recognize as that of opium and tobacco mingled, and if it be during the time of the Chinese New Year's holidays in February, there is an incessant roar, as of musketry, from the explosion of fire-crackers, which are thrown into the streets in packages and by the box, from every store, gambling-house, restaurant and dwelling, until the atmosphere is one blue cloud of powder-smoke, and the pavement is covered with the red husks of millions of the popping nuisances. We notice numerous narrow doorways, with cloth signs, with huge Chinese characters over them. These are the entrances to the gambling-houses. At each sits a vigilant guardian, or doorkeeper, as silent as the Sphynx, with his hands tucked up into his sleeves, and his face as rigid and impassive as that of the great image of Josh in the Buddhist temple a few blocks away. He speaks to no one unless accosted; and you would never dream what a thinking he keeps up, and how much he takes in with those little half-closed eyes of his. Behind him we see an open door, a long narrow passage, and another door at the end. From the inner retreat comes strange, discordant—to our ears—and not over-attractive music, the air being almost always the same, and closely resembling
"The boat lies high, the boat lies low,
She lies high and dry on the Ohio!"
Chinamen are entering or coming out at every moment, and why should we not enter too. We approach the door, and the wooden-looking doorkeeper suddenly starts up as wide-awake as you or I, and
