At the polo ground the city ends at present; though every day its limits are extending. From here the road runs along close to the sea, protected from the waves by a wall, and clinging to the flanks of the hills. It passes an occasional row of Chinese‐occupied houses, a lone hotel or two, the site of the immense new docks in process of construction, large sugar works, with a colony of houses for its employees, and an overhead wire tramway leading to their sanatorium on the high peak above, until it reaches the Lyeemoon Pass. Here the hills narrow in and press down to the sea, thrusting themselves forward to meet the hills of the mainland on the other side. A strait, only a quarter of a mile broad, separates them; and here on either hand, high above the water, stand modern and well‐armed forts, which, with a Brennan torpedo, effectually close the narrow entrance of the harbour to any hostile ships that venture to force a passage. Thus ends the northern and more important side of the island. On the southern and ocean‐ward shore lie the ill‐fated and practically deserted towns of Stanley and Aberdeen, where many years ago the British troops garrisoning them were so decimated by fever and disease that this side of the island was abandoned, and Victoria has become practically Hong Kong. The Peak is altogether another world from the city that lies in the steamy atmosphere below. Let us ascend in one of the trams that are dragged up to the summit by the wire cables. Seated in the car, we are drawn up rapidly at a weird and uncomfortable angle; for the slope of the line is, in places, 1 in 2. Up the steep sides of the hill we go, feeling a curious sensation as we are tilted back on the benches and see the trees and houses on each side all leaning over at an absurd angle. Even such a respectable structure as a church seems to be lying back towards the hillside in a tipsy and undignified manner. This curious optical effect is caused by the inclined position of the roof and floor, as well as of the passengers, with the horizontal. We pass over a bridge across a pretty road lined with stone villas, by large and well‐built houses that grow fewer and fewer as we mount upward. Here and there we stop at a small platform representing a station, where passengers come on or leave the tram. The down car passes us with a rush. The long ridge of the Peak, crowned with houses, comes into view. Turning round in our slanting seats we look down on the rapidly diminishing city and the harbour, now a thousand feet below us. At last we reach the summit and step out on a platform with waiting‐rooms, the terminus of the line. Now we see how the wire cable runs on over pulleys into the engine‐house and is wound round the huge iron drums.