Without binding ourselves to the inevitable fulfilment of a prophecy quoted by our friend Li in the above terms, in which the school teacher was both the man and his brother rolled into one, it behoves us to relate that, one day in the early spring of 1849, there was considerable excitement around the Yang Family Pavilion. Little processions of country folk were wending their way from the neighbouring hamlets, to join the groups which formed picturesque patches against the “village” walls. Other little processions were already wending their way, somewhat Blondin fashion, along the narrow and irregular field paths which led to the shores of the lake. School was disbanded for the day, and the scholars added their quota to the strings of youngsters running along, tumbling at times along the little ditches beside fields of incipient wheat and barley. It was a national holiday.

A sound as of a musket was heard in the distance; whereupon all eyes were directed, and not a few lips pouted, towards the lake. Pouting is the coolie's only available method of pointing when both his hands are occupied with his load. But no one is a coolie, or even a farmer, to-day. All are gentlemen—and ladies, fine birds with fine feathers.