trage on Sir Ashley Eden, the
British Envoy, who was captured and grossly insulted by the Bhutanese at
Punakha in the previous year. The Bhutanese were as arrogant, exclusive,
and impossible to deal with, in those days, as the Tibetans are to-day.
Yet they have been brought into line, and are now our friends. Why
should not the Tibetans, who are of the same stock, yield themselves to
enlightenment? Their evolution would be no stranger.

Nine miles above the Teesta bridge is Kalimpong, the capital of British
Bhutan, and virtually the foreign mart for what trade passes out of
Tibet. The Tomos of the Chumbi Valley, who have the monopoly of the
carrying, do not go further south than this. At Kalimpong I found a
horse-dealer with a good selection of 'Bhutia tats.' These excellent
little beasts are now well known to be as strong and plucky a breed of
mountain ponies as can be found anywhere. I discovered that their fame
is not merely modern when I came across what must be the first reference
to them in history in the narrative of Master Ralph Fitch, England's
pioneer to India. 'These northern merchants,' says Fitch, speaking of
the Bhutia, 'report that in their countrie they haue very good horses,
but they be litle.' The Bhutias themselves, equally ubiquitous in the
Sikkim Himalayas, but not equally indispensable, Fitch describes to the
letter. At Kalimpong I found them dirty, lazy, good-natured, independent
rascals, possessed, apparently, of wealth beyond their deserts, for hard
work is as alien to their character as straight dealing. Even the
drovers will pay a coolie good wages to cut grass for them rather than
walk a mile downhill to fetch it themselves.

The main street of Kalimpong is laid out in the correct boulevard style,
with young trees protected by tubs and iron railings. It is dominated by
the church of the Scotch Mission, whose steeple is a landmark for miles.
The place seems to be overrun with the healthiest-looking English
children I have seen anywhere, whose parents are given over to very
practical good works.

I took the Bhutan route chiefly to avoid running the gauntlet of the
medicals; but another inducement was the prospect of meeting Father
Desgodins, a French Roman Catholic, Vicar Apostolic of the Roman
Catholic Mission to Western Tibet, who, after fifty years' intimacy with
various Mongol types, is probably better acquainted with the Tibetans
than any other living European.

I met Father Desgodins