I, on ponies
provided by the Yamen, one worse than the other, and both unfit for the
rough scramble. After traversing the town, first on one side and then on
the other of the river which we crossed by a picturesque wooden bridge,
roofed in but with open sides, we passed out at the South
Gate--Tachienlu has no West Gate--and found ourselves in a small suburb
with a few meagre gardens. A mile farther along we crossed the river
again by a striking single arch bridge, known as the "Gate of Tibet." We
were now on the great trade route to Lhasa, but between us and the
mysterious city lay many days of weary travel.

From time to time we met groups of Tibetans, men and women,
rough-looking and shy, with the shyness of a wild animal. Generally
after a moment's pause to reassure themselves, they answered my greeting
in jolly fashion, seeming quite ready to make friends. Occasionally the
way was blocked by trains of ox-like yaks, the burden-bearers of the
snow-fields, bringing their loads of skins and felt and musk and gold.
Astride of one was a nice old man who stuck out his tongue at me in
polite Tibetan fashion.

[Illustration: LAMA AND DOG AT TACHIENLU]

[Illustration: THE GATE OF TIBET]

After an hour's ride we left the highway and turned into a beautiful
green valley, following a very bad trail deeper and deeper into the
mountains, the soft meadows gay with flowers forming a charming contrast
to the snow-peaks that barred the upper end of the valley. We came first
to the New Palace, a large rambling building having no more
architectural pretensions than an ordinary Chinese inn. As the king's
brother, who makes his home there, was away, I saw nothing more of the
place than the great courtyard filled with mangy, half-starved dogs
and unkempt men. Not far off is one of the great attractions of the
place, at least to the natives,--a hot sulphur spring. To the
disappointment of my Tibetan guide I declined to visit it, preferring a
leisurely cold lunch on the bank of a rushing stream which was
vigorously turning a large prayer-wheel, a cylinder of wood inscribed
many times over with the mystic words of the Buddhist prayer, "Om mani
padme hum," oftenest repeated perhaps of all prayers. Each revolution of
the wheel was equivalent to as many repetitions of the words as there
were inscribed on the wood. So night and day, while the stream runs,
prayers are going up for the king,--and truly he needs them, poor man,
between the bull