THE list of my school-day books, besides the other varied accounts of travel by land and sea, penned by writers and travellers of near and remote ages, all quoted the then, to me, wondrously curious narrative of the unfortunate Venetian, Marco Polo; and though many years have passed away since I admiringly lingered over the perusal of his seemingly fabulous recital of the extent and peculiarities of the strange land in which he had so long been a dweller, yet, by oftrepeated, readings and a natural taste for remarkable tales, every page left its due impression on a mind fully awakened in after-years to the truth of what the honest Polo had vouched for, when on a visit to the land of Sinim; and more especially to the city of Cambalu, the abode of the Grand Khan.

The long strings of tawny funereal-paced camels, begrimed with the carbonaceous loads they bore with such melancholy-looking fortitude, conducted by sooty Sinensians through the wide dusty streets of Peking; the sonorous tinkling of the heavy brass bells suspended to the lower part of their acutely bent-up necks, and the frequent shrill discordant scream of anger or fatigue emitted by these slow but patient creatures, told of the neighbourhood of coal, and the statement made by the protégé of Kublai Khan, was immediately recalled to my memory.