The missionaries were hard at work, studying the dialects of Tartary, when a circumstance occurred which gave their plans of proselytism a more definite shape. The Papal See, with that magnificent contempt for the realities of dominion which has ever distinguished it, and in virtue, we suppose, of that undefined tenth point of the law which is not involved in the word possession, appointed a Vicar Apostolic of Mongolia. The pope might, with equal impunity, have divided it into bishoprics—no meetings would have been hold to protest against the usurpation; and the mandarins of Pekin would certainly have proposed no law to prevent the Lamas of the western world from assuming what titles they pleased. But even in that case, the interests of the church would not have been much forwarded. The very extent and limits of the vicariate were, as yet, unknown; and MM. Huc and Gabet were, to their great satisfaction, appointed, in the year 1844, to ascertain these first essential points.
The undertaking was one of no common difficulty: the country they had to traverse was untrodden even by the feet of former missionaries, inhabited by wild, roving tribes, beggared by Chinese extortions, rendered barren by long misgovernment, and lastly, infested in many parts by bands of armed robbers. These latter are, it is true, far different, in manner at least, from what their name would lead most of our readers to expect, and exercise their uncourteous trade with the utmost urbanity:
They do not rudely clap a pistol to your head, and uncivilly demand your money, or your life; they present themselves humbly, and say: "Good elder brother, I am weary of walking; please to lend me thy horse?... I am without money; be so good as to lend me thy purse?... It is very cold to-day; wilt thou give me thy coat?" If the old elder brother is charitable enough to lend all this, he receives in return a "thank you, brother;" if not, the humble request is immediately supported by a few blows; if that does not suffice, the sabre is brought into play.
The preparations for the journey were admirably simple—a single attendant and a dog formed the escort; a tent, an iron kettle, a few cups, and sheep-skins, completed the baggage. There were, however, other precautions taken prior to departure, highly characteristic of the church to which our travellers belonged, and which may serve to explain the comparative success that, in the East, has generally attended the efforts of its missionaries.
Sir James Emerson Tennent, in his work on Ceylon, has given a curious account of the compliance of the Jesuit missionaries with the customs and external rites of the people they sought to convert, as opposed to the rigid discipline and unbending orthodoxy of their Dutch successors, who would not stoop, and who, perhaps, on that account, did not conquer. Our Lazarists, though not practising, in all its latitude, the Jesuit doctrine, were nevertheless determined that nothing in the outward man should repel the sympathy of those whom they sought to persuade. On the frontiers of Mongolia, the Chinese dress, which they had hitherto worn, was laid aside; the long tress of hair, that had been cherished since they left France, was pitilessly sacrificed, to the infinite despair of their Chinese congregation; and they assumed the habit generally worn by the Lamas, or priests of Thibet. In the opinion of the Tartars, Lamas are alone privileged to speak on religious matters; and a layman, or "black man"[13] (to use their own expression), who should presume to converse on things spiritual, would excite laughter and contempt. It was, therefore, good policy to adopt a dress which insured the respect and attention of their hearers. The costume was one which would have been rather startling to a priest who, without transition should have exchanged for it the black soutaine of the Romish church. It consisted in a yellow robe, fastened on one side with five gilt buttons and confined at the waist by a long red sash, a red jacket with a violet collar, and a yellow cap with red tuft. Nor was this all. The same conciliatory spirit which had dictated the change of costume, presided over the whole conduct of the travellers; and we find them heroically declining the hot wine offered by their Chinese host of the frontier inn, saying, good humoredly, that good Lamas must abstain from wine and tobacco.
We dwell purposely on these details, because they show the spirit in which the journey was undertaken, and explain the confidence with which the travellers were received beneath the Mogul tents, and initiated into all the details of life in the wilderness. We find them associating without repugnance with the Tsao-Ta-Dze, or stinking Tartars (so called by the Chinese, who are themselves far from irreproachable on the score of cleanliness), purchasing second-hand clothes well besmeared with mutton fat, and enjoying their Tartar tea as though it had been the café au lait of their native land. This tea, by the bye, deserves a few words of notice. It differs materially from the tea of the Chinese; for whereas the latter use only the young and tender leaves of the plant, the Tartar tea is composed of the coarse leaves, and even some of the branches, which are pressed into moulds of about the size and thickness of a brick. When it is to be used, a piece of the brick is broken off, pulverized, and boiled, a handful of salt is then thrown in, and the liquid continues to boil until it is almost black; the mixture is then poured into a large vessel, and invariably offered to every guest on his arrival. The Russians also consume a large quantity of this article, and in the north of Tartary it serves as the only medium of exchange. A house, a camel, or a horse, is sold for so many teas—five teas being worth an ounce of silver.
Life in the desert is monotonous enough; and yet, though half of the first volume is devoted to the pilgrimage through the plains of Mongolia, the interest never flags. The little incidents of travel are told good-humoredly, and sometimes are most amusing. Let us take, for instance, the following account given by a Tartar hero of the war against the English. The narrator was a native of the Tchakar country, and had with his countrymen been called out to march against the "rebels of the south"—as the Tartars usually call us. The Tchakar (literally border-country) is, in fact, an immense camp, of which all the inhabitants are bound to military service, and are divided into different tribes, or "banners." The pastures of the Tchakar serve to feed the innumerable flocks of the Emperor of China, and the natives are almost exclusively employed in tending them. They are not allowed to cultivate the soil, or to sell any portion of it to their Chinese neighbors. As may be imagined, these shepherd-soldiers are only called upon on great occasions, but they are then supposed to be irresistible.
"So you were engaged in that famous war of the south! How could you shepherds have the courage of soldiers? Accustomed to a peaceful life, you are strangers to that rude trade, which consists in killing, or being killed." "Yes, we are shepherds, it is true; but we do not forget that we are soldiers also, and that the eight banners compose the body of reserve of the "Great Master" (the Emperor). You know the rules of the Empire. When the enemy appears, the militia of the Kitat (Chinese) is first sent; then the banners of the Solon district are brought forward; if the war is not ended, then a signal is made to the banners of Tchakar; and the very sound of their steps is always sufficient to reduce the rebels to order."... "Did you fight?—did you see the enemy?" inquired Samdadchiemba. "No, they dared not make their appearance. The Kitat kept on saying that we were marching to certain and needless death. What can you do, they said, against sea-monsters? They live in the water, like fishes; and when one least expects it, they rise to the surface, and throw their inflamed Si-Koua.[14] As soon as one makes ready to shoot one's arrows at them, they plunge back into the water like frogs! Thus, they sought to frighten us; but we, the soldiers of the eight banners, were not afraid. Before we set out, the chief Lamas had opened the book of celestial secrets, and had assured us that the affair would have a happy issue. The Emperor had given to each Tchouanda, a Lama learned in medicine, and initiated into the holy mysteries, who was to cure us of all the diseases of the climate, and protect us against the magic of the sea-monsters. What had we then to fear? The rebels having heard that the invincible militia of the Tchakar was approaching, trembled, and sued for peace. The "Holy Master," in his infinite mercy granted their prayer; and we were permitted to return to our pastures and the care of our flocks."
But such meetings were rare, and in general, a passing salutation in the metaphorical style of the East, was all that was exchanged with fellow-travellers. It would seem, however, that a desert life has charms which we, poor slaves of civilization, can scarcely appreciate, but which never fail to captivate after a short experience. Would any of our readers have fancied, for instance, that a search after argols could be an exciting employment? Argol, let it be understood, is a rather pretty Tartar word for a very ugly thing, which can scarcely be gracefully described. It means, in fact, the dung of the innumerable animals that feed in the plains of Tartary, and which, in a dry state, is carefully collected by the natives, and is their only fuel. No argols, no breakfast; and in consequence, M. Huc tells us that the first care of M. Gabet and himself, in the morning, after devoting a short time to prayer, was to seek after argols—with what zest our readers shall see:
The occupation that followed these meditations, was certainly not of a mystical character; it was, however, a most necessary one, and not without its attractions. Each of us threw a bag over his shoulder, and set out in different directions in quest of argols. Those who have never led a roving life will scarcely believe that such an occupation can be productive of enjoyment; and yet, when one of us had the good fortune to discover, hidden among the grass, an argol remarkable for its size and siccity, he felt at his heart a thrill of pleasure, a sudden emotion, that gave a moment's happiness. The delight caused by the discovery of a fine argol may be compared to that of a sportsman finding the trace of his game—of a child contemplating the long sought for bird's nest—of an angler, who sees a fish quivering at the end of his line; or, if we may be allowed to liken great things to small, we would compare it to the enthusiasm of a Leverrier finding a planet at the tip of his pen.