There comes a bright-eyed young lady, probably his daughter-in-law,
hung all over with bangles, in a white muslin petticoat, crimson
cotton-velvet jacket, and green gauze veil, with her naked brown
baby astride on her hip: a clever, smiling, delicate little woman,
who is quite aware of the brightness of her own eyes. And who are
these three boys in dark blue coatees and trousers, one of whom
carries, hanging at one end of a long bamboo, a couple of sweet
potatoes; at the other, possibly, a pebble to balance them? As they
approach, their doleful visage betrays them. Chinese they are,
without a doubt: but whether old or young, men or women, you cannot
tell, till the initiated point out that the women have chignons and
no hats, the men hats with their pigtails coiled up under them.
Beyond this distinction, I know none visible. Certainly none in
those sad visages--'Offas, non facies,' as old Ammianus Marcellinus
has it.

But why do Chinese never smile? Why do they look as if some one had
sat upon their noses as soon as they were born, and they had been
weeping bitterly over the calamity ever since? They, too, must have
their moments of relaxation: but when? Once, and once only, in
Port of Spain, we saw a Chinese woman, nursing her baby, burst into
an audible laugh: and we looked at each other, as much astonished
as if our horses had begun to talk.

There again is a group of coloured men of all ranks, talking
eagerly, business, or even politics; some of them as well dressed as
if they were fresh from Europe; some of them, too, six feet high,
and broad in proportion; as fine a race, physically, as one would
wish to look upon; and with no want of shrewdness either, or
determination, in their faces: a race who ought, if they will be