nce of Sse-Tchouen. After a few days' march, I
found in an inn, a company of comedians. All night, these people did
nothing but sing, joke, and drink rice-wine. 'In this country of
Sse-Tchouen,' said the manager of the company to me, 'there are no Lamas.
What do you propose to do with that red robe and that yellow hat of
yours?' 'You are quite right,' said I; 'in a country of Lamas, to be a
Lama is well; but in a land of comedians, one must be a comedian. Will
you take me into your company?' 'Bravo! bravo!' cried everybody; 'you
shall be one of us.' And so saying, each made me a low bow, which I
returned by putting my tongue in my cheek, and scratching my ear,
according to the Thibetian manner of saluting. At first, I took the
matter as a joke; but by-and-by upon reflecting that I had no means left,
I thought I might as well take the manager at his word, and accordingly I
became a member of the corps.

"Next day I packed up my religious costume, and assumed a mundane suit.
As my memory had been long disciplined by the study of prayers, I found
little trouble in learning a part in a play, and in a few days I became
quite a first-rate comedian. We gave representations, during upwards of
a year, in all the towns and villages of Sse-Tchouen. The company then
resolving to visit the province of Yun-Nan, I quitted them, because that
expedition would have carried me too far from my native Three Vallies.
After the feast of separation, accordingly I proceeded on my way to the
paternal roof. The journey occupied nearly two years. At every place I
came to, I stopped a few days and gave representations, practising as a
merry-andrew, and making a comfortable thing enough of it, for one always
gets more by performing on one's own account. I entered my native
village in grand style, mounted on a magnificent ass I had bought at
Lan-Tcheou, and with twelve ounces of silver in my pocket. I gave a few
representations to my countrymen, who were amazed at my skill; but I had
soon to give up my new profession.

"One evening when the family were assembled to hear some of my Thibetian
stories, my mother maintained profound silence and her face manifested
utter grief; soon I observed the tears trickling down her cheeks.
'Mother,' asked I, 'why do you weep? In my story was there anything to
excite your tears?' 'Thy story,' she replied, 'produces upon me no
impression whatever, agreeable or disagreeable; it strikes upon my ears,
b