court-yard of the pagoda of Chan-chou-gan, and in that of the temple of Hae-chou-Tze.
"It is these vast religious edifices, and these palaces surrounded by high walls, which give the walled city its silent and mournful look. In the quarters occupied by these monuments, everything makes a sensation: the procession of a mandarin, or the least noise which breaks the customary silence, causes the idle inhabitants to run to their thresholds.
"The description I have just given, applies to the elegant streets and the respectable quarters; but, after you have passed the palaces of the Fou-yuen, the Tséan-keun, and the Pou-chin-tze, still proceeding towards the north, you enter the Ki-tcha-kiaï, which offers a most revolting spectacle. This quarter stands on an immense extent of ground, ceded to the Tartars at the time of the conquest of Kuang-ton. The descendants of the persons to whom it was formerly ceded, are still at the present day as barbarous as their forefathers, those nomade soldiers, who lived in tents: They inhabit perfect dens, built of dried mud; the uneven ground serves as their flooring. These places contain only one room, in which men, women, and children—quite naked and emaciated—eat, sleep, and swarm with vermin, in a state of idleness. Before the entrance hangs a rattan mat. It is neither the modesty of the women, nor
