ley is fertile and well populated, and prosperity is
quickly returning to the district.

There is only one yamen in Tengyueh of any pretension, and it is the
official residence of a red-button warrior, the Brigadier-General
(_Chentai_) Chang, the successor, though not, of course, the immediate
successor, of Li-Sieh-tai, who was concerned in the murder of Margary
and the repulse of the expedition under Colonel Horace Browne in 1875. A
tall, handsome Chinaman is Chang, of soldierly bearing and blissful
innocence of all knowledge of modern warfare. Yungchang is the limit of
his jurisdiction in one direction, the Burmese boundary in the other;
his only superior officer is the Titai in Tali.

The telegraph office adjoins the City Temple and Theatre of Tengyueh. At
this time the annual festival was being celebrated in the temple.
Theatrical performances were being given in uninterrupted succession
daily for the term of one month. Play began at sunrise, and the curtain
fell, or would have fallen if there had been a curtain, at twilight. Day
was rendered hideous by the clangour of the instruments which the
blunted senses of Chinese have been misguided into believing are
musical. Already the play, or succession of plays, had continued fifteen
days, and another thirteen days had yet to be endured before its
completion. Crowds occupied the temple court during the performance,
while a considerable body of dead-heads witnessed the entertainment from
the embankment and wall overlooking the open stage. My host, the
telegraph Manager Pen, and his two friends Liu and Yeh, were given an
improvised seat of honour outside my window, and here they sat all day
and sipped tea and cracked jokes. No actresses were on the stage; the
female parts were taken by men whose make-up was admirable, and who
imitated, with curious fidelity, the voice and gestures of women. The
dresses were rich and varied. Scene-shifters, band, supers, and friends
remained on the stage during the performance, dodging about among the
actors. There is no drop curtain in a Chinese theatre, and all scenes
are changed on the open stage before you. The villain, whose nose is
painted white, vanquished by triumphant virtue, dies a gory death; he
remains dead just long enough to satisfy you that he _is_ dead, and then
gets up and serenely walks to the side. There is laughter at sallies of
indecency, and the spectators grunt their applause. The Chinaman is
rarely carried away by