smaller sanctuaries, each decorated with images of deities, rudely wrought, but glowing with gilt and vivid colours.  Special reverence seems to be accorded to Kwanfootse, a demigod of War, and the four-and-twenty gods of Mercy.  These latter have four, six, and even eight arms.  In the Temple of Mercy Madame Pfeiffer met with an unpleasant

adventure.  A Bonze had offered her and her companions a couple of wax tapers to light in honour of the god.  They were on the point of complying, as a matter of civility, when an American missionary, who made one of the party, snatched them roughly from their hands, and gave them back to the priests, protesting that such compliance was idolatrous.  The Bonze, in high indignation, closed the door, and summoned his brethren, who hurried in from all sides, and jostled and pushed and pressed, while using the most violent language.  It was not without difficulty they forced their way through the crowd, and escaped from the temple.

The guide next led the curiosity-hunters to the so-called House of the Sacred Swine.  The greatest attention is paid to these porcine treasures, and they reside in a spacious stone hall; but not the less is the atmosphere heavy with odours that are not exactly those of Araby the Blest.  Throughout their sluggish existence the swine are carefully fed and cherished, and no cruel knife cuts short the thread of their destiny.  At the time of Madame Pfeiffer’s visit only one pair were enjoying their otium cum dignitate, and the number rarely exceeds three pairs.

Peeping into the interior of a Bonze’s house, the company came upon an opium-smoker.  He lay stretched upon a mat, with small tea-cups beside him, some fruit, a tiny lamp, and several miniature-headed pipes, from one of which he was inhaling the intoxicating smoke.  It is said that some of the Chinese opium-smokers consume as much as twenty or thirty grains daily.  This poor wretch was not wholly unconscious of the presence of visitors; and, laying by his pipe, he raised himself from the ground, and dragged his body to a chair.  With deadly pale face and fixed, staring eyes, he presented a miserable appearance.

* * * * *

Our traveller also visited a pagoda,—the Half-Way Pagoda; so called by the English because it is situated half-way between Canton and Whampoa.  On a small hillock, in the midst of vast tracts of rice, it raises its nine stories to a height of one hundred and seventy feet.  Though formerly of great repute, it is now deserted.  The interior has been stripped of statues and ornaments, and the floors having been removed, the visitor sees to the very summit.  Externally, each stage is indicated by a small balcony without railing, access being

obtained by steep and narrow flights of stairs.  A picturesque effect is produced by these projections, as everybody knows who has examined a “willow-pattern” plate.  They are built of coloured bricks, which are laid in rows, with their points jutting obliquely outwards, and faced with variegated tiles.

Even more interesting was Madame Pfeiffer’s peep into the “domestic interior” of Mandarin Howqua.

The house was of large size, but only one story high, with wide and splendid terraces.  The windows looked into the inner courts.  At the entrance were two painted images of gods to ward off evil spirits, like the horse-shoe formerly suspended to the cottages and barns of our English peasants.

The front part was divided into several reception rooms, without front walls; and adjoining these, bloomed bright and gaily-ordered parterres of flowers and shrubs.  The magnificent terraces above also bloomed with blossom, and commanded a lively view of the crowded river, and of the fine scenery that spreads around Canton.  Elegant little cabinets surrounded these rooms, being separated by thin partitions, through which the eye could easily

penetrate, and frequently embellished with gay and skilfully-executed paintings.  The material used was chiefly bamboo, which was as delicate as gauze, and copiously decorated with painted flowers or beautifully-written proverbs.

The chairs and sofas were numerous, and of really artistic workmanship.  Some of the arm-chairs were cunningly wrought out of a single piece of wood.  The seats of others were beautiful marble slabs; of others, again, fine coloured tiles or porcelain.  Articles of European manufacture, such as handsome mirrors, clocks, vases, and tables of Florentine mosaic or variegated marble, were plentiful.  There was also a remarkable collection of lamps and lanterns pendent from the ceilings, consisting—these lamps and lanterns—of glass, transparent horn, and coloured gauze or paper, ornamented with glass beads, fringe, and tassels.  And as the walls were also largely supplied with lamps, the apartments, when lighted up, assumed a truly fairy-like character.

The mandarin’s pleasure-garden stretched along the river-side.  Its cultivation was perfect, but no taste was shown in its arrangement.  Wherever the visitor turned, kiosks, summer-houses, and

bridges confronted her.  Every path and open spot were lined with large and small flower-pots, in which grew flowers and liliputian fruit-trees of all kinds.  In the art of dwarfing trees, if such distortion and crippling of Nature deserves to be called an art, the Chinese are certainly most accomplished experts; but what can we think of the taste, or want of taste, which prefers pigmies three feet high to the lofty and far-shadowing trees which embellish our English parks and gardens?  Why should a civilized people put Nature in fetters, and delight in checking her growth, in limiting her spontaneous energies?

Here are some particulars about the tea-plant:—In the plantations around Canton, it is not allowed to grow higher than six feet, and is consequently cut at intervals.  Its leaves are considered good from the third to the eighth year; and the plant is then cut down, in order that it may throw off new shoots, or else it is rooted out.  Three gatherings take place in the year; the first in March, the second in April, and the third, which lasts for three months, in May.  So fine and delicate are the leaves of the first gathering, that they might easily be mistaken for the blossom; which undoubtedly has

originated the error that the so-called “bloom or imperial tea” consists of the flowers and not of the leaves of the plant.

When gathered, the leaves are thrown for a few seconds into boiling water, and then placed on flat iron plates, inserted slantwise in stone-work.  While roasting over a gentle fire, they are continually stirred.  As soon as they begin to curl a little, they are scattered over large planks, and each single leaf is rolled together; a process so rapidly accomplished that it requires a person’s sole attention to detect that only one leaf is rolled up at a time.  This completed, all the leaves are again placed in the pans.  Black tea takes some time to roast; and the green is frequently coloured with Prussian blue, an exceedingly small quantity of which is added during the second roasting.  Last of all, the tea is once more shaken out upon the boards, and submitted to a careful inspection, the leaves that are not entirely closed being rolled over