Some of us climbed the Chagpo Ri and looked down on the city. Lhasa lay
a mile in front of us, a mass of huddled roofs and trees, dominated by
the golden dome of the Jokhang Cathedral.

It must be the most hidden city on earth. The Chagpo Ri rises bluffly
from the river-bank like a huge rock. Between it and the Potala hill
there is a narrow gap not more than thirty yards wide. Over this is
built the Pargo Kaling, a typical Tibetan chorten, through which is the
main gateway into Lhasa. The city has no walls, but beyond the Potala,
to complete the screen, stretches a great embankment of sand right
across the valley to the hills on the north.

[Illustration]

LHASA,
_August 4._

An epoch in the world's history was marked to-day when Colonel
Younghusband entered the city to return the visit of the Chinese Amban.
He was accompanied by all the members of the mission, the war
correspondents, and an escort of two companies of the Royal Fusiliers
and the 2nd Mounted Infantry. Half a company of mounted infantry, two
guns, a detachment of sappers, and four companies of infantry were held
ready to support the escort if necessary.

In front of us marched and rode the Amban's escort--his bodyguard,
dressed in short loose coats of French gray, embroidered in black, with
various emblems; pikemen clad in bright red with black embroidery and
black pugarees; soldiers with pikes and scythes and three-pronged
spears, on all of which hung red banners with devices embroidered in
black.

We found the city squalid and filthy beyond description, undrained and
unpaved. Not a single house looked clean or cared for. The streets after
rain are nothing but pools of stagnant water frequented by pigs and dogs
searching for refuse. Even the Jokhang appeared mean and squalid at
close quarters, whence its golden roofs were invisible. There was
nothing picturesque except the marigolds and hollyhocks in pots and the
doves and singing-birds in wicker cages.

The few Tibetans we met in the street were strangely incurious. A baker
kneading dough glanced at us casually, and went on kneading. A woman
weaving barely looked up from her work.

The streets were almost deserted, perhaps by order of the authorities to
prevent an outbreak. But as we returned small crowds had gathered in the
doorways, women were peering through windows, but no one followed or
took more than a listless interest in us. The monks looked on sullenly.
But in most face