THE SACRED CITY OF THE LIVING BUDDHA 63 



golia we had discovered an American frontier outpost 

 of the Indian fighting days. Every house and shop was 

 protected by high stockades of unpeeled timbers, and 

 there was hardly a trace of Oriental architecture save 

 where a temple roof gleamed above the palisades. 



Before we were able to adjust our mental perspec- 

 tive we had passed from colonial America into a ham- 

 let of modern Russia. Gayly painted cottages lined 

 the road, and, unconsciously, I looked for a white 

 church with gilded cupolas. The church was not in 

 sight, but its place was taken by a huge red building of 

 surpassing ugliness, the Russian Consulate. It stands 

 alone on the summit of a knoll, the open plains stretch- 

 ing away behind it to the somber masses of the north- 

 ern forests. In its imposing proportions it is tangible 

 evidence of the Russian Colossus which not many years 

 ago dominated Urga and all that is left of the ancient 

 empire of the Khans. 



For two miles the road is bordered by Russian cot- 

 tages ; then it debouches into a wide square which loses 

 its distinctive character and becomes an indescribable 

 mixture of Russia, Mongolia, and China. Palisaded 

 compounds, gay with fluttering prayer flags, ornate 

 houses, felt-covered yurts, and Chinese shops mingle in 

 a dizzying chaos of conflicting personalities. Three 

 great races have met in Urga and each carries on, in 

 this far corner of Mongolia, its own customs and way 

 of life. The Mongol yurt has remained unchanged ; the 

 Chinese shop, with its wooden counter and blue-gowned 



