statues, dumped down in the Far East. The place, too, is as
picturesque as a scene from an opera, and China is the last spot where
one would expect to find lingering traces of Gothic influence in
carved doorways and other architectural details. As far as externals
went Camoens, the great Portuguese poet, can scarcely have realised
his exile during the two years, 1556-1558, of his banishment to Macao.
He most creditably utilised this period of enforced rest by writing
_The Lusiads_, a poem which his countrymen are inclined to over
rate. All the familiar characteristics of an old Portuguese town are
met with here, the blue and pink colour-washed houses, an ample
sufficiency of ornate churches, public fountains everywhere, and every
shop-sign and notice is written in Portuguese, including the
interminable Portuguese street names. The only thing lacking seemed the
inhabitants. I presume the town must have some inhabitants, but I did
not see a single one. Possibly they were taking their siestas, or were
shut up in their houses, meditating on the bygone glories of Portugal,
tempered with regrets that they had neglected to dredge their harbour.

Admiral Sir Hedworth Meux, the Naval Commander-in-Chief in the
Pacific, who happens to be my sister's son, told me that he was
sending a destroyer for three or four days up the Canton River, on
special service, and asked if I would care to go, and I naturally
accepted the offer. The Admiral did not go up himself, but sent his
Flag-Captain and Flag-Lieutenant. The marshy banks of the Canton River
are lined with interminable paddy-fields, for, as every one knows,
rice is a crop that must be grown under water. After the rice harvest,
these swampy fields are naturally full of fallen grain, and thrifty
John Chinaman feeds immense flocks of ducks on the stubbles of the
paddy-fields. The ducks are brought down by thousands in junks, and
quack and gobble to their hearts' content in the fields all day,