It is somewhere officially recorded, “There is only one man who knew with accurate certainty what a maiden’s next attitude would be, and he died young of surprise.” As I approached I had the sensation of passing into so severe an atmosphere of rigid disfavour, that the ingratiating lines upon my face became frozen in its intensity, despite the ineptness of their expression. Unable to penetrate the cause of my offence, I made a variety of agreeable remarks, until finding that nothing tended towards a becoming reconciliation, I gradually withdrew in despair, and again turned my face in the direction of that same accommodation which I had already found beneath the sign of an Encompassed Goat. Here, by the sarcasm of destiny, I encountered the person who had drawn the slighting analogy between this one’s pig-tail and his ability as a story-teller. For a brief space of time the ultimate development of the venture was doubtfully poised, but recognising in each other’s features the overhanging cloud of an allied pang, the one before me expressed a becoming contrition for the jest, together with a proffered cup. Not to appear out-classed I replied in a suitable vein, involving the supply of more vessels; whereupon there succeeded many more vessels, called for both singly and in harmonious unison, and the reappearance of numerous bright images, accompanied by a universal scintillation of meteor-like iridescence. In this genial and greatly-enlarged spirit we returned affably together to the hall, and entered unperceived at the moment when the one who made the announcements was crying aloud, “According to the programme the next item should have been a Chinese poem, but as Mr. Kong Ho appears to have left the building, we shall pass him over--” “What Ho?” exclaimed the somewhat impetuous one by my side, stepping forward indignantly and mounting the platform in his affectionate zeal. “No one shall pass over my old and valued friend--this Ho--while I have a paw to raise. Step forward, Mandarin, and let them behold the inventor and sole user of the justly far-famed G. R. Ko-Ho hair restorer--sent in five guinea bottles to any address on receipt of four penny stamps--as he appeared in his celebrated impersonation of the human-faced Swan at Doll and Edgar’s. Come on, oh, Ho!” “Assuredly,” I replied, striving to follow him, “yet with the wary greeting, ‘Slowly, slowly; walk slowly,’ engraved upon my mind, for the barrier of these convoluted stairs--” but at this word a band of maidens passed out hastily, and in the tumult I reached the dais and began Weng Chi’s immortal verses, entitled “The Meandering Flight,” which had occupied me three complete days and nights in the detail of rendering the allusions into well-balanced similitudes and at the same time preserving the skilful evasion of all conventional rules which raises the original to so sublime a height.