The day was fearfully hot, 99 degrees in the shade, and the
naked, shining surfaces of purple rock with a metallic lustre
radiated heat. My 'gallant grey' took me up half-way--a great feat--
and the Tibetans cheered and shouted 'Sharbaz!' ('Well done!') as he
pluckily leapt up the great slippery rock ledges. After I
dismounted, any number of willing hands hauled and helped me up the
remaining horrible ascent, the rugged rudeness of which is quite
indescribable. The inner entrance is a gateway decorated with a
yak's head and many Buddhist emblems. High above, on a rude gallery,
fifty monks were gathered with their musical instruments. As soon as
the Kan-po or abbot, Punt-sog-sogman (the most perfect Merit),
received us at the gate, the monkish orchestra broke forth in a
tornado of sound of a most tremendous and thrilling quality, which
was all but overwhelming, as the mountain echoes took up and
prolonged the sound of fearful blasts on six-foot silver horns, the
bellowing thunder of six-foot drums, the clash of cymbals, and the
dissonance of a number of monster gongs. It was not music, but it
was sublime. The blasts on the horns are to welcome a great
personage, and such to the monks who despised his teaching was the
devout and learned German missionary.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88