engaged in cleaning up their dwellings, putting things in order, or indolently smoking their short pipes. The Chinese boats are all marvellously clean and attractive; their toilette is performed each morning with admirable care and art; they are washed, and then cosmetics are applied to embellish them, which bring out the smallest veins in the commonest wood. The liquids employed are varnishes that exude naturally from the varieties of the sumac. But Dr. Yvan's attention was soon more especially attracted to a boat adjoining their own.

The family was composed of four persons: the mother, about thirty-five years of age, a young girl of fourteen, and two boys of five and six. They were seated in the bows and just finishing their breakfast. The mother had a gentle expression of face; she smiled placidly on the little laughing boys, who, with their heads clean and carefully shaved, were holding their breakfast in their hands; the young girl, dressed like a Tanka with a long queue fastened at the back of her head by a red ribbon, regarded me pleasantly enough. Suddenly, the young Tankadère said a few words which I did not understand, and offered me her breakfast: it was rice seasoned with tao-fou, in a bowl of blue china. I took the vessel in my left hand and the chopsticks in the other; the grains of rice perfectly boiled, and separate from each other, were sparkling and semi-transparent; they resembled pearls just drawn from their ocean bed. The tao-fou, white as thick cream, and fried in millet oil, covered a portion of the nourishing grain, and over this condiment was spread a dark syrup.

The doctor, rightly thinking that few Europeans had enjoyed an opportunity of investigating the food of the poorer Chinese, had no hesitation in accepting the offer. The rice was superb, and possessed the flavour peculiar to that cereal when grown in the salt bottoms of the Tchou-Kiang. The tao-fou he found rather insipid; but by mixing the rice, the tao-fou, and the black liquid, which bore a strong family resemblance to molasses, he concocted a famous dish. On handing back the bowl to the young girl with half a piastre, Dr. Yvan was beset by offers of food, and he selected a dish offered him by a sailor on board the lorcha. The rice was precisely the same, but the accompanying condiment was different; it was thick and of a yellow tinge, with a very prononcé'd caseine odour. In fact, the soup was exactly like the Italian rizzoto, and so good that the doctor eat every morsel. On inquiry, he found that the seasoning was still tao-fou, and it is time to explain what that mysterious condiment is.

I owe my readers the recipe for a product which, though alternately cream and cheese, is made, however, without the intervention of any lacteal substance. Haricot beans are immersed in water till they yield to the pressure of the finger; when in that state they are ground, and the clear sediment thus obtained is subjugated to the process of boiling. It is then thrown into a sieve, which retains the impure portions; the lactescent liquid drips through into a pan, and a small quantity of gypsum, reduced to an impalpable powder, is mixed with it. The result is a substance either white or tinged with yellow, according to the beans employed; and this is the tao-fou. It is eaten either fresh or fermented; when in the former state, it bears great resemblance to the white cheese called touma in Provence. When fermented, it has an analogous taste to our strong cheeses.

The Southern Chinese have an extraordinary dislike to milk, and yet they have managed to produce an almost perfect piracy of the liquid they loathe in almost all its transformations. The mention of the tao

fou leads Dr. Yvan to a remark which proves that he, at any rate, is no teetotaller, for he says "that in every country and in all climates men have instinctively learned that they must add substances fermented, or in the process of fermentation, to the natural products on which they live." Our author was obliged to give up his investigations by the arrival of the mandarin boat which was to conduct them to the house placed at their disposal by their host, Pan-se-Chen. En route he was instructed by Callery as to the name of his future residence. He was going to live in Tchaoin-Kiaï, that is to say, the Street of the Murmur of the Sea in the House Thi-ki-Han, id est, the Factory of the Remembrance of Virtue. By the time the lesson was learned, they arrived at the house, which they found to be half European, half Chinese; it was two-storied, and the flat roof was paved with slabs of granite, that sparkled in the sun as if sprinkled with diamonds. The ground floor was used as a warehouse, and was filled with bales of silk, chests of tea, &c., intended for the Western markets, while the dwelling-rooms were on the first floor, and looked out on the river. Immediately on arrival, the rooms intended for M. de Lagrené's family were inspected; and it was fortunate that they took the precaution, for they found the rooms set apart for the ladies adorned with drawings of pastoral scenes which would have put Watteau's shepherdesses to the blush. In vain did M. Callery try to make the servants understand that they must be removed; and when he applied to their host, that worthy gentleman could not hide his astonishment. However, the pictures were removed. And now to take a glance at the city itself.

Canton is situate on the left bank of the Tchou-Kiang, and it would require six hours of stout walking to traverse its boundary. The city is composed of three distinct portions, welded as it were to each other: its form is a parallelogram from east to west: it is bounded on the south and west by the river, or, to speak more correctly, by the floating town; on the east, by marshy lands; and on the north, by gently sloping hills, which by gentle undulations join the mountains of the Blue Clouds, which are observable in the distance. The three portions of the city are the suburbs and the walled city, subdivided into the old, or Tartar, and the new, or Chinese, town. The suburbs, which are the richest and most important part of Canton, occupy, to the south and west, the ground contained between the Tchou-Kiang and the enceinte of the two fortified towns. A wall, running parallel to the river, intersects the quadrangle in which the official city is contained. The Tartar town is situated to the north, and these two cities communicate by means of sixteen gates through the ramparts, which are always strictly guarded. The military and civil authorities reside in this double enceinte, and barbarians are not allowed to penetrate it.

The factories are built on the south-eastern point of the suburb nearest to the banks of the Tchou-Kiang, and form several streets running parallel to the course of the river. Each factory is formed of a row of houses, constituting a huge isolated building, and resembling the barracks in which the Phalansterians would like to shut up humanity. Formerly there were thirteen similar buildings, whence the Chinese street running in their rear was called "the Street of the Thirteen Factories." These monumental buildings, beginning with the Hong I-Ho, or Creek Factory, and ending in the Hong Te-hing, or Danish Factory, extended from east to west. At present the original line still exists, but the internal arrangements have undergone considerable changes since the Chinese

burned down the English and Dutch Factories. They have not yet been rebuilt; some provisional tenements, however, exist on the ground, and the foundations of the future English Factory have scarcely been dug. Of all the Western nations, the Americans are alone worthily represented, for they have built a palace at Canton worthy of the conquerors of our age. This quarter, devoted to the barbarians, contains three streets that are perfectly Chinese; one is celebrated in the dissolute memory of sailors, and is known as Hog-lane; it is situated between the ruins of the English Factory, and to the East of the American Hong. Although the unclean animal from which it derives its name can no longer be met with there, it fully deserves its appellation. The two other streets are known as Old China-street and New China-street.

Before long, M. Callery invited the doctor to pay a visit to China Proper, and for that purpose conducted him to Physic-street, where he was utterly confounded by the enormous population that encumbered every inch of ground. But even the suffocating pressure did not prevent the pickpockets from plying their handiwork, for, to our author's surprise, he suddenly found his companion committing violent assault and battery on a Chinaman who had taken a fancy to his handkerchief. But this was hardly a novelty.

One day, at Macao, I was going home with Callery, who was talking with great animation, and carrying under his arm a magnificent parasol. While passing a corner near the Bazaar, my comrade stopped to make a demonstration after the fashion of southerners, who paint an object at the same time as they describe it. But he had scarce commenced his explanation, when a Chinese stole the parasol, and flew off. Callery was after him in a second, but could not catch him. This comical scene sent me into a fit of laughter, but we had not gone ten yards ere I felt my hat fly off. I turned quickly, and saw a Chinaman carrying it off along the same road as Callery's thief had followed. I made no attempt to pursue him; I stopped to laugh at my ease. And so we reached Callery's house, he minus the parasol, I without a hat.

Physic-street has been so called by the English on account of the number of chemists' shops it contains; still these shops are not more numerous than those of the lamp-makers, curiosity dealers, and silk mercers. It runs along the whole of the suburb from east to west, and is one of the most frequented streets in Canton. But the celebrity is Toki-true, whom Dr. Yvan had an occasion of seeing, when he accompanied Madame de Lagrené and her daughters to Physic-street. Although his establishment has been frequently described, the doctor contrives to throw some fresh light on the subject:

The portrait of this celebrated merchant has been very often sketched; but, strange to say, those who have attempted to draw it have generally produced a caricature. To a great number of persons a Chinese is simply a very absurd animal, and every grotesque portrait will resemble him. Thus, Toki-true's establishment has been represented as a den situated in an old house filled with rubbish, and the master himself as an old mummy escaped from his cerecloths, clothed in rags, contemporary with the old Mings, and adorned with a false worn-out tail, found in a lot of bric-à-brac. Now, Toki-true's house is one of the handsomest in Physic-street; his magazine is certainly the most elegant, his curiosities, arranged in perfect order, are covered with glass-a rarity in China -to protect them from the dust and indiscreet hands. It is true that Toki-true is old and ugly; he is at least seventy; he is thin and short; his wrinkled saffron face resembles an old doeskin glove; his sunken little eyes are not pro

tected by spectacles, and his tail is too thin, too white, and too worn to be false. He wears in winter a handsome furred gown, respected by the moths, and on which time has, as yet, performed no ravages; and in summer he wears hiapou pantaloons and the long blue tunic. The language he speaks with the barbarians is the Anglo-China-Portuguese patois, that lingua franca of the extreme East, which the worthy children of the Celestial Empire have rendered as liquid as the Creole patois of the Isle of France. The face and manners of the venerable old man are kindly, almost timid; and he draws your money from you so delicately, that when you leave his shop a-dry, you fancy you are under an obligation to him. Toki-true is at once merchant and artist, and his avarice, as antiquarian, is often opposed to his avidity as a commercial man. When he has a deal, he battles with the purchaser and with himself; he hesitates between the dollars and the object you desire to purchase. Toki-true lives only in the past: a bronze three hundred years old is to him a modern object; his mind perpetually remounts the course of ages; he never inquires about the present, which he calls bad, and cares but slightly for the future, which, according to him, will be worse: thus he is continually appealing to ancient customs and ancient probity. His ideal would be to wake up some fine morning and find the Celestial Empire rejuvenated by twenty ages.

On dining with their hospitable host, the gentlemen had inflicted on them a dinner à l'Anglaise, and consisting of insipid lumps of broiled meat, which are eaten in London with potatoes. The last course, however, was not English, for it consisted of a huge rat, served up au naturel. Pan explained that this animal had only fed in the rice-fields, and had no acquaintance with the sewers: such ignoble dens were left to the Coolies. The guests tried the strange dish, and the doctor candidly confesses he did not much care about it; but perhaps the animal was old and tough. He tried hard to persuade Pan that the envoy was remarkably fond of rat, which was a rarity in France, and would like to have one served every day; but M. Callery thought it beneath him to join in such a joke. One of the guests ended by cutting off the rat's tail and keeping it as a souvenir. Another curious dish consisted of cakes, sent to the guests by Pan's thirteen wives, "prepared in the House of Mourning." They were very good; but our author takes care to add that Julien makes better. But the best thing of all connected with the dinner was the capital Château Margaux, which the mandarin considered the pleasantest of all European beverages.

Among all the curious sights visible at Canton, none appears to have affected Dr. Yvan so much as the floating town, which he evidently spent days in visiting. It occupies a space of several leagues along the TchouKiang: it is divided into districts like London and Paris, and boasts its commercial, populous, and fashionable patrons. The suburbs, that is to say the part of the river inhabited by the lowest class, are composed of narrow and winding streets, all of the same aspect. During the day no men are visible on board, for they are engaged in loading the vessels of the barbarians, or discharging the cargoes of the numberless junks which provision Canton. The fishermen's street is probably the most shifting street in the world. When the weather is fine each dwelling is separated from its neighbour, and this portion of the floating town disappears for several days; but, as a general rule, the streets frequently change their aspect, owing to the appearance of rough weather or the of a presage storm, which scatters confusion. There are several rows of houses, however, which rarely alter their appearance: they are the dwellings of

tradesmen, accountants, and a few public establishments. These peaceful abodes, which could not carry sail, and on board which it would be very difficult to manage oars, are rarely moved, and they bear a strong family resemblance to the streets on the mainland. Dr. Yvan visited in the city of the Tchou-Kiang not only tailors, chemists, ready-made clothing stores, sorcerers, and public notaries, but even a pawnshop.

These banks of misery and vice are not worked in China by benevolent societies, they are left to private industry, and are under the surveillance of the mandarins. This is, however, merely nominal, the functionaries only visiting these establishments when they require a bribe. The pawnbroker in the TchouKiang occupied one of the handsomest boats in Tradesman's-street; the front, varnished and handsomely decorated, bore an inscription whose impertinent applicability must have roused the ire of some of the customers-it was, "Save, that you may not have to borrow." The Chinese alone are capable of teaching their customers morality at the time they are flaying them. On going on board, we found the proprietor comfortably seated before a table, on which bundles of papers were arranged, and a magnificent calculating machine was before him. On seeing us, one man gave us a slight protecting nod, seeming to say, "I know what has brought you here;" but when our interpreter made him understand that we were curious foreigners and not customers, he overwhelmed us with all the exaggeration of Chinese politeness. The pledged goods were arranged on shelves, on which was inscribed the date of the transaction and the time allowed for their redemption. While we were carefully examining the objects, our guide strove to prove to us the morality of his profession by trying to persuade us that the pledges gained largely by passing through his hands. As a general rule, only worn-out and dirty goods are brought us, but so soon as I receive them I have them carefully cleaned, and it often happens, when they are redeemed (which is rare, however), that the owners are astonished at receiving a nearly new article in lieu of the old rubbish they had pledged. The transformation I make the pledges undergo is alone worth the interest I am paid."

The articles pledged were, in reality, very poor; they were old goods that had seen service, a few toys, relics of a happier period, or hereditary furniture, which the owner had not the heart to sell, doubtlessly through respect for some dear memory, proving that misery rather than vice brought custom to this usurer's den. In vain did Dr. Yvan try to find out what amount the little bank turned over annually, or the interest charged, for, on each inquiry made on this head, the interpreter pretended not to understand. Another class of boats which Dr. Yvan visited was the celebrated "flower-boats," as Europeans poetically term them, although the Chinese simply call them the "houses of the four pleasures. However, there is nothing compromising in a visit to these boats by daylight; the feminine crew that inhabit the flower-boats fly from them at the first gleam of sunshine, and strangers are allowed to visit the boats during their absence. The flower-boats are the handsomest ornaments of the floating town of Canton, and it must be confessed that this ornament is by no means rare. Externally they are decorated with extraordinary magnificence; the entrance is covered with carved work, the sides are chiselled with a degree of art of which the beautiful ivory fans can alone furnish an idea. The vessels are painted red, blue, or green, and all the parts in relief are exquisitely gilded. In the bow, four brilliantly-painted lamps are raised on masts, while, at the stern, four banners display their sparkling colours in the breeze. The terraces, vestibules, and stairs are adorned with large porcelain vases, in which

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