by a large padlock. This portico, made
of granite, was raised a few feet from the ground, and you ascended it by
five steps. We determined to pass the night here.

Samdadchiemba asked us if it would not be a monstrous superstition to
sleep on the steps of a Miao. When we had relieved his scruples, he made
sundry philosophical reflections. "Behold," said he, "a Miao which has
been built by the people of the country, in honour of the god of the
river. Yet, when it rained in Thibet, the Pou-sa had no power to
preserve itself from inundation. Nevertheless, this Miao serves at
present to shelter two missionaries of Jehovah--the only real use it has
ever served." Our Dchiahour, who at first had scrupled to lodge under
the portico of this idolatrous temple, soon thought the idea magnificent,
and laughed hugely.

After having arranged our luggage in this singular encampment, we
proceeded to tell our beads on the shores of the Hoang-Ho. The moon was
brilliant, and lit up this immense river, which rolled over an even and
smooth bed its yellow and tumultuous waters. The Hoang-Ho is beyond a
doubt one of the finest rivers in the world; it rises in the mountains of
Thibet, and crosses the Koukou-Noor, entering China by the province of
Kan-Sou. Thence it follows the sandy regions at the feet of the Alecha
mountains, encircles the country of the Ortous; and after having watered
China first from north to south, and then from west to east, it falls
into the Yellow Sea. The waters of the Hoang-Ho, pure and clear at their
source, only take the yellow hue after having passed the sands of the
Alecha and the Ortous. They are almost, throughout, level with the lands
through which they flow, and it is this circumstance which occasions
those inundations so disastrous to the Chinese. As for the Tartar
nomads, when the waters rise, all they have to do is to strike their
tents, and drive their herds elsewhere. {141}

Though the Yellow River had cost us so much trouble, we derived much
satisfaction from taking a walk at night upon its solitary banks, and
listening to the solemn murmur of its majestic waters. We were
contemplating this grand work of nature, when Samdadchiemba recalled us
to the prose of life, by announcing that the oatmeal was ready. Our
repast was as brief as it was plain. We then stretched ourselves on our
goat-skins, in the portico, so that the three described the three sides
of a triangle, in the centre of whic