THE SACRED CITY OF THE LIVING BUDDHA 73 



the lips of other thousands, and each one gathered a 

 handful of sacred dirt from the temple floor. From 

 niches in the walls hundreds of tiny Buddhas gazed im- 

 passively on the worshiping Mongols. 



The scene was intoxicating in its barbaric splendor. 

 The women in their fantastic headdresses and brilliant 

 gowns ; the blazing yellow robes of the kneeling lamas ; 

 and the chorus of prayers which rose and fell in a mean- 

 ingless half -wild chant broken by the clash of cymbals 

 and the boom of drums all this set the blood leaping 

 in my veins. There was a strange dizziness in my 

 head, and I had an almost overpowering desire to fall 

 on my knees with the Mongols and join in the chorus 

 of adoration. The subtle smell of burning incense, the 

 brilliant colors, and the barbaric music were like an in- 

 toxicating drink which inflamed the senses but dulled the 

 brain. It was then that I came nearest to understand- 

 ing the religious fanaticism of the East. Even with a 

 background of twentieth-century civilization I felt its 

 sensuous power. What wonder that it has such a hold 

 on a simple, uneducated people, fed on superstition from 

 earliest childhood and the religious traditions of seven 

 hundred years ! 



The service ended abruptly in a roar of sound. Ris- 

 ing to their feet, the people streamed into the courtyard 

 to whirl the prayer wheels about the temple's base. 

 Each wheel is a hollow cylinder of varying size, standing 

 on end, and embellished with Tibetan characters in gold. 

 The wheels are sometimes filled with thousands of slips 

 of paper upon which is written a prayer or a sacred 



