friends, but is certain to have enemies, and himself be an implacable foe. Though he has a nature which certainly is not running over with sweetness, there is probably no one in China for whom British residents there have more genuine respect, or one whom they understand so little. Dr. Morrison delights to puzzle the ordinary person, so that by some his commonest talk is regarded as a cryptic utterance, to be treasured and studied lest its true inner meaning escape observation. He is not a sinologue and has only a nodding acquaintance with Chinese, but is better informed than most people, has a trained power of observation and the gift of insight. Accustomed also to think, and being of a contemplative temperament, he reads signs which are to others without significance, so is able to surprise them, and cause them to ask of each other what it is he means. He is credited with having had a share in the work of bringing about the Anglo-Japanese alliance, and throughout the Far East the present hostilities are known as “Morrison’s War.” He cannot be said to be popular at Peking, and his visits to the Legations are so quickly followed by matters of moment, that he is regarded there as a very harbinger of unrest. Dr. Morrison lives alone in a large, rambling, quaint Chinese house situated off the great boulevard and about midway between the east wall of the Forbidden City and the Telegraph Office. As do all the houses in Peking, his home faces south, and occupies the greater portion of a small and cheerless compound. There is a little room at the extremity of the west wing which serves as a study. In the main building there is a dining-room hung with Chinese built-up pictures, and crowded with curios and black-wood furniture. The larger part of the ground floor is devoted to his library, which is one of the finest collections of books on China in private hands. There are books on shelves, books in cases, books covered up, and books loose; there are rows and rows of books, and book tables and indexes and library fittings without end. Never until amongst them did I realize how cold, cheerless, and uninviting too many books render a dwelling house, how completely they destroy its homeliness. A near neighbour of Dr. Morrison, who is also a literary man living in a Chinese house, has improvised from even less promising media originally, a home suggesting cosiness, luxury, and real loveliness. The difference is that he has books everywhere in his home, whilst the other cannot find his home for the books. But books are to Dr. Morrison merely tools; he is not inordinately proud of his library; still less does he love it; but is full of regard for it as the means to an end.