Outside the stone building containing the ch'orten I spent the night of 2nd May. We were now in a sheltered ravine and in a fairly warm latitude. We were therefore independent of walled shelter, and, as we carried with us our own tsamba, we were in no want of food. The spot we had chosen was indeed an ideal resting-place. The utter peacefulness of our beautiful valley, the murmur of the stream only a few yards away, the soft shimmer of moonlight interwoven with the network of fresh foliage that curtained mysterious fairylands beyond, combined to create an earthly paradise that might almost make one cease to long for a heavenly one. If Shakespeare had visited the Far East, he would surely have chosen just such a spot as this for the scene of a new Midsummer Night's Dream. It was sad to reflect that until æroplanes come into general use it could never be made accessible to lovers of nature except those who were willing to cross the vast ranges of snowy mountains that hem it in; but I could not restrain a feeling of exultation at the thought that never—I hope this is no rash prophecy—would the shriek of a steam-engine disturb here
"The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills,"—
and that our boisterous civilisation would be content to leave this one nook of beauty for ever undefiled. If any of my readers is yearning to seek in some quiet hermitage rest and release from the pains and feverish joys of modern life, some home of ancient peace amid lovely scenery, let him turn his pilgrim steps towards the far lands of the Tibetan border, for his ideal would be surely realised in some such valley as this.
RUSTIC BRIDGE CROSSING LITANG RIVER ON THE ROAD TO MULI.
ARRIVAL AT MULI
It was with regret, not shared, I fear, by my unemotional companions, that I left my camping-ground on the morning of the next day. For half the day, however, our path still lay through the southern portion of the same beautiful valley, and amid scenery no less charming than that of the day before. A short distance beyond our camp a turn in the path brought us opposite to a ravine opening towards the east, on the river's left bank. The sun rose behind it as I passed, and shed a rich glow on rocks and cascades and masses of pure green foliage. A walk of 5 or 6 miles brought us to a crazy wooden bridge[229] over which we crossed with some trepidation to the left bank, and about 3 miles further on we again crossed to the right. Beyond this the scenery becomes wilder, and the river-valley gradually opens out into a region where rocks and hills lie about in fantastic confusion. Passing oboes, prayer-flags and prayer-wheels in great numbers, we climbed up a steep and winding path that gradually led us far away from the Li Ch'u and brought us to a scattered mountain village named Ku-Dze, where we rested. One of my men had gone in advance of us in order to arrange for new means of transport; and when I arrived at the village I found that the hospitable headman had converted four tumbledown, roofless walls into a delightful arbour with a thick, soft carpet of green leaves and walls of pine-branches, and a doorway festooned with feathery bamboo. In this Arcadian retreat I was provided with an appropriate repast of milk and eggs.
From this village to the lamasery of Muli—the capital, if it may be called so, of the Huang Lama territory—is a distance of about 14 miles through pleasant undulating country and over an easy road. At one point, however, we found the main path blocked by a huge landslip, and for a distance of several miles we were obliged to take a rough and rocky path that gave us a good deal of trouble. We did not arrive at Muli till after sunset. There is nothing to show that one is anywhere near a human habitation until suddenly, after turning a corner, one comes in full view of a mass of white walls only a few hundred yards away. This is the lamasery of Muli. To all appearance it is a compact, unwalled town composed entirely of white-plastered houses. In reality it is a large monastery and nothing else, for all the buildings that look like ordinary houses are only the separate cells or dwelling-places of the lamas. Two or three of them, in their dark-red gowns, were waiting to receive me. These were the people who, I had been led to understand, were fanatically anti-foreign, and whose hostility rendered it a dangerous experiment to travel through their country. If their feelings were of a hostile nature, they certainly evinced a wonderful power of self-control, for their reception of me was altogether courteous and friendly. They lodged me in a comfortable two-floored building only a few yards from the lamasery, and sent me presents of fuel and food.