Two days after crossing Dabsoun-Noor, we entered a long narrow valley, where some Mongol families had stationed themselves. The earth was covered with a close herb, which, in form and character, had much resemblance to thyme. Our beasts, as they proceeded, browsed furtively, right and left, on this plant, and seemed to be very fond of it. This new pasturage gave us the idea of encamping on the spot. Not far from a tent, a Lama was sitting on a hillock, making ropes with camel’s hair. “Brother,” said we as we approached him, “the flock upon that hill doubtless belongs to you. Will you sell us a sheep?” “Certainly,” he answered, “I will let you have an excellent sheep; as to the price, we shall not quarrel about that. We men of prayer are not like merchants.” He indicated to us a spot near his own tent, and unloaded our beasts. The entire family of the Lama, when they heard the cries of our camels, hastened to assist us to encamp. We, indeed, were not allowed to do anything to it; for our new friends took delight in making themselves useful, in unsaddling the beasts, pitching the tent, and putting our baggage in order within.
The young Lama, who had received us with so much kindness, after having unsaddled the horse and the mule, perceived that both these beasts were hurt a little on the back. “Brothers,” he said, “here is a bad business; and as you are upon a long journey, it must be remedied, or you will not be able to go on.” So saying, he took the knife, which hung from his girdle, sharpened it with rapidity upon his boot-tops, took our saddles to pieces, examined the rough parts of the wood, and pared them away on both sides till he had removed the slightest unevenness. He then put together again, with wonderful skill, all the pieces of the saddles, and returned them to us. “That will do,” said he; “now you may travel in peace.” This operation was effected rapidly and in the readiest manner possible. The Lama was then about to fetch the sheep; but as it was already late, we said it was unnecessary, for that we should remain a whole day in his valley.
Next morning, before we were awake, the Lama opened the door of our tent, laughing so loud that he aroused us. “Ah,” said he, “I see plainly that you do not intend to depart to-day. The sun is already very high, and you sleep still.” We rose quickly, and as soon as we were dressed, the Lama spoke of the sheep. “Come to the flock,” he said; “you may choose at your pleasure.” “No, go by yourself, and select a sheep for us yourself. At present we have an occupation. With us, Lamas of the Western sky, it is
a rule to pray as soon as we rise.” “Oh, what a fine thing!” said the Lama; “oh, the holy rules of the West!” His admiration, however, did not make him forget his little affair of business. He mounted his horse and rode towards a flock of sheep which we saw undulating upon the slope of a hill.
We had not yet finished our prayers when we heard the Tartar returning at full gallop. He had fastened the sheep to the back of his saddle, like a portmanteau. Hardly arrived at the door of our tent, he dismounted; and in the twinkling of an eye he had put upon its four legs the poor sheep, quite astounded at the ride it had been favoured with. “That is the sheep; is it not fine? Does it suit you?” “Admirably. What is the price?” “One ounce; is that too much?” Considering the size of the animal, we thought the price moderate. “You ask an ounce; here is an ingot, which is just of the weight you require. Sit down for a moment; we will fetch our scales, and you shall ascertain whether this piece of silver really weighs an ounce.” At these words the Lama drew back, and cried, stretching out both hands towards us: “Above there is a heaven, below there is the earth, and Buddha is the lord of all things. He wills that men behave towards each other like brothers; you are of the West, I am of the East. Is that any reason why the intercourse between us should not be frank and honourable? You have not cheapened my sheep: I take your money without weighing it.” “An excellent principle,” said we. “As you will not weigh the money, pray sit, nevertheless, for a moment; we will take a cup of tea together and talk over a little matter.” “I know what you mean; neither you nor I may cause the transmigration of this living being. We must find a layman who knows how to kill sheep. Is it not so?” and without awaiting an answer, he added, “another thing; from your appearance, one may easily guess that, you are no great hands at cutting up sheep and preparing them.” “You are not mistaken,” we answered, laughing. “Well, keep the sheep tied to your tent; and for the rest, rely upon me; I shall he back in a minute.” He mounted his horse, went off at full gallop and disappeared in a bend of the vale.
According to his promise, the Lama soon returned. He went straight to his tent, tied his horse to a post, took off his saddle, bridle and halter, gave it a cut with his whip, and so sent it off to pasture. He went into his tent for a little while, and then appeared with all the members of his family, that is to say, his old mother and two younger brothers. They advanced slowly towards our tent, in truly ridiculous fashion, just as if they were going to remove all their furniture. The Lama carried on his head a large pot, which covered him as with an enormous hat. His mother had
on her back a large basket, filled with argols. The two young Mongols followed with a trivet, an iron spoon, and several other minor kitchen implements. At this sight, Samdadchiemba was full of joy, for he saw before him a whole day of poetry.
When the entire batterie de cuisine was arranged in open air, the Lama invited us, in his politeness, to go and repose in our tent for awhile. He judged from our air, that we could not, without derogation, be present at the approaching scene of butchering. The suggestion, however, did not meet our views, and we requested that if we could do so without inconveniencing them, we might sit down on the grass at a respectful distance, and with the promise that we would not touch anything. After some objections, perceiving that we were curious to be spectators, they dispensed with the etiquette of the matter.
The Lama seemed anxious; he kept looking towards the north of the valley, as if expecting some one. “All right,” he said at last, with an air of satisfaction, “here he comes.” “Who comes? Of whom do you speak?” “I forgot to tell you that I had been just now to invite a layman to come, who is very skilful in killing a sheep. There he is.” We rose and perceived, indeed, something moving among the heath of the valley. At first we could not clearly distinguish what it was, for though it advanced with some rapidity, the object did not seem to enlarge. At last the most singular person we had ever met with in our lives presented himself to our view. We were obliged to make the utmost efforts to repress the strong impulse to laughter that came upon us. This layman seemed to be about fifty years old, but his height did not exceed three feet. On the top of his head, which terminated like a sugar-loaf, rose a small tuft of badly combed hair; a grey, thin beard descended in disorder down his chin. Finally, two prominences, one on his back, the other on his breast, communicated to this little butcher a perfect resemblance with Æsop, as he appears in various editions of the “Fables de la Fontaine.”
The strong sonorous voice of the layman was in singular contrast with the exiguity of his thin, stunted frame. He did not lose much time in saluting the company. After having darted his small black eyes at the sheep, which was tied to one of the nails of our tent, he said “Is this the beast you wish to have put in order?” And while feeling its tail in order to judge its fat, he gave it a turn, and placed it on its back with remarkable dexterity. He next tied together its legs; then, while uncovering his right arm by throwing back the sleeve of his leathern coat, he asked whether the operation was to be effected in the tent or outside? “Outside,” said we. “Outside, very well, outside;” so saying, he drew from a leathern