IT is, of course, not literally true that Bangkok is Siam, but in many important respects it is more true than to say that Paris is France, for example, which has been said times enough to be true, if reiteration could make it so. Practically, the outside world has known little of the rich and splendid kingdom which, with its dependencies and adjacent provinces, separates the Bay of Bengal from the China Sea, except as it has known this capital city and the approach to it by the noble river which it decorates with its" palms and temples." During the last two or three years one or two seaports on the shores of the gulf have obtained some commercial importance. And the adventu

rous expeditions of resident missionaries, Catholic and Protestant, have opened up to the eyes of the world the rich alluvial country watered by the Menam, the splendid hill country bordering the Laos provinces on the north, and the strange wilderness of the Cambodian jungle, with its vast and mysterious ruins of an ancient civilization in the moldering temple of Ongkor. Pre-eminent among explorers, however, is the lamented Henry Mouhot, who, after spending between three and four years in travel and investigation of the country and its resources, and in collecting specimens in various branches of natural history, at last fell a victim to the pestilential climate, from the dangers of which his

admirable constitution and his careful and abstemious habits had long defended him. Mouhot's work was left by his untimely death unfinished; but even in its unfinished condition it is recognized as the best exploring work which Siam has seen. His route took him through the two great valleys of the Menam and the Mekong (the river of Cambodia); among the savage tribes inhabiting the frontier between Cambodia and CochinChina, of whom he gives us curious glimpses, which excite the wish for more familiar knowledge of them; and into the Laos country, which he had hoped to penetrate even to the mountain ranges which form the southwestern boundary of China. It is to him that we owe our knowledge of the wonderful Ongkor ruins. And his name will live in scientific annals as that of a naturalist of uncommon merit.

Beside Mouhot's book, which was compiled and arranged by his brother, the two most considerable books of travel in Siam are those of the late Roman Catholic Bishop Pallegoix, and of Sir John Bowring, the plenipotentiary by whom the existing treaty with Great Britain was negotiated. Bowring, however, did not go beyond Bangkok, and his two volumes are chiefly valuable for the fidelity and fullness with which he has collected and arranged the information to which his high official position and his inquisitive and active interest in all kinds of knowledge gave him access. The news of the death of Sir John Bowring, in November last, came while this article was in preparation.

Since the treaties with Great Britain and America were negotiated, a trip to Bangkok has been a comparatively easy thing, and any traveler who is not afraid of some occasional discomfort in his journey may make the voyage, commonly taking Singapore as the point of departure from the more ordinary highways of travel, not only with safety, but with pleasure. The latest traveler who has given us the narrative of his experience in Bangkok (M. le Comte de Beauvoir), was, to be sure, unfortunate in his choice of the ship which conveyed him from the Straits of Malacca. It is described as that "singular, dangerous and ill-smelling vessel, the Chow-Pya," the name of which declares its oriental nationality; "whose crew, and, much worse, whose cooks, were Chinese; where the bill of fare was restricted to eggs in the green stage, stale cocoa-nut oil, and decomposed pine-apples; whose captain was a pardoned pirate; which was entirely overrun by white ants; and whose mate and chief engineer

were brought on board, just before the time of sailing, dead-drunk and handcuffed." To this enumeration of the advantages of his vessel (which we quote, for its admirable and vivid conciseness, from an English reviewer), the Count himself adds some delightful details. "Among our companions are a merchant returning to Siam, an old Frenchwoman and her cat, and a young Asiatic baby, placed under the protection of the prince and myself by a benevolent priest. We nurse him by turns, and are most anxious to hand him over in good case to his father, who was formerly coxswain of a French corvette, and is now generalissimo of the armies of the King of Siam. The child is plum-juice color, and if he had not a coral and bells of the noisiest kind, and if he had a more maritime stomach, especially at meal-times, he would be delightful. I am holding him on one knee at this moment, while I write on the other, endeavoring to preserve the equilibrium of my campstool amid the tumbling packages, and he and I are both devoured by multitudes of our little enemies. It is no consolation to us that when they bite us they leave their heads in the wounds. This is our fifth day of this queer existence amidships, which is, however, paradisiacal in comparison with that of the three hundred passengers, Malay, Chinese, and Arab, who are fore and aft, piled up in heaps upon the merchandise. They smoke opium and they play with dice. This human ant-heap, which exhales most deleterious odors, is noisy, disgusting, and cowardly. At every high wave they all scream as if we were going to the bottom, then howl out verses from the Koran, get drunk and fight freely."

Notwithstanding such a queer and discouraging entrance into the city, this goodhumored traveler is more than paid for his uncomfortable voyage by the incomparable beauty of the Siamese capital. If anything could make a general view of Bangkok unattractive, it would surely be a foreground in which so excessive a disproportion of plumcolored baby with an insufficient maritime stomach was a lively and conspicuous feature. But M. de Beauvoir only adds his testimony to the unanimous voice of all his predecessors that there is no city, even of "the gorgeous East," which makes so charming and perma nent an impression of picturesque magnifi cence and splendor.

By far the most conspicuous object as one sails up the broad and rapid river from the gulf, thirty miles distant, is the great pagoda of Wat-Chang, towering three hundred feet

spire, from every prominent angle and projection, hangs a little gilded bell, and to the tongue of every bell there is attached a little fan. So while the shining porcelain of the mighty tower glitters and sparkles with its various colors in the sunlight, the least breeze that sweeps over the broad river and makes tremulous the leaves of the dark trees below will set in motion all these countless tongues on high, and make the whole pile musical. Memnon's statue, vocal when the light of morning smote it, was not more wonderful!

But this great structure, though it is the most conspicuous and beautiful of all that meet the traveler's eyes on entering the city, is only one of many. Temples and palaces on every side, with gleaming walls, with shining roofs, with graceful pinnacles and towers, rise high above the inconspicuous dwellings of the populace, above the "breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster," above the busy river with its shifting and incessant panorama of city life. For it is upon the river that all phases of the city life display themselves. It is the splendid highway of commerce, of trade, of fashion, and of pomp. The palaces and temples have their gates upon the river. Out upon the river come the kings in their great dragon-boats, that look like centipedal monsters with uplifted heads. As these strange craft make swiftly towards one, and the sharp startling cry of the dusky and almost naked oarsman breaks

upon the ear, no second exhortation is required to clear the way for royalty. As when a pike appears among the smaller fry that had been peacefully disporting in the pool, and all the crowd of fins is scattered in a twinkling. so is it-or so it was a few years ago, when the present writer saw Bangkok-at the ap pearance of the royal barge: the lesser boats, of whatsoever sort, would give to it the very widest berth with the most unhesitating alacrity. Out upon the river come the kings for coronation or for burial. Out upon the river come the priests to visit or to beg, or to perform their priestly functions at some distant shrine or temple. Out upon the river come the pedlers with their merchandise, and the hucksters with their various supplies. Out upon the river, for a visit or a purchase or an airing, you will go if you are living in Bangkok, as you would go out upon Broadway or upon the Avenue, if you are living in New York. Venice on the Adriatic itself is not more silent, more dream-like, more full of fascinating strangeness, than this Venice on the Menam.

The ruthless hand of public improvement is indeed changing the peculiarities of Bangkok, as of Venice. The whistle of the railway locomotive is not yet heard in Siam, to be sure, although the whistle of the steamer echoes up and down the river, from Paknam even, on occasions, to Ayuthia. But the present king is building what this preposterous