This map was five feet long by three wide; in the centre was a great patch of red, and above it a small patch of green. On the part painted red--which was intended to represent Siam--was pasted a comical-looking human figure, cut out of silver paper, with a huge pitchfork in one hand and an orange in the other. There was a crown on the head and spurs on the heels, and the sun was shining over all. The legs, which were of miserably thin dimensions, met sympathetically at the knees. And this cadaverous-looking creature was meant for the king of Siam,--indicating that so vast were his strength and power they extended from one end of his dominions to the other. In the little patch of green, intended to represent Birmah, was a small Indian-ink figure, consisting of a little dot for the body, another smaller one for the head, and four scratches of the pen for the legs and arms; this was meant for the king of Birmah. A legion of little imps, in many grotesque attitudes, were seen dancing about his dominions; and these almost unintelligible hieroglyphics were to show to the uninitiated in what a disturbed state the Birman Empire was, and what an insignificant personage in his own dominions was the king of that country. On the north side of the green patch was painted a huge Englishman, sporting a cocked hat with red feathers, clasping in his arms what was meant for a vast tract of land. This was marked as British Birmah, and the Englishman was Lord Clive, holding on to it. The rest of the map was all blue, and all around the Siamese territories richly painted and heavily freighted ships were sailing to and fro. But the poor Birmese monarch had not a boat to display. My simple pupils knew just so much as this map taught them, and no more. Birmah on the north, and Siam on the south, and the sea all around,--this was the world to them.