at length I was satisfied. Then I sat down to rest and felt that I was reviving quickly. After a few minutes my pulse had risen to fifty-six. My hands, which had just been withered and hard as wood, softened, the blood flowed more easily through my veins and my forehead became moist. Life seemed more desirable and delightful than ever. Then I drank again, and thought of my wonderful deliverance. If I had passed fifty steps to the right or left of the pool, I should probably never have found it, or if I had crawled on in the wrong direction, I should have had to walk six miles to the next pool, which I could not have done before sleep with the death trance in its train came and carried me off.

Now my thoughts flew to the dying Kasim. He needed help at once, if his life was to be saved. Dipping my waterproof boots in the pool I filled them to the top, passed the straps over the ends of the spade shaft, and with this over my shoulder retraced my steps. It was pitch-dark in the wood and it was impossible to see the track. I called out "Kasim" with all the force of my lungs, but heard no answer. Then I sought out a dense clump of dried branches and brushwood and set it on fire. The flame shot up immediately, the pile of dry twigs crackled, burst and frizzled, the dried herbage was scorched by the draught from below, tongues of flame licked the poplar trunks, and it became as light as in the middle of the day, a yellowish red gleam illuminating the dark recesses of the wood. Kasim could not be far off, and must see the fire. Again I looked for the trail, but as I only got confused in the wood I stayed by the fire, propped the boots against a root, laid myself down where the flames could not reach me, but where I was safe from tigers and other wild beasts, and slept soundly.

When day broke I found the trail. Kasim was lying where I left him. "I am dying," he whispered in a scarcely audible voice; but when I raised one of the boots to his lips, he roused himself up and drank, and emptied the other one also. Then we agreed to go together to the pool. It was impossible to turn back into the desert, for we had not eaten for a week, and now that our thirst was quenched we were attacked by hunger. Besides, we felt quite sure that the other men were dead some days ago.

Kasim was so exhausted that he could not go with me. As he was at any rate on the right track, and it was now most important to find something to eat, I went alone to the pool, drank, bathed, and rested, and then walked southwards. At nine o'clock a violent westerly storm arose, driving clouds of sand along the ground. After wandering three hours it occurred to me that it was not wise to leave the beneficent pool. I therefore turned back, but after half an hour only found instead a very small pool with indifferent water. It was no use wandering about in such a storm, for I could not see where I was going; the wind roared and whistled through the wood, and I was half dead with fatigue and hunger.

I therefore crept into a small thicket close to this pool, where I was out of reach of the storm, and making a pillow of my boots and cap, slept soundly and heavily. Since May 1 I had had no proper sleep. When I woke it was already dark, and the storm still howled through the wood. I was now so tortured by hunger that I began to eat grass, flowers, and reed shoots. There were numbers of young frogs in the pool. They were bitter, but I pinched their necks and swallowed them whole. After eating my supper I collected a store of branches to keep up a fire during the night, and then I crept into my lair in the thicket and gazed into the fire for a couple of hours while the storm raged outside. Then I went to sleep again.

At dawn on May 7 I crept out of the thicket and decided to march southwards until I met with human beings. This time I took water with me in my boots, but after a few hours my feet were so sore and blistered that I had to bind them up in long strips of my shirt. At length to my delight I found a sheepfold on the bank; it had evidently not been used for a long time, but it showed that shepherds must live in the woods somewhere.

At noon heat and fatigue drove me into the wood again, where I ate a breakfast of grass and reeds. After a rest I wandered on again hour after hour towards the south, but at eight o'clock I could go no farther, and before it became quite dark I tried to make myself comfortable on a small space sheltered by poplars and bushes, and there as usual I lighted my camp fire. I had nothing else to do but lie and stare into the flames and listen to the curious mournful sounds in the wood. Sometimes I heard tapping steps and dry twigs cracking. It might be tigers, but I trusted that they would not venture to attack me just when I had been saved in such a remarkable manner.

I rose on May 8 while it was still dark, and sought for a path in the wood, but I had not gone far before the trees became scattered and came to an end, and the dismal yellow desert lay before me. I knew it only too well, and made haste back to the river-bed. I rested during the hot hours of the day in the shadow of a poplar and then set off again. I now followed the right bank of the river, and shortly before sunset stopped dead before a remarkable sight—the fresh track of two barefooted men who had driven four asses northwards.

It was hopeless to try and overtake these wayfarers, and therefore I followed their track in the opposite direction. I travelled more quickly than usual, the evening was calm and still, twilight fell over the wood. At a jutting point of the bank I seemed to hear an unusual sound, and held my breath to listen. But the wood was still sad and dreary. "Perhaps it was a warbler or a thrush," I thought, and walked on. A little later I pulled up again. This time I heard quite plainly a man's voice and the low of a cow. I quickly pulled on my wet boots and rushed into the wood. A flock of sheep watched by its shepherd was feeding on an open glade among the trees. The man seemed petrified at first when he saw me, and then he turned on his heels and vanished among the brushwood.

After a while he came back with an older shepherd, and I gave them an account of my adventures and begged for bread. They did not know what to believe, but they took me to their hut and gave me maize bread and ewe's milk.

The best thing of all, however, was that three traders rode up next day, and I learned from them that some days previously they had discovered a dying man beside a white camel on the bank of the river. It was Islam Bay! They had given him water and food, and the following day both he and Kasim appeared in my hut. Our delight was great, though we mourned for our comrades who had died of thirst in the desert.

VIII

THE DESERT WATERWAY (1899)

Down the Yarkand River

No doubt you remember the village of Merket, where we set out on pur fatal march through the Takla-makan desert in 1895. In September, 1899, I was again at this village with a large caravan and many servants, my plan on this occasion being to travel through the whole of Eastern Turkestan by water. The waterway I intended to use was the river which in its upper course is called the Yarkand, and in its lower the Tarim.

PLATE X. THE AUTHOR'S BOAT ON THE YARKAND RIVER.
The man with the white turban at the stern is Islam Bay.

At the village a great caravan route crosses the river, and flat ferry-boats convey travellers with their animals and goods from one bank to the other. I bought one of the ferry-boats, and had it converted into a floating home for our journey of more than a thousand miles (Plate X.). It was 36 feet long by 8-1/2 broad, and was like a huge trough built of rough planks. A floor of boards was laid in the bow sufficiently large to serve as a support for my tent. Behind this was built a cubical cabin of thin boards covered with sheets of black felt. Within it was furnished with a table and shelves, and window-frames with glass panes were let into the felt walls. Here I had all my photographic accessories, and here I intended to develop my plates.

When all was ready the ferry-boat was rolled down on logs into the river again. The tent was set up and its folds were spiked fast to the edges of the flooring. My bed and my boxes were arranged in the tent, a carpet was spread on the floor, and at the front opening was placed my writing-table, consisting of two boxes, whereon paper, pens, compass, and watch, field-glass and other things always lay ready. For a stool I had a smaller hide trunk.

Amidships our heavy baggage was piled up: sacks of flour and rice, boxes of sugar, tea, and groceries, saddles, weapons, and tools. The kitchen was at the stern, in charge of my faithful Islam Bay—for he was with me again.

When the ferry-boat was fully fitted up and ready to sail, it drew nine inches of water. We had also a small auxiliary boat to pilot the larger and inform us where treacherous sand-banks were hidden below the surface. Fruit, vegetables, sheep, and fowls were carried on the smaller boat, which looked rather like a small farmyard. The heavy baggage that we did not need on the journey was packed on our camels, and their leader was ordered to meet me in three months' time near the termination of the river.

Our voyage began on September 17, 1899, the crew numbering seven, including Islam Bay and myself. Kader was a youth who helped Islam Bay by peeling potatoes, laying table, and fetching water from clear pools on the banks cut off from the river. In the bow stood Palta with a long pole, watching to thrust off if the boat went too near the bank. At the stern stood two other polemen, who helped to handle the boat. The small boat was managed by one man, Kasim, and as I sat at my writing-table I could see him pushing his vessel with his pole to right or left in search of the channel where the water was deepest and the current most rapid. Then we had two four-legged passengers on the larger boat, Dovlet and Yolldash. Dovlet means the "lucky one" and Yolldash "travelling companion." The latter had succeeded to the name of the dog which died in the Takla-makan desert.

The boat floats down with the current, following obediently the windings of the river, and the polemen are on the watch. On the banks grow small hawthorn bushes and tamarisks, interrupted by patches of reeds and small clumps of young trees, among which poplars always predominate. They are not the tall, slender poplars which tower proud as kings above other trees, but quite a dwarf kind with a round, irregular crown. When the day draws near to a close I give the order to stop. Palta thrusts his pole into the river bottom, and, throwing all his strength and weight on to it, forces the stern of the boat to swing round to the land, where another of the crew jumps out on to the bank with a rope. He makes it fast round a stump, and our day's voyage is ended.

The gangway is pushed out and a fire is lighted in an open space among the trees, and soon the teapot and rice-pan are bubbling pleasantly. I remain sitting at my writing-table and see the moonlight playing in a streak on the surface of the river. All is quiet and silent around us, and even the midges have gone to rest. I hear only the brands crackling in the camp fire and the sand slipping down the neighbouring bank as the water laps against it. A dog barking in the distance is answered by Dovlet and Yolldash.

Now steps are heard on board, and Islam Bay brings my supper. The writing-table is converted into a dining-table, and he serves me up rice pudding with onions, carrots, and minced mutton, fresh bread, eggs, cucumbers, melons, and grapes. What more could a man want? It was very different when we were wandering on the endless sands. If I want to drink I have only to let down a cup into the river which gently ripples past the boat. The dogs keep me company, sitting with cocked ears waiting for a titbit. Then Islam comes and clears the table, I close the tent, creep into my berth, and enjoy life afloat on my own vessel, where it is only necessary to loosen a rope to be on the way again.

After a few days we come to a place where the river contracts and forces its way with great velocity between small islands and great heaps of stranded driftwood. Here Palta has plenty of work, for he has constantly to keep the boat off from some obstacle or other with the pole. Frequently we bump up against poplar trunks which do not show above the water, and then the boat swings round in a moment. Then all the crew jump into the river and shove the boat off again.

A distant noise is heard, and soon becomes louder. In a moment we are in the midst of rapids, and it is too late to heave to. It is to be hoped that we shall not turn broadside on or we shall capsize. "Let her go down as she likes," I call out. All the poles are drawn up, and the boat flies along, gliding easily and smoothly over the boiling water.

Below the rapids the river widened out, and became so shallow that we stuck fast in blue clay. We pushed and pulled, but all to no purpose. Then all the baggage was carried ashore, and with our united strength we swung the boat round until the clay was loosened, and then the things were brought on board again.

Farther down, the river draws together again. The banks are lined with dense masses of fine old trees just beginning to turn yellow in the latter days of September. The boat seems as though it were gliding along a canal in a park. The woods are silent, not a leaf is moving, and the water flows noiselessly. The polemen have nothing to do. They sit cross-legged with one hand on the pole, which trails through the water; and only now and then have they to make a thrust to keep the boat in the middle of the stream.

Weeks passed, and the ferry-boat drifted still farther and farther down the river. Autumn had come, and the woods turned yellow and russet, and the leaves fell. We had no time to spare if we did not want to be caught fast in the ice before reaching the place where we had arranged to meet the caravan. Therefore we started earlier in the morning and did not land until long after sunset each day. The solemn silence of a temple reigned around, only the quacking of a duck being heard occasionally or the noise of a fox stealing through the reeds. A herd of wild boars lay wallowing in the mud on the bank. When the boat glided noiselessly by they got up, looked at us a moment with the greatest astonishment, and dashed like a roaring whirlwind through the beds of cracking reeds. Deer grazed on the bank. They scented danger and turned round to make for their hiding-places in the wood. A roebuck swam across the stream a little in front of the boat. Islam lay with his gun in the bow ready to shoot, but the roebuck swam splendidly and, with a spring, was up on the bank and vanished like the wind. Sometimes we saw also fresh spoor of tigers at our camping-grounds, but we never succeeded in surprising one of them.

One morning, when we had not seen any natives for a long time, the smoke of a fire was seen on the bank. Some shepherds were watching their flocks, and their dogs began to bark. The men gazed at the ferry-boat with wonder and alarm as it floated nearer, and no doubt thought that it was something ghostly, for they faced about and ran with the dust flying about their sheepskin sandals. I sent two men ashore, but it was quite impossible to catch up with the runaways.

Farther down we passed through a district where several villages stood near the banks. They had learned of our coming through scouts, and when we arrived we were met by whole troops of horsemen. The village headmen were also present, and were invited on board, where they were regaled with tea on the after-deck.

The Tarim

The farther we went the smaller became the river. The Yarkand-darya would never reach the lake, Lop-nor, where it discharges its water, if it did not receive a considerable tributary on the way. This tributary is called the Ak-su, or "White Water," and it comes foaming down from the Tien-shan, the high mountains to the north. After the rivers have mingled their waters, the united main stream is called the Tarim.

The weather gradually became colder. One morning a dense mist lay like a veil between the wooded banks, and all the trees, bushes, and plants, and the whole boat, were white with hoar frost. After this it was not long before the frost began to spread thin sheets of ice over the pools on the banks and the small cut-off creeks of stagnant water, and we had to press on as fast as we could to escape being frozen in. Breakfast was no longer laid on land, but on the after-deck of the ferry-boat, where we built a fireplace of clay, and round this the men sat in turn to warm themselves. At night we travelled long distances in the dark. We had persuaded two natives to go with us in their long, narrow canoes, and they rowed in front of us in the darkness with large Chinese paper lanterns on poles to show us where the deep channel ran.

The woods on the bank gradually thin out, and finally come to an end altogether, being replaced by huge sand-hills often as much as 200 feet high. This is the margin of the great sandy desert which occupies all the interior of Eastern Turkestan. The people in the country round about are called Lopliks, and live to a great extent on fish.

During the last few days of November the temperature fell to 28.8° below freezing-point. The drift ice which floated down the river became thicker, and one morning the ferry-boat lay frozen in so fast we could walk on the ice around it. Out in the current, however, the water was open, and we broke asunder our fetters with axes and crowbars. A constant roar of grinding and scraping ice accompanied us all day long, and during the nights we had to anchor the ferry-boat out in the swiftest part of the current to prevent it being frozen in.

On December 7 broad fringes of ice lay along both banks, and all day we danced among drifting ice as in a bath of broken crockery. At night we had a whole flotilla of canoes with lanterns and torches to clear the way, when suddenly the boat swung round with a bump, and we found that the river was frozen over right across. This did not disturb us, for on the bank we saw the flames of a wood fire, and found that it was burning at the camp of our camel caravan.

The Wandering Lake

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

PLATE XIII. THE TAJ MAHAL.

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.

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.

PLATE XIV. BENARES.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hong Kong has been a British Crown Colony since 1842, and it is now an extraordinarily important port. Vessels with an aggregate tonnage of nearly 20 millions pass through Hong Kong annually, and the little island surpasses in this respect even London, Hamburg, and New York. Regular lines of steamers connect Hong Kong with countless ports in Asia, America, Europe, and Australia, and the trade of the port is immense. It is also a station for the east Asiatic squadron of the Royal Navy—with fine docks and berths, a coal depôt, arsenal, and barracks.

Ninety miles north-west of Hong Kong lies the second city of China, Canton (Plate XVI.). It stands near the mouths of two rivers which give access to the interior of the country, and Canton is therefore an important commercial town, surpassed only by Shanghai. The famous Chinese silk is exported from Canton in larger quantities than from any other town, and the industries of silk-weaving, porcelain, and other manufactures are flourishing. Canton is one of the thirty-seven Chinese "treaty ports"—that is, those which are open to foreign commerce. It has 900,000 inhabitants, and is the capital of the southernmost of the eighteen provinces of China proper and the residence of a viceroy. Its streets are so narrow that no wheeled vehicle can pass through them. A large part of the inhabitants live on boats moored to posts on the river. A railway 1200 miles long connects Canton with the capital of the empire, Peking.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] This is the vessel which was wrecked on the coast of Morocco, near Cape Spartel, on December 13, 1911, having the Duke and Duchess of Fife (Princess Royal) on board.

XII

CHINA[14]

To Shanghai

From Hong Kong the Delhi ploughs her way along the Chinese coast, and next day (October 31) we are right out in the track of the north-east monsoon. The sea is high and dead against us, and the wind is so strong that we can hardly go up on deck. It becomes steadily cooler as we advance northwards.

To the east we have now the large island of Formosa, which was annexed by Japan sixteen years ago. It is about twice the size of Wales, and marks the boundary between the China Sea and the Eastern Sea, which farther north passes into the Yellow Sea. The coast and its hills are sometimes seen close at hand, sometimes far off, and sometimes they disappear in the distance. With a glass we can distinguish the lighthouses, always erected on small islands off the mainland. The Chinese coast is dangerous, being full of reefs, holms, and shallows.

Hong Kong and the adjoining seas are visited from the middle of July to the middle of September by the destructive whirlwinds called typhoons. The vortices, spinning round with tremendous rapidity, are usually formed far out in the Pacific Ocean, and gradually advance towards the mainland. They move at a rate of nine miles an hour, and therefore the weather stations on the Philippines, and other islands lying in the track of the typhoons, can send warnings by telegraph to the Chinese coast. Then the black triangle is hoisted on a tall mast in the harbour of Hong Kong, for instance, and is visible for a long distance. Every one knows what it means: a typhoon is on the way. The Chinese junks make in towards land, where they find shelter under the high coast, and all other vessels strengthen their moorings.

On November 2 we know by the yellowish-brown colour of the water that we are off the mouth of the Blue River, as the Yang-tse-kiang is called by Europeans. A pilot comes on board to take us through the dangerous, uncertain fairway, and a little later we have flat land on both sides of us, and are in the estuary of the river.

Shanghai is situated on a small affluent which runs into the Yang-tse-kiang close to its mouth, and large ocean steamers cannot go up to the town. After the Delhi has dropped its anchor we proceed up the river in a steam tender. The low banks soon become more animated, the houses stand closer together, factories appear amongst them, and Chinese vessels lie moored on both sides, including two sorry warships of wood, relics of a time gone by. They are high in the bow and stern, and from the mast floats the blue dragon on its yellow field.[15] At length the stately "bund" of Shanghai comes into sight with a row of fine, tall houses. This is not China, but a bit of Europe, the white town in the yellow land, the great and wealthy Shanghai with its 12,000 Europeans, beside the Chinese town inhabited by 650,000 natives.

Next day, November 3, occurred two noted birthdays, those of the Dowager Empress of China and of the Emperor of Japan. They were both remarkable for their powerful minds and wisdom, and have made their names immortal in the extreme East. The Consul-General of Japan held a reception, and the Governor of Shanghai a brilliant dinner.

We saw much that was curious and interesting, and our time was fully occupied during our short stay in the largest shipping and commercial port of China. From the European streets with electric light and tramways, churches, clubs, merchants' offices, and public buildings, tidal docks and wharves, we reach in a few minutes the Chinese town, pure, unadulterated Asia. It swarms with yellow men in blue coats and black vests with small brass buttons, white stockings, black shoes with thick, flat soles, a small black skull-cap with a red button on the head, and a long pigtail behind. There dealers sit in their open shops, smoking long, small pipes while waiting for customers. The tea-houses are full. A noise and tumult beyond description, a constant going and coming, a continual exchange of coin and goods.

The religion of the Chinese is a mixture of different doctrines and rules of wisdom. China has had more wise men than any other old country in the world. Foremost among them is Confucius, a contemporary of Buddha and Socrates. He wrote a book of three hundred odes, and called it Purity of Thought. Twelve disciples gathered round him, and a larger circle of three thousand. "Do not to others what you would not that they should do to you" was one of his precepts. When Confucius was asked how he had contrived to acquire deep knowledge of so many things, he replied, "Because I was born poor and had to learn." He considered wealth a misfortune and knowledge power. The Chinese reverence his memory, and regard him not as a god but as the wisest man of all ages.

Along with Confucianism, Taoism exists in China. The sublime teaching of the founder has, however, been corrupted and degraded to jugglery and superstition. At the commencement of our era Buddhism was introduced into China, and now is spread over almost all the country. There is, however, no clearness in the religious conceptions of the Chinese. A Taoist may perform his devotions in the morning in a Buddhist temple and in the evening be deeply interested in the writings of Confucius. Many therefore have an equal respect for all three systems.

The basis, however, of Chinese religious thought is ancestor worship. Whether they are Confucians, like most of the mandarins, or Taoists or Buddhists, like the common people, Chinamen always cherish the same reverence for the souls of their forefathers. An altar in their honour is raised in even the simplest house. The graves may not be disturbed, and nothing but respect is cherished for the memory of the departed. In the seventeenth century the Manchu emperor, Kang Hi, ruled China for sixty-one years with a power and wisdom which made him one of the greatest monarchs of any age. His grandson, Kien Lung, inherited all his excellent qualities, and when he had ruled China for nearly sixty-one years he abdicated simply in order that, out of respect to his ancestor, the years of his reign might not exceed his grandfather's.

One consequence of this ancestor worship is that enormous areas of China are covered with graves. The Mongol emperor, Kublai Khan, who reigned at the end of the thirteenth century, roused furious opposition by ordering that all the burial-grounds should be broken up and turned into fields. At the present time, when new railways are spreading mile after mile through China, the sanctity of the graveyards is one of the greatest obstacles to engineers. The Chinese will not disturb the slumbers of their forefathers, and therefore the railway has often to pass round a hallowed place or avoid it by means of a bridge. The Emperor himself travels to Mukden simply to make offerings at the graves of his ancestors. Kang Hi and Kien Lung are buried in Mukden, and their dynasty, the Manchu, still rules over the country.

The Chinese feel this association with a past life more strongly than with the future, and the worship of their ancestors almost takes the place of affection for their fatherland. They certainly love their own homes, but what goes on in other parts of the country is a matter of indifference to them. To the Cantonese it matters not whether the Russians take Manchuria or the Japanese Korea, provided only that Canton is left in peace. Ancestor worship may be said, indeed, to be the true religion of the Chinese. For the rest they are filled with an unreasoning fear of spirits, and have recourse to many different gods who, they believe, can control these influences for good and evil. They are very superstitious. If any one falls sick of fever and becomes delirious, his relations believe that his soul has gone astray. They carry his clothes round the spot where he lost consciousness in order to bring his soul into the right track again; and at night they go up to the roof and wave a lantern to guide the soul home.

"The Middle Kingdom"

The first things a Chinese schoolboy is taught are that the sky is round, the earth quadrangular, and that China is situated in the middle of the earth, and on that account is called the "Middle Kingdom." All other countries lie around China and are its vassals.

The Emperor is called the "Son of Heaven," and holds the supreme spiritual and temporal power in his hands. On his accession he gives an arbitrary name to his reign, which also becomes his own. He chooses his successor himself from among his sons. If he is childless he chooses one of his nearest relations, but then he adopts his future successor that the latter may make offerings to the souls of himself and his ancestors. The yellow robe and the five-clawed dragon are the emblems of the imperial house. The Emperor is immeasurably superior to his people, and the mortals who may speak to him are easily counted. A few years ago the European ambassadors in Peking exacted the right to see the Emperor every New Year's Day. This they did, but had no talk with him.

PLATE XVII. THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA.

China is the oldest, the most populous, and the most conservative kingdom in the world. In the time of Nineveh and Babylon it had attained to a high civilization, and has remained the same through 4000 years. Of Nineveh and Babylon only rubbish heaps are left, but China still shows no sign of decay. Western Asia is like a vast graveyard with innumerable monuments of bygone times. There devastating migrations of peoples took place, and races and dynasties contended and succeeded one another. But China is still the same as ever. The isolated position of the country and the objection of the people to contact with foreigners have contributed to this. The reverence for the old state of things and for the memory of their forefathers makes a new generation similar to the preceding.

During the twenty-two centuries before the birth of Christ three imperial families ruled in China in succession. Two and a half centuries before our era a powerful and far-sighted emperor built the Great Wall, the mightiest erection ever completed by human hands (Plate XVII.). This wall is 1500 miles long, 50 feet high, and 26 thick at the bottom and 16 at the top. Towers stand at certain intervals, and there are gates here and there. It is constructed of stone, brick, and earth. It is in parts much ruined, especially in the west, and in some places only heaps of earth are left.

Why was this immense wall erected? The Chinese are a peaceful people, and they surrounded themselves with walls to prevent intrusion from outside. In China there are 1553 towns enclosed in massive stone walls, and the great emperor in the third century B.C. naturally thought of building a wall in the same way all round his extensive kingdom. It was principally from the north that danger threatened. There lived the nomads of Eastern Turkestan and Mongolia, savage, brave, and warlike horsemen. To them the Chinese wall was an insurmountable obstacle. But precisely on that account this wall has also affected the destiny of Europe, for the wild mounted hordes, finding the way southwards to China barred, advanced westwards instead, and in the fourth century, in conjunction with the Alans, overran extensive areas of Europe.

The Great Wall, however, could not protect China for ever. In the year 1280 the country was conquered by Jenghis Khan's grandson, Kublai Khan, Marco Polo's friend and patron. He, too, was a great builder. He constructed the Grand Canal (see map, p. 174) between Peking and Hang-chau, immediately to the south-west of Shanghai. His idea was that the rice harvest of the southern provinces should also benefit the northern parts of the country. Previously the rice had been freighted on junks and carried along the coast, where it was exposed to the attacks of Japanese pirates. Now the junks could pass safely through the country by the new canal. The imperial canal is 840 miles long, crosses the Yellow and Blue rivers, and is still in use. It is a memorial of the hundred years' rule of the Mongols.

In 1644 China was conquered by the Manchu dynasty, which still reigns. Exactly a hundred years earlier the Portuguese had seized Macao, not far from Hong Kong. Since then, and particularly during recent decades, Europeans have encroached on Chinese soil. The French possessions on the peninsula of Further India were formerly under Chinese protection. The Great Powers have made themselves masters of some of the best harbours in China. On two occasions, the latter during the Boxer insurrection in 1900, Peking has been entered by the combined troops of European nations.

The "Middle Kingdom" is China proper, but the "Son of Heaven" also rules over four dependencies, Eastern Turkestan, Mongolia, Manchuria, and Tibet. The area of the Chinese Empire altogether is thirty-five times that of the British Isles, and its population is ten times as numerous, being about 433 millions; indeed, every third or fourth man in the world is a Chinaman.

Owing to the situation of the country the climate is good and healthy. The differences of temperature between winter and summer are large; in the south reigns almost tropical heat; in the north, in the districts round Peking, the winter is bitterly cold. The soil is exceedingly fruitful. Tea, rice, millet, maize, oats, barley, beans, peas, vegetables, and many other crops are grown. In the southern provinces the fields are full of sugar-cane and cotton bushes. The whole country is intersected by large rivers, which serve for irrigation and the transport of goods. In the west rise lofty mountains, forming continuations of the Tibetan ranges. Eastwards they become lower. The greater part of China is a mountainous country, but lowlands extend along the coast. Six of the eighteen provinces border on the coast, which abounds in excellent harbours.

The "Middle Kingdom" is, then, a fortunate country, one richly endowed by nature in every respect. In the mountains lies inexhaustible wealth of minerals, and China possesses larger coal-fields than any other land in the world. Its future is, therefore, secured, and China's development may some time surpass that of America.

It is well known that a country which has deeply indented coasts gains an early and extensive development. Thus Greece was in old times the home of learning and art; and thus Europe now dominates the rest of the world. For a people which dwells within such coasts comes sooner and more easily than others into contact with its neighbours, and by commercial intercourse can avail itself of their resources and inventions. But in this, as in so many other respects, China is an exception. The Chinese have never made use of their coast. They have, on the contrary, avoided all contact with foreigners, and their development within their own boundaries has therefore been exceedingly peculiar. Their culture is different from anything else, and yet it is most estimable and refined.

Two thousand years before Christ the Chinese had written characters. Later they invented the hair pencil, which is in use to this day. They grind down a jet-black ink, in which they dip the brush, and hold it vertically when they write. The manufacture of the ink is their secret, and the "Indian ink" which we use in Europe is obtained from them. A hundred years after Christ paper was made in China. In an ancient town at Lop-nor, where wild camels now roam, I found a collection of Chinese letters and documents on paper which had remained buried in the desert since A.D. 265. In A.D. 600 the Chinese had invented the art of printing, which in Europe was not invented until 850 years later. The Chinese were acquainted with the magnetic needle 1100 years before Christ, and made compasses, and they knew of gunpowder long before Europeans. Three thousand years ago the Chinese were proficient in the art of casting bronze. In the interior of the country are still to be found most beautiful objects in bronze—round bowls on feet decorated with lions and dragons, vases, dishes, cups, and jugs, all of dark, heavy bronze executed with the finest and most artistic detail. The porcelain manufacture attained its greatest excellence in the time of Kang Hi and Kien Lung. Then were made vases, bowls, and dishes of such exceeding perfection that neither the Chinese themselves nor any other people at the present time can produce their match. The arrangement of colours and the glaze excite the admiration of all connoisseurs. Porcelain articles of this period are now extremely rare, and fetch enormous prices. In Japan I saw a small green Chinese bowl on three feet, with a cover, which had cost eleven hundred pounds. Compared to the Kang Hi vases, the finest porcelain that can be produced nowadays is mere rubbish.

The Chinese language is as singular as everything else in the great kingdom. Every word is unchangeable. While we say "go, went, gone, will go, should go, going," the Chinese always say simply "go." The precise meaning is shown by the position of the word in a sentence or by the help of certain auxiliary words, as, for example, "I morning go," "We yesterday go," where the future or past tense is indicated by the words "morning" and "yesterday." A single word, li, for instance, may have a number of different significations, and what it denotes in any particular case depends on the tone and pronunciation, on its position in the sentence, and on the word which comes before or after. The language is divided into many different dialects, of which the principal is the mandarin or the dialect of the educated. Every word has its particular written sign, and the Chinese language accordingly possesses 24,000 different written characters; only one man in twenty and one woman in a hundred can read and write it.

Chinese literature is exceedingly rich, almost inexhaustible. At a time when the bronze age still reigned in northern Europe, the Chinese had a highly cultivated literature. From the fifth century B.C. down to our own day it has run an uninterrupted course through centuries and ages. When the northern vikings were executing their plundering raids by sea and setting up their runic stones, a geographical hand-book was published in China called a "Description of all the Provinces" and abundantly illustrated by maps. Thanks to their chronicles we can follow the history of the Chinese for 4000 years back. And the most remarkable feature of these annals is that they are distinguished by the strictest accuracy and reliability. All kinds of subjects are alluded to, even the most insignificant events. Chinese books are very cheap, and every one who can read can provide himself with quite a large library. Of the numbers of books we can have some conception when we hear that the Emperor Kieng Lung had a library so large that the catalogue of his books filled 122 volumes.

The Blue River

The Blue River, or Yang-tse-kiang, the Mekong, and the Salwin all rise in eastern Tibet and flow quite close to one another southwards through deeply excavated parallel valleys. But while the first two continue their southerly course all the way to the sea, the Blue River turns off sharply eastwards in western China and divides the Middle Kingdom in two.

It is only Europeans who sometimes call the largest river of China the "Blue" River. The Chinese themselves call it the "Great" River, or the "Long" River, or, far up the country to the west, the "River of Golden Sand." Only three rivers in the world are longer, namely, the Nile, the Mississippi, and the Amazon. The Obi and Yenisei are about the same length, 3200 miles. The Blue River discharges 244 times the volume of water of the Thames.

In one respect the Blue River is far superior to all the waterways of the world, for on this river and its tributaries, or, in short, in the area of its drainage basin, live not less than 180 millions of human beings, or an eighth of the total population of the world. The parts of China proper situated on the Blue River are called the River Provinces. The viceroy of two of these, namely Hupeh and Hunan, has more subjects than any country in Europe, except Russia. The most westerly province of China, Sze-chuan, traversed by the Blue River, is in area and population equal to France. Europe shrinks up to nothing before such comparisons.

On the Blue River stands a series of famous old towns. Chungking is the capital of Sze-chuan, and thus far European steamers ascend the river. Hankow is the largest commercial town in the interior of China. Nanking, near the mouth, was formerly the capital of China. South-west of Hankow a large lake lies on the southern bank of the Blue River. Hu means lake in Chinese, king is a capital city, pe signifies north, and nan south. Peking, therefore, means the "northern capital," and Nanking the "southern capital"; Hupeh signifies "north of the lake," and Hunan "south of the lake."

The province of Hunan, south of the lake, is one of the most noteworthy in all China. Its people are a vigorous and independent race, and make the best soldiers in China. They are more hostile to foreigners than other Chinese, and the capital of Hunan, Chang-sha, has been of old a centre of opposition to foreigners and of revolutionary agitations.

Even large ocean liners ascend to Hankow, and smaller steamboats to the capital of Sze-chuan. The latter are formidable competitors to the junks, many thousands of which have from time immemorial provided for the transport and traffic on the great river. There are many different kinds of junk. Some are large, others small; some are built for the lower, quieter waters of the river, others for the rapids in Hupeh and Sze-chuan. But they are all well suited to their purpose, and are an ornament to the grand beauty of the constantly changing landscape through which the river has cut its valley.

In some districts the junks are built of cypress wood, in others of oaken planks. This is to make the boats more elastic and supple, and to diminish the risk of springing a leak among the rapids. Where the danger is unusually great a pilot is taken on board, but still it is reckoned that one junk in ten runs aground, and one in twenty is totally wrecked. To go from Hankow to Chungking takes thirty-five days, and to come down in the opposite direction with the stream only nine days. The voyage down the river is much more dangerous, and on this voyage most of the shipwrecks occur.

Every large junk has a small dinghy to convey passengers and goods to and from the shore. A large junk is 40 feet long. It is high at the stern, and here stands a kind of cabin roofed with plaited straw or grass matting. A junk going upstream carries a cargo of two and a half tons, one going down six tons. The vessel is propelled by oars, some of which are so large that they require eight men each. These are needed most in drifting with the current, when the boat must be controlled by the steering oars. The junk has also a mast and sail which is used in going upstream with a favourable wind, and is lowered when coming down with the current. Only the bow is decked.

It may well be asked how it is possible to get such a large heavily laden boat up against the strong river current, for it is evident that however favourable the wind might be, the vessel would be carried down the rapids. A long rope of twisted bamboo a hundred yards long is fastened to the bow of the junk, and with this the vessel is dragged up by some sixty men who run along the bank. The bank, however, is usually steep, with dangerous rocks projecting out into the river, and over these the men have to scramble like monkeys, still pulling at their rope. Often neither the boat nor the river is visible from the rocky path, but the skipper of the boat is in constant communication with the towing men by means of drums on board. Six men are always ready to clear the rope if it catches against any projection, and others, who are stark naked, do the same work in the water. On the cliffs along the river, grooves and marks have been worn out by the ropes, for towing has here been practised for thousands of years. There is always a score of men on board to steer and fend off the boat with poles. They have also bamboo poles with hooks at the end to help in dragging the boat up against the current.

These men work like galley-slaves, and their work is both dangerous and exhausting. Week after week they walk with bent backs struggling under the towing rope. They are covered with bruises, which scarcely heal up before they are torn open again, and especially on the shoulders the marks of the rope are visible. They have a hard life, and yet they are cheerful. They are treated like dogs, and yet they sing. And what wages do they receive for a journey of thirty-five days up the river? Three shillings, besides three meals of rice a day, and meat three times during the journey! For the down journey, when the work is much easier and the time only one-fourth, they receive only a shilling. These labourers earn about 1-1/4d. for ten hours' work.

In February the river is lowest and the water clearest. Then the towns and villages stand 160 feet above the surface of the river. Their walls, staircases, gates, and pagodas stand up in the flat triangles of the valley openings. Every inch of hill and valley is covered with fields or woods. Later in the spring the river begins to rise, and in summer is a huge rolling volume of chocolate-brown or greyish water. At certain places where the valley is narrow the water may rise a hundred feet higher than in February. A voyage on it is then more dangerous, for banks, boulders, and reefs are covered with water and form whirlpools and seething eddies.

Below the towns and villages shoals of junks lie moored waiting for work. Every cliff, every bend has its name—Yellow Hat, Sleeping Swine, Double Dragon, etc. Nor are pirates wanting. They have their haunts among the mountains, and fall upon the junks at convenient points. Sometimes large white notices are seen on projecting rocks. They may be "The waterway is not clear," or "Small junks should anchor here." Thus the boatowners are warned of danger.

The earnings of a boatowner are not large, and he is glad enough if he can bring his boat back to Hankow in safety after a voyage up and down the river. With anything but pleasure he sees the large Russian vessels lying at Hankow and taking in tea. Hankow is the greatest tea port of China, and China is the home of the tea plant. It is not more than 250 years since tea was first known in Europe, where it is now in general use, as also in many other parts of the world. In England and Russia it is a national drink, and the Russians used formerly to transport their tea to Europe by caravans through Mongolia and Siberia. Now the export of tea from China has declined, and the Middle Kingdom has been outstripped by India and Ceylon.

In Northern China

In the north-westernmost province of the kingdom, Kansu, is a famous old town, named Si-ning, surrounded with a fine stone wall. I had completed my first journey through Tibet and came to Si-ning on November 23, 1896, accompanied by my servant, Islam Bay.

When we left Si-ning we had a riding horse each, and six mules with their three drivers. They accompanied us for some days as far as a small town, where we exchanged them for two large, heavy carts on two wheels and covered with a tilt of straw matting. In one we packed all our things, in the other I took my seat, while Islam rode. Each cart was drawn by a mule and two horses, driven by a pleasant Chinaman. I had no interpreter, and had to get along with the few words I had managed to pick up.

For six days we travelled northwards through the Kansu mountains, going up and down all the way over stony passes and over frozen rivers with or without neck-breaking bridges. The carts creaked and rocked through narrow hollow roads where it would have been impossible to pass a cart coming from the opposite direction. In such places, therefore, one of our drivers went on in front shouting to keep the road clear. Fortunately we were in the company of other carts. When two carts meet where the road is narrow, it is customary for the smaller one to back and leave the road open for the larger.

We set out just after midnight, and drove on till noon. In spite of furs and rugs I was almost frozen through. Islam preferred to go on foot, and the drivers who ran beside the wagons also managed to keep themselves warm.

At break of day on December 10 we came to the bank of a stream which falls into the Yellow River (Hwang-ho). It was frozen quite across, and a path of sand showed where the route crossed the river. Our companions were to go over first in one of their carts with a team of three horses. They dashed at full gallop out on to the ice, but had not gone far before a wheel cut through the ice and the cart was held fast as in a vice. The whole load had to be taken out and carried over to the farther bank, and after much trouble the empty cart was hoisted up.

At a broader place the men cut up the thin ice in the middle of the bed where the water was three feet deep, and when another cart tried its luck it pitched suddenly down into the opening and remained fast. Two additional horses were attached, and all the men shouted and cracked their whips. The horses reared, fell, were nearly drowned under the ice, threw themselves about and jumped up on to the ice, only to drop back again into the hole. A young Chinaman then threw off every stitch of clothing and went into the water, 18° below freezing-point, to pull away the pieces of ice and stones which held back the wheels. I cannot tell how it was that he was not frozen to death. He afterwards warmed himself at a fire made by Islam Bay. We struggled for four hours before at last the irritating river was behind us.

In Liang-chau, a town of 100,000 inhabitants, with a quadrangular wall, handsome gates, and broad, busy streets, we stayed with some missionaries. Here we had to wait twelve whole days before we could procure nine camels and two men who were willing to take us to the town Ning-hsia on the Yellow River, nearly 300 miles off. The missionaries had no other guest-room than their chapel, which was rather cold; on Christmas Eve the temperature inside was 3°.

For twenty days we travelled through a country called Ala-shan, which for the most part is inhabited by Mongols. We followed a desert track and encamped at wells. Certain belts were buried in drift sand which formed wave-like dunes. Here we were outside China proper and the Great Wall, but we frequently met Chinese caravans. Two horsemen had been assigned to me as an escort by the last Chinese governor, for the country is unsafe owing to robbers. All, however, went well, and we came safely to Ning-hsia on the Yellow River.

MAP OF NORTHERN CHINA AND MONGOLIA, SHOWING JOURNEY FROM TIBET THROUGH SI-NING TO PEKING, AND FROM PEKING TO KANSK (pp. [172-179]).
At the time of Dr. Hedin's journey through Mongolia, the Trans-Siberian Railway did not extend east of Kansk.

From Ning-hsia we had 267 miles to the town Pao-te, and now we had to cross the Mongolian district of Ordos, between the Great Wall and the northern bend of the Yellow River. In summer it is better to travel by boat down the river, which rises in north-eastern Tibet and falls into the northern bay of the Yellow Sea after a course of 2500 miles. The river owes its name to its turbid yellow water, which makes the sea also yellow for some distance from the coast. Elsewhere the Yellow Sea is no yellower than any other.

At that time, in January, the Yellow River was covered with thick ice, and where we crossed it with our nine camels its breadth was 380 yards. Then we made long days' marches through the desert, and had a very hard and troublesome journey. We had indeed with us enough mutton, bread, and rice, and there were wells along the road. One of them was 130 feet deep and was walled round. But we suffered from cold. Sometimes the temperature was only 1.5° at noon,-27° at night, and 16.5° in the tent. Besides, it blew steadily and with the velocity of a hurricane. Fortunately I had bought a small Chinese portable stove, which kept me from freezing. It is not larger than an ordinary teapot and has a perforated cover. A few pieces of glowing charcoal are embedded in ashes in the tin, which is thus kept warm all day. Up on the camel I had this little comforting contrivance on my knees, and at night I laid it among my rugs when I crept into bed. One day there was such a furious storm over the level and exposed country that we could not move from the spot. We sat wrapped up in our furs and rugs and simply froze.

On arrival at Pao-te I had still 430 miles to travel to the capital of the kingdom, Peking. I was eager to be there, and resolved to hurry forward by forced marches. I hired a small two-wheeled cart, and had no servant with me but the Chinese driver. Islam with an interpreter was to follow slowly after with our baggage.

On this route no fewer than sixty-one Swedish missionaries were at work, and I often stayed in their hospitable houses. At other times I put up in the country inns. They are incredibly dirty, full of noisy travellers, smoke, and vermin. The guest room where you sleep at night must be shared with others. Along the inner wall stands a raised ledge of bricks. It is built like an oven and is heated with cattle-dung beneath; and on the platform the sleeper, if not half suffocated, is at any rate half roasted.

In Kalgan (Chang-kia-kau), where the Great Wall is passed, I exchanged my cart for a carrying chair on two long poles. It was borne by two mules which trotted along over the narrow mountain road leading to Peking. Sometimes we were high above the valley bottom, and met whole rows of caravans, carts, riders, and foot passengers, chairs with mules, and every one was in constant danger of being pushed over the edge.

PLATE XVIII. GATE IN THE WALLS OF PEKING.

At last, on March 2, I arrived at Peking, after 1237 days of travelling through Asia, and passed through one of the fine gates in the city walls (Plate XVIII.).

Mongolia

Between China in the south and Eastern Siberia on the north, stretches the immense region of inner Asia which is called Mongolia. The Chinese call it the "grass country," but very large parts of it are waterless desert, where drift-sand is piled up into dunes, and caravan routes and wells are far apart. The belt of desert, one of the largest in the world, is called by the Mongols Gobi, a word which in their language denotes desert. The Chinese call it Shamo, which signifies sandy desert.

Mongolia is subject to China, and the Mongols' spiritual superior or pope is the Dalai Lama. They have also a number of Lama monasteries, and make yearly pilgrimages in large parties to Lhasa. An extraordinary proportion of the male population of the country devote themselves to a religious life and become monks. The Chinese are glad of it, for the peaceful cloister life causes the formerly savage and warlike Mongol hordes to forget their own strength. Services before the image of Buddha in the temple halls lead their thoughts in other directions, and they forget that their people once held the sceptre over almost all Asia and half Europe. They do not remember that their forefathers, the Golden Horde, forced their way seven hundred years ago through the Caucasus, levied tribute throughout Russia, and alarmed all the rest of the West. They have forgotten that their fathers conquered all the Middle Kingdom and digged in yellow earth the Grand Canal on which the junks of the Chinese still ply. The sword has rusted fast in its sheath, and the Mongolian chiefs, whom the Chinese call vassals or dependent princes, encamp peacefully on the steppes under their eight bans.

The Mongols are nomads. They own large flocks of sheep and goats, and live on mutton, milk, butter, and cheese. Among their domestic animals are also the two-humped camel and a small, hardy, strongly built horse. Their life is a perpetual wandering. They move with their flocks from one steppe to another. If the herbage is dried up in a district, or all the pasture is eaten up, they put their tents on camels and set out to find better grazing. Their tents are exactly the same as those of the Kirghizes of the Pamir and the Kirghiz Steppe. They are shaped like haycocks, and consist of a framework of tough ribs covered with black felt.

The Mongols are a good-tempered and amiable people. I made acquaintance with them on the outskirts of their wide domain, and once I travelled right through Mongolia. My starting-point was Peking, and my direction due north-west. It was in the end of March and the beginning of April, 1897. At that time the Trans-Siberian Railway was not completed farther than to Kansk, a small town east of the Yenisei. That was the longest drive I ever took in my life, for from Peking to Kansk the distance is 1800 miles, and I only rested a day on the whole journey, namely at Irkutsk, the capital of Eastern Siberia.

In Peking I provided myself with all that was necessary for a journey to the Russian frontier. First and foremost a Chinese passport, which authorised me to call out Mongols and their horses, and, if I wished, to put up in their tents. Then provisions had to be bought—tinned meats, bread, tea, sugar, etc. From the Russian Legation I obtained an escort of two Cossacks, who were very delighted to have this chance of returning to their homes in Siberia after completing their time of service in Peking.

In Mongolia the traveller does not drive in the usual way. There is no driver on the box, and you do not lean back comfortably in a four-wheeled carriage on springs. To begin with, there is no road at all and no rest-houses; but horses must be changed frequently, and this is done in the Mongolian villages. The Mongols, however, are nomads, and their villages are always on the move. Therefore you must know first of all where the villages happen to be, and in the second place must give the people notice to have a certain number of horses ready. A mounted messenger is sent on in advance for this purpose and then the horses are never wanting. Only the Mongols themselves know where the next villages are situated, and so at every village a fresh retinue of Mongols is provided. And because the villages are being constantly moved you can only travel in a straight line between them, and cannot follow any determined route. You drive along over desert and steppe, and usually see no vestige of an old wheel rut.

The vehicle in which you travel is a very simple contrivance. It is a cart on two medium-sized wheels, closed all over with a rounded tilt covered with blue cloth. A small window in front and two side windows allow you to see over the steppe; the window glass is fixed into the stretched cloth so that it cannot be cracked by the jolting. The cart has no springs, and its bottom rests directly on the axles. There is no seat, and the traveller sits on cushions, furs, and rugs, and there is only room for one person. The cart is of the usual Chinese pattern with shafts for a mule or horse. In China the driver sits on one of the shafts or runs alongside. I had my bags strapped on to the base of the shafts. My large baggage was forwarded on camels, and it reached Stockholm six months after I did.

The style of harnessing is the most curious of all. A loop of rope is fastened to the extreme end of each shaft, and a long, rounded cross-bar is passed through the two loops. Two mounted Mongols lay the bar across their knees in the saddle, but no draught animal is put between the shafts. A rope is fastened to each end of the cross-bar and two other riders wind these ropes twice round their bodies. They have all riding whips, and when all is ready the four riders dash at full speed over the steppe, dragging the cart after them.

Twenty other Mongols ride on each side, half hidden in clouds of dust. Suddenly two of them ride up beside the men who hold the cross-bar on their knees. Of their own accord the two fresh horses slip their heads under the bar, letting it fall on to the riders' knees, while the men who are relieved hold in their horses and let the cart roll on. These then join the rest of the troop. The cart does not stop during this change of horses, which is accomplished in a couple of seconds, and a furious pace is always kept up. In the same way the two front riders and their horses are relieved without stopping. When one of them is tired, a fresh rider comes forward and winds the rope round his waist.

After two or three hours a village of several tents is seen on the steppe ahead of us. About thirty horses are held in readiness by the headman of the village, who has been warned the day before by the messenger. At every stage a few roubles[16] are paid to the Mongol attendants. This payment has always to be made in silver roubles, for the Mongols will not take paper money or small coins.

Thus we go on and on, it would seem interminably, over the boundless steppe—each day the same bumping and jolting, each day the same monotonous landscape. In northern Mongolia, however, snow lay deep on the ground, and here the cart was drawn by men on camels. By this time I was so bruised and worn out with the continual jolting that it was a pleasure to drive on the soft snow.

Marco Polo

In 1162 was born in Mongolia a chief of the savage mounted hordes who bore the name of Jenghiz Khan. He subdued all the surrounding tribes, and the whole Mongol race was collected under his banner. The more his power increased, the more extensive regions he desired to conquer, and he did not rest till practically all Asia was reduced under his rule. His motto was "One God in heaven and one Great Khan on earth." He was not content with a kingdom as large as that of Alexander or Cæsar, but wished to reign over all the known world, and with this aim before his eyes he rode with his horsemen from country to country over the great continent. Everywhere he left sorrow and mourning, burnt and pillaged towns in his track. He was the greatest and most savage conqueror known in history. When he was at the height of his power he collected treasure from innumerable different peoples, from the peninsula of Further India to Novgorod, from Japan to Silesia. To his court came ambassadors from the French kings and the Turkish sultans, from the Russian Grand Dukes and the Khalifs and Popes of the time. No man before or since has caused such a stir among the sons of men, and brought such different peoples into involuntary communication with one another. Jenghiz Khan ruled over more than half the human race, and even in many of the countries which he pillaged and destroyed his memory is feared even to this day.

At his death Jenghiz Khan was sixty-five years old, and he bequeathed his immense kingdom to his four sons. One of these was the father of Kublai Khan, who conquered China in 1280 and established the Mongolian dynasty in the Middle Kingdom. His court was even more brilliant than that of his grandfather, and an exact description both of the great Khan and his empire was given by the great traveller Marco Polo.

In the year 1260 two merchants from Venice were dwelling in Constantinople. They were named Nicolo and Maffeo Polo. Their desire to open trade relations with Asia induced them to travel to the Crimea, and thence across the Volga and through Bukhara to the court of the Great Khan, Kublai. Up to that time only vague rumours of the great civilized empire far in the East had been spread by Catholic missionaries.

The Great Khan, who had never seen Europeans, was pleased at the arrival of the Venetians, received them kindly, and made them tell of all the wonderful things in their own country. Finally he decided to send them back with a letter to the Pope, in which he begged him to send a hundred wise and learned missionaries out to the East. He wished to employ them in training and enlightening the rude tribes of the steppe.

After nine years' absence the travellers returned to Venice. The Pope was dead, and they waited two years fruitlessly for a successor to be elected. As, then, they did not wish the Great Khan to believe them untrustworthy, they decided to return to the Far East, and on this journey they took with them Nicolo's son, Marco Polo, aged fifteen years.

Our three travellers betook themselves from Syria to Mosul, quite close to the ruins of Nineveh on the Tigris, and thence to Baghdad and Hormuz, a town situated on the small strait between the Persian Gulf and the Arabian Sea. Then they proceeded northwards through the whole of Persia and northern Afghanistan, and along the Amu-darya to the Pamir, following routes which had to wait 600 years for new travellers from Europe. Past Yarkand, Khotan, and Lop-nor, and through the whole of the Gobi desert, they finally made their way to China.

It was in the year 1275 that, after several years' wanderings, they came to the court of the Great Khan in eastern Mongolia. The potentate was so delighted with Marco Polo, who learned to read and write several Eastern languages, that he took him into his service. The first commission he entrusted to the young Venetian was an official journey to northern and western China. Polo had noticed that Kublai Khan liked to hear curious and extraordinary accounts from foreign countries, and he therefore treasured up in his memory all he saw and experienced in order to relate it to the Emperor on his return. Accordingly he steadily rose higher in the estimation of Kublai Khan, and was sent out on other official journeys, even as far as India and the borders of Tibet, was for three years governor of a large town, and was also employed at the capital, Peking.

Marco Polo relates how the Emperor goes hunting. He sits in a palanquin like a small room, with a roof, and carried by four elephants. The outside of the palanquin is overlaid with plates of beaten gold and the inside is draped with tiger skins. A dozen of his best gerfalcons are beside him, and near at hand ride several of his attendant lords. Presently one of them will exclaim, "Look, Sire, there are some cranes." Then the Emperor has the roof opened and throws out one of the falcons to strike down the game; this sport gives him great satisfaction. Then he comes to his camp, which is composed of 10,000 tents. His own audience tent is so large that it can easily hold 1000 persons, and he has another for private interviews, and a third for sleeping. They are supported by three tent-poles, are covered outside with tiger skins, and inside with ermine and sable. Marco Polo says that the tents are so fine and costly that it is not every king who could pay for them.

Only the most illustrious noblemen can wait on the Emperor at table. They have cloths of silk and gold wound over their mouths and noses that their breath may not pollute the dishes and cups presented to His Majesty. And every time the Emperor drinks, a powerful band of music strikes up, and all who are present fall on their knees.

All merchants who come to the capital, and especially those who bring gold and silver, precious stones and pearls, must sell their valuables to the Emperor alone. Marco Polo thinks it quite natural that Kublai Khan should have greater treasures than all the kings of the world, for he pays only with paper money, which he makes as he likes, for notes were current at that time in China.

So Marco Polo and his father and uncle lived for many long years in the Middle Kingdom, and by their cleverness and patient industry accumulated much property. But the Emperor, their protector, was old, and they feared that their position would be very different after his death. They longed, too, to go home to Venice, but whenever they spoke of setting out, Kublai Khan bade them stay a little longer.

However, an event occurred which facilitated their departure. Persia also stood under the supremacy of the Mongols, and its prince or Khan was a close connection of Kublai Khan. The Persian Khan had lost his favourite wife, and now desired to carry out the wish she had expressed on her deathbed that he should marry a princess of her own race. Therefore he despatched an embassy to Kublai Khan. It was well received, and a young, beautiful princess was selected for the Khan of Persia. But the land journey of over 4000 miles from Peking to Tabriz was considered too trying for a young woman, so the ambassadors decided to return by sea.

They had conceived a great friendship and respect for the three Venetians, and they requested Kublai Khan to send them with them, for they were skilful mariners, and Marco Polo had lately been in India, and could give them much valuable information about the sea route thither. At last Kublai Khan yielded, and equipped the whole party with great liberality. In the year 1292 they sailed southwards from the coast of China.

Many misfortunes, storms, shipwreck, and fever befell them on the voyage. They tarried long on the coasts of Sumatra and India, a large part of the crew perished and two of the three ambassadors died, but the young lady and her Venetian cavaliers at last reached Persia safe and sound. As the Khan had died, the princess had to put up with his nephew, and she was much distressed when the Polos took leave of her to return home to Venice by way of Tabriz, Trebizond, the Bosporus, and Constantinople. There they arrived in the year 1295, having been absent for twenty-four years.

Their relatives and friends had supposed them to be dead long before. They had almost forgotten their mother tongue, and appeared in their native city in shabby Asiatic clothes. The first thing they did was to go to the old house of their fathers and knock at the door; but their relations did not recognize them, would not believe their romantic story, and sent them about their business.

The three Polos accordingly took another house and here made a great feast for all their family. When the guests were all seated round the table and the banquet was about to commence, the three hosts entered, dressed down to the feet in garments of costly crimson silk. And as water was taken round for the guests to wash their hands, they exchanged their dresses for Asiatic mantles of the finest texture, the silken dresses being cut into pieces and distributed among their retainers. Then they appeared in robes of the most valuable velvet, while the mantles were divided among the servants, and lastly the velvet went the same way.

All the guests were astonished at what they saw. When the board was cleared and the servants were gone, Marco Polo brought in the shabby, tattered clothes the three travellers had worn when their relatives would not acknowledge them. The seams of these garments were ripped up with sharp knives, and out poured heaps of jewels on to the table—rubies, sapphires, carbuncles, diamonds, and emeralds. When Kublai Khan gave them leave to depart they exchanged all their wealth for precious stones, because they knew that they could not carry a heavy weight of gold such a long way. They had sewed the stones in their clothes that no one might suspect that they had them.

When the guests saw these treasures scattered over the table their astonishment knew no bounds. And now all had to acknowledge that these three gentlemen were really the missing members of the Polo house. So they became the object of the greatest reverence and respect. When news about them spread through Venice the good citizens crowded to their house, all eager to embrace and welcome the far-travelled men and to pay them homage. "The young men came daily to visit and converse with the ever polite and gracious Messer Marco, and to ask him questions about Cathay and the Great Can, all which he answered with such kindly courtesy that every man felt himself in a manner his debtor." But when he talked of the Great Khan's immense wealth, and of other treasures accumulated in Eastern lands, he continually spoke of millions and millions, and therefore he was nicknamed by his countrymen Messer Marco Millioni.

At that time, and for long afterwards, great envy and jealousy raged between the three great commercial republics, Venice, Genoa, and Pisa. In the year 1298 the Genoese equipped a mighty fleet which ravaged the Venetian territory on the Dalmatian coast of the Adriatic Sea. Here it was met by the Venetian fleet, in which Marco Polo commanded a galley. After a hot fight the Genoese gained the victory, and with 7000 prisoners sailed home to Genoa, where they made a grand procession through the city amidst the jubilation of the people. The prisoners were put in chains and cast into prison, and among them was Marco Polo.

In the prison Marco had a companion in misfortune, the author Rusticiano from Pisa. It was he who recorded Marco Polo's remarkable adventures in Asia from his dictation, and therefore there is cause of satisfaction at the result of the battle, for otherwise the name of Marco Polo might perhaps have been unknown to posterity.

After a year prisoners were exchanged and Marco Polo returned to Venice, where he married and had three daughters. In the year 1324 he died, and was buried in the Church of San Lorenzo in Venice.

On his deathbed he was admonished to retract his extraordinary narrative. No reliance was placed on his words, and even at the beginning of the eighteenth century there were learned men who maintained that his whole story was an excellently planned romance. The narrative taken down in prison was, however, distributed in an innumerable number of manuscript copies. The great Christopher Columbus, discoverer of America, found in it a support to his conviction that by sailing west a man would at length come to India.

There are many curious statements in Marco Polo's book. He speaks of the "Land of Darkness" in the north, and of islands in the northern sea which lie so far north that if a man travels thither he leaves the pole-star behind him. We miss also much that we should expect to find. Thus, for example, Marco Polo does not once mention the Great Wall, though he must have passed through it several times. Still his book is a treasure of geographical information, and most of his discoveries and reports were confirmed five hundred years later. His life was a long romance, and he occupies one of the most foremost places among discoverers of all ages.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Since this was written, China has become a republic, the Emperor P'u-yi (born February 11, 1906) having abdicated on February 12, 1912, in consequence of the success of a revolution which broke out in the autumn of 1911. He still retains the title of Manchu Emperor, but with his death the title will cease. A provisional President of the Republic was elected, and the first Cabinet was constituted on March 29, 1912.

[15] The Republic has adopted a new flag consisting of five stripes—crimson, yellow, white, blue, and black—to denote the five principal races comprised in the Chinese people, Mongol, Chinese, Manchu, Mohammedan, and Tibetan.

[16] A Russian coin, worth about 2s, 1 1/8d.

XIII

JAPAN (1908)

Nagasaki and Kobe

Marco Polo was also the first European to make Japan known in Western countries. He called it Chipangu, and stated that it was a large, rich island in the sea east of China. Accordingly the Chinese call it the "Land of the Rising Sun," and Nippon, as the Japanese themselves call their islands, has the same poetical signification, derived from the rising of the sun out of the waves of the Pacific Ocean. The flag of Japan displays a red sun on a white field, and when it flies from the masts of warships the sun is surrounded by sixteen red rays.

We leave Shanghai by the fine steamer Tenyo Maru, which is driven by turbines and makes 18 knots an hour. The Tenyo Maru belongs to a line which plies between Hong-kong and San Francisco, calling at Shanghai, Japan, and the Sandwich Islands on the way. From Shanghai it is 470 miles over the Eastern Sea to Nagasaki, a considerable town situated on Kiu-shiu, the southernmost of the four islands of Japan proper.

As we near Japan the vessel crosses the great current called the "Kuro Shiwo," or the "Black Salt." It comes from the region immediately north of the equator, and flows northwards, washing the Japanese coast with its water, over 200 fathoms deep, and with a temperature of 72°, just as the Gulf Stream washes the east coast of Europe. Off Japan the sea is very deep, the lead sinking down to 4900 fathoms and more.

In Nagasaki the visitor is astonished at the great shipbuilding yards and docks; they are the largest in Asia, and the Tenyo Maru, as well as other ships as big, have been, for the most part at any rate, built here. It is hard to believe that it is only forty years since the Japanese took to European civilization and the inventions of Western lands. In many respects they have surpassed their teachers.

MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM SHANGHAI THROUGH JAPAN AND KOREA TO DALNY (pp. [184-202]).

After a whole day in Nagasaki we steam out to sea again and make northwards round Kiu-shiu to the beautiful narrow strait at Shimonoseki which leads to the Inland Sea. Unfortunately it is pitch dark when we pass Admiral Togo's fleet. He has just been engaged in manoeuvres with eighty-five of Japan's two hundred modern warships. In sea-power Japan is the fifth nation of the world, and is only surpassed by England, Germany, America, and France. A large number of their warships were captured from Russia during the war, and afterwards refitted and re-christened with Japanese names. On a peace footing the land army of Japan contains 250,000 men and 11,000 officers. In time of war, when all the reservists and landwehr troops are called out, the strength amounts to a million and a half; 120,000 men yearly are called out for active service. The Japanese make any sacrifice when it is a question of the defence of their fatherland. To them affection for Nippon is a religion.

The area of Japan is about half as large again as that of the British Islands, and the population is, roughly, a quarter more. But if the recently acquired parts of the mainland, Korea and Kwan-tung, be included, 77,000 square miles must be added and the population increased to 65 millions.

Early on the morning of November 9 we pass through the strait of Shimonoseki into the Inland Sea, the Mediterranean of Japan, which lies between the islands Hondo, Kiu-shiu, and Shikoku. The scenery which unfolds itself on all sides is magnificent, and is constantly changing. Close around us, away over the open passages and in among the dark islands, is the clear, green, salt water, edged with foaming surf and dotted with picturesque fishing-boats under full sail; and as a frame to the gently heaving sea we have the innumerable islands—some large, some small, some wooded, others bare, but all sloping steeply to the shore, where the breakers thunder eternally. A pleasant breeze is felt on the promenade deck of the Tenyo Maru, the air is fresh and pure, the day bright and cheerful, and from sea and coast comes a curious mixed odour of salt brine and pine needles.

At dusk we cast anchor in the roadstead of Kobe, where the Tenyo Maru has to remain for twenty-four hours in order to take cargo on board. A launch takes us to the busy town, and we determine to spend the night on shore in a genuine Japanese hotel. At the entrance we are met by the landlord, in a garment like a petticoat and a thin mantle with short hanging sleeves. Two small waiting-maids take off our shoes and put a pair of slippers on our feet. We go up a narrow wooden staircase and along a passage with a brightly polished wooden floor. Outside a sliding door we take off our slippers and enter in stocking feet. Cleanliness is the first rule in a Japanese house, and it would be thought inexcusable to enter a room in shoes which had lately been in the dust and dirt of the lanes and streets.

Our rooms are divided from one another by partitions of paper or the thinnest veneer, which can be partially drawn aside so that the rooms may be thrown into one. Here and there mottoes are inscribed on hanging shields, and we see that they are written in the same singular characters as are used in China. On one wall hangs a kakemono, or a long strip of paper with flowers painted in water-colours. On a small carved wooden stool below the painting stands a dwarf tree scarcely two feet in height. It is a cherry-tree which has been prevented from growing to its full size, but it is a real, living tree, perhaps twenty years old, and exactly like an ordinary cherry-tree, only so small that it might have come from Lilliput.

The floor is laid with mats of rice straw with black borders. Each mat is 6 feet long and 3 wide, and when a house is built the areas of the rooms are always calculated in a certain number of mats; thus a room of six mats is spoken of, or one of eight mats. Not infrequently the rooms are so small that three or even two mats will cover the floor.

We take our seats crossed-legged or on our heels on small, square, down cushions, the only furniture to be seen. A young Japanese maiden, also in stocking feet, enters and places a stove in the middle of our circle. There is no fireplace. This stove is shaped like a flower-pot, made of thick metal, and is filled with fine white ashes. The young woman builds the ashes up into a cone like the summit of Fujiyama and lays fresh glowing charcoal against it. Instead of tongs she uses a pair of small iron rods.

Bedsteads are not used in Japan, and the bedding, which consists of thick padded quilts of rustling silk, is simply spread out on the mats on the floor. All the service and attendance is performed by women. They are dressed in their becoming and tasteful national costume, the "kimono," a close-fitting coloured garment, cut out round the neck, a broad sash of cloth round the waist, and a large rosette like a cushion at the back. Their hair is jet black, smooth, and shiny, and is arranged in tresses that look as if they were carved in ebony. Japanese women are always clean, neat, and dainty, and it is vain to look for a speck of dust on a silken cuff. If they did not giggle sometimes, you might think that they were dolls of wax or china. They are treated like princesses with the greatest politeness and consideration, for such is the custom of the country. They do their work conscientiously, and are always cheerful, contented, and friendly.

PLATE XIX. A JAPANESE RICKSHA.

We sit down on our cushions for breakfast. The serving-girls bring in a small red-lacquered table, not larger or higher than a footstool. Every guest has his own table, and on each are five cups, bowls, and small dishes of porcelain and lacquer, all of them with lids like teapots. These contain raw fish and boiled fish in various forms, omelettes and macaroni, crab soup with asparagus in it, and many other strange viands. When we have partaken of the first five dishes, another table is brought in with fresh dishes; and if it is a great banquet, as many as four or five such tables may be placed before one before the dinner is over. We eat with two chopsticks of wood or ivory not larger than a penholder, drink pale, weak tea without sugar and cream, and a kind of weak rice spirit called saké. When a bowl of steaming rice cooked dry is brought in, it is a sign that the meal is ended.

The streets of Kobe are not paved. They are narrow roads, too narrow for the large, clumsy vehicles, which are, however, few in number, and are mostly used for the transport of goods. The people ride in "rickshas"—neat, smart, two-wheeled gigs drawn by a running bare-legged man with a mushroom-shaped hat on his head (Plate XIX.). The road westwards along the coast runs through a succession of animated and busy villages, past open tea-houses and small country shops, homely, decorated wooden dwellings, temples, fields, and gardens. Everything is small, neat, and well kept. Each peasant cultivates his own property with care and affection, and the harvest from innumerable small plots constitutes the wealth of Japan. It is impossible to drive fast along the narrow road, for we are always meeting waggons and two-wheeled carts, porters, and travellers.

At the "Beach of Dancing Girls" we stay a while under some old pine-trees. Here people bathe in summer, while the children play among the trees. But now in November it is cold rather than warm, and after a pleasant excursion we return to Kobe. On the way we look into a Shinto temple erected to the memory of a hero who six hundred years ago fell in a battle in the neighbourhood. In the temple court stands a large Russian cannon taken at Port Arthur, and also a part of the mast shot off the man-of-war Mikasa.

Buddhism was introduced into Japan in the sixth century A.D., and more than half the population of the country profess this religion. The old faith of Japan, however, is Shintoism, to which about one-third of the people still belong. The sun is worshipped as a principal god and the powers of nature are adored as divinities. From the solar deity the imperial house derives its origin, and the Emperor is regarded with almost religious reverence. Respect is also paid to the memory of departed heroes, as in China. Of late Christianity has spread far and wide in Japan, and Christian churches are now numerous.

Fujiyama and Tokio

It is now November 11. During the night the Tenyo Maru has passed out from Kobe into the Pacific Ocean, and is now steering north-east at a good distance from the coast of Hondo. The sky is gloomy, and the desert of water around us is a monotonous steely-grey expanse in every direction.

The Mediterranean countries of Europe lie on the same parallel of latitude as Japan. But Japan lies in the domain of the monsoons or periodical winds, and when these blow in summer from the ocean, they bring rain with them, while the winter, when the wind comes from the opposite direction, is fairly dry. On the whole Japan is colder than the Mediterranean countries, but the difference in climate between the northern and southern parts is very great. On the northern island, Yezo, the winter lasts quite seven months.

At noon Fujiyama[17] is first seen towards the north-east. Nothing of the coast is visible, only the snowy summit of the mountain floating white above the sea. Our course takes us straight towards it, and the imposing mountain becomes more distinct every quarter of an hour. Now also the coast comes in sight as a dark line, but only the summit of the mountain is visible, a singularly regular flat cone. The top looks as if it were cut off; that is the crater ring, for Fujiyama is a volcano, though it has been quiescent for the past two centuries.

The snowfields in the gullies stand out more and more clearly, but still only the summit is visible, floating as it were free above the earth, a vision among the clouds. An hour later the whole contour comes into view and becomes sharper and sharper; and when we anchor off the shore the peak of Fujiyama rises right above us.

Fujiyama is the highest mountain in Japan, and the crater ring of the slumbering volcano is 12,395 feet above the surface of the Pacific Ocean. Fujiyama is a holy mountain; the path up it is lined with small temples and shrines, and many pilgrims ascend to the top in summer when the snow has melted away. It is the pride of Japan and the grandest object of natural beauty the country possesses (Plate XX.). It would be vain to try to enumerate all the objects on which the cone of Fujiyama has been represented from immemorial times. It is always the same mountain with the truncated top—in silver and gold on the famous lacquered boxes, and on the rare choice silver and bronze caskets, on the valuable vases in cloisonne, on bowls, plaques, and dishes, on screens, parasols, everything.

PLATE XX. FUJIYAMA.

Painters also take a delight in devising various foregrounds to the white cone. I once saw a book of a hundred pictures of Fujiyama, each with a new foreground. Now the holy mountain was seen between the boughs of Japanese cedars, now between the tall trunks of trees, and again beneath their crowns. Once more it appeared above a foaming waterfall, or over a quiet lake, where the peak was reflected in the water; or above a swinging bridge, a group of playing children, or between the masts of fishing-boats. It peeped out through a temple gate or at the end of one of the streets of Tokio, between the ripening ears of a rice-field or the raised parasols of dancing girls.

Thus Fujiyama has become the symbol of everything that the name Nippon implies, and its peak is the first point which catches the rays of the rising sun at the dawn of day.

Singularly cold and pale the holy mountain stands out against the dark blue sky as we steer out again to sea in the moonlight night. It is our last night on the long sea voyage from Bombay. Close to starboard we have Oshima, the "great island," an active volcano with thin vapour floating above its flat summit; Japan has more than a hundred extinct and a score of still active volcanoes, and the country is also visited by frequent earthquakes. On an average 1200 are counted in the year, most of them, however, quite insignificant. Now and then, however, they are very destructive, carrying off thousands of victims, and it is on account of the earthquakes that the Japanese build their houses of wood and make them low.

In the early morning the Tenyo Maru glides into the large inlet on which Yokohama and Tokio are situated. Yokohama is an important commercial town, and is a port of call for a large number of steamboat lines from the four continents. Its population is about 400,000, of whom 1000 are Europeans—merchants, consuls, and missionaries.

A few miles south-west of Yokohama is the fishing-village of Kamakura, which was for many centuries the capital of the Shoguns. It has now little to show for its former greatness—at one time it was said to have over a million inhabitants—except the beautiful, colossal statue of Buddha, the Daibutsu (Plate XXI.). The figure, which is about 40 feet high, is cast in bronze, and dates from 1252.

PLATE XXI. THE GREAT BUDDHA AT KAMAKURA.

At the head of the bay lies Tokio, the capital, with over two million inhabitants. Here are many palaces surrounded by fine parks, but the people live in small, neat, wooden houses, most of them with garden enclosures. The grounds of the Japanese of rank are small masterpieces of taste and excellence. It is a great relief to come out of the bustle and dust of the roads into these peaceful retreats, where small canals and brooks murmur among blocks of grey stone and where trees bend their crowns over arched bridges.

In Tokio the traveller can study both the old and the new Japan, There are museums of all kinds, picture galleries, schools, and a university organized on the European model. There is also a geological institution where very accurate geological maps are compiled of the whole country, and where in particular all the phenomena connected with volcanoes and earthquakes are investigated. In scientific inquiries the Japanese are on a par with Europeans. In the art of war they perhaps excel white peoples. In industrial undertakings they have appropriated all the inventions of our age, and in commerce they threaten to push their Western rivals out of Asia. Not many years ago, for example, some Japanese went to Sweden to study the manufacture of those safety matches which strike only on the box. Now they make safety matches themselves, and supply not only Japan but practically all the East. At Kobe one can often see a whole mountain of wooden boxes containing matches, waiting for shipment to China and Korea. So it is in all other branches of industry. The Japanese travel to Europe and study the construction of turbines, railway carriages, telephones, and soon they can dispense with Europe and produce all they want themselves.

The present Emperor of Japan, Mutsuhito,[18] came to the throne in 1867. His reign is called Mei-ji, or the "Era of Enlightened Rule." During this period Japan has developed into a Great Power of the first rank, and it is in no small measure due to the wisdom and clear-sightedness of the Emperor that this great transformation has been accomplished.

Formerly the country was divided into many small principalities under the rule of daimios or feudal lords, who were often at war with one another, though they were all subject to the suzerainty of the Shogun, the nominal ruler of the whole country. Together with the samurais the daimios constituted the feudal nobility. It is curious to think that little more than forty years ago the Japanese fought with bows and arrows, sword and spear, and that the samurais went to battle in heavy harness with brassards and cuisses, helms and visors over the face. They were skilful archers, and wielded their great swords with both hands when they rushed on the foe.

Then the new period suddenly began. In 1872 universal service was introduced, and French and German officers were invited to organise the defensive force. Now Japan is so strong that no Great Power in the world cares to measure its strength with it.

Nikko, Nara, and Kioto

From Tokio we travel northwards by train in two hours to Nikko. There are several villages, and we put up in one of them. In front of the inn ripples a clear stream, spanned by two bridges, one of which is arched and furnished with a red parapet. Only the Emperor and his family may step on to this bridge; other mortals must pass over another bridge near at hand. On the farther side we ascend a tremendously long avenue of grand cryptomerias rising straight up to the sky. It leads to a mausoleum erected to the memory of the first Shogun of the famous dynasty of Tokugawa. The first of them died in the year 1616.

This mausoleum is considered to be the most remarkable sight in Japan. It is not huge and massive, like the Buddhist temple in Kioto, the old capital of Japan. It is somewhat small, but both outside and inside it displays unusually exquisite artistic skill. Granite steps lead up to it. A torii, or portal, is artistically carved in stone, and another is so perfect that the architect feared the envy of the gods, and therefore placed one of the pillars upside down. We see carved in wood three apes, one holding his hands before his eyes, another over his ears, and the third over his mouth. That means that they will neither see, hear, nor speak anything evil. A pagoda rises in five blood-red storeys. At all the projections of the roof hang round bells, which sound melodiously to the movement of the wind. In the interior of the temple the sightseer is lost in dark passages dimly illuminated by oil lamps carried by the priests. The walls are all covered with the finest paintings in gold and lacquer. A moss-grown stone staircase leads down to the tomb where the Shogun sleeps.

Nara is situated immediately to the south of Kioto. Here are many famous temples, pagodas, and torii, and here also is the largest image of Buddha in Japan, twelve hundred years old. The finest thing of all, however, is the temple park of Nara, where silence and peace reign in a grove of tall cryptomerias. Along the walks are several rows of stone lamps placed on high pedestals of stone. They stand close together and may number a thousand. Each of these lamps is a gift of some wealthy man to the temple. On great festivals oil lamps are placed in them. Hundreds of roedeer live in the park of Nara. They are as tame as lambs, and wherever you go they come skipping up with easy, lively jumps. Barley cakes for them to eat are sold along the paths of the park, and you buy a whole basket of these. In a minute you are surrounded by roedeer, stretching out their delicate, pretty heads and gazing at the basket with their lovely brown eyes. Here a wonderful air of peace and happiness prevails. The steps of roedeer and pilgrims are heard on the sand of the paths, but otherwise there is complete silence and quiet. The feeling reminds one of that which is experienced at the Taj Mahal.

All Japan is like a museum. You can travel about for years and daily find new gems of natural beauty and of the most perfect art. Everything seems so small and delicate. Even the people are small. The roads are narrow, and are chiefly used by rickshas and foot passengers. The houses are dolls' closets. The railways are of narrow gauge, and the carriages like our tramcars. But if you wish to see something large you can visit the Buddhist temple in Kioto. There we are received with boundless hospitality by the high priest, Count Otani, who leads us round and shows us the huge halls where Buddha sits dreaming, and his own palace, which is one of the most richly and expensively adorned in all Japan.

If you wish to see something else which does not exactly belong to the small things of Japan you should visit a temple in Osaka, the chief manufacturing town of Japan. There hangs a bell which is 25 feet high and weighs 220 tons. In a frame beside the bell is suspended a beam, a regular battering-ram, which is set in motion up and down when the bell is sounded. And when the bell emits its heavy, deafening ring it sounds like thunder.

Kioto is much handsomer than Tokio, for it has been less affected by the influence of Western lands, and lies amidst hills and gardens. Kioto is the genuine old Japan with attractive bazaars and bright streets. Shall we look into a couple of shops?

Here is an art-dealer's. We enter from the street straight into a large room full of interesting things, but the dealer takes us into quite a small room, where he invites us to sit at a table. And now he brings out one costly article after another. First he shows us some gold lacquered boxes, on which are depicted trees and houses and the sun in gold, and golden boats sailing over water. One tiny box, containing several compartments and drawers, and covered all over with the finest gold inlaying, costs only three thousand yen, or about three hundred pounds. Then he shows us an old man in ivory lying on a carpet of ivory and reading a book, while a small boy in ivory has climbed on to his back. From a whole elephant tusk a number of small elephants have been carved, becoming smaller towards the point of the tusk, but all cut out in the same piece. You are tired of looking at them, they are so many, and they are all executed with such exact faithfulness to nature that you would hardly be surprised if they began to move.

Then he sets on the table a dozen metal boxes exquisitely adorned with coloured lacquer. On the lid of a silver box an adventure of a monkey is represented in raised work. Pursued by a snake, the monkey has taken refuge in a cranny beneath a projecting rock. The snake sits on the top. He cannot see the monkey, but he catches sight of his reflection in the water below the stone. The monkey, too, sees the image of the snake, and each is now waiting for the other.

Now the shopman comes with two tortoises in bronze. The Japanese are experts in metal-work, and there is almost life and movement in these creatures. Now he throws on to the table a snake three feet long. It is composed of numberless small movable rings of iron fastened together, and looks marvellously life-like. Just at the door stands a heavy copper bowl on a lacquered tripod, a gong that sounds like a temple bell when its edge is struck with a skin-covered stick. It is beaten out of a single piece, not cast, and therefore it has such a wonderful vibrating and long-continued ring.

Let us also go into one of the famous large silk shops. Shining white silk with white embroidered chrysanthemum flowers on it—women's kimonos with clusters of blue flowers on the sleeves and skirt—landscapes, fishing-boats, ducks and pigeons, monkeys and tigers, all painted or embroidered on silk—herons and cranes in thick raised needlework on screens in black frames—everything is good and tasteful.

Among the most exquisite, however, are the cloths of cut velvet. This is a wonderful art not found in any other country than Japan. The finest white silken threads are tightly woven over straight copper wires laid close together, making a white cloth of perhaps ten feet square, interwoven with copper wires. An artist paints in bright colours on the cloth a landscape, a rushing brook among red maples, a bridge, a mill-wheel, and a hut on the bank. When he has done, he cuts with a sharp knife along each of the numberless copper wires. Every time he cuts, the point of the knife follows one of the copper wires, and he cuts only over the coloured parts. The fine silk threads are thus severed and their ends stand up like a brush. Then the copper wires are drawn out, and there stand the red trees, hut, and bridge in close velvet on a foundation of silk.

In all kinds of handicrafts and mechanical work the Japanese are experts. A workman will sit with inexhaustible patience and diligence for days, and even months and years, executing in ivory a boy carrying a fruit basket on his back. He strikes and cuts with his small hammers and knives, his chisels and files, and gives himself no rest until the boy is finished. Perhaps it may cost him a year's work, but the price is so high that all his expenses for the year are covered when the boy is sold to an art-dealer.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] "Fuji," without equal; "yama," mountain.

[18] The Emperor Mutsuhito died on July 30, 1912, and was succeeded by his eldest son, Yoshihito, who was born in 1879.

XIV

BACK TO EUROPE

Korea

Our journey eastwards ends with Japan, and we turn westwards on our way back to Europe. The portion of the mainland of Asia which lies nearest to Japan is Korea, and the passage across the straits from Shimonoseki to Fu-san takes only about ten hours. The steamer sails in the morning, and late in the afternoon we see to larboard the Tsushima Islands rising out of the water like huge dolphins. Our course takes us almost over the exact place where, on May 27, 1905, Admiral Togo annihilated the squadron of the Russian Admiral Rozhdestvenski.

The Russian fleet had sailed round Asia, and steamed up east of Formosa to the Strait of Korea. The Admiral hoped to be able to reach Vladivostock, on the Russian side of the Sea of Japan, without being attacked, and on May 27 his fleet was approaching the Tsushima Islands. But Admiral Togo, with the Japanese fleet, lay waiting off the southern coast of Korea. He had divided the straits into squares on a map, and his scouting boats were constantly on the look-out. They could always communicate with Togo's flagship by wireless telegraphy. And now currents passing through the air announced that the Russian fleet was in sight, and was in the square numbered 203. This number was considered a good omen by the Japanese, for the fate of the fortress of Port Arthur was sealed when the Japanese took a fort called "203-metre Hill" (Port Arthur, which lies on the coast of the Chinese mainland, had fallen into the hands of the Japanese on January 1, 1905).

When the news came, Togo knew what to do. With his large ships and sixty torpedo boats he fell upon the Russian fleet, and the battle was decided within an hour. The Russian Admiral's flagship sank just on the spot where we are now on the way to Fu-san. The Admiral himself was rescued, sorely wounded, by the Japanese. His fleet was dispersed, and its various divisions were pursued, sunk, or captured. The Russians lost thirty-four ships and ten thousand men. It was a bloody encounter which took place on these usually so peaceful waters. The Japanese became masters of the sea, and could, unhindered, transport troops, provisions, and war material over to the mainland, where the war with Russia still raged in Manchuria.

From Fu-san, which for two hundred years has been a Japanese town, the railway takes us northwards through the Korean peninsula. We ascend the beautiful valley of the Nak-tong-gang River. Side valleys opening here and there afford interesting views, and between them dark hills descend steeply to the river, which often spreads out and flows so gently that the surface of the water forms a smooth mirror. The sky is clear and turquoise-blue in colour, and spans its vault over greyish-brown bare mountains. Where the ground on the valley bottom is level it is occupied by rice and wheat fields. Every now and then we pass a busy village of grey thatched houses, where groups of women and children in coloured garments are seen outside the cabins. The men wear long white coats, and on the head a thin black hat in the form of a stunted cone with flat brim. Seldom are the eyes caught by a clump of trees; as a rule the country is bare. Innumerable small mounds are often seen on the slopes; these are Korean graves.

The signs of Japan's peaceful conquest of Korea are everywhere apparent. Japanese guards, policemen, soldiers, and officials are seen at the stations; the country now contains more than 200,000 Japanese. Settlers from Japan, however, take up their residence only for a time in the foreign country. For example, a landowner in Japan will sell half his property there, and with the proceeds buy land in Korea three or four times as large as all his estate in the home country, and in fertility at least as good. There he farms for some years, and then returns home with the profits he has earned. Numbers of Japanese fishermen also come yearly to the coasts of Korea with their boats, and return home to Japan with their catch. Thus Korea is deluged with Japanese of all kinds. The army is Japanese, Japanese fortresses are erected along the northern frontier, the government and officials are Japanese, and soon Korea will become simply a part of the Land of the Rising Sun.

PLATE XXII. A SEDAN-CHAIR IN SEOUL.

We cross the range of mountains which runs like a backbone all through Korea from north to south, and late in the evening we come to the capital, Seoul, which has 280,000 inhabitants, a fifth of whom are Japanese. The town is confined in a valley between bare cliffs, and from the heights all that can be seen is confusion of grey and white houses with gabled roofs covered with grey tiles. In the Japanese quarter life goes on exactly as in Japan; rows of coloured paper lanterns hang now, at night, before the open shops, and trade is brisk and lively. In the Korean quarters the lanes are narrow and dismal, but the principal streets are wider, with tramcars rattling amidst the varied Asiatic scenes. Here are sedan chairs (Plate XXII.), caravans of big oxen laden with firewood, heavy carts with goods, men carrying unusually heavy loads on a framework of wooden ribs on their backs, women sailing past in white garments and a veil over their smooth-plaited hair. A row of grown men and boys pass through the streets carrying boards with Korean inscriptions in red and white: those are advertisements. Before them marches a drum and flute band, filling the streets with a hideous noise.

Korea has 13 million inhabitants, and in area is just about as large as Great Britain. It is now subject to Japan, and is administered by a Japanese Resident-General, whose headquarters are at Seoul.

Manchuria

From Seoul we travelled northwards by rail to Wi-ju, a small place on the left bank of the Yalu River, which forms the boundary between Korea and Manchuria. Opposite, on the right or north bank of the Yalu, stands An-tung, a town with 5000 Japanese and 40,000 Chinese inhabitants. The river had just begun to freeze over, and the ice was still so thin that it could be seen bending in great waves under the weight of our sledge, which a Chinaman pushed along at a great speed with a long iron-shod pole. However, we reached the other side in safety.

From An-tung to Mukden is only 200 miles, but the journey takes two whole days. The little narrow-gauge railway was laid down during the Russo-Japanese War to enable the Japanese to transport provisions and material to the front. The small track goes up and down over the mountains in the most capricious curves and loops, and the train seldom accomplishes the whole journey without a mishap. The Japanese Consul at An-tung, who had made the journey eight times, had been in four railway accidents, and two days previously the train had rolled down a declivity with a general and his staff.

The view through the carriage windows is magnificent. This part of Manchuria is mountainous, but in the depths of the valleys lie farms and fields. Manchus in long blue coats and black vests wind along the road tracks, some on foot, others mounted, while others again drive two-wheeled carts drawn by a horse and a pair of mules. All the watercourses are frozen, but there is no snow. It is sunny, clear, and calm in these valleys, where the thunder of battle has long died away among the mountains.

Half-way to Mukden we halt for the night, and start next morning before daybreak in biting cold. Some Chinese merchants join the train, attended by servants bearing paper lanterns. A small party of Japanese soldiers also is here. They are in thick yellow coats with high collars, bashliks, red shoulder knots, caps with a red border, leather-covered felt boots, and are armed with cutlasses and rifles. They are sinewy and sturdy fellows, neat and clean, and always seem cheerful.

At length the Christmas sun rises glowing red, and the ice flowers vanish from the windows. Here, where the winter cold is so piercing, it is oppressively hot in summer. Our little toy train crosses a river several times on fragile bridges of beams, which seem as though they might at any moment collapse like a house of cards. Small strips of tilled land, creaking ox-carts on the deeply rutted roads, tiny Buddhist oratories, primitive stations with long rows of trucks of fuel, a country house or two—that is all that is to be seen the whole day, until late in the evening we arrive at Mukden.

Manchuria is one of the dependencies of China. The Russians constructed a railway through the country to the fortress of Port Arthur, but, as is well known, the Japanese succeeded in capturing the fortress during the war. By the peace of Portsmouth,[19] concluded in September 1905, the Japanese acquired Port Arthur, the adjacent commercial port of Dalny, with the surrounding district, the southern half of the large island Sakhalin, the supremacy over Korea, together with the South Manchurian Railway—so that the Russians had unknowingly built this railway for the benefit of their enemies.

Round Mukden was fought the greatest battle of the whole Russo-Japanese War. The contest lasted twenty days; more than 850,000 men and 2500 guns were engaged, and 120,000 were left dead on the field. On March 1, 1905, the whole Japanese army began to move, and formed at last a ring round the Russians and Mukden. Thus the Japanese became for the time being the masters of Manchuria, but on the conclusion of peace the country was handed back to China.

The life in the singular streets of Mukden is varied and attractive. The Manchus seem a vigorous and self-confident people; they are taller than the Chinese, but wear Chinese dress with fur caps on their heads. The women seldom appear out of doors; they wear their hair gathered up in a high knot on the crown, and, in contrast to the Chinese women, do not deform their feet. Among the swarming crowds one sees Chinamen, merchants, officers, and soldiers in semi-European fur-lined uniforms, policemen in smart costumes with bright buttons, Japanese, Mongols, and sometimes a European. Tramcars drawn by horses jingle through the broader streets. The houses are fine and solidly built, with carved dragons and painted sculpture, paper lanterns and advertisements, and a confusion of black Chinese characters on vertically hanging signs. At the four points of the compass there are great town gates in the noble Chinese architecture, but outside stretches a bare and dreary plain full of grave mounds.

In Pe-ling, or "Northern Tomb," rests the first Chinese Emperor of the Manchu dynasty, and his son, the great Kang Hi, who reigned over the Middle Kingdom for sixty-one years. Pe-ling consists of several temple-like buildings. The visitor first enters a hall containing an enormous tortoise of stone, which supports a stone tablet inscribed with an epitaph extolling the deceased Emperor. At the farthest extremity of the walled park is the tomb itself, a huge mass of stone with a curved roof. In a pavilion just in front of this building the Emperor of China is wont to perform his devotions when he visits the graves of his fathers. Solemn peace reigns in the park, and under the pine-trees stone elephants, horses, and camels gaze solemnly at one another.

From Mukden Port Arthur is an easy eight hours' railway journey south-westwards; and it is only an hour and a half more to Dalny, which in Japanese hands has grown to a large and important commercial town.

The Trans-Siberian Railway

On December 28, 1908, we stepped into the train in Dalny, and commenced a railway journey which lasted without a break for eleven days.

First we have to go back to Mukden, and then a somewhat shorter journey to the last Japanese station. At the next the stationmaster is a Russian, and Russian guards replace the Japanese. In the afternoon the train draws up at Kharbin on the Sungari River, a tributary of the great Amur. It was towards Kharbin that the Russians slowly retired after their defeat, and on this very platform Prince Ito, the first Japanese Resident-General of Korea, was murdered barely a year later.

At Kharbin we have to wait two hours for the international express, which runs twice a week from Vladivostock to Moscow.

Next morning we stay for two hours at a station in Manchuria, on the boundary between Manchuria and Siberia, between China and Russia, and here our luggage is examined by the Russian customs officers. We put our watches back one and a half hours—that is the difference of time between Kharbin and Irkutsk. We are now travelling from east to west, in the same direction as the sun. If the train went as fast as the sun we should enjoy perpetual day; but the train lags behind, and we only gain an hour in the twenty-four.

The Trans-Siberian railway is the longest in the world, the distance from Dalny to Moscow being 5400 miles. The railway was completed just in time for the war, but as it had only one track, it taxed all the energy of the Russians to transport troops and war material to the battlefields in Manchuria. A second track is now being laid.

By using this railway a traveller can go from London to Shanghai in fourteen days, the route being to Dover, across the Channel to Calais, by rail to Moscow, from Moscow to Vladivostock by the Trans-Siberian railway, and from Vladivostock to Shanghai by sea. The sea voyage from London by the P. and O.—calling at Gibraltar, Marseilles, Port Said, Aden, Colombo, Penang, Singapore, and Hong Kong—takes about six weeks, which can be reduced to a month by travelling by train across Europe to Brindisi (at the south-eastern corner of Italy), and thence by steamer to Port Said, where the liner is joined. There is still a third route, across the Atlantic to the United States or Canada, by rail to San Francisco or Vancouver, and then by steamer to Shanghai via Japan. This journey can also be accomplished in a month.

THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY.

On the last day of the year we pass through the Yablonoi Mountains and enter the region called Transbaikalia, because it lies on the farther, that is, the eastern, side of Lake Baikal. Here dwell Buriats, a Mongolian people—in winter in wooden huts surrounded by enclosures for domestic animals, in summer in tents. When we awoke on the morning of New Year's Day the train was passing along the southern shore of Lake Baikal, and one of the most enchanting scenes in the world was displayed to the eyes of the passengers. On the eastern shore the mountains stood clearly defined in the pure morning air, while the ranges to the west were lit up by the clear sunshine. Here and there the slopes were covered with northern pine and fir-trees. The line runs all the way along the lake shore, sometimes only a couple of yards from the water. This part of the Trans-Siberian railway was the most difficult and costly to make, and the last to be completed. During its construction traffic between the extremities of the line was provided for by great ferry-boats across the lake. The line winds in and out, following all the promontories and bays of the lake, and the train rolls on through narrow galleries where columns of rock are left to support a whole roof of mountain. Sometimes we run along a ledge blasted out of the side of the mountain, above a precipitous slope which falls headlong to the lake. We rush through an endless succession of tunnels, and on emerging from each are surprised by a new view of the mountainous shore.

Baikal, or the "Rich Lake," is the third inland sea of Asia, only the Caspian and the Sea of Aral being larger. Its height above sea-level is 1560 feet; the water is light-green in colour, sweet, and crystal clear, and abounds in fish, among them five species of salmon. There is also a kind of seal, and in general many of the animal forms of Baikal are allied to those of the salt sea. Baikal is the deepest lake in the world, soundings having been taken down to 5618 feet. Steamers cross the lake in various directions, and in winter sleighs are driven over the ice from shore to shore. At the beginning of January the whole of the deep lake is so cooled down that ice begins to form, and the lake is usually frozen over to the middle of April.

We stop an hour at Irkutsk to change trains. Irkutsk is the largest town in Siberia, and has 100,000 inhabitants; it stands on the bank of the river Angara, which flows out of Lake Baikal, and thus forms the outlet of all the rivers and streams which empty themselves into the lake, the largest of which is the Selenga. Although the Angara is five times as large as the Yenisei, it is called a tributary of the latter. The Yenisei rises in Chinese territory, and, running northwards right through Siberia, falls into the Arctic Ocean. It receives a large number of affluents, most of them from the east. Its banks are clothed with forest, and from Minusinsk downwards the river is navigable.

The Lena, the great river which passes through eastern Siberia north-east of Baikal, is not much smaller than the Yenisei. There stands the town of Yakutsk, where the temperature falls in winter down to-80°, and rises in summer to 95°. North of Yakutsk, on the river Yana, lies Verkhoiansk, the coldest place in the world, the centre of low temperature or pole of cold.

In area Siberia is larger than the whole of Europe, but the population in this immense country is no greater than that of Greater London, i.e. about seven millions. Of these 60 per cent are Russians, 20 per cent Kirghizes, and the remainder is made up of Buriats, Yakuts, Tunguses, Manchus, Samoyeds, Ostiaks, Tatars, Chukchis, etc. No small part of the Russian population consists of convicts transported to Siberia, whose hard lot is to work under strict supervision in the gold mines. Their number is estimated at 150,000. Before the railway was made they had to travel tremendous distances on foot. They marched ten miles a day in rain and sunshine, storm and snow, through the terribly cold and gloomy Siberia. Before and behind them rode Cossacks, who would not let them rest as they dragged their chains through the mud and mire of the road. Frequently women and children followed of their own free will to share their husbands' and fathers' fate during their forced labour in the mines. Now there is a great improvement. The labour, indeed, is just as hard, but the journey out is less trying. The unfortunate people are now forwarded in special prison vans with gratings for windows. They are like travelling cells, and can often be seen on side tracks at a station.

In the neighbourhood of the Lena River dwell Yakuts of the Turkish-Tatar race. They number only 230,000 men, are nominally Christians, and pursue agriculture and trade. East of the Yenisei are the Tunguses, a small people divided into "settled," "horse," "reindeer," and "dog" Tunguses, according to the domestic animal of most importance to their mode of life. In western Siberia, the governments of Tobolsk and Tomsk, live Ostiaks, a small Finnish tribe of 26,000 persons, who are poor fisher folk, hunters and nomads with reindeer. This tribe is rapidly dying out. North of them, in the northern parts of western Siberia and in north-eastern Europe, live the Samoyeds, of Ural-Altai origin, who are still fewer in number than the preceding tribe, and live by reindeer-breeding and fishing.

All these Siberian tribes and many others are Shamanists, and are so called after their priests, Shamans. They believe in an intimate connection between living men and their long-deceased forefathers. They entertain a great dread of the dead, and do everything they can to exorcise and appease their souls, bringing them offerings. All this business is attended to with much black magic and witchcraft by the Shamans, who are also doctors. When any one dies the spirit of the dead must be driven out of the tent, so the Shaman is summoned. He comes decked out in a costly and curious dress, and with religious enthusiasm performs a dance which soon degenerates into a kind of ecstasy. He throws himself about, reels and groans, and is beside himself. And when he has carried on long enough he catches hold of a magic drum, whose soothing sounds calm him and bring him back to his senses. When he has finished his performance the soul is gone!

Over white plains, over hills, and through valleys, the train bears us on farther north-westwards through the government of Irkutsk. At Krasnoiarsk we cross the Yenisei by a fine bridge nearly two-thirds of a mile long. In summer vessels can ascend as far as Minusinsk, in a district of southern Siberia, rich in gold and iron and productive soil. In general Siberia is a rich country. Gold, silver, and copper, lead, graphite, and coal occur, besides many other valuable minerals and stones in the mountains. The country has also good prospects of future development owing to its remarkably excellent agricultural land. Most of this is situated near the railway, and all Siberia is intersected by a net of waterways. From one of the tributaries of the Obi steamers can pass by canal to the Yenisei, and thence on to the Lena. Omsk, the third town of Siberia, with 89,000 inhabitants, is the centre of this water system. More than 6000 miles of river can be navigated by large steamers, and nearly 30,000 by smaller boats. In western Siberia, around Tomsk and Omsk, the agricultural produce increases year by year, and the time will certainly come when these regions will support a population many times as large as at present, and export large quantities of corn in addition. This is the only thing which will make this enormously long railway pay, for it cost somewhere about £11,000,000 to build.

We have passed Tomsk and crossed the Obi by a fine massive bridge of stone and iron. The Obi is the largest river of Asia. In length it is equal to the Yenisei and Blue River, but its drainage basin is larger than that of either of the others. Where the great affluent, the Irtish, runs in from the west, the Obi has a breadth of nearly two miles, and at its mouth, in the Gulf of Obi on the Arctic Ocean, the breadth has increased to twelve miles. The Irtish also receives from the west a large tributary, the Tobol, and at the confluence stands the town of Tobolsk.

One day passes after another, and one night after another rises up blue and cold from the east. We have left every mountain and hill behind us, and the boundless plains, like a frozen sea, lie buried under deep snow. Sometimes we travel for a whole hour without seeing a farm or village. Only occasionally do we see to the north a small patch of taiga, or the Siberian coniferous forest, silent and dark. A clump of birch-trees is a rare sight. The country is open, flat, monotonous, and dead-white as far as the horizon.

Thus we travel on by degrees through Siberia, this immense country bounded on the south by the Altai, Sayan, the Yablonoi and Stanovoi Mountains, and on the north by the Arctic Ocean. Huge areas of northern Siberia are occupied by tundras—moss-grown, marshy steppes, with little animal life, frozen hard as stone in winter and thawed during the short summer into dangerous swamps.

In the frozen ground of northern Siberia, and particularly in old flood plains, have been found complete specimens of the mammoth. This animal is an extinct species of elephant, which, during the diluvial period, was distributed over all northern Asia, Europe, and North America. The mammoth was larger than the elephant of the present day, had tusks as much as 13 feet long, a thick fur suitable for a cold climate, and quite a luxuriant mane on the back of the head and neck. That prehistoric man was a contemporary of the mammoth is proved by ancient rude drawings of this animal.

Larches, pine and spruce, birch and willow, compose the forests of Siberia. The larch manages to exist even round the pole of cold. The Polar bear, the Arctic fox, the glutton, the lemming, the snow-hare, and the reindeer are the animals in the cold north. In the central parts of the country are to be found red deer, roedeer, wild swine, beaver, wolf, and lynx. Far away to the east, on the great Amur River, which is the boundary between the Amur province and Manchuria, as well as in the coast province of Ussuri, on the coast of the Sea of Japan, occur tigers and panthers. The most valuable animals, the furs of which constitute one of the resources of Siberia, are the sable, the ermine, and the grey squirrel. The south-eastern parts of this great country are a transitional region to the steppes of central Asia, and there are to be found antelopes, gazelles, and wild asses.

At length, on January 5, we are up in the Ural Mountains, and the line winds among hills and valleys. Near the station of Zlatoust stands a granite column to mark the boundary between Asia and Europe.

The Volga and Moscow