s," and entered the northern suburb.

The great road of Mongolia is lined on both sides with pagodas, houses,
and a host of small wayside public inns, painted with stripes of red,
green, and blue, and surmounted by the most attractive signs. There is a
constant succession of caravans of camels, directed by Mongols,
Turcomans, Tibetans; of troops of mules, with clinking bells, bringing
salt from Setchouan or tea from Hou-pai; and of immense herds of horned
cattle, horses, and sheep, in charge of the dexterous horsemen of the
Tchakar, who keep them together by the utterance of loud guttural cries,
and by dealing them smart cuts with their long whips.

About one hour after noon, the caravan arrived at Sha-ho, a village
situated between the two arms of a river of the same name (which means
"the river of sand"). Madame de Bourboulon thus describes the hospitable
reception given to the travellers:--

"We knocked at the door of a tolerably spacious house, situated near the
entrance to the village: it was an elementary school; we could hear the
nasal drone of the children repeating their lessons. The schoolmaster,
a crabbed Chinaman, scared by my presence, placed himself on the
threshold, and looked as if he would not allow me to enter. But at the
explanations made in good Chinese by Mr. Wade, the surly old fellow,
undergoing a sudden metamorphosis, bent his lean spine in two, and
ushered me, with many forced obeisances, into his wives' room. There,
before I had time to recollect myself, these ladies carried me off by
force of arms, and installed me upon a kang or couch, where I had
scarcely stretched my limbs before I was offered the inevitable tea. I
was gradually passing into a delightful dizziness, when a disquieting
thought suddenly restored all my energy: I was lying on a heap of rags
and tatters of all colours, and certainly the kang possessed other
inhabitants than myself. I immediately arose, in spite of the
protestations of my Chinese hostesses, and took a seat in the courtyard
under the galleries. When I was a little rested, I seated myself in my
litter, and about half-past six in the evening we arrived at the town of
Tchaing-ping-tchan."

On the following day our travellers turned aside to visit the famous
sepulchre of the Mings--a vast collection of monuments, which the
Chinese regard as one of the finest specimens of the art of the
seventeenth century--that is, the seventeenth century of _their_
chronology. An