Prince Kung’s right-hand man was Wên Hsiang, a Tartar statesman of great ability, whom it was a pleasure to meet. Like his chief, he was always conciliatory and prepossessing; had he had the Prince’s strength and moral courage he might have achieved great things—but there he broke down. The two other ministers whom we met the oftenest were Tung and Hêng Chi—the former a portly, good-humoured gentleman with a great reputation as a man of letters, who had turned into Chinese verse a prose translation by Wade of Longfellow’s Psalm of Life; the latter an old beau, his tail dyed and eked out with false hair as sedulously as the head-dress of an aged Court dame in Europe. He was very carefully attired, generally in a robe of pearl-grey silk turned up with blue. Sir Plume himself was not more justly vain of his amber snuffbox than Hêng Chi was of his tiny snuff bottle with its emerald green jade stopper, and the priceless bead of the same from which his peacock feather hung; his red button was of “baby-face” coral, and as for the pipe, chopsticks all studded with seed pearls, and other small treasures which were hidden in the recesses of his velvet boot and the delicate sugar-plums and restorative drugs which he produced from the same receptacle, they baffled description. A dear little old man withal, merry and well preserved, whom we all treated with great respect in gratitude for his kindness to Parkes and Loch when in their hideous captivity they stood sorely in need of a friend. Was he so very fond of the barbarian? Listen! M. de Mas was Spanish Minister at Peking. He had negotiated a Treaty which for many months, even two or three years, could not be ratified on account of the many changes of ministry at Madrid. At last the ratification came, and M. de Mas, before going home, went to pay a farewell visit to His Excellency Hêng Chi. Now the said Excellency, being past seventy years of age, had a little boy, some four or five years old, of whom he was inordinately proud—he was the apple of his eye. The polite Spaniard, knowing this, asked to see the wonderful product. Highly flattered, Hêng Chi sent for the child, who arrived with his thumb in his mouth, after the manner of all children, Asiatic as well as European. “Make your bow to His Excellency!” said the proud father. Not a sign. The order was repeated, not once but twice. At last the little creature, taking its thumb out of its mouth, solemnly uttered the street cry, “Kwei tzŭ!” (“Devil!”) The intimate education of the harem was revealed, and poor old Hêng Chi was smothered in confusion. There is a general idea that all high mandarins are great scholars. That is not always the case. Our old dandy friend, for instance, was as little of a grammarian as Mrs. Squeers. Nevertheless he had all the Chinese gentleman’s reverence for letters, and kept a learned secretary to read to him and keep him up to the mark. * * * * *