self in a more and more
populous country. The black tents that speckle the background of the
landscape, the numerous parties of pilgrims repairing to Lha-Ssa, the
infinite inscriptions engraved on the stones erected on each side of the
way, the small caravans of long-tailed oxen that you meet at
intervals--all this contributes to alleviate the fatigues of the journey.

When you come within a few days' march of Lha-Ssa, the exclusively
nomadic character of the Thibetians gradually disappears. Already, a few
cultivated fields adorn the desert; houses insensibly take the place of
black tents. At length, the shepherds vanish altogether, and you find
yourself amidst an agricultural people.

On the fifteenth day after our departure from Na-Ptchu, we arrived at
Pampou, which, on account of its proximity to Lha-Ssa is regarded by the
pilgrims as the vestibule of the holy city. Pampou, erroneously
designated Panctou on the map, is a fine plain watered by a broad river,
a portion of whose stream, distributed in canals, diffuses fertility all
around. There is no village, properly so called; but you see, in all
directions, large farm houses with handsome terraces in front, and
beautifully white with lime-wash. Each is surrounded with tall trees,
and surmounted with a little tower, in the form of a pigeon-house, whence
float banners of various colours, covered with Thibetian inscriptions.
After travelling for more than three months through hideous deserts,
where the only living creatures you meet are brigands and wild beasts,
the plain of Pampou seemed to us the most delicious spot in the world.
Our long and painful journeying had so nearly reduced us to the savage
state, that any thing in the shape of civilization struck us as
absolutely marvellous. We were in ecstasies with everything: a house, a
tree, a plough, a furrow in the ploughed field, the slightest object
seemed to us worthy of attention. That, however, which most forcibly
impressed us, was the prodigious elevation of the temperature which we
remarked in this cultivated plain. Although it was now the end of
January, the river and its canals were merely edged with a thin coat of
ice, and scarcely any of the people wore furs.

At Pampou, our caravan had to undergo another transformation. Generally
speaking, the long-haired oxen are here replaced by donkeys, small in
size, but very robust, and accustomed to carry baggage. The difficulty
of procuring a sufficient