Outside the principal entrance stands a fine specimen of those curious Chinese structures, half gateway, half triumphal arch. The lower portion was of stone, the superstructure of wood. It was crowned with three small towers, roofed with yellow tiles, and painted with gaudy designs in glaring colours. On either side, on stone pedestals, were enormous lions that looked like the nightmare creations of a demon‐possessed artist. On passing through the front gate, we found ourselves in a paved courtyard surrounded by low, one‐storied temples standing on raised verandahs. In the centre was a double‐roofed square belfry with a small gate in each side. On entering the court we were at once surrounded by a clamorous crowd of shaven‐headed, yellow‐robed men of a villainous type of countenance. These were the famous—or infamous—Buddhist monks. Their dress consisted of a long, yellow linen gown, confined at the waist by a sash, trousers, white socks, and felt‐soled shoes. A more repulsive set of scoundrels I have never seen. Their former truculence was now replaced by a cringing servility. They crowded round us, demanding alms, or, holding out handfuls of small coins, offered to change our good silver dollars into bad five‐and ten‐cent pieces. Since Buddhism has ceased to be the fashionable religion in China, its ministers have fallen upon evil times, and subsist on charity and the offerings of the comparatively few followers of their creed. So visitors are vociferously assailed for alms; and the wily monks, with a keen eye to business, had hit upon the idea of making a little money by tendering small coins of a debased currency in change for good silver pieces. Shouldering the clamorous crowd aside, our interpreter seized on one ancient priest to act as our guide. This worthy cleric aided us to drive off his importunate fellows, and led us through several courts to the principal temple. Like all the other buildings around, it was covered with a quaint, yellow‐tiled roof, and on the corners of the gables and the projecting eaves were weird porcelain monsters; while below hung small bells, which clanked dismally when moved by the wind. The temple was high and the interior particularly large and lofty; for it contained a colossal image of Buddha, seated in the traditional posture, with crossed legs and hands holding the lotus flower and other sacred emblems. On its face was the abstracted expression of weary calm that is supposed to represent the attainment of Nirvana—content. Stairs led up to galleries passing round the interior of the building to the level of the head of the deity, so that one could gaze into his countenance at close range. The statue is not so large or artistically so meritorious as the similar images of Daibutsu at Kamakura or Hiogo in Japan, each of which is hollow and contains a temple in its interior. On the walls of the staircase, ranged on shelves, were thousands of little clay gods, crudely fashioned and painted.