It was the sixth month (July 1855) before the little fleet stationed at Tsaitien had orders to sail down to Hankow, a great event in the history of the lad of fifteen and a half years, in whose career, by this time, I hope, we may feel some interest. Hankow is to country lads of these parts what London is to many a farmer's son in our own land. Perhaps the name is decked in even more iridescent radiance than is our own great lonely city. It is a panorama of never-wearying sights. It is the place par excellence for wondrous tales.

With something like enthusiasm, therefore, Seng-teh beheld the forests of masts, and what were to him gorgeous and massive structures which lined the left bank of the Han, as his boat glided down with the current. They anchored by the landing-stage called Wu Seng Miao, the temple of the Military Sacred One, otherwise the Imperial Kwan, the god of war. Having seen the indented resting-place of this once human worthy outside the walls of Hanchwan, Seng-teh, though true to his promise to Captain Li with regard to the non-worship of idols, to which he was helped by the admonition of his peach-stones, could not but be interested in this famous personage.