Much of the interesting and valuable information we have acquired of late years in reference to Siam, Cambodia, and Laos, we owe to the indefatigable labours of Henri Mouhot, the eminent French naturalist, who penetrated into regions previously unknown to Europeans in the years 1858, 1859, and 1860, and devoted himself to the service of Science with equal ability and zeal. He finally fell a victim to his heroic ardour—being seized with fever while on his way from Na-LÊ to Luang Prabang, in Laos, on the 19th of October 1861, and dying, almost alone, with the exception of two faithful native servants, on the 10th of November.

He spent nearly four years in exploring the interior of Siam. As his biographer tells us, he first travelled through that country, then entered Cambodia, and afterwards made his way up the Mekong as far as the frontier of Laos. There he visited one of the wild and unconquered tribes which occupy the border-land between Cambodia and Laos and Cochin-China. Crossing the great lake Touli-Sap, he extended his researches into the remote provinces of Ongcor and Battambang, discovering some immense ruins of high antiquity, and more particularly those of the Temple of Ongcor the Great, which, with its terrace, portico, galleries, and peristyles, is perhaps a monument unparalleled in the world. The bas-reliefs with which it is adorned indicate considerable artistic skill on the part of those who designed and executed them. But what impresses the observer, not less than the beauty and grandeur of the various parts of the huge pile, is the size and number of the blocks of stone of which they are constructed. In a single temple as many as fifteen hundred and thirty-two columns! What means of transport, as Mouhot remarks, what a multitude of workmen, must such an enterprise have required, seeing that the mountain whence the stone was extracted is thirty miles distant! In each block may be seen holes an inch in diameter, and an inch and a fifth in depth, varying in number with the size of the blocks; but no traces of them are found in the columns and sculptured portions of the glorious structure. According to a Cambodian legend, these are the impressions of the fingers of a giant, who, after kneading an enormous quantity of clay, cut it into blocks and carved it, and then converted it into stone by pouring over it some wonderful liquid.

“All the mouldings, sculptures, and bas-reliefs,” says Mouhot, “appear to have been executed after the erection of the building. The stones are everywhere fitted together in so perfect a manner that you can scarcely see where are the joinings; there is neither sign of mortar nor mark of chisel, the surface being as polished as marble. Was this incomparable edifice the work of a single genius, who conceived the idea, and watched over the execution of it? One is tempted to think so, for no part of it is deficient, faulty, or inconsistent. To what epoch does it owe its origin? As before remarked, neither tradition nor written inscriptions furnish any certain information upon this point; or rather, I should say, these latter are as a sealed book, for want of an interpreter,—and they may, perchance, throw light on the subject when some European savant shall succeed in deciphering them.”

From the Mekong valley M. Mouhot passed into that of the great Siamese river, the Menam, visiting the province of Pechaburi. Thence he returned to Bangkok, and after suitable preparation started on an expedition to the north-east of Laos. His wanderings took him to Phrabat, SaohaÏe, Chaiapume, and Korat. Returning to Chaiapume, he struck off in a westerly direction, and visited Poukieau, Monang-Mouna-Wa, Nam-kane, and Luang Prabang, capital of West Laos. At the time of his death he was bound for the provinces south-west of China.

It will form, we think, a useful supplement to the account of the Mekong given in the preceding pages, if we condense M. Mouhot’s narrative of his partial ascent of that great river.

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We will take up our traveller’s route at Kamput, on the sea-coast, where he had an interview with the king of Cambodia, and obtained carriages to convey him to Udong, the capital. Udong is situated about one hundred and thirty-five miles to the north-east of Kamput, and four miles and a half from an arm of the Mekong which forms the Great Lake. After traversing a marshy plain he and his followers entered a noble forest, and “under green leaves” proceeded to Udong, resting at night in stations provided for the accommodation of travellers. These are about twelve miles apart, and are not only spacious but handsome. The road all the way proved to be in excellent order, and averaged from eighty to one hundred feet in width. A broad track in the middle is reserved for vehicles and elephants, while on either side extends a belt of turf, covered with shrubs, and bounded by the lofty and majestic trees of the forest. On drawing near the capital, M. Mouhot saw that the country exhibited signs of cultivation: fields of rice waved luxuriantly, and the country residences of the Cambodian nobles were surrounded by beautiful gardens. The capital was protected by a large moat, surmounted by a parapet, and enclosed by a palisade ten feet high. There were no sentinels at the gate, however, and M. Mouhot entered unchallenged; nay, more, without let or hindrance passed into the palace-court of the second king of Cambodia.

This distinguished personage soon heard of the stranger’s arrival, and despatched a couple of pages to summon him to his presence. Mouhot would have excused himself on the plea that his luggage had not arrived, and he was not in suitable attire. He was told that the king had no dress at all; and before he could invent a second excuse, the king’s Chamberlain arrived with a more peremptory message. Mouhot, therefore, repaired to the palace, the entrance of which was guarded by a dozen dismounted cannon, and was shown into the audience-chamber, the walls of which were whitened with chalk, and the floor paved with large Chinese tiles. Here, waiting for the king’s appearance, were collected several Siamese pages, from twenty-five to thirty years of age, all dressed alike in a langouti of red silk. MOUHOT AND THE KING. As the king entered every forehead touched the ground. His manner was graceful and self-possessed, and the questions he asked were pertinent and sensible. Was M. Mouhot French or English? What was his business in Cambodia? What did he think of Bangkok? Then, with all the ease of a European sovereign, he held out his hand for Mouhot to kiss; and the latter withdrew, well pleased with the interview.

An inspection of the city showed him that it contained a population of about twelve thousand souls; that it consisted in the main of a street one mile in length; and that the houses were built of planks or bamboos. It presents a very lively appearance, however, from the numbers of persons who are drawn to it by considerations of business or pleasure. “Every moment,” says Mouhot, “I met mandarins, either borne in litters or on foot, followed by a crowd of slaves carrying various articles: some, yellow or scarlet parasols, more or less huge according to the rank of the persons; others, boxes with betel. I also encountered horsemen, mounted on pretty, spirited little animals, richly caparisoned and covered with bells, ambling along, while a troop of attendants, covered with dust and sweltering with heat, ran after them. Light carts, drawn by a couple of small oxen, trotting along rapidly and noisily, were here and there to be seen. Occasionally a large elephant passed majestically by. On this side were numerous processions to the pagoda, marching to the sound of music; there, again, was a band of ecclesiastics in single file, seeking alms, draped in their yellow cloaks, and with the holy vessels on their backs.”

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From Udong, with waggons and elephants provided by the king, M. Mouhot proceeded towards the Great Lake. The road was in excellent condition, and at some points built up more than ten feet above the level of the low, wooded country which borders on the great arm of the Mekong. The watercourses were spanned by handsome bridges of wood or stone. At Pinhalu, a village on the right bank of the river, is the residence of the French Vicar-Apostolic of the Cambodia and Laos mission. Here our traveller embarked in a small boat for Pemptielan, situated on the Mekong, about forty miles north of Pnom Penh. The branch which he descended was fifteen hundred yards wide, and its banks were inhabited by a tribe called the ThiÂmes. Pnom Penh, which Mouhot reached after a perilous voyage, is the great bazaar of Cambodia. It contains a population of about ten thousand, nearly all Chinese; while double that number of Cochin-Chinese and Cambodians live upon the river in their boats. An active trade is carried on here in rice, fish, glass, brass wire, and cotton yarn.

Just below this busy town M. Mouhot’s boat passed into the main channel of the Mekong—the “Mother of Rivers”—and began to ascend it, steering towards the north. Shoals of porpoises accompanied it, occasionally bounding out of the water with a lively splash; red-billed pelicans watched for their finny prey from the reedy banks; and storks and herons stood in silent meditation.

The current of the Mekong, as we have already stated, flows with great rapidity, and renders navigation slow and laborious. It took M. Mouhot five days to pass the island of Ko-Sutin; and the rate of velocity increasing as he advanced to the northward, he was seldom able to accomplish more than two miles a day. On arriving at the rapids and cataracts he was compelled to abandon his boats and embark, with his followers and stores, in light canoes; and even these it was necessary at times to carry ashore, and convey along the bank on men’s shoulders until a smooth part of the river was gained.

At Pemptielan Mouhot landed, and delivered to its mandarin a letter from the king, ordering him to furnish the traveller with all the appliances requisite for his overland journey. He immediately started him on his way with a suitable number of waggons drawn by oxen, but the soil in the forests was so marshy that they were continually sinking in some deep slough, from which they could be extricated only by the greatest exertions. Thus their progress was limited to sixty miles in five days. At length he reached the village of Brelum, in the centre of a district occupied by the savage StiÊns. Here, in order to study their manners and the physical features of the country, he remained three months, though it is difficult to conceive of a situation less pleasing to or suitable for a man of European culture. The gloomy forests around were infested with elephants, rhinoceroses, tigers, buffaloes, and wild boars. More formidable, because less easily avoided, were the snakes, scorpions, and centipedes which swarmed in every direction, and constantly made their way into the houses. Brelum, however, is the seat of a Roman Catholic mission, and from its head, Father Guilloux, the traveller received a cordial hospitality which alleviated the dreariness of his sojourn.

He describes the StiÊns as dwelling in villages, each of which forms a distinct and independent community. They love “the deep shade of the pathless woods,” where they live on the products of their bow and arrows. They work with great skill in iron and ivory; and the women weave and dye a delicate stuff, which they wear in the form of a long loose scarf. In the neighbourhood of their villages, if the country be open, they cultivate various kinds of vegetables and fruit-trees, as well as rice, maize, and tobacco. In the fields thus planted they spend the rainy season, building small huts, raised above the swampy ground on piles—a protection at once from the swollen waters and the leeches, the latter of which are a plague of no inconsiderable proportions.

There is a certain peculiarity in their method of cultivating rice. On the beginning of the rains the StiÊn selects his piece of ground, and with nimble hatchet clears it of its growth of bamboos, but not attempting to meddle with the large trees. As soon as the canes have dried he sets fire to them, and in this way clears his ground and manures it simultaneously. Then he takes two long bamboos and lays them in a line on the ground; with a dibble in each hand he makes on either side a row of holes about an inch and a half deep, at short distances. Having finished his share of the work the man retires to enjoy his ease, while his wife enters on the scene, and from a basket slung to her waist dips out a handful of rice, a few grains of which she drops into each hole with equal neatness and rapidity. No more is necessary. Nature does the rest. The heavy rains soon wash the soil over the holes; and the heat of the climate soon causes the seed to germinate. Meanwhile the cultivator sits and smokes in his hut, or proves his skill with bow and arrow at the expense of the goats, apes, or wild boars. At the end of October is reaped the harvest. Generally, for some weeks previously much privation and distress are experienced, and the improvident StiÊn, who never takes thought of the morrow in the season of plenty, is reduced to feed upon wild roots, maize seeds, young bamboo shoots, and even serpents, bats, and toads. For this sorry fare the StiÊn compensates himself as soon as the harvest is gathered. A general feasting commences: one village inviting the inhabitants of another; oxen being freely slaughtered; and eating and drinking prevailing from morn to night, and almost from night to morn, to the sound of tambourine and tomtom.

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Like the Annamites, the StiÊns wear the hair long, but twisted up, and fastened by a bamboo comb, with a pheasant’s crest on the top of a piece of brass wire by way of ornament. They are mostly of tall stature, strong, and well-limbed; with regular features, thick eyebrows, and a good forehead. Their hospitality is abundant, and a stranger, on his arrival, is immediately entertained with rice-wine, a pipe of peace, and a fatted pig or fowl. Their dress is simplicity itself,—a long scarf about two inches wide; and even with this they dispense when “at home” in their cabins. They have neither priests nor temples; and their religion appears to consist of a belief in a supreme being called BrÂ; to whom, on occasions of calamity and suffering, they sacrifice a pig or an ox, and sometimes a human victim.

They are very careful in burying their dead; and a member of the family of the deceased invariably visits the grave daily, to sow a few grains of rice for his sustenance. Prior to any meal, they spill a little rice for the same purpose; and similar offerings are made in the fields and places which the dead were accustomed to visit. Plumes of reed are attached to the top of a long bamboo, and lower down the stem are fastened smaller bamboos containing a few drops of wine or water; and, finally, on “a slight trellis-work raised above the ground” some earth is laid, with an arrow planted in it, and a few grains of cooked rice, a leaf, a little tobacco, and a bone spread about.

The StiÊns believe that animals have souls; that these wander about after death; and that, therefore, it is necessary to propitiate them, lest they should be troublesome and vexatious. Sacrifices are accordingly offered, in proportion to the size and strength of the animal; and the reader will conceive that in the case of an elephant they are on a very grand scale. The North American Indian, it may be remarked, cherishes a similar superstition in respect to the bear and the buffalo.

According to M. Mouhot, a StiÊn is seldom seen without his cross-bow in his hand, his knife slung over his shoulder, and a basket—for his arrows, and the game they bring down—on his back. In the chase he displays the most untiring energy, gliding through the woods “with the speed of a deer.” In the use of the cross-bow practice brings perfection. For the larger animals the arrows are steeped in a poison which is described as being peculiarly rapid and fatal in its effects.

The StiÊns, let it be said in conclusion, are, like most savage races, exceedingly partial to ornaments, and particularly to bracelets made of bright-coloured beads. The men usually wear one above the elbow, and one at the wrist; but the women load both arms and legs. Brass wire and glass ornaments form their currency; a buffalo or an ox being valued at six armfuls of thick brass wire, which is also about the price of a pig. A pheasant, however, or a hundred ears of maize, may be procured for a small piece of fine wire or a bead necklace.

Both men and women perforate their ears, widening the hole annually by the insertion of plugs of bone or ivory fully three inches in length. A plurality of wives is allowed to the chiefs and richer men of the tribe; the poor are content with one wife, simply because they cannot afford to maintain a harem.

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About the fauna of this portion of the Mekong valley little need be said, and that little we shall confine to the tiger, which is as strong and ferocious as his celebrated congener of Bengal. Yet a couple of men, with no other weapons than pikes, will frequently sally forth to the attack. When the object of their daring enterprise is discovered, the stronger of the two hunters lowers his pike. Sometimes, if not emboldened by hunger, the tiger refuses the challenge, and bounds into the forest shade; more frequently he charges with a sudden rush, and then, if the force of his leap do not carry him over the head of the hunter, he falls upon the pike, which the hunter raises by pressing the handle on the earth. Immediately his companion rushes forward, and plunges his weapon into the animal’s flank; then the two, by sheer force, pin him to the ground, and hold him there until he dies. If the first man miss his aim, and break his pike, his death is certain; and not seldom his comrade also perishes.

But generally a tiger-hunt brings to the front all the men of the village, together with volunteers from the neighbouring villages. Led by the most experienced among them, they track the animal to his lair, which they proceed to enclose with a circle—each man being posted at a convenient distance, but so as to leave no space unguarded through which the tiger may escape. “Some of the most daring then venture into the centre,” says Mouhot, “and cut away the brushwood, during which operation they are protected by others armed with pikes. The tiger, pressed on all sides, rolls his eyes, licks his paws in a convulsive manner as though preparing for combat; then, with a frightful howl, he makes his spring. Immediately every pike is raised, and the animal falls pierced through and through. Accidents not infrequently happen, and many are often severely hurt; but they have no choice but to wage war against the tigers, which leave them no rest, force the enclosures, and carry off domestic animals and even men, not only from the roads and close vicinity of the houses, but from the interiors of the buildings. In Annam, the fear inspired by the tigers, elephants, and other wild animals, makes the people address them with the greatest respect; they give them the title of ‘grandfather’ or ‘lord,’ fearing that they may be offended, and show resentment by attacking them.” It is a pity that poets and romancists, when enlarging on the joys of a savage life, its freedom from the restraints of civilization, and the opportunities it affords for communion with Nature, omit all reference to its inconveniences,—such, for instance, as the immediate neighbourhood of an elephant or a tiger!

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After a sojourn of three months among the StiÊns, M. Mouhot returned to Udong by the route which he had previously followed. Of Pnom Penh, he says that it is situated at the confluence of the Mekong with its tributary, which he proposes to name the MÉ-Sap. This arm or tributary it is which forms the great Cambodian lake Touli-Sap; an immense sheet of water, upwards of one hundred and twenty miles in length, and four hundred miles in circumference, and as full of motion as a sea. Its shores are low, and covered with half-submerged trees; but in the distance may be seen a magnificent range of mountains, with the clouds resting on their summits.

To the east of the Great Lake lies the province of Ongcor, or Nokhor, in which, and along the banks of the Mekong, lie ruins of immense grandeur, bearing witness to the ancient wealth and populousness of the kingdom of Tsiampois (Cochin-China). To the most remarkable of these monuments, the great temple of Ongcor-Wat, we have already alluded. Its founders are unknown. Ask the Cambodians, and they reply: “It is the work of Pra-Enn, the king of the angels;” or else, “It is the work of giants;” or, “It was built by the leper King;” or, “It made itself.”

Two miles and a half to the north of Ongcor, on the summit of Mount BakhÊng, rises another magnificent Buddhist temple, not less than one hundred and twenty feet in height. At the foot of the mountain two stately lions, each formed, with its pedestal, out of a single block of limestone, keep watch in the silent shadows of the forest-trees. Thence dilapidated stone staircases lead to the mountain-top, from which a view of singular beauty and extent is obtained. On the one side are visible the wooded plain and pyramidal temple of Ongcor, with its noble colonnades, and the mountain of CrÔme,—the horizon being bounded by the shining waters of the Great Lake. In the opposite direction extends the long mountain-chain, the quarries of which, it is said, supplied the materials of the temples; and among the dense masses of foliage at its feet glimmers a fair and silvery lake. The entire region is now as lonely and deserted as formerly it must have been full of life and cheerfulness. The solitude is disturbed only by the occasional song of bird, or wild, unearthly cry of beast of prey.

A smooth surface has been obtained on the top of the mountain by laying down a thick floor of lime. At regular intervals are four rows of deep holes, in some of which still stand the columns that formerly supported two roofs, and formed a corridor leading from the staircase to the body of the building. The arms or branches of this gallery were connected with four towers, built partly of stone and partly of brick. In the two of these which are in the best preservation are kept large rudely-fashioned idols, evidently of great antiquity. In one of the others is a large stone, with an inscription still visible; the figure of a king with a long beard is carved upon the outer wall.

A wall, says Mouhot, surrounds the top of the mountain, and encloses yet another building—quadrangular in shape, and composed of five stories, each about ten feet high, while the basement story is two hundred and twenty feet square. These stories form so many terraces, which serve as bases to seventy-two small but elegant pavilions; and they are embellished with mouldings, colonnades, and cornices. M. Mouhot describes the work as perfect; and is of opinion that, from its good state of preservation, it must be of later date than the towers. Each pavilion, it may be assumed, formerly contained an idol.

On either side of the quadrangle ascends a staircase, seven feet wide, with nine steps to each story, and lions on each terrace. The centre of the terrace formed by the last story is simply a mass of ruins from the shattered towers. Near the staircase lie two gigantic blocks of fine stone, wrought as smooth as marble, and shaped like pedestals for statues.

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[So far from M. Mouhot. It will be interesting, however, to supplement his description with the details given by Lieutenant Garnier.

The ascent of the so-called mountain, he says, is easily accomplished: after a little time the traveller arrives at a kind of platform excavated in the rock, the surface of which appears formerly to have been carefully levelled with cement. A small brick building attracts the eye; it is erected over the imprint of Buddha’s foot, the gilding and outlines of which are, like the building itself, of very modern date. But we soon discover, in the rock, numerous holes which served as foundations for the columns of the temple; and beyond, some of these columns are still standing. If we follow up the traces of this colonnade, we arrive at an enclosure which was opened of old, perhaps, by a monumental gate; but there are not sufficient vestiges extant to enable us safely to reconstruct this part of the edifice. Within the enclosure, and symmetrically placed on either side of the colonnade, we find two ruined buildings; and in their interior numerous statues and fragments of statues have been carefully preserved by the inhabitants. Continuing our exploration westward, we arrive at length at the foot of the principal monument. This consists of five terraces excavated on the crest of the hill in exact gradation. Their general plan is rectangular, and one recedes behind the other at least thirteen feet. We ascend them by means of staircases constructed in the middle of each side, and guarded by stone lions mounted upon pedestals. At the angle of each terrace, and about thirty feet from each staircase, are raised admirably built little turrets, sixteen feet in height. Each of these sixteen turrets contains a statue.

In the centre of the upper terrace is a platform or base, about three and a quarter feet high, and measuring one hundred feet from north to south by one hundred and three feet from east to west. On this base were raised of old the towers which dominated the neighbouring country. But it is occupied now by a mass of ruins. By carefully examining them, we are able to make out that these towers were three in number, of which the central was the largest, and that they faced the east. The view from the summit of the ruins is truly enchanting. A PICTURESQUE PANORAMA. At our feet extends the verdurous sea of forest, its vague and undefinable murmurs just audible to the attentive ear. In a northerly direction the dense forest-shadows stretch far and far away until lost in the dim horizon; and the eye seeks vainly to discover in its midst the crests of some of the lofty monuments of Ongcor. To the south-east, however, the towers and colonnades of Ongcor-Wat are clearly marked out upon the great open plain; and the few groves of palms and clusters of fruit-trees which surround it give to the landscape an Oriental character of poetry and grace. Westward, a small lake reflects in its glassy surface the surrounding verdure. To the south we catch glimpses, through the warm vapours which veil the horizon, of the Great Lake.

What a fairy-like aspect, from the summit of these towers, must the mountain itself, in the old time, have presented, with its lions, and its turrets, and its staircases of stone descending even to the plain and to the city of Ongcor-ThÔm, with its ramparts and its innumerable gilded towers, which the forest now covers with its vast monotonous shroud of verdure!

From the extent of the dÉbris accumulated at the foot of the monument, we may conjecture that formerly a double row of buildings of brick surrounded it; these were probably occupied by a garrison or a numerous military guard. The position of Mount BakhÊng with reference to the neighbouring city made it a kind of Acropolis; and doubtless it was so used from the very foundation of the city. But while Mouhot ascribes the monument which it supports to the very infancy of Cambodian art, the leader of Garnier’s expedition considered it of later date. The fashion of the ornamentation and the style of the architecture seemed to him almost identical with those of other Khmer ruins. Moreover, in his opinion this architecture sprang into existence, so to speak, all at once; was complete in itself; had neither a period of development nor one of decay;—as if it had been introduced from without by a conquering race, which afterwards had been swept away by some sudden catastrophe.]

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After a careful survey of the ruins of Ongcor and Ongcor-ThÔm (or “the Great”), M. Mouhot returned to Bangkok, and made preparations to visit the north-eastern provinces of Laos.

While at Bangkok he witnessed a succession of fÊtes, of which he records details so interesting, that, by way of digression, we venture to transfer them to these pages.

The river Menam, he says, was covered with large and handsome boats, gay with gilding and gorgeous with elaborate carving; among which the heavy barges of the rice-merchants, and the small craft of poor women carrying to market their betel-nuts and bananas, seemed out of place. It is only on such occasions as these that the king, princes, and mandarins display their wealth and pomp. The king, when Mouhot saw him, was proceeding to a pagoda to make his offerings; and was followed by his mandarins, each in a splendid barge, with rowers attired in the brightest colours. In their train came a number of canoes filled with red-coated soldiers. The royal barge was easily distinguished by its throne and canopy, and by the profuseness of its carving and gilding. Some of the royal children sat at the feet of the king, who waved a recognition to every European he saw.

All the vessels lying in the river were dressed out with flags; while every floating house had an altar erected, on which various objects were placed, and aromatic woods burned with pleasant odours. In the court barges the various dignitaries, mostly men of “good round paunch,” lay indolently upon triangular embroidered cushions spread on a kind of dais. They were surrounded by officials, women, and children, either kneeling or lying flat, and holding the golden urns which are used for spittoons, or the golden tea-pots and betel-boxes. Each boat carried from eighty to a hundred rowers, wearing a large white scarf round the loins, and a red langouti, but leaving the head and greater part of the body bare. They lifted their paddles simultaneously, and struck the water in excellent concert; while at the prow stood a slave with an oar to prevent collisions, and another at the stern employed an oar for steering purposes. At intervals the rowers raised “a wild, exulting cry of ‘Ouah! ouah!’” while the voice of the steersman, in a louder and more sustained note, rose above the rest.

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From this holiday city, however, M. Mouhot tore himself away, and entered on his lonely and hazardous journey. He soon reached the pure breezy air and picturesque scenery of the mountains of Nophaburi and Phrabat, and ascended the Menam to SaohaÏe, the starting-point for all caravans going to Korat. He thence continued his voyage to Khao-Khoc, which has been fortified by the king of Siam as an asylum in case of a European invasion of the south. Here he resided for some months, on the borders of a vast unexplored forest, studying the manners and customs of the Laotians. In February 1861 he arrived at Chaiapune. It was not until he had encountered and conquered obstacles that would have broken the heart of any man less enthusiastic or less courageous that he succeeded in making his way to Korat. As he describes it as “a nest of robbers and assassins, the resort of all the scum of the Laotian and Siamese races,” the rendezvous of “bandits and vagrants escaped from slavery or from prison,” he would hardly have found it a pleasant resting-place; and as soon as he could obtain a supply of elephants for himself and his followers, he resumed his journey, striking, across the country to Poukieau.

Here he ascended gradually a range of mountains abounding in resinous trees and frequented by deer, tigers, elephants, and rhinoceros. This chain extends directly north, continually increasing in height and breadth, and throwing off numerous spurs towards the east, where the deep shadowy valleys collect their waters, and pour them into the Mekong.

Throughout this mountainous region elephants are the only means of transport. Every village, consequently, possesses one of these valuable animals; some no fewer than fifty or a hundred. Otherwise, intercommunication would be impossible for seven months out of the twelve. “The elephant,” says Mouhot, “ought to be seen on these roads, which I can only call devil’s pathways, and are nothing but ravines, ruts two or three feet deep, full of mud; sometimes sliding with his feet close together on the wet clay of the steep slopes, sometimes half-buried in mire,—an instant afterwards mounted on sharp rocks where one would think a Blondin alone could stand; striding across enormous trunks of fallen trees, crushing down the smaller trees and bamboos which oppose his progress, or lying down flat on his stomach, that the cornacs (drivers) may the easier place the saddle on his back; a hundred times a day making his way, without injuring them, between trees where there is barely room to pass; sounding with his trunk the depth of the water in the streams or marshes; constantly kneeling down and rising again, and never making a false step. It is necessary, I repeat, to see him at work like this in his own country, to form any idea of his intelligence, docility, and strength, or how all these wonderful joints of his are adapted to their work—fully to understand that this colossus is no rough specimen of Nature’s handiwork, but a creature of especial amiability and sagacity, designed for the service of man.”

After leaving Korat, Mouhot crossed five considerable rivers—the Menam-Chie, the Menam-Leuye, the Menam-Ouan, the Nam-Pouye, and the Nam-Houn,—all tributaries of the mighty Mekong; and the last-named river he once more reached, at Pak Lay, in lat. 19° 16' 58, on June the 24th, 1861. The Mekong here is much broader than the Menam at Bangkok, and dashes through the mountain ravine with the impetuosity of a torrent and the roar of the sea. Its navigation between Pak Lay and Luang Prabang is interrupted by several rapids.

Luang Prabang, where Mouhot arrived on the 25th of July, is a pleasantly-situated town, occupying an area of one square mile, and containing a population of eight thousand. The mountains which, both above and below it, enclose the broad and copious Mekong, form at this point a kind of circular valley or amphitheatre, nine miles in diameter, and, with their woods, and luxuriant verdure, and lawny slopes, combine in a picturesque panorama, reminding one of the Alpine lakes.

The town extends on both banks of the stream, but chiefly on the left bank, where the houses surround an isolated mount about three hundred and fifty feet in height, covered by a pagoda.*

An important tributary of the Mekong, the Nam Kan, skirts on the east and north the little hill at the foot of which Luang Prabang is situated, and divides the latter into two unequal parts, the larger of which lies to the south of the point of confluence. The banks of this stream, for a considerable distance inland, are lined with an uninterrupted series of pagodas and great gardens, in the latter of which the betel-nut is cultivated, and peaches, plum-trees, and oleanders flourish: a sign that the traveller here enters a very temperate region, where the fruits and plants of Central Asia may be successfully cultivated.

In the southern district of the city is placed the palace of the king, an enormous aggregate of huts, enclosed by a high and strong palisade, and forming a rectangle, one side of which is contiguous to the base of the central mount. As this sacred hillock is there almost perpendicular, the ascent to its pagoda-crowned summit is effected by a flight of several hundred steps excavated in the rock. A daily and excessively animated market is held under some sheds situated near the junction of the Nam Kan and the Mekong; but they are insufficient to accommodate all the vendors, and open booths, stalls, or shops are prolonged for upwards of half a mile in a wide street parallel to the river.

M. Garnier remarks that this was the first market, in the European sense of the word, which he had seen since leaving Pnom Penh. This sudden activity, he adds, and comparatively considerable commerce, to judge from the numerous and diverse types which at Luang Prabang represented all the nations of Indo-China and India, were obviously due less to a change of race or increased product of the soil than to a radical difference of government. The countries of Southern Laos, in their era of independence, had been celebrated for their wealth and commercial enterprise; but Siamese tyranny and monopoly have blighted their prosperity. If life be reviving at Luang Prabang, it is because the Siamese court have awakened to a perception of the fact that a milder rule was essential for so powerful a province.

The foundation of Luang Prabang appears to date only from the early part of the eighteenth century. No reference to it occurs in the careful account of Siam compiled by the Jesuit missionary La LoubÈre in 1687-88. Its distance from the theatre of the wars which desolated Indo-China in the eighteenth century, greatly contributed to assure its prosperity, and was probably one of the principal causes which led to its foundation. Its government skilfully contrived to obtain the nominal protection of China, by sending an envoy once every eight years with a couple of elephants, as a sign of homage; and it has secured the goodwill of the Annamite empire, by consenting to pay a small triennial tribute. The mountainous country to be traversed before an army can reach Luang Prabang, and the energy which its population owes to the admixture of numerous savage and warlike tribes inhabiting the borders of Tonquin and Laos, invest this province with exceptional means for resisting aggression on the part of Siam.

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But we have exhausted our space; and, after leading the reader into territories which have before them a splendid future, and following with him the course of the great Cambodian river into regions almost unknown to Europeans—regions the resources of which are immense, but need the science and energy of Europe for their development—we must bring our narrative to a close.

We have accompanied Mouhot to Luang Prabang. Thence he returned to Pak Lay, where, he says, he had the pleasure of again seeing the beautiful stream which he had come to regard as an old friend. “I have so long drunk of its waters,” he writes; “it has so long either cradled me on its bosom or tried my patience,—at one time flowing majestically among the mountains, at another muddy and yellow as the Arno at Florence.”

Revisiting Luang Prabang on the 25th of July, he left it again on the 9th of August. A few months later his adventurous career, as we have already stated, was terminated by an attack of jungle fever.

Hitherto, it has been to the research and adventure of French travellers that geographers have principally owed their knowledge of the Mekong. Let us hope that before long some Englishmen will follow in their steps!

THE END.

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