Resuming our imaginary voyage we proceed northward, and in the
space of an hour find ourselves at the mouth of the Yang-tse Kiang,
or Ta Kiang, the "Great River," as the Chinese call it. The width
of its embouchure suggests an Asiatic rival of the Amazon and La
Plata. We now see why this part of the ocean is sometimes described
as the Yellow Sea. A river whose volume, it is said, equals that of
two hundred and forty-four such rivulets as Father Thames, pours
into it its muddy waters, making new islands and advancing the
shore far into the domain of Neptune.

Notice on the left those long rows of trees that appear to spring
from the bosom of the river. They are the life-belt of the Island
of Tsungming which six centuries ago rose like the fabled Delos
from the surface of the turbid waters. Accepted as the river's
tribute to the Dragon Throne, it now forms a district of the province
with a population of over half a million. About the same time,
a large tract of land was carried into the sea by the Hwang Ho,
the "Yellow River," which gave rise to the popular proverb, "If
we lose in Tungking we gain in Tsungming."

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The former river comes with its mouth full of pearls; the latter
yawns to engulf the adjacent land. At present, however, the Yellow
River is dry and thirsty, the unruly stream, the opposite of Horace's
_uxorius amnis_, having about forty years ago forsaken its
old bed and rushed away to the Gulf of Pechili (Peh-chihli). This
produced as much consternation as the Mississippi would occasion
if it should plough its way across the state that bears its name
and enter the Gulf of Mexico at Mobile Bay. The same phenomenon