This place, named Mozaun, was romantically situated in a fertile valley,
that seemed to be completely shut in by the mountains. A small river,
a branch of the Saloon, entered it from the west, and, after running
about four miles in nearly a straight direction, turned suddenly round
a steep hill to the south, and was entirely lost to view. The village
was near a gap in the mountain, through which the river seemed to have
forced its way, and consisted of about forty or fifty huts, built of
the bamboo cane and reeds. The house of my landlord was somewhat larger
and better than the rest. It stood on a little knoll that overlooked
the village, the valley, the stream that ran through it, and commanded
a distant view of the country beyond the gap. It was certainly a lovely
little spot, as it now appears to my imagination; but when the landscape
was new to me, I was in no humour to relish its beauties, and when my
mind was more in a state to appreciate them, they had lost their novelty.
My keeper, whose name was Sing Fou, and who, from a long exercise of
magisterial authority, was rough and dictatorial, behaved to me somewhat
harshly at first; but my patient submission so won his confidence and
good will, that I soon became a great favourite; was regarded more as
one of his family than as a prisoner, and was allowed by him every
indulgence consistent with my safe custody.
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