From Urga to the Siberian frontier the distance is less than two hundred miles; the Russian couriers accomplish it in fifty or sixty hours when not delayed by accidents, but the caravans require from four to eight days.  There is a system of relays arranged by the Chinese so that one can travel very speedily if he has proper authority.  Couriers have passed from Kiachta to Pekin in ten or twelve days; but the rough road and abominable carts make them feel at their journey’s end about as if rolled through a patent clotheswringer.  A mail is carried twice a month each way by the Russians.  Several schemes have been proposed for a trans-Mongolian telegraph, but thus far the Chinese government has refused to permit its construction.

The desert proper is finished before one reaches the mountains bordering the Tolla; after crossing that stream and leaving Urga the road passes through a hilly country, sprinkled, it is true, with a good many patches of sand, but having plenty of forest and frequently showing fertile valleys.  These valleys are the favorite resorts of the Mongol shepherds and herdsmen, some of whom count their wealth by many thousand animals.  In general, Mongolia is not agricultural, both from the character of the country and the disposition of the people.  A few tribes in the west live by tilling the soil in connection with stock raising, but I do not suppose they take kindly to the former occupation.  The Mongols engaged in the caravan service pass a large part of their lives on the road, and are merry as larks over their employment.  They seem quite analogous to the teamsters and miscellaneous “plainsmen” who used to play an important part on our overland route.

A large proportion of the men engaged in this transit service are lamas, their sacred character not excusing them, as many suppose, from all kinds of employment.  Many lamas are indolent and manage in some way to make a living without work, but this is by no means the universal character of the holy men.  About one-fifth of the male population belong to the religious order, so that there are comparatively few families which do not have a member or a relative in the pale of the church.  If not domiciled in a convent or blessed by fortune in some way, the lama turns his hand to labor, though he is able at the same time to pick up occasional presents for professional service.  Many of them act as teachers or schoolmasters.  Theoretically he cannot marry any more than a Romish priest, but his vows of celibacy are not always strictly kept.  One inconvenience under which he labors is in never daring to kill anything through fear that what he slaughters may contain the soul of a relative, and possibly that of the divine Bhudda.  A lama will purchase a sheep on which he expects to dine, and though fully accessory before and after the fact, he does not feel authorized to use the knife with his own hand.  Even should he be annoyed by fleas or similar creeping things (if it were a township or city the lama’s body could return a flattering census,) he must bear the infliction until patience is thoroughly exhausted.  At such times he may call an unsanctified friend and subject himself and garments to a thorough examination.