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SKETCH MAP
OF
SOUTH WESTERN CHINA
To illustrate the journeys of
ALEXANDER HOSIE, H.B.M. CONSULAR SERVICE, CHINA.

THREE YEARS
IN
Western China.

Ichang Gorge: Salt Junk, propelled by oars, Mast being unshipped for downward Voyage.

THREE YEARS
IN
Western China;
A NARRATIVE OF THREE JOURNEYS
IN
Ssŭ-ch’uan, Kuei-chow, and Yün-nan.

BY
ALEXANDER HOSIE, M.A., F.R.G.S.,
H.B.M. CONSULAR SERVICE, CHINA.

SECOND EDITION.

LONDON:
GEORGE PHILIP & SON, 32 FLEET STREET. E.C.
Liverpool: Philip, Son & Nephew, 45 to 51 South Castle Street
1897.

PREFACE.

The following pages are intended to present a picture of Western China as the writer saw it in 1882, 1883, and 1884. Chapter VII., in a somewhat modified form, was read at a meeting of the Royal Geographical Society on the 22nd of February, and published in the Proceedings for June, 1886; Chapter XI. was read at the Aberdeen meeting of the British Association in September, 1885; and Chapter XII. was addressed to a special meeting of the Manchester Chamber of Commerce on the 12th of May, 1886. The remaining Chapters are now published for the first time, and, if they meet with half the favour bestowed upon the Parliamentary Papers in which the journeys were first, and somewhat roughly, described, the writer will consider himself amply rewarded for the work which want of leisure has compelled him to neglect so long.

The Author.

Wênchow, China,
September 6, 1889.

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.

Since the publication of the first edition of this book, in 1890, several important changes have taken place in foreign commercial relations with Western China, and sufficient time has now elapsed to admit of a decision being arrived at as to how far these changes have affected trade. The following Additional Article to the Chefoo Agreement of 1876, which owed its existence to the murder of Margary in the west of Yün-nan in 1875, was signed at Peking on March 31, 1890, and the Ratifications were exchanged on January 18, 1891:

“The Governments of Great Britain and China, being desirous of settling in an amicable spirit the divergence of opinion which has arisen with respect to the first clause of the third section of the Agreement concluded at Chefoo in 1876, which stipulates that—‘The British Government will be free to send officers to reside at Ch’ung-k’ing to watch the conditions of British trade in Szechuen [Ssŭ-ch’uan], that British merchants will not be allowed to reside at Ch’ung-k’ing, or to open establishments or warehouses there, so long as no steamers have access to the port, and that when steamers have succeeded in ascending the river so far, further arrangements can be taken into consideration,’ have agreed upon the following Additional Article:

“I. Ch’ung-k’ing shall forthwith be declared open to trade on the same footing as any other Treaty port.

“British subjects shall be at liberty either to charter Chinese vessels, or to provide vessels of the Chinese type, for the traffic between Ichang and Ch’ung-k’ing.

“II. Merchandize conveyed between Ichang and Ch’ung-k’ing by the above class of vessels shall be placed on the same footing as merchandize carried by steamers between Shanghae and Ichang, and shall be dealt with in accordance with Treaty, Tariff Rules, and the Yang-tsze Regulations.

“III. All Regulations as to the papers and flags to be carried by vessels of the above description, as to the cargo certificates with which they shall be provided, as to the re-package of goods for the voyage beyond Ichang, and as to the general procedure to be observed by those engaged in the trade between Ichang and Ch’ung-k’ing, with a view to ensuring convenience and security, shall be drawn up by the Superintendent of Customs at Ichang, the Taotai of the Ch’uan Tung Circuit, who is now stationed at Ch’ung-k’ing, and the Commissioner of Customs in consultation with the British Consul, and shall be liable to any modifications that may hereafter prove to be desirable and may be agreed upon by common consent.

“IV. Chartered junks shall pay port dues at Ichang and Ch’ung-k’ing in accordance with the Yang-tsze Regulations; vessels of Chinese type, if and when entitled to carry the British flag, shall pay tonnage dues in accordance with Treaty Regulations. It is obligatory on both chartered junks and also vessels of Chinese type, even when the latter may be entitled to carry the British flag, to take out the Maritime Custom-house special papers and a special flag when intended to be employed by British subjects in the transport of goods between Ichang and Ch’ung-k’ing, and without such papers and flag no vessel of either class shall be allowed the privileges and immunities granted under this Additional Article. Provided with special papers and flag, vessels of both classes shall be allowed to ply between the two ports, and they and their cargoes shall be dealt with in accordance with Treaty Rules and the Yang-tsze Regulations. All other vessels shall be dealt with by the Native Customs. The special papers and flag issued by the Maritime Customs must alone be used by the particular vessel for which they were originally issued, and are not transferable from one vessel to another. The use of the British flag by vessels the property of Chinese is strictly prohibited. Infringement of these Regulations will, in the first instance, render the offender liable to the penalties in force at the ports hitherto open under Treaty; and should the offence be subsequently repeated, the vessel’s special papers and flag will be withdrawn, and the vessel herself refused permission thenceforward to trade between Ichang and Ch’ung-k’ing.

“V. When once Chinese steamers carrying cargo run to Ch’ung-k’ing, British steamers shall in like manner have access to the said port.

“VI. It is agreed that the present Additional Article shall be considered as forming part of the Chefoo Agreement, and as having the same force and validity as if it were inserted therein word for word. It shall be ratified, and the ratifications exchanged at Peking, and it shall come into operation six months after its signature, provided the ratifications have been exchanged, or if they have not, then on the date at which such exchange takes place.”

In other words, Ch’ung-k’ing was constituted a Treaty port, but British steamers were denied access to it until Chinese steamers carrying cargo should be pleased to lead the way. No attempt to navigate west of Ichang was ever made, nor, so far as I am aware, was it ever contemplated by the latter, and trade between that port and Ch’ung-k’ing has up to the present been conducted in junks, in accordance with the terms of this Additional Article. But it fell to Japan, after the war of 1894-95, to claim the right of steam navigation to Ch’ung-k’ing, and by Article VI. of the Treaty of Peace, signed at Shimonoseki on April 17, 1895, not only was Ch’ung-k’ing opened to the trade, residence, industries, and manufactures of Japanese subjects, but steam navigation for vessels under the Japanese flag for the conveyance of passengers and cargo was extended on the Upper Yang-tsze from Ichang to Ch’ung-k’ing.

By this most-favoured-nation clause, therefore, Ch’ung-k’ing is now open to foreign trade on the same conditions as the other Treaty ports in China, and it remains to be seen which country will take the initiative in still further developing the trade of Western China by steam. The mere opening of Ch’ung-k’ing as a Treaty port, even without the immediate prospect of steam communication, was undoubtedly a step in the right direction, and the establishment there on the 1st of April, 1891, of a British Consulate, and of an office of the Chinese Imperial Maritime Customs, soon rendered possible a more exact estimate of the capacity of this great trade emporium of the province of Ssŭ-ch’uan, and of the west of China generally. In that year, virtually from June to December, 300 junks, of a capacity of 7,332 tons, provided with Customs Charter Certificates and flying the Chinese flag, reported at the Foreign Custom-house at Ch’ung-k’ing from Ichang, with foreign goods of the value of Haikwan Taels 1,371,027, and native produce of the value of H.T.[1] 94,003; while 307 similarly chartered junks, of a capacity of about 4,404 tons, left Ch’ung-k’ing for Ichang, with exports of the value of H.T. 1,389,683, and silver (sycee) valued at H.T. 84,381. In addition to this, foreign goods, of the value of H.T. 2,346,055, and H.T. 643,475, were sent, under transit pass to Ichang and Hankow respectively, to Ssŭ-ch’uan, and native goods of the value of H.T. 443,269 were brought down under transit pass from that Province to Ichang for shipment. The trade steadily increased, and in 1895 as many as 1,200 junks, whereof 878 were chartered by British, 112 by American, and 210 by Chinese merchants, of a total of 36,881 tons, carried to Ch’ung-k’ing from Ichang foreign goods valued at H.T. 5,618,213, native goods valued at H.T. 1,238,816; while 917 chartered junks carried away from Ch’ung-k’ing native produce of the value of H.T. 6,396,743; a total of imports and exports of the value of H.T. 13,253,772. Besides this, goods of the value of H.T. 662,679 were sent to Ssŭ-ch’uan, mostly to Ch’ung-k’ing, under transit pass from Hankow and Ichang. These figures refer only to the trade which comes under the cognizance of the Imperial Maritime Customs, and Mr. Woodruff, Commissioner of Customs, writing from Ch’ung-k’ing in January, 1896, in reference to the trade of the previous year, says—“Our petty share of the trade (i.e., the trade passing through the Foreign Custom-house) has prospered;” and again, “With prosperity based on such uncertain foundations, it would be unwise to draw too definite conclusions, but there is enough else in the appended tables to give abundant promise: there are the possibilities of a great trade.” The Customs Returns give precise details of this petty share of the trade of Ssŭ-ch’uan, and an examination of the list of exports reveals a state of things which cannot but appear startling to those unacquainted with the Province. In 1895, as stated above, the value of the exports reported at the Foreign Custom-house at Ch’ung-k’ing: was H.T. 6,396,743, and of this amount native opium alone ranked for H.T. 2,875,180. When Ch’ung-k’ing was made an open port, Mr. H. E. Hobson, then Commissioner of Customs, despatched to Shanghai, for analysis, specimens of native opium from the three Provinces of Ssŭ-ch’uan, Kuei-chow, and Yün-nan, and, after embodying the results of this analysis in his Report for 1891, he adds—“The above details go to prove that of late years the native farmers have paid closer attention to the production of unadulterated drug, and have succeeded; whilst there is now but little doubt that, with anything approaching a favourable season, the out-turn of the poppy fields of Western China alone are ample to the ordinary requirements of pretty nearly the whole Empire. It would be idle to attempt an estimate of the probable total yield of what is now the favourite spring crop of regions vaster in extent than individual European kingdoms; but the fact is patent that, as regards her opium supply, China is now practically independent.” Next to native opium comes white-wax of the value of H.T. 940,699. A description of the remarkable industry by which this wax is produced will be found in Chapter XI. Silk of all kinds ranks third, with a value of H.T. 811,764; but this is a mere fraction of the production of, and export from, the Province, for Ssŭ-ch’uan is an immense silk district, and the production is practically unlimited. Then follow medicines (H.T. 589,472), musk (H.T. 540,662), sheep’s wool (H.T. 99,377), bristles (H.T. 96,152), hemp (H.T. 68,806), fungus (H.T. 26,202), brown sugar (H.T. 22,973), feathers (H.T. 15,092), leather (H.T. 13,770), safflower (H.T. 11,696), turmeric (H.T. 6,314), and some minor articles which go to make up what is practically a petty share of the export trade of Ssŭ-ch’uan. Moreover, the great and most valuable salt export from Ssŭ-ch’uan is under Government control, and is excluded from the supervision of the Imperial Maritime Customs. A glance at the list of imports shows that the principal foreign goods consumed by Ssŭ-ch’uan are—Indian cotton yarn (H.T. 2,600,637), plain grey shirtings (H.T. 1,169,966), white shirtings (H.T. 162,162), cotton Italians, plain and figured (H.T. 158,803), American clarified ginseng (H.T. 131,687), cotton lastings (H.T. 128,292), woollen lastings (H.T. 97,822), analine dyes (H.T. 86,041), long ells (H.T. 63,648), seaweed and agar-agar (H.T. 60,917); while the principal imports of native goods include raw cotton (H.T. 515,891), silk piece-goods (H.T. 200,776), medicines (H.T. 92,046), cotton yarn from Hankow (H.T. 86,329), China-root (H.T. 42,162), paper (H.T. 28,253), paper fans (H.T. 24,519), and cuttle-fish (H.T. 22,399). These are exclusive of the goods, mentioned above, sent to Ssŭ-ch’uan under transit pass from Ichang and Hankow. When the goods have arrived at Ch’ung-k’ing they are distributed over the Province, part going to Kuei-chow and Yün-nan; but as transit passes are not taken out at the port to cover their further distribution, it is impossible to state with accuracy their ultimate destinations. Mr. Hobson, in his Report for 1891, gives the following reasons why inward transit passes are not availed of. He says—“During the December quarter documents were taken out to cover parcels of Indian yarn to inland marts within the Szechuan borders, but, owing to a misunderstanding at the barriers, operations quickly came to a conclusion.” And in the same place, writing of outward transit, he says—“There were no applications for passes to convey cargo from the interior, which is not surprising when it is explained that accumulated tax charges, en route, are slighter than transit dues would amount to.” It must be borne in mind that all these figures refer to a fraction of the trade of Ch’ung-k’ing, and, therefore, to a much smaller fraction of the trade of the whole Province of Ssŭ-ch’uan, conducted between the Upper and Lower Yang-tsze.

Much has been heard in recent years of the rivalry of the French for the trade of Western China, by way of Tonquin and the Red River (Song-koi): but we are now in a position to test it by actual results. By Art. II. of the Convention Additionelle de Commerce entre la France et la Chine, signed at Peking on the 26th of June, 1887, the city of Lungchow, in the Province of Kwangzi, and the city of Mêng-tzŭ, in Southern Yün-nan, as well as Man-hao at the head of navigation of the Red River, and south-west of Mêng-tzŭ, were opened to trade, and by Art. III. the following differential duties were, with a view to a more rapid development of trade between China and Tonquin, agreed upon:—Foreign goods imported into China through these cities shall pay seven-tenths, and Chinese goods exported to Tonquin by the same routes shall pay six-tenths, of the general tariff in force at the Treaty ports of China. In August, 1889, a Custom-house was established at Mêng-tzŭ, with which I propose to deal more particularly in this place, for the route by way of the Red River, Man-hao, and Mêng-tzŭ is practically the only way of access from Tonquin to Yün-nan and the South-Western Provinces of China, and by it the whole trade is conducted; so that the Custom-house Returns of Mêng-tzŭ supply complete data as to its value, volume, and distribution. The following table gives the value of the trade from 1890 to 1895:—

After 1892 no distinction was made between foreign and native imports.

An analysis of the trade shows that it is composed for the most part of a few articles of considerable value. The year 1895 may be taken as an example.

As the transit pass system is in full working order at Mêng-tzŭ, it is possible to describe with accuracy the area which this route supplies. In 1895—the latest figures available—the value of the imports, as stated above, was H.T. 1,809,253; and all these imports, principally from Hong-kong, are entitled, on payment of seven-tenths of the General Tariff import duty, and of an additional half full import duty, to be conveyed under transit pass to any destination in the interior without further taxation. Eighty-four per cent. were so carried, of the value of H.T. 1,521,021, and of this the Province of Yün-nan itself consumed H.T. 1,509,491, leaving a balance of H.T. 11,530 for distribution in other Provinces. Of this latter, Ta-ting Fu, in Kuei-chow, took seven piculs of prepared tobacco, of the value of H.T. 210; Chang-sha and Ch’ang-tê Hupeh, on the opposite bank of the Yang-tsze from Hankow, took 41 catties of cassia lignea, of the value of H.T. 14. There still remains goods of the value of H.T. 10,936 to be accounted for. These were sent to three places in the Province of Ssŭ-ch’uan, namely, Ning-yüan Fu, which is situated in that part of the Province which juts into the north of Yün-nan, and is separated from the highest navigable point on the Yang-tsze by the inaccessible Lolo country. I visited this city on March 20, 1883, by the only available mountain road from Ch’êng-tu, the capital of Ssŭ-ch’uan, and it is not at all surprising, when the difficulties of this route are taken into account, that it draws its supplies from Mêng-tzŭ. Its requirements, however, amounted to the small sum of H.T. 10,085, consisting almost entirely of Indian cotton yarn. The other two places in Ssŭ-ch’uan which drew from Mêng-tzŭ were Ch’êng-tu, which took 25 catties of cinnamon, valued at H.T. 800, and Hsü-chou Fu, at the junction of the Chin-sha Chiang (Upper Yang-tsze) and the Min River, whose requirements consisted of 203 catties of inferior cardamoms, of the value of H.T. 51. While Ning-yüan will in all probability continue to satisfy its wants from Mêng-tzŭ, there is not the remotest likelihood of other parts of Ssŭ-ch’uan deserting the Yang-tsze route and Ch’ung-k’ing. Although Kuei-chow drew seven piculs of prepared tobacco, and Chao-t’ung, the northern prefecture of Yün-nan, took four pieces of T cloths and 14½ piculs of tobacco from Mêng-tzŭ, I see no reason to alter what I wrote eight years ago in the concluding paragraph of Chapter XII. “The only route to Ssŭ-ch’uan, Kuei-chow, and Northern Yün-nan is the Yang-tsze, on whose upper waters a large trade in foreign goods is even now conducted, a trade which is capable of enormous development when the present burdensome taxation is reduced. The opening of Ch’ung-k’ing by the ascent of a steamer—an event anxiously looked forward to by the native merchants of Ssŭ-ch’uan, will, as I have pointed out, reduce that taxation, and will enable millions, who at present look upon foreign goods as articles of luxury, to become themselves consumers; and I trust the day is not far distant when the British flag will float over entrepôts of British manufactures throughout Western China.” The unwieldy junk, which, if it succeeds in covering the distance of 400 miles between Ichang and Ch’ung-k’ing in less than a month, is considered to have made a good passage, is still the only means of communication between the Lower Yang-tsze and Ssŭ-ch’uan. This long passage entails heavy freights, thereby enhancing the retail prices and hindering the free distribution of our manufactures; and it is sincerely to be hoped that the permission granted by the Japanese Treaty of Shimonoseki, to employ steam on the Upper Yang-tsze, will soon bear fruit. The French have succeeded in running small steamers on the Red River from Hanoi to Lao-kai, that is, to the frontier of Yün-nan, and a weekly service is maintained between Yen-bai and Lao-kai; but in winter the river is too shallow to admit of the passage of even small steamers. In 1895 a cargo steamer was placed on the line in summer, for junk navigation, owing to the strong current, virtually ceases from the beginning of May until September; but the Chinese, even although freights were as light as by junk, refused to ship by her on the plea that “the arrival of goods could not be regulated as at present, and that prices would consequently fall.” The long journey overland from Mêng-tzŭ, or rather Man-hao, to Ssŭ-ch’uan, Kuei-chow, and Northern Yün-nan, is, in my opinion, an insuperable barrier to a successful rivalry of the Red River with the Yang-tsze.

On the 1st of March, 1894, a Convention between Great Britain and China, relative to the boundaries of, and overland trade between, Burmah and China, was signed at London. Art. VIII. of that Convention says—“Subject to the conditions mentioned hereafter in Articles X. and XI., the British Government, wishing to encourage and develop the land trade of China with Burmah as much as possible, consent, for a period of six years from the ratification of the present Convention, to allow Chinese produce and manufactures, with the exception of salt, to enter Burmah by land duty free, and to allow British manufactures and Burmese produce, with the exception of rice, to be exported to China by land free of duty. The duties on salt and rice imported and exported shall not be higher than those imposed on their import or export by sea.” Art. XI. says—“The exportation from Burmah into China of salt is prohibited,” and “the exportation from China into Burmah of cash, rice, pulse, and grains of every kind is prohibited;” and, again, “The importation and exportation across the frontier of opium and spirituous liquors is prohibited, excepting in small quantities for the personal use of travellers.” Art. XI. says—“Pending the negotiation of a more complete arrangement, and until the development of the trade shall justify the establishment of other frontier Customs stations, goods imported from Burmah into China, or exported from China into Burmah shall be permitted to cross the frontier by Manwyne and by Sansi. With a view to the development of trade between China and Burmah, the Chinese Government consent that for six years from the ratification of the present Convention the duties levied on goods imported into China by these routes shall be those specified in the General Tariff of the Maritime Customs, diminished by three-tenths, and that the duties on goods exported from China by the same route shall be those specified in the same tariff, diminished by four-tenths. Transit passes for imports and exports shall be granted in accordance with the rules in force at the Treaty ports.” Art. XIII. says—“It is agreed that His Majesty the Emperor of China may appoint a Consul in Burmah, to reside at Rangoon; and that Her Britannic Majesty may appoint a Consul to reside at Manwyne.” By this Convention, therefore, the same differential duties have been fixed as in the trade between Tonquin and China; but it will be observed that while Yün-nan pays for a considerable part of its imports by the Red River with native opium, it is debarred from exporting it to Burmah. What progress trade is making across the Burmah-Yün-nan frontier under these conditions I am not in a position to say, for I have seen no recent statistics bearing on the subject; but it labours under the same disadvantages in regard to its area of supply as the Red River route. The overland transit is too long, and therefore too expensive, to admit of the richest parts of Western China being “tapped” by it.

On the 1st of December, 1888, a Convention between France and China was signed at Chefoo, whereby, inter alia, the junction of the Chinese and French telegraph lines in Yün-nan and Tonquin respectively was agreed to, and Mêng-tzŭ and Lao-kai, which lies just within the Tonquin frontier, were subsequently united by wire; and on the 6th September, 1894, a similar Convention, respecting the junction of the Chinese and Burmese telegraph lines, was signed at Tien-tsin between Great Britain and China, wherein it was stipulated that the junction should be effected between the British station at Bhamo and the Chinese station at Têng-yüeh (Momein), at latest on the 31st May, 1895, unless prevented by accident or by force majeure.

By a Supplementary Convention, concluded between France and China at Peking on the 20th of June, 1895, and ratified in 1896, Man-hao, the station opened by Art. II. of the Convention of 1887, at the head of navigation of the Red River in Yün-nan, is superseded by Ho-k’ou, a place on the left bank of the same river, and just within the Chinese frontier.

Of recent years Western China has acted as a magnet, not only to exploring expeditions, but also to more practical commercial missions. In 1890 a French expedition, including Prince Henry of Orleans, passed southwards through Western Ssŭ-ch’uan and Yün-nan by way of Ta-li Fu, Mêng-tsŭ, and the Red River, from Tibet to Tonquin; and in 1895 the Prince was again at Ta-li Fu, whence he proceeded west to the Mekong, ascended the right bank of the latter to Tse-ku, and then struck westwards across the Salwen and Irrawady to Sadiya in Assam. To show the spirit of rivalry which exists, I may quote from the paper which the Prince read before the Royal Geographical Society on the 18th of May, 1896, and published in the December number of the Geographical Journal of that year. He says—“We heard [at Ssŭ-mao] that two Englishmen had just left the town. This news was not calculated to rejoice our hearts. Reconnoitring parties are numerous in Yün-nan, and there is a race between the French and English, and even amongst the French themselves. The field of the unknown is day by day being reduced with marvellous rapidity, and to find unexplored ground on the map one must hasten. At Ta-li Fu we were told that one of these Englishmen was Captain Davis, who arrived from Burmah by way of T’êng-yüeh and Ta-li, intending to return by Mien-ning, Ssŭ-mao, P’u-êrh Fu, and Tamano. We twice crossed the itinerary of these travellers, and were lucky enough only to travel along 120 miles of the same road.”

A French commercial mission (Mission Lyonnaise d’Exploration Commerciale en Chine), consisting of a dozen members, and including several experts, has recently overrun Western China from Tonquin to the borders of Tibet, part of the mission remaining at Ch’ung-k’ing for some considerable time. A Japanese Commercial Mission visited Ch’ung-k’ing in December, 1895, and returned in January, 1896, and the United States Mission, which left Tien-tsin overland for Chêng-tu to arrange a settlement, so far as American missionaries were concerned, of the anti-missionary outrages which occurred there and in other parts of the Province of Ssŭ-ch’uan in May and June, 1895, returned by way of Ch’ung-k’ing and the Yang-tsze in January, 1896. At the present moment the Blackburn Commercial Mission, headed by Mr. Bourne, of the British Consular Service in China, my successor as Consular Agent at Ch’ung-k’ing in 1884, is traversing the Western Provinces of China; and it is certain that all these missions have collected, and are collecting, information which cannot fail to be of great assistance in developing foreign trade with the West of China.

Alex. Hosie.

Newchwang,
February 18, 1897.

CONTENTS.

THREE YEARS IN WESTERN CHINA.

CHAPTER I.

UP THE YANG-TSZE TO WESTERN CHINA.

Western China and the interest attaching to it—The way thither—An unsuccessful attempt to reach Ichang—Ichang at last—Difficulties of navigation—Commercial importance of Ichang—My native passenger-boat, opium-smoking skipper, and crew—The navigability of the Upper Yang-tsze by steamers—Dangers and difficulties of the Ching T’an Rapid—Up and down the rapid—The poppy—Ch’ung-k’ing.

The most interesting part of China, from a geographical and ethnological point of view, is the West—geographically, because its recesses have not yet been thoroughly explored, and ethnologically, because a great part of it is peopled by races which are non-Chinese, and one at least of which, though nominally owing allegiance to the Great Khan, is in reality independent. It was my fortune to be stationed in Western China from 1882 to 1884, and, during these three years, I was enabled, in the performance of my duties, to collect information regarding the country and its people; and it is in the hope that this information may not be unacceptable that I venture to lay the following pages before the public.

Reports of the journeys which I made in Western China during the above years have already appeared in the shape of Parliamentary Papers[2]; but, written as they were without any idea of publication and intended as mere trade notes, strung together from day to day on the march, they are not sufficiently connected to present a fair picture of this remote region.

That part of Western China, with which I am personally acquainted and with which I propose to deal, lies to the south, and embraces the provinces of Ssŭ-ch’uan, Kuei-chow and Yün-nan, which, interesting in themselves, have become of considerable importance since the extension of the Indian Empire to the frontier of China and the absorption of Tonquin by the French.

THE WAY THITHER.

The great highway to the West is the River Yang-tsze. By the Agreement of Chefoo of September, 1876, the port of Ichang, situated on the north bank of the Yang-tsze about a thousand miles from the sea, was opened to foreign trade and foreign steam navigation; and, by the same Agreement, the residence of a Consular Officer at the city of Ch’ung-k’ing, in Ssŭ-ch’uan, to watch the conditions of British trade, was provided for. It was to take up this post that I left Wuhu towards the end of October, 1881. On arrival at Hankow, I discovered that the steamer, which had for some years been employed to run to Ichang, was undergoing extensive repairs at Shanghai, to better fit her for the navigation of the Upper Yang-tsze, and that another and larger steamer belonging to the same Company had just returned from Ichang with little hope, owing to the sudden fall of the river, of being then able to make another trip. A large quantity of cargo, however, which had accumulated at Hankow, induced the Company, much against the captain’s will, to send the steamer forward again; but, drawing only nine feet, she was unable, after a day’s journey, to push her way through six feet of sand and water, and had to return. After about a month’s delay, the smaller steamer arrived at Hankow, and, laden to six feet, reached Ichang with considerable difficulty on the 17th of December, the trip having occupied eight days. On this section of the river, navigation commences at daybreak, and, unless there is good moonlight, ceases at dark. Owing to the shifting sands, which constitute the bed of the river, the channel is constantly changing, and it is not uncommon to find the passage, which the steamer took on the up passage, completely barred on the down trip. The consequence is that soundings have constantly to be taken, and delay is the result. This refers to the winter months only, when the river is low, as, during high water, little difficulty exists, and the distance has been covered in fifty hours.

The selection of Ichang as an open port has frequently been called in question, and it has been pointed out that Sha-shih, a town farther down the river and one of the six calling stations for steamers, would have been a preferable choice. Much may be said for Sha-shih, which is the principal terminus of the junk traffic between Ssŭ-ch’uan and the eastern provinces of China, but statistics clearly prove that Ichang has after all been a success. Although it is neither a producing nor a consuming district of any importance itself, the net value of the trade which has gravitated towards it has risen from £18,000 in 1878 to over £1,000,000 in 1888. This, it should be remembered, represents the trade in vessels of foreign build only.

After a few days bargaining at Ichang—passage by steamer being no longer available—I succeeded in hiring a native passenger-boat to convey myself, servants, and baggage the four hundred miles that still lay between me and my destination for the exorbitant sum of one hundred and eighty taels, or forty-five pounds. A larger sum was at first demanded, and, there being only two or three boats of this class in port, whose owners combined to “squeeze” me, I was ultimately obliged to pay about a third more than the customary price. Travelling boats on the Upper Yang-tsze are, as a rule, very roomy and comfortable. They can usually be divided off into as many as four or five small rooms by wooden partitions; and, travelling as I was in winter, I had a stove fitted up, regulating the temperature by the windows which run along the sides of what is really an oblong house placed on the boat’s deck. In a good boat, the roof is over six feet in height, so that one can walk about comfortably from end to end. A mast is shipped right in front of and against the deckhouse, and this is utilized both for sailing and tracking—the tracking line running through a noose fixed near the top. In front of the mast is a broad deck, contracting towards the bows, accommodating from ten to a dozen rowers, and convertible at night into sleeping quarters for the crew. Over a well in the bows, and attachable to the deck by a noose, hangs a long heavy spar by which the boat can be speedily steered in any required direction—an absolute necessity where, tracking being carried on, sunken rocks close in-shore have to be avoided, or the tracking line gives way in a strong current.

SKIPPER AND CREW.

In the agreement entered into between the skipper of the boat and myself, it was stipulated that there should be seven of a crew and fifteen trackers. The crew consisted of the skipper, the bowsman or pilot, who stood at the bows all day long and sounded continually with a long iron-shod bamboo, the steersman, three deck hands, and the cook, who exercised his culinary art in a primitive kitchen constructed in an opening in the deck near the bows.

AN AMUSING EPISODE.

The skipper, being a confirmed opium-smoker, proved of little use; and it was not until the second night from Ichang that I discovered his smoking propensities. I lay with my head towards the bows and, being awakened during the night by someone crying, I saw a light shining through the chinks of the partitions. On calling my servant to see what was the matter, I learned that the light was the light of an opium lamp, and that the wife of the skipper was crying because her husband would not come to bed. I got up and found him lying at full length alongside his lamp. I bundled him into the little room which he, his wife, and two children occupied over the stern, and blew out his lamp.

After this episode, the smoking was never carried on in any place likely to attract my attention, although the sickening odour frequently penetrated to my rooms from deck and stern, several of the crew being also addicted to the drug. I had repeated conversations with the skipper as to the craving he had contracted; and, one morning, I overtook him on shore walking rapidly and in rather an excited state. I asked him what was the matter, and he replied that the weather was so cold that it was necessary to lay in a supply of coal at once, and that in order not to delay the boat, he was hurrying to the next village to make the purchase. I left him there and continued my walk.

On boarding the boat above the village, I asked my servant where the coals had been stowed, when, to my surprise, he told me that no coals had come aboard, but that the skipper had laid in a fresh supply of opium, that his stock had been exhausted over night, and that he had been dying all morning for a smoke! He fought shy of me for several days after this, knowing that his tampering with the truth had been discovered. Smoking had reduced him to such a state that he had really no command over the boat or crew; when an accident happened—an event of common occurrence—he used to crawl on to the top of the deckhouse and find fault in a querulous voice, which was quickly suppressed by the bowsman telling him to mind his own business. When high words ensued, the cook, in addition to his own special functions, assumed the part of mediator, and used to groan and plead for silence after each explosion. When the trackers were on shore and the other hands were all busy on deck, it likewise devolved on the cook to jump from his lair and signal the trackers, who were nearly always out of calling distance, by beating the small drum which lay at the foot of the mast. The bickerings between the skipper and his crew sometimes reached a climax. On one occasion, after dancing an angry jig on the roof of the deckhouse to a stormy vocal accompaniment, he scrambled on deck and was proceeding on shore to continue his harangue from terra firma, when the plank gave way and he disappeared amid the boisterous laughter of the crew, quickly reappearing like a drowned rat, and thoroughly cooled for the rest of the day.

The trackers, too, deserve a word of mention. They were, with the exception of the musician and the diver, almost all lithe young fellows, always willing to jump on shore, never spending more than a quarter of an hour over their rice and vegetables, and never out of temper. The musician and the diver were somewhat aged. When there was no tracking ground, and the oars had to be called into requisition, the former used to sing his boat songs, the whole crew joining loudly in the choruses, the echoes reverberating from cliff to cliff in the gorges. If the tracking line got entangled among the rocks off the shore, the diver would doff everything, slip overboard, and swim to the rescue. I pitied this individual very much; he used to scramble on board chattering with cold, and had no sooner got warm than his services were again in demand. The boat was always moored before dark, and, until supper was ready, the crew were busy rigging up the roof-mats to form their night quarters. Then the beds with their coir mattresses were produced from under the deck; and, with the exception of two or three opium-smokers, these hard-working fellows dropped off into well-earned sleep until daybreak, when the same round of toil awaited them.

Such was the boat and crew with which I ascended from Ichang into Western China, reaching Ch’ung-k’ing on the 24th of January, 1882, after a passage of a month. It is unnecessary for me to describe this journey in detail. Blakiston, Gill, Little, and others have given their experiences; they have painted living pictures of the grand, majestic gorges; they have brought the world within earshot of the hissing, seething rapids; and it only remains for me to say a few words on a subject which has of late years received no little attention—the navigability of the Upper Yang-tsze by steamers. The question is about to be put to the test in accordance with clauses in the Agreement of Chefoo, which state that “British merchants will not be allowed to reside at Ch’ung-k’ing, or to open establishments or warehouses there, so long as no steamers have access to the port. When steamers have succeeded in ascending the river so far, further arrangements can be taken into consideration.”

NAVIGABILITY OF THE YANG-TSZE.

Ever since I ascended the Upper Yang-tsze, I have not ceased, both in China and England, to advocate the advisability, from a commercial point of view, of steamers attempting the navigation of these waters. Difficulties have been pointed out, but I have endeavoured to show that these have been greatly exaggerated; and the “Upper Yang-tsze Steam Navigation Company,” lately formed, would appear to be of like mind. The obstacles that exist lie between Ichang and the Ssŭ-ch’uan frontier, a distance of about one hundred miles: beyond the frontier, all is plain sailing, not only as far as Ch’ung-k’ing but even to Hsü-chou Fu, some two hundred miles further west. They consist of a series of rapids, which prove very trying to native craft when the river is low, that is, from the middle of November to the middle of March or a little later—the very time when junks are best able to ascend; as, during the rest of the year, the increased volume of water, although obliterating the rapids altogether, flows with a strong current, which renders tracking very difficult and frequently impossible.

THE CH’ING T’AN RAPID.

The season, then, that proves all but impossible for junks is the very season when steamers could run, and vice versâ. During low water, there is, in my opinion, one, and only one, insuperable obstacle to a steamer—the Ch’ing T’an Rapid, the first serious rapid above Ichang. It lies at the eastern entrance of the Mi-tsang or “Granary” Gorge. When I passed down in the end of December, 1884, there were three channels in the rapid—the chief or central channel never attempted by ascending junks, and two side channels separated from the central by masses of rock. The central was the only channel available for a steamer, but it consisted of a clear fall of from six to eight feet. The side channels were narrow, with a very much less volume of water and fall. In ascending these, junks could be dragged over close to the rocks, which would be impossible in the case of a steamer. In the gorge itself, the current was very sluggish, and boats were passing and re-passing just above the rapid. I stood a hundred yards to the west of it, and saw junks disappearing one after the other. As their masts are always unshipped in the down passage, they seemed to me to be passing with their human freight into eternity. The strange sight insensibly drew me to the rapid itself, and I stood facing it to watch the movements of my own boat. It was pulled out into mid-stream, and allowed to float stern down until about to enter the rapid, when it was gently wheeled round and drawn into the fall. It is difficult to describe what happened next: a sudden plunge, considerable confusion on board, the junk herself floating helplessly stern down stream, the skipper on the roof of the deck-house frantically waving his arms, one of the three lifeboats, which are always stationed below the rapid, approaching the boat and then rescuing the crew, the deserted junk making for the scattered rocks which jut out from the right bank at the second rapid two hundred yards below the fall, its safe passage through the rocks and rapid, its salvage by our accompanying gunboat, all presented a picture which will never be effaced from my memory. The cause of the accident was thus described to me. In shooting the rapid, several of the crew lost their heads and their oars, and the others, unable to keep the bows down river or to control the boat, and being afraid that she would be dashed against the rocks at the second rapid, called for the lifeboat and abandoned her. Such accidents are of frequent occurrence, and are very often accompanied with damage, wreck, and loss of life. We were lucky in being able to continue our journey after a couple of hours’ delay.

I have described the descent of the Ch’ing T’an Rapid in this place, in order to show the different phases which it presents at the same season in different years, for when I ascended it on almost the same day (December 29th) in 1881, not a rock was visible above water, and we had little difficulty, with the aid of some fifty additional trackers, in being dragged over it. Were this rapid a race, as it is not, I should have more hesitation in describing it as insuperable for a steamer during low water; but I consider it extremely doubtful whether the slow fall would be sufficiently powerful to raise a steamer’s bows off the sunken rocks. It has been said that, if the Upper Yang-tsze were navigated by steam, collisions would be of frequent occurrence, but not more so than in the section between Hankow and Ichang. In ascending, junks are tracked as close to the banks as possible, while in descending, they keep to the middle of the river. In fact, collisions should be of rare occurrence. West of the Ch’ing T’an Rapid, there is nothing to interfere with the ascent of a steamer for more than five hundred miles.

It was during my daily rambles along the banks of the river, that I first made acquaintance with the poppy of commerce. Before entering the province of Ssŭ-ch’uan, I spoke to the boatmen, and asked them to tell me as soon as they saw the plant growing; and from Wan Hsien westwards to Ch’ung-k’ing there was one continuous yell of Ya-pien-yen, which means the opium! It shared the banks of the river with wheat, peas, and beans. The spikelets were from four to five inches above ground, and little did I think, when I looked at these tiny plants, that it would be my lot at no distant date to wander through hundreds of miles of beautiful poppy flowers. On arrival at the district city of Yün-yang, I visited the picturesque temple that peeps through the dense foliage which clings to the steep sides of the hill forming the right bank of the river; and, in course of conversation with the head priest, I remarked that there seemed to be less poppy here than farther east. Raising his hand and pointing to the opposite hills, he replied, “There is nothing but poppy beyond.”

THE CITY OF CH’UNG-K’ING.

The city of Ch’ung-k’ing, in lat. 29° 33′ 50″ N. and long. 107° 2′ E., occupies the apex of the peninsula caused by the attempt of the Yang-tsze on its north bank to pierce the sandstone cliffs under the little walled town of Fu-t’ou-Kuan, and join its turbid waters with the clear flow of the Chia-ling Chiang some four miles from the actual junction of the two rivers. It is built on a slope which extends from hill-tops overlooking the Chia-ling to the bed of the Yang-tsze. Outside the walls there are no suburbs of any importance. A bird’s-eye view from the opposite hills shows that there is scarcely a patch of ground which is not built upon. One or two plots of vegetables inside the north-west corner of the wall, and a few trees here and there, are the only exceptions to the grey mass of buildings clinging firmly to the hill-side. It contains a population estimated at some 200,000 souls, and may be described as the commercial metropolis of Western China. This was the spot chosen for the residence of a Consular Officer, to watch the conditions of British trade in Ssŭ-ch’uan; and it was here that I took up residence in January, 1882. I do not intend to weary my readers with trade statistics; those who are interested in commerce will find some of the results of my enquiries and observations in a subsequent chapter specially devoted to that subject. What I propose to do is to carry them with me in my wanderings through Western China, with Ch’ung-k’ing as a base, and endeavour to show them the country and its people as they appeared to my eyes.

CHAPTER II.

CH’UNG-K’ING TO THE CAPITAL OF KUEI-CHOW.

My overland caravan—Harvesting opium—Field-fishing—Wood-oil—The manufacture of paper—Salt carriers—Silk-worms and their food—Rice or Pith paper, and its manufacture—The Kuei-chow frontier—Minerals—First meeting with Miao-Tzŭ—Poetical description of Chinese inns—T’ung-tzŭ, its poppy valley and tunnelling—Ingenious bamboo water-wheels—Scant population amid ruins of fine houses—Coal-dust as fuel—The Wu Chiang river—Destruction of the iron suspension bridge—Northern Kuei-chow, a Miao-tzŭ graveyard—Opium-sodden inhabitants—The capital of the Province—An interview with the Governor of Kuei-chow.

MY OVERLAND CARAVAN.

Having acquainted myself with my surroundings, perused the records left by my predecessors, and gained an insight into the duties expected of me, I resolved to make a journey into the provinces of Kuei-chow and Yün-nan. To this end, I obtained a general passport from the Viceroy of Ssŭ-ch’uan, and a special passport from the authorities of Ch’ung-k’ing covering the ground to be traversed, and proceeded to make arrangements for the trip. As the greater part of the journey was to be made overland, it was necessary to organize a caravan of chair-bearers and porters. However willing one may be to walk, Chinese etiquette demands, in a civil official, the presence of a sedan; and, in visiting the native authorities—a part of my programme—a chair is a sine quâ non. Ch’ung-k’ing being well supplied with chair hongs or establishments, I had no difficulty in collecting about a score of coolies to accompany me to Yün-nan and back. This included a headman, whose duty it was to maintain order, and supply the places of those who, from sickness or other causes, might fall out on the march. The terms were three hundred large copper cash per man per day, two hundred to be paid while travelling, the balance to be handed over on our return to Ch’ung-k’ing. On resting days, a sum of only one hundred large cash was payable. A contract to this effect was duly drawn up and signed, and it only remained to adjust the loads and assign the men their respective places.

Cash being the only currency in China, I had to take with me a large supply of silver ingots, each of the value of about ten taels or Chinese ounces, which had to be sliced, weighed, and exchanged en route. This is one of the many annoyances of Chinese travel, as each place has its own weights and its own exchange. For example, when I left Ch’ung-k’ing a tael was worth 1,480 large cash; further south it was equivalent to only 1,200, while on one occasion in Yün-nan it rose to 1,580 cash. The risk of carrying silver could not, however, be avoided, for it would have required the services of all my men at starting to lift the equivalent in cash of the silver necessary to pay their wages for the journey, not including the balance to be handed over to them on our return.

Rice and vegetables, supplemented occasionally by a little fish, or pork and sauce, constitute the daily food of the Chinese; but they do not commend themselves to the European palate. To ensure a fair measure of comfort, therefore, I took with me some tinned provisions, to be broached as necessity demanded.

April the 19th was the day fixed for our departure, and at daylight we groped our way through the mist which, in Spring, hangs continually over the city, and descended to the Great River—the local name of the Yang-tsze—across which we were ferried in a couple of large flat-bottomed boats. The river at this point is about eight hundred yards in breadth, and flows with a current of from four to five knots. The most conspicuous objects on the south or right bank, which consists of a range of hills from seven to eight hundred feet in height, are the temple of Lao-chün Tung, nestling amidst a grove of trees, and Blakiston’s “Pinnacle Pagoda,” crowning the highest peak of the range. The high-road to Kuei-chow winds up the bank between them, and, after a slight descent, enters a limestone valley beyond. The bank itself is composed of coal and lime, both of which were being quarried for use in Ch’ung-k’ing.

HARVESTING OPIUM.

In this valley, which extends for miles, I first made acquaintance with the poppy in full bloom. Fields of white and purple equalled in number the patches of wheat, barley, and rape. Where the flowers had fallen, the peasants, principally women and children, were busy harvesting the juice. The tools used in the operation are simple but effective. Towards evening, the peasants may be seen moving in the poppy fields, each armed with a short wooden handle, from one of the ends of which protrude three and sometimes four points of brass or copper blades, firmly inserted in the wood. Seizing a capsule with the left hand, the operator, with his right hand, inserts the points of the blades near the top of the capsule, and draws them downwards to the stem of the plant. From the incisions thus made a creamy juice exudes, which gradually becomes of a dark brown colour. This is scraped off in the early morning by means of a short curved knife, and deposited in an earthenware bowl, the contents of which are afterwards fired or left in the sun to dry. In this way, the weight is reduced about one half, and the opium is then ready for boiling. The whole process is simple, and may be accomplished by the women and children of the family, thereby permitting the more able-bodied to attend to the other farm duties, thus reducing the price of labour and consequently the cost of the drug. The bleeding of the capsule is continued until the flow of juice is exhausted.

The remainder of the valley was occupied by rice fields, submerged in preparation for the summer sowing. Sometimes they are allowed to soak for months, their surfaces being frequently covered with floating water-plants, which are afterwards utilized as manure. They are likewise stocked with fish; in the early spring, reeds and rank grass are cut from the hill sides and made up into small bundles, which are then strung on bamboos, laid down in shallow water in the Yang-tsze, and weighted with stones. Here the fish spawn, and the ova adhere to the grass and reeds, which are then taken up and sold. The grass is afterwards scattered in the higher fields, between which and the lower, water-communication is kept up by digging small outlets, which can easily be filled up at a moment’s notice. Here the ova are hatched, and good fishing may be had after a few months.

The modus operandi deserves a short description. Neither line nor hook is used, the requisite gear consisting of a long bamboo and a round wicker basket, open at the bottom with a hole at the top. The fisherman wades into the field, the water usually reaching to the knee; grasping the bamboo in his right, he sweeps the surface of the water in front of him with a semicircular motion until a silver streak and a dash into the mud meet his eye, when he plunges forward and caps the spot with the basket which he has been carrying in his left hand. He then gropes for his prey through the basket, and is, I may say, rarely at fault. The fish—some six inches long—is then tossed over the shoulder into a smaller basket strapped to the back, and the farmer recommences his field-fishing.

The wood-oil tree—Aleurites cordata, M. Arg.—was scattered about among the fields. It seems to prefer thin-soiled, rocky ground, being met with in great abundance on the banks of the Yang-tsze west of Ichang. It grows to a height of about fifteen feet, and has large, beautiful, shady green leaves, which were lighted up as we passed with bunches of small pink-white flowers. It produces a large green fruit like an apple, the large pips or seeds of which contain the oil for which the tree is famous. The fruit is gathered in August and September. Primitive wooden presses with wedges are used for extracting the oil, which is sent to market in wooden tubs with tight-fitting lids, and is employed for a variety of purposes, such as the manufacture of paint, varnish, waterproof paper, umbrellas, as well as for lighting. The seeds, if eaten, cause nausea and vomiting.

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.

Between Ch’ung-k’ing and Ch’i-chiang Hsien, the first city of any importance on the southern road to Kuei-chow, there are a number of factories for the manufacture of the ordinary coarse Chinese paper. Here, too, the process is exceedingly simple. There is an entire absence of machinery for washing and shredding rags; there are no troughs of pulp, chemicals for bleaching, resin for watering, wire moulds for receiving, and drums for firming the paper as it comes from the pulp-troughs. Bamboo stems and paddy straw are steeped with lime in deep concrete pits in the open air, and allowed to soak for months. When nothing but the fibre remains, it is taken out and rolled with a heavy stone roller in a stone well until all the lime has been removed. A small quantity of the fibre is placed in a stone trough full of water and the whole stirred up. A close bamboo mould is then passed through the mixed fibre and water, and the film which adheres to it emerges as a sheet of paper, which is stuck up to dry on the walls of a room kept at a high temperature. The sheets are afterwards collected and made up into bundles for market.

Ch’i-chiang Hsien is a city somewhat irregularly built along the foot and on the slope of a hill which rises from the left bank of a river, a tributary of the Yang-tsze and bearing the city’s name. It is of very considerable importance as a trade depôt for north-eastern Kuei-chow, and, being in water communication with the Yang-tsze, it is a valuable inlet for the Ssŭ-ch’uan salt trade with that province. Kuei-chow, unlike Ssŭ-ch’uan and Yün-nan, is unprovided with salt wells within its borders, at least they have not yet been discovered, and the Lu Chou junks have their terminus at Ch’i-chiang, whence the mineral is distributed on the backs of bipeds.

This latter was to me a painful sight. Men and boys (children, I should rather say, many of them being not more than eight years of age) staggered on with enormous loads of cake salt packed in small creels and on wooden frameworks projecting above them. Walking in Indian file along the pathway that served as a road, they halted every few yards, resting their loads on a crutch which each carried in his hand, and, uttering that half whistle, half sigh, which proclaims the body’s utter weariness and its gratitude for a moment’s relief, scraped from their brows and faces, by a ring of split bamboo attached to the load by a string, the sweat that literally gushed from them. Of a surety they earn their bread by the sweat of their brow!

One expecting to find amongst such men a splendid development of muscle would be sadly disappointed. Like the brick-tea carriers on their way to Tibet, of whom I shall have occasion to speak hereafter, they were painfully wanting in leg. Yet the maximum load is about two hundred and forty pounds. For carrying the salt the distance of one hundred miles between Ch’i-chiang and T’ung-tzŭ, the first district city across the Kuei-chow border, they were paid at the rate of ten cash a catty, or one and a third pounds. As the journey occupied them ten days, and the return, empty-handed except for their wages in cash, two days, the strongest man earned not more than sixpence a day. But rice and lodging are cheap, and they are more or less happy at the end of each day’s weary toil.

SILKWORMS AND THEIR FOOD.

The hills around Ch’i-chiang were thickly clad with scrub-oak, on the leaves of which silkworms had been placed to feed. In Ssŭ-ch’uan sericulture is a most important industry; every homestead, where mulberry leaves are procurable, is engaged in it. Small market-towns are thickly dotted over the whole province, and at each place a market is held every five days. Thither agents resort and buy up cocoons and opium at their respective seasons. Besides the mulberry and the oak, the leaves of the Cudrania triloba, Hance, are much in demand for feeding the young worms; and near Chia-ting, the very centre of silk culture in Ssŭ-ch’uan, I was informed that these leaves are particularly suited to the infant palate, and that the silk produced from this diet is superior in quantity and quality. Frequently have I seen small wooden tubs filled with white and yellow cocoons—the produce of a single little homestead—exposed by the roadside for sale. The duty of nursing, rearing and feeding the worms and of collecting their food devolves on the women and children, the former hastening the hatching of the eggs by wearing them in their breasts.

South of Ch’i-chiang, the wood-oil tree was very abundant, and banyan and pumelo trees were dotted about here and there; firs, cypresses, palms, bamboos, and the mulberry were also to be seen. Of growing crops, wheat, beans, and hemp—Abutilon avicennae Gaert.—were conspicuous. The small patches of land, into which Chinese crofts are divided, give ample scope for careful agriculture. It is, I believe, an established fact that wheat planted at intervals of from nine to twelve inches produces a heavier crop than wheat sown broadcast. By planting, which is here and in China generally the rule, not only is seed saved but sufficient room is given for tillering, whereas in sowing, the intervals are irregular and tillering is cramped. The wild rose, honeysuckle, and strawberry crept along our path.

It was on leaving Ch’i-chiang on the morning of the 22nd of April that my attention was arrested by a large white bundle on two legs approaching the city. As it neared us, it developed into what appeared to be a huge mass of long white candles half enveloping a human being, and rising four feet above where, under ordinary circumstances, the individual’s head ought to be. Questioning the bundle, I discovered from a series of sounds that issued from its centre that it was the pith from which the far-famed “rice” paper is manufactured. It is the pith of the large-leaved bush-like Fatsia papyrifera, Benth. and Hook., which grows luxuriantly in the province of Kuei-chow, whence it is brought to Ch’ung-k’ing to be made into sheets. The plant also grows in Ssŭ-ch’uan, but the stems are not so fully developed as those produced in the more southern province. I may as well now describe the process of manufacture, and save my readers a further reference to the subject.

THE PITH WORKER.

On my return to Ch’ung-k’ing from the journey now described, I was invited to visit a worker in pith after nightfall. Although somewhat surprised at the hour named, I accepted the invitation. On arrival, I was ushered into a badly lighted room, where a man was sitting at a table with his tools in front of him. These consisted of a smooth stone, about a foot square and an inch and a half thick, and a large knife or hatchet with a short wooden handle. The blade was about a foot long, two inches broad, and nearly half an inch thick at the back. It was sharp as a razor. Placing a piece of round pith on the stone and his left hand on the top, he rolled the pith backwards and forwards for a moment until he got it into the required position. Then, seizing the knife with his right hand, he held the edge of the blade, after a feint or two, close to the pith, which he kept rolling to the left with his left hand until nothing remained to roll; for the pith had, by the application of the knife, been pared into a square white sheet of uniform thickness. All that remained to be done was to square the edges. If the reader will roll up a sheet of paper, lay it on the table, place the left hand on the top, and gently unroll it to the left, he will have a good idea of how the feat was accomplished. It seemed so easy that I determined to have a trial. Posing as a professional worker, I succeeded in hacking the pith, and in nearly maiming myself for life. A steady hand and a keen eye are required for the work, and hence it is that the so-called “rice” paper is manufactured only at night, when the city is asleep and the makers are not liable to be disturbed.

The third day from Ch’i-chiang brought us to the Kuei-chow frontier, the road following for the most part the banks of the Ch’i-chiang River. Coal and iron are here found in abundance, and the market town of Kan-shui, which lies within the Ssŭ-ch’uan border, is famed for the manufacture of the iron pans, without one of which no house can be looked upon as properly furnished. Copper is also found at no great distance, and specimens of the ore, which I forwarded to Shanghai for analysis, contained thirty per cent. of metal.

It was near the Kuei-chow border that I first came in contact with the Miao-tzŭ, the aboriginal inhabitants of that province. I was sauntering along in front of my followers when, at a bend in the road, I was suddenly confronted by a couple of neatly-dressed figures which turned out to be two Miao-tzŭ girls, about fourteen and sixteen years of age as far as I could guess, arrayed in short jackets and kilts of a greyish-black woollen material, with turbans to match. They were very good looking, and, although somewhat coy, did not show that abject terror which, under similar circumstances, would have betrayed the Chinese female. With heads erect and black eyes lighted up with astonishment, they passed me by with no uncertain gait. Although the Miao-Tzŭ are generally supposed to be confined to Kuei-chow, not a few families are settled in this corner of Ssŭ-ch’uan. Those who are interested in this people will find another chapter specially devoted to them.

CHINESE INNS.

Seas of bare rocky mountains met my eyes as I sat on the borders of Ssŭ-ch’uan and Kuei-chow, and gazed southwards. It was like a transformation scene. From smiling fields of poppy, wheat, and beans, we were suddenly brought face to face with hill-side patches of the same crops sadly stunted. The poppy, which to the north was being bled, had not even burst into flower, and the scanty soil looked barren and profitless. The rich valleys were still invisible, and the prospect was very depressing; nor was the feeling in the least minimised by the appearance of our lodgings for the night. So bad were they, indeed, that I had to ask the local authority of Sung-k’an whether he could not find me more decent quarters. Another room was hunted up, but I failed to discover any great improvement. I have occupied hundreds of Chinese inns in the course of my travels, and I think that, on the whole, a Chinaman’s own description which I found written on the wall of a room which I once tenanted in Ssŭ-ch’uan, errs on the side of leniency. In English garb it runs thus—

“Within this room you’ll find the rats
At least a goodly score,
Three catties each they’re bound to weigh,
Or e’en a little more;
At night you’ll find a myriad bugs
That stink and crawl and bite;
If doubtful of the truth of this,
Get up and strike a light.”

It must have been the poet’s up-bringing or his being overpowered by other ills that prevented him from finishing the work so well begun. Let me endeavour to complete the picture—

Within, without, vile odours dense
Assail the unwary nose;
Behind, the grunter squeaks and squeals
And baffles all repose;
Add clouds of tiny, buzzing things,
Mosquitoes—if you please;
And if the sum is not enough,
Why, bless me, there are fleas.

BAMBOO WATER-WHEELS.

To reach T’ung-tzŭ, a range of mountains over three thousand feet high had to be crossed. The summit was dotted with smooth, hollowed-out, limestone rocks, between which the scanty soil was being turned over by the peasants. On the south side of the range, a narrow valley, about nine miles in length, down which flows a stream, leads to the district city. As the latter is approached, the valley expands from a quarter to half a mile in breadth, and runs with the stream for another five miles until it is blocked by a low range of hills, through which the stream finds its way by a series of caverns. In the narrower part of the valley, I noticed a very ingenious contrivance for irrigating the fields. The stream flows about ten feet below the surrounding plots, and drains instead of watering them. To utilize it, a large light bamboo wheel, from forty to fifty feet in circumference, and two feet thick, was erected. Layers of split bamboo were inserted at short intervals in the outside edge as float-boards, and the water rushing against them caused the wheel to revolve. Short bamboos closed at the outer end were fixed on the rim at a slight angle. As the wheel revolved, these bamboos were immersed and filled with water, and on reaching the top poured their contents into a wooden trough raised nearly to the height of the wheel. Bamboo pipes led the water from the trough to the fields requiring irrigation. No care was required, and wheel after wheel was doing its work silently and alone.

Rice is hulled by a somewhat similar process. An ordinary water-wheel is fitted with a long axle, through the centre of which two planks at either side of the wheel are inserted at right angles and project several feet. As the wheel revolves, the planks descend, catch, depress, and release a lever, the far end of which is weighted with a heavy blunt stone about two feet long. When the lever is released, the stone descends and plunges into a hollow, usually lined with concrete, into which the paddy is placed. By a single revolution of the wheel the lever is depressed and released four times and, when the hulling is completed, the lever can be drawn aside and the contents of the hole removed and winnowed.

I took advantage of a day’s rest at T’ung-tzŭ to follow up the stream to the point where it enters the range of hills. The whole valley and the hill-sides were one mass of poppies in full bloom—white, mauve, and white tipped with pink being the chief colours. The capsules were less rounded, but more elongated than those of the Ssŭ-ch’uan plant. The Ku-lu, as the stream is called, enters the hill by three caverns, emerges through a single cavern some distance beyond, crosses another valley a few hundred yards in breadth and at right angles to the T’ung-tzŭ valley, again enters the hills and, after leaving by another single cavern, discharges itself into the Ch’ih-shui River. As might naturally be expected, both valleys are liable to inundation during the rainy season and, at the time of my visit, an attempt was being made to cut a tunnel behind the first range and induce the surplus waters to seek a nearer passage to the larger river. A mile of tunnel had already been completed, but a part had fallen in and hindered the progress of the work. As it seemed to me, the passage through the first range must always be liable to be choked by an increase in the volume of the stream and by floating débris, and little would appear to have been accomplished beyond scattering to the winds £10,000 to £12,000, and giving employment to a large number of men.

There is little of interest to attract the eye of the traveller between T’ung-tzŭ and Tsun-i Fu, the next city of any importance on the way to the provincial capital. The road runs over hills and through valleys, past coal mines and through poppy-fields, until a few miles north of the city the country opens out and shows the usual crops. The population, as everywhere in Kuei-chow, is scant; and if a field is wanted to relieve the congested provinces of the Empire, Kuei-chow and Yün-nan can easily accommodate millions, and feel all the better for the increase. With the exception of the Miao-tzŭ, who have been driven into the south of Kuei-chow, the inhabitants consist of immigrants from Ssŭ-ch’uan, Hupeh and Hunan, who, for the most part, are satisfied with scratching small parts of the ground and disposing of the opium which they themselves are unable to consume to the eastern province of Hunan. A lazier set of people it would be hard to find anywhere. The mountainous character of the country renders overland transport excessively difficult, the consequence being that the products of the soil are exceedingly cheap and living inexpensive. Ruins of superior stone buildings are everywhere to be met with, but, instead of repairing these, the inhabitants are content to raise wattle and mud walls on the solid foundations, and turn the floors of the superfluous houses into vegetable gardens. The Miao-tzŭ must, indeed, have had a hot time of it. Where forests of oak once stood, only black charred roots and columns of dressed granite now remain, to tell the tale of a well-to-do Miao-tzŭ peasantry in hand to hand conflict with better-armed opponents.

COAL-DUST AS FUEL.

How to utilize coal-dust as fuel has always been a fruitful topic of discussion where coal mines are worked. I notice that the most recent invention in England is the admixture of pitch with the dust. Here and elsewhere in China, clay is the ingredient used; and the mixture, after being reduced to the necessary consistency by the addition of water, is placed in moulds, whence it issues, about two pounds in weight, in the shape of the base half of a cone, and is then exposed to the sun to dry. This fuel is fairly tenacious, and will bear considerable rough transit. From personal experience in Peking, I may add that ignition is not a difficult matter, and that a powerful heat results.

The walls of Tsun-i, which we entered on the afternoon of the 29th of April, are said to contain a population of 45,000 souls. It is a manufacturing city. Wild silk, gathered from the scrub-oak in the neighbourhood, is spun and woven into a coarse fabric, which is largely exported through Ssŭ-ch’uan to the central and eastern provinces. It is a peculiarity of Kuei-chow towns that there are no suburbs outside the walls; but, when the struggles that have taken place within the province and the consequent insecurity are considered, their absence is not a matter for surprise.

About forty miles to the south of Tsun-i, we struck the left bank of the Wu Chiang, which here flows with a swift current through a deep limestone gorge in an east-north-east direction. Looking down into the gorge, I could make out on the opposite bank a solid platform of masonry, over which dangled a row of iron chains or rods into the river. Descending through accumulations of building materials, we soon reached a similar platform, where I discovered that a great catastrophe had recently occurred. Seven months before our visit the chains or hooked rods—each about a yard long—for supporting the roadway, had been successfully stretched, built into the masonry on either side and the ends fixed into the solid rock. The side suspension chains, which were carried over stone turrets on either side of the piers, were in process of being stretched, when the whole structure collapsed, carrying with it a large number of workmen, many of whom were drowned or fatally injured. Their graves are to be seen on the left bank of the river. The turrets were all carried away, and nothing remained but the piers, the severed chains, and many of the planks which had formed the roadway. In manufacturing the chains, which was done on the spot—the workshops were still standing—local iron, which appeared to be of an inferior quality and to have been insufficiently malleated, had been used. The bridge was rebuilt in the year of our visit (1882), but iron from Yün-nan was employed.

THE KUNG-T’AN RIVER.

The Wu Chiang, or, as it is called near its mouth, the Kung-t’an River, after a course of about five hundred miles, enters the Yang-tsze at the city of Fu Chou, seventy-two miles to the east of Ch’ung-k’ing. Owing to rapids, it is unnavigable until it approaches the province of Ssŭ-ch’uan; but even in its short navigable course of over a hundred miles above its junction with the Yang-tsze it is an important trade highway. By this route, north-eastern Kuei-chow is supplied with salt from Ssŭ-ch’uan, sending in return gall-nuts and other minor products. At one time it formed part of the great commercial highway between Canton and Western China, which has practically ceased to exist since the opening of the Yang-tsze to steam navigation.

A brief glance across the Wu Chiang warned me that there was no time to tarry on the left bank, for the road could be seen zig-zagging up a gulley on the opposite shore. Collecting our forces, which had scattered on a tour of inspection, we descended to the river, a stream sixty yards in breadth, and were ferried across by detachments in a rickety old boat. A weary climb of two hours, past disused iron mines overgrown with brushwood, brought us to the Kuan-ai Customs barrier, perched on the summit of the range. Beyond the barrier we obtained a splendid view of the country to the south; barren, treeless peaks, on the same level as ourselves—three to four thousand feet—lay before us, cheerless, uninhabited, lifeless. What a picture! Where are the Miao-tzŭ that used to till these fields and tend their herds on the mountain sides? They were butchered and their bones are rotting underneath. Northern Kuei-chow is a huge graveyard, with no monuments to mark the fierce struggle against extortion and oppression, of rude weapons against foreign arms of precision. Justice is a fine thing to talk about and inculcate, but a hard thing to practise.

ARRIVAL AT KUEI-YANG.

Three miles from the river my followers clamoured for a day’s rest. Although only a three days’ journey from Kuei-yang, the capital of the province, where I proposed to make a short stay, I was compelled to accede to their request. Twenty miles may seem a poor day’s work; but my readers should bear in mind that roads, in the proper sense of the word, do not exist, and that the mountain paths which we have been travelling have been sadly neglected. During the whole of my time in Kuei-chow I never once saw a cart, the entire trade—such as it is—being conducted on the backs of bipeds and quadrupeds. A nearer acquaintance with the country between the Wu Chiang and Kuei-yang failed to leave on my mind a livelier impression than that derived from the panorama of desolation as seen from the Kuan-ai barrier. During the day here and there a hut or a poppy-patch was the only sign of human existence, and at night came the miserable village full of lethargic opium-sodden inhabitants.

Ten miles of grassy downs and fifteen miles of barren mountain sides constitute the approach to the provincial capital. At the village, which lies between, an escort of eight soldiers, two mounted officers, and a host of runners from the Magistrate’s Yamên, awaited us to protect me from the dangers of the wilderness. The occasional huts give place to guard-houses, which would seem to imply that the country is not so safe as it looks. Passing through an archway bridging the road between two steep mountain peaks, where the officer at the receipt of customs glared greedily at our caravan; and, rounding a mountain side, we soon caught a glimpse of Kuei-yang lying in a plain far below us. On the left is the graveyard of the city, its white stones like glittering specks dotting the hill side. A white wall surrounds the town; and numerous green trees rising above the house-tops were suggestive of coolness and shade. But all is not gold that glitters, and there was soon revealed to us an ordinary Chinese city containing the usual marks of decay.

On the morning of the 6th of May—the day after our arrival—I spent a very pleasant half-hour with the Governor of the province, who was courtesy itself. His Excellency was deeply interested in the subject of the navigation of the Upper Yang-tsze by steam, and showed complete familiarity with the sayings of the Shanghai vernacular press. He pressed me to stay a few days; but the heat was oppressive, and I determined to push on to Yün-nan without delay. To His Excellency I owe much; he was good enough to send orders along the route that I was to be accommodated in the official rest-houses as much as possible, so that I was enabled to get rid of the crowds which collect and gaze with glassy eyes at the unfortunate foreigner. It is difficult to satisfy a Chinese crowd; one may sit or stand before one’s room-door in an inn for hours, yet the inquisitiveness remains unabated. Enter the room, and every crack in the woodwork of the walls is occupied by peering eyes, while the paper windows are quickly converted into sieves by moistened finger-tips, and black glittering orbs are glued to them. A boot deftly aimed gives momentary, but only momentary, relief. Kuei-chow is not a chief sinner in this respect. In Western China, Ssŭ-ch’uan undoubtedly takes the palm.

During the afternoon of my stay in Kuei-yang I made a flying perambulation of the city. In the southern part, the shops were large and apparently prosperous, and the streets, which were fairly broad, were crowded. Foreign cottons brought from Hankow by way of the Tung-t’ing Lake and the Yuan River were plentifully displayed. I shall have occasion to refer again to this route, which was followed by the unfortunate Margary on his way across China to Burmah.

CHAPTER III.

WESTWARD TO YÜN-NAN.

White wax insects—Terrible hailstorm and its effects—Miao-tzŭ houses and women—An-shun Fu—Limestone cave—Pai-shui waterfall—Reception at Lang-t’ai T’ing—Lang-wang Mountain and the “Cave of the Spirits”—Caught in a thunderstorm—The pebbly strand of the Mao-k’ou River—Pack-animals and their treatment—The Yün-nan frontier—A cart at last—Exploring a cave—Underground rivers—Exceptional courtesy—Goître—Breeding ground of the Yün-nan pony—Trade route to Tonquin—Marching knee-deep in mud and water—Poverty of inhabitants—Queen’s birthday dinner in a back-yard—Chinese inquisitiveness—The Sung-ming Lake—A local escort—A glorious view—Yün-nan Fu.

On the morning of the 7th of May, we turned our faces westwards towards the province of Yün-nan, the capital of which I hoped to reach before the end of the month. Soon after leaving the west gate of Kuei-yang, we met a number of carriers with long round baskets slung at the ends of poles in the usual Chinese manner. The exceptional speed at which they were going tempted me to examine their loads, and most unwillingly did they submit, for they were bearing eastward to Hunan burdens of living insects of great industrial value. They were white wax insects in their scales, which had been collected in the An-shun prefecture further west, packed in layers of trays to ensure a free current of air and thus prevent their escape during their long journey. The lamps which the owners, who accompanied the porters on foot, carried, told me that the tiny insects were being hurried night and day to their destination. The whole subject of white wax insects and their valuable product will be found detailed in Chapter XI.

TERRIFIC HAILSTORM.

Ten miles west of Kuei-yang is the main coal-field for supplying the provincial capital with fuel. The road winds among and over low hills untouched by the hoe of the peasant; rank grass and brushwood tell the tale of a meagre population content to exist on the produce of the narrow valleys—patches of barley or wheat, and poppy and rice in their season. Beyond the hills, a valley leads to the district city of Ch’ing-chên, and here a surprising sight met the eye. Up to the very walls of the city stretched an immense poppy-field, the stems fresh and erect, but hardly a capsule remaining. Here at last, thought I, have the authorities in a fit of virtuous indignation advanced beyond issuing proclamations laden with threats of punishment; here surely must be a Magistrate who has a will of his own and the courage to carry it into effect. Alas! I wronged him. ’Twas another celestial authority that did the deed. On the night of the 2nd of May, a terrible hailstorm burst over the district, destroying not only the growing crops but even playing havoc within the walls. The streets were full of broken tiles, many of the roofs having succumbed to the hailstones, which were described to me as weighing as much as seven and even eight ounces. The capsules, which were scattered on the ground, had all been collected for the sake of the sweet cooking-oil which is obtained from the seed, and of the cakes which are manufactured from the seed itself. Six miles by six represented the area over which the hail had descended. The stems and branches of the roadside trees, which were all but denuded of leaves, looked as if they had been hacked with a blunt axe. Rapeseed, beans, wheat, and barley, which were growing in scant patches to the west of the city, were flattened with the ground.

In this part of the country, cultivation is confined to the neighbourhood of towns and villages. The distance between Ch’ing-chên and An-p’ing, the next district city, is twenty miles; and, if we except the poppy which was growing abundantly near the latter, there was no cultivation worthy of the name. Grass-covered plains, once smiling fields, intercepted by curious conical hills partly clad with brushwood and bracken, are happy hunting grounds for herds of tame buffaloes. Truly, the land of the Miao-tzŭ was devastated, and its inhabitants butchered and scattered. Poverty reigns along the highroad. Three miles west of Ch’ing-chên, we stopped for breakfast at a hamlet overlooking a tributary of the Wu Chiang. Neither chair nor table was procurable; but they were hardly necessary, for it did not take long to put away the remains of my dinner of the previous evening. Here I found that the knowledge possessed by the local escorts is not above suspicion. Sitting on the stone bridge which spans the stream just mentioned, I asked them the name and destination of the latter; but I failed to receive a satisfactory answer. One of the soldiers, however, who volunteered the statement that the bridge on which I was sitting had nine arches, was somewhat non-plussed to find, on being sent to count, that it was two short of the number he gave.

An-p’ing has not yet recovered from the ravages of the civil war; the walls are in a state of decay, and many of the houses which they encircle are represented by heaps of ruins. The surrounding country is almost entirely inhabited by Miao-tzŭ, whose hamlets are perched on inaccessible hill-tops—stone refuges occupying the commanding heights. When hard pressed, they drove their cattle into the latter for safety and, sheltering themselves behind the walls, bade defiance to their assailants.

The villages, through which the road passes between An-p’ing and An-shun, are of a non-Chinese type. The walls of the houses are built of loose stones and are very thick, the roofs being composed of broad stone slabs. The inmates appeared to be of a degraded race, and have, in all probability, a strain of Miao-tzŭ blood. The men were dressed in sombre Chinese clothes, while the women were inclined to gaudy colours.

At one of these villages it was market day; herds of oxen, horses, and pigs were on the ground, and the women, arrayed in all the colours of the rainbow and ornamented with silver earrings, bangles and rings, were hurrying in with baskets of eggs and vegetables. In the market were four slender, sinewy Miao-tzŭ men, somewhat curiously dressed. Black cloth bands encircled their foreheads, loose gowns of similar material, fastened with girdles, covered them from neck to ankle, huge silver earrings swung from their left ears and their feet were encased in straw sandals. Bowls of opium were being hawked about the village, and I was told that the Miao-tzŭ, although extensive cultivators of the poppy, do not themselves smoke the drug.

AN SHUN-FU.

An-shun is approached through a long valley, which contracts as the city is neared. At the eastern end, the road, which is lined with memorial stone archways, ascends a gentle slope—the graveyard of the town—to the walls. From the gate we looked down into a broad street, crowded with people engaged in business. On stalls at either side, goods of all kinds were plentifully displayed, and the shops behind them were large and apparently prosperous. Ponies laden with salt jostled us in the gateway, and I found, on enquiry, that An-shun is supplied with this necessity of life by way of the Yung-ning River, which enters the Yang-tsze at the district city of Na-chi, and is the most important trade highway to Western Kuei-chow. This route, which I followed in 1883, will be found described in a subsequent chapter.

The main roads of China are each divided into stages, only one of which can, with convenience and comfort to the traveller, be accomplished in a day. The plan which I followed was invariably as follows. Rising at daybreak, I had a cup of coffee or tea, pushed on to the first hamlet or village, where we all breakfasted, travelled till noon when we lunched at the most convenient spot, and arrived at the end of the stage about four or five o’clock in the afternoon. Inns were not always available during the day, and at our first halting place after leaving An-shun, we took possession of a house which we shared with a couple of carriers, who seemed to prefer a whiff of the opium pipe to eating. On one occasion only, as far as I can recollect, was I refused temporary lodgment, the inmates, as a rule, being only too willing to shelter us for a few cash. As a matter of fact, they had little to fear, for they had nothing to steal.

Chên-ning Chou, which was the end of the stage on the 10th of May, is a poor city, built on a hill slope, and consists of one decent street and a number of dilapidated thoroughfares. It lies at the western end of a valley, which was filled with yellow wheat and barley, submerged paddy-land, and poppy-fields. Our landlord told me that, previous to the rebellion, the walls sheltered from seven to eight thousand families, now, however, reduced to a thousand. A mile to the west of Chên-ning we came upon a cave close to the highroad. It was formed of a single limestone dome, which has been converted into a temple. To us it presented the appearance of a poorhouse, for our entrance aroused a crowd of squalid beggars, who had taken up their quarters in its cool shade. They did not look as if they had a very close acquaintance with the clear, limpid stream which flows through it and enters a limestone hill fifty yards beyond. We were no longer the only travellers going west; a number of men were carrying silver to Yün-nan to purchase opium. The value of the drug, its small bulk and superiority, enable it to be carried across the province of Kuei-chow to Hunan and other provinces at a profit.

THE PAI-SHUI RIVER.

The Pai-shui, or “White Water” river, spanned by a stone bridge of five arches at the eastern end of the village of Huang-kuo-shu, goes south to join the northern section of the Canton or West River. It is a shallow stream thirty yards in breadth and forms a beautiful waterfall in the rear of the village, creeping leisurely over the brown rocks and falling about a hundred feet. In the temple of the “Dragon Prince” we spread our mid-day meal, having had to fast since daybreak, the hamlets on the road west of Chên-ning being unable to supply us even with a single egg. A series of weary ascents and descents ultimately landed us in the small village of P’o-kung, which had recently been the scene of a conflagration. Ten days before our arrival it was all but consumed, and the inhabitants were huddled together amidst its charred remains, still wanting in courage or in funds to re-erect their homes.

Is there no level ground anywhere in the province of Kuei-chow? This was the question that suggested itself to me as I gained the ridge that rises to the west of P’o-kung. The answer lay ahead. Waves of conical hills and mountain ranges beyond seemed to block the passage to Yün-nan. Down and up, and down again, brought us to a valley, extending for miles, at the far end of which rests the prosperous city of Lang-t’ai T’ing, famous for the superiority of its opium. Some miles from its walls we were met by two escorts, one sent by the Sub-prefect, the other by the Colonel. As we approached, they dropped on their knees and bade me welcome. The military escort, which was composed of five soldiers armed with matchlocks and four with banners, had evidently taken advantage of their excursion to do a little shooting. One man had bagged half a dozen pigeons, and a bird of about the same size with a perfect yellow plumage, which I failed to recognize. As every one is aware, the Chinese do many things in a way the exact reverse of what we consider right and proper. How should a soldier carry his musket? Is it easier to carry the stock or the barrel over the shoulder? My escort preferred to handle the barrel.

On arrival at Lang-t’ai, the Colonel, to whom I sent a message of thanks for his foresight and precaution, pressed me to stay and witness a review that was to be held in a couple of days; but the comparatively cool weather, and the fact that I had already seen enough of his soldiers and their little ways, decided me to decline the kind invitation.

Lang-t’ai lies low, and by the eastern approach nothing is visible but a part of the wall, the town itself being obscured by dense foliage. A thick mist concealed everything from view as we left the following morning. After struggling for two hours among the hills that overlook the city on the north-west, we cleared the mist and entered a coal district where the miners were hard at work. A splendid view was obtained from the Wang-shan temple on the ridge where we breakfasted; the Lang-wang Shan, the highest mountain in the province, towered on our right. Under the summit, which is of bare rock, there is a cave—the “Cave of the Spirits”—which has a very wide reputation, and, as a consequence, is much visited by devotees. As we passed, pilgrims were burning joss-paper far below it. Half-way down on the western side we were overtaken by a terrific thunderstorm, which continued far into the night. When we reached the grass-covered plain that lies below, I took refuge in my chair; but the violent gusts of wind, which accompanied the sheets of descending water, soon wrenched off the rain covers and exposed us to the full blast of the storm.

THE VILLAGE OF MAO-K’OU.

Wet to the skin we entered the village of Mao-k’ou, which consists of one street, with numerous gardens surrounded by hedges of cactus, on the left bank of a stream fifty yards in breadth, which issues from a gorge a few hundred yards above the village. Here there was no resisting the appeal for a day’s rest which was at once made to me. A carrier’s luggage is of the lightest possible description; the single suit of clothes in which he stands is, as a rule, all that he possesses, and when that is reduced to a pulp, it has to be washed and dried before he can again venture out.

I spent the morning of our day of rest on the pebbly strand of the Mao-k’ou river, which goes south to swell the upper waters of the north branch of the West River, in the province of Kwang-si. Numerous fossils are to be found here, and I purchased three different specimens from the landlord of our inn. The current of the river is very rapid.

On leaving Mao-k’ou on the following morning, we ascended its left bank five hundred yards before attempting the crossing; our boats did not reach the right bank until we were opposite the village. An undulating upland stretches westward, covered with rank wild grass, affording excellent cover for game, which was plentiful. Pheasants crowed all round us, and took wing when we approached too close. In the middle of this grassy waste we were caught up by a caravan of twenty ponies, laden with bamboo hats, on their way from Kuei-yang to Yün-nan Fu. They were strong, hardy little animals, game to the very last. Each had a load of three hundred and sixty hats; and I found, when I afterwards saw them turned loose to graze, that not one had a whole back. One poor beast was a pitiful sight; it had a sore at least a foot long, and down almost to its ribs. The flies, attracted by the smell in a temperature of 90° F., rendered its life miserable, and I offered to buy it at a reasonable price and put it out of agony, but the owner was devoid of the least spark of humanity and would not listen to my entreaties. He even grumbled loudly when I made him take off half the load and distribute it amongst the others. The greed of the ordinary Chinese leaves little room for kindness to man’s humbler assistants. An instance occurs to me at the moment. I once visited the Great Wall, and, as visitors do, hired a donkey to carry me up the rough Nan-k’ou Pass. I had not proceeded far when a horrid stench assailed my nostrils; its continuance baffled me until a sudden lurch of the saddle revealed a sickening sight. Needless to say, I walked the rest of the way.

Towards the western end of the grassy upland, the fir and the oak are dotted about and relieve the monotony of the barren undulations, which are succeeded by a coal-producing valley and two mountain ranges following closely on each other, being separated by only a few rice fields. The village of Kuan-tzŭ-yao, which lies behind the ranges, marks the boundary of the bare, uncultivated hills. A reddish tilled soil now covers immense carboniferous deposits. If my reader is as tired of hearing of these uninteresting mountain ranges as I was in crossing them, he will be relieved to know that the plateau of Yün-nan will soon be reached.

THE YÜN-NAN FRONTIER.

A journey of three days and a half from Kuan-tzŭ-yao along cultivated valleys, and including two more ascents and descents, brought us early in the afternoon of the 20th of May to the Yün-nan frontier. During this time two new crops put in an appearance—buckwheat and oats. I saw, too, a new method of manuring the fields. For some days I had been puzzled to account for the peculiar growth of certain trees whose branches were very short, and for which I could obtain no satisfactory explanation; but all at once I came upon a peasant hacking off the branches, and another ploughing them into the rice fields. A barren waste leads up to the frontier town of Shên-ching-kuan, where we were received with the usual Chinese salute of three guns. Stopping for a rest, I discovered that the little town possesses, besides its two memorial archways, four stone lions, two facing Kuei-chow, with imitation scales to represent the rainy character of that province, and two facing west, with imitation scales and dust, indicating the rainy as well as the windy reputation of Yün-nan.

My Ssŭ-ch’uan followers entertained a wholesome dread of the latter province. For some days they had been talking of the miseries that they would have to endure in the matter of food and lodging, and they had come to the conclusion that the only possible reason that could have tempted me to travel in that remote region was to chih Yün-nan k’u, or partake of the bitterness of Yün-nan. Often did they discuss, in my hearing, the motive which led me to question everybody and everything, and transfer the answers to my note-book; but all they seemed able to arrive at was that I was not doing it for nothing.

The excitement of entering a new province raised the spirits of my bearers, who hurried me along the red sandy road, which slopes past several nullahs to a plain only partly cultivated, because liable to inundation. Could it be possible? It seemed almost too good to be true. Lumbering towards us came a couple of bullocks, dragging an apology for a cart behind them. The faces of my men were a study; with one or two exceptions, they had never seen this method of transport, and they stood and gazed at this thing on wheels, which, proud as they were of their province, was not in use among their Ssŭ-ch’uan hills. Rude though the vehicle was, it was a welcome innovation, for it presaged better roads and a level country. Two low, thick wooden wheels, joined together by a ponderous beam, supported a small platform of planks encircled by a framework about two feet in height, while a single short shaft projected from the platform in front.

P’ing-i Hsien, the first district city across the Yün-nan frontier, is built on the south face of a low hill overlooking an extensive well-watered plain, which was covered with wheat, nigh unto harvest, and poppies. It is a great wheat country, and the district is one of the chief feeders of the provincial capital. Oats, too, were growing on the hills which bound the plain on the eastern side; but there was a decided want of straw, for the stalks had only shot a couple of inches above ground.

EXPLORING A CAVE.

Less than a mile beyond the city we came upon the cave mentioned by Margary in his journal. Lighting our lamps, we explored it for a few hundred yards in a straight line, from its mouth to the point where it branches off to the right. In the far interior, huge stalactites hung from the roof. The utter silence of the cavern, broken only by our stumbling over the rough floor, and the weird appearance of the contorted limestone lighted up by our dim lamps, did not tempt us to tarry in the dank and cheerless atmosphere. It had thundered and rained heavily over-night; and, about a mile and a half to the west of the cave, the high-road was blocked by a deep, raging torrent, twenty yards in breadth. My followers, always intent upon a rest, advocated a return to P’ing-i, until the violence of the torrent had abated; but to this I would not listen. Fortunately, a native of the place soon came upon the scene, and mildly suggested that there was a path across some hills farther east. Scouting the statement, they clamoured all the more for a return to dry quarters. Seeing, however, that he was in earnest, I resolved to try the hills, and told my men to follow me or remain where they were till able to ford the torrent. As the rain increased in violence and the atmosphere became sensibly colder, they agreed to accompany me, stating, at the same time, their firm conviction that we were going on a fool’s errand. The native proved to be right, however, for we found an excellent pathway, and from the ridge overlooking the other side of the plain I tried to make out the raging stream that had just baffled us. It was nowhere to be seen, and I soon learned that we had already crossed it by a natural bridge, for it entered a cavern only a few hundred yards from the high-road, the entrance being concealed by a bend in the hills. This adventure cost us our breakfast, as it was noon ere we reached the first hamlet. These underground rivers are very numerous in Kuei-chow and Yün-nan; the composition of the rocks, which are of lime and sandstone, facilitates the drainage of the valleys and plains, which would otherwise be converted into lakes.

In the hills to the west of the plain, coal is found in abundance, the interstices in the walls of the houses being frequently filled with black lumps instead of stone. The villagers told us that snow falls in winter, and that the climate is exceedingly cold. On the bare treeless highlands beyond, potatoes, buckwheat, oats, and a little poppy, were being cultivated.

As a rule, a Chinese has little to gain by showing civility to a foreigner, be he official, merchant, or missionary; and courtesy, even of the barest description, is thoroughly appreciated in a land where stone-throwing, mobbing, and threatening are too often indulged in with impunity. The marked attention paid to us at Pai-shui, the end of the first stage from P’ing-i Hsien, was a very pleasant surprise. The small local officials, with an escort, met me some miles from their village, and hurried on to receive me at the gate. A Taotai, who had been travelling in my company on his way to Western Yün-nan, and with whom I had afterwards a pleasant chat about those terrible Kuei-chow roads and our struggles to get the best inns, had just preceded me, and taken up his quarters in the official rest-house; but a comfortable room was quickly procured for me, the authorities, much against my will, having gone the length of ejecting a number of occupiers. As we left early next morning, the authorities awaited us at the opposite gate of their once-walled village, to speed us on our way. It would greatly lessen the misery of travelling in China if such courtesy were more frequently forthcoming.

THE TRANSPORTATION OF COPPER.

The people in the neighbourhood of Pai-shui are very much afflicted with goître, especially the women, and the idea is prevalent among them that the impurities contained in the salt which they consume is the cause of the malady. Here we came across a consignment of red copper for the metropolis, transported on the backs of nearly four hundred mules and ponies from the mines of Tung-ch’uan Fu to Pe-sê T’ing, the head of navigation of the West River, in the province of Kwang-si. It seemed a roundabout way of sending copper north, but I was informed that on one occasion, when shipments used to be despatched by way of the Yang-tsze, a great storm arose and overwhelmed more than a hundred junks and their cargoes. I heard afterwards that peculation had probably more to do with the loss than a storm.

The city of Chan-i Chou, fifteen miles to the west of Pai-shui, lies in the north of an immense plain, famous throughout Western China as the breeding ground of the sturdy Yün-nan pony. Brood mares and their foals were grazing on the large grass fields, which occupied no mean part of the plain. A stream, spanned by a good three-arched stone bridge, flows south past the east gate of the city on its way to join the northern branch of the West River. It was at one time a section of the route by which lead was carried from the north of Yün-nan to Tonquin. Consignments were conveyed by boat from Chan-i Chou to Ma-kai, a place fifty miles to the south, and thence overland to Mêng-tzŭ Hsien, on the head waters of the Song-koi, now the residence of a French Consul.

Rain descended in torrents during the night of our stay in Chan-i, and the dawn of the 23rd of May was not accompanied by the usual movements and noises that betokened an early start. On the contrary, I was soon waited upon by a deputation, which begged me, on account of the rains, to defer my departure for a day; but the fact that I was almost in the presence of my goal compelled me to resist their demand. After two hours spent in arguing, we trooped sullenly out of the city. The plain, which on the previous afternoon was bright with its golden crops of wheat and barley, was now cold and cheerless; the road was one mass of mud in which we sank to the knees; a great part of the surrounding country was under water; and the rain fell in sheets.

The hamlets in the neighbourhood were poor in the extreme. Stopping for breakfast, we borrowed a room and despatched a youngster to forage for a table and eggs. The way in which these people live is astounding: they occupy rooms begrimed with smoke—chimneys are considered superfluous—willingly sharing them with dogs, pigs, fowls, and insect pests.

The unceasing downpour obliged us to abandon the idea of completing a day’s stage, which we broke at the market town of Mien-tien, having accomplished only twelve miles, or half the distance necessary to ensure decent accommodation. We were quartered in a loft over a stable, where a dozen ponies, unable like ourselves to proceed farther, were installed.

QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY DINNER.

As the morrow was the anniversary of Her Majesty’s Birthday, I determined to secure a good dinner for the occasion; my tinned provisions had long since given out, and I was entirely dependent on local supplies. I succeeded in purchasing a fowl and a few potatoes, which we carried with us over the plain of yellow-ochre soil which lies between Chan-i and Ma-lung Chou.

At the latter city, I experienced very considerable civility at the hands of the chief civil official, who paid me a visit, and, being a native of Ch’ung-k’ing, plied me with many questions regarding his Ssŭ-ch’uan home. He also added considerably to our larder, which was now in a very prosperous condition indeed. He complained of the poverty of his jurisdiction, stating that the people over whom he ruled were nearly all poor immigrants from Ssŭ-ch’uan, who, owing to the barrenness of the soil, could hardly earn enough to keep clothes on their backs.

We halted for the night at a hamlet ten miles from Ma-lung, where we secured a single room for our whole party. After I had had a corner of it partitioned off by a mat, the cooking of the dinner commenced; but, there being no chimney, the interior soon became so thick as to necessitate a removal into the fresh air. A table was brought and placed outside a back door, and the meal spread under Heaven’s starry vault. Here my little dog and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves; and even now, after the lapse of some years, I have very pleasant memories of that sumptuous dinner, probably because I took special care in the catering. If there is a bitterness in the memory, it is that the little, fearless, faithful, intelligent, amusing sharer of that repast, the companion of all my travels, is no more.

The inquisitiveness of the Chinese is hard to bear with equanimity. I sat down to breakfast the following morning in what I took to be an uninhabited house, for it consisted of two gables and a roof without a stick of furniture. The necessary chair and table we had, as usual, borrowed. No sooner was the cloth spread, than all the goîtred old women of the village trooped in, each carrying a tub of old garments steeped in water, and proceeded in the most matter of fact way to wash. The splashing and watching were endurable; but when one of them proceeded to light a fire on the floor, I felt that we had reached the last straw, and bundled them out without ceremony, tubs and all. They looked upon the climax as a good joke.

Following the road over weary red highlands only partly cultivated, we sighted, on the afternoon of the 26th of May, a large sheet of water, which, as we approached, we found to be swarming with wild duck. At Yang-lin, which is built on the south-western margin of the Sung-ming Lake, we occupied a room in a new inn, and were regaled with excellent fish from the clear water we had just passed. How easy it is for a Chinese official to show his contempt for a foreigner. On the way to Yang-lin, I was provided with an escort in the shape of a small boy of thirteen, wearing a sword nearly as long as himself, who turned out to be fonder of bird-nesting than of affording protection and assistance!

A GLORIOUS VIEW.

A broad stone road, in excellent repair, leads from Yang-lin to the rim of the plain in which lies the capital of Yün-nan. Half-way we caught a glimpse of a lake to the south-west; but it was not till the rim was reached that the glorious expanse of water, backed by a mountain range, burst upon our view. The city itself was still concealed by the north-eastern continuation of the rim, which juts into the plain, dotted with houses and trees. Yün-nan Fu lies near the northern shore of the Lake; and, after descending the low rim, we followed the road westward for a short distance, then turned due north, and, after a couple of miles, struck the south-eastern corner of the wall. No escort met us; no attention was paid to us, beyond a demand for my card, as we entered the south gate.

CHAPTER IV.

THROUGH NORTH-EASTERN YÜN-NAN TO THE YANG-TSZE.

The city of Yün-nan Fu—P’u-êrh tea—Opium-smoking chair-bearers and personal care—Exposure of robbers’ heads—Chinese school—Rainbow superstition—Entertainment at Tung-ch’uan Fu—A successful ruse—Stopped by a mountain torrent—Lodged in a byre—On the banks of the Niu-lan River—The Chao-t’ung plain and its lakes—Stories of Lolo bloodshed—Down from the plain—Narrow escape of a porter—Back to Ssŭ-ch’uan—Descent of the Nan-kuang River—Down the Yang-tsze to Ch’ung-k’ing.

Yün-nan Fu is a walled city, over three miles in circuit, 6420 feet above the level of the sea and at a short distance from the north-eastern shore of the lake, with which it was formerly connected by a canal. The southern half of the square is thickly populated, while the northern half consists of swamp and vegetable gardens. The city was shorn of its ancient glory by the outbreak of the Mohammedan rebellion, which raged for years round it and in the northern part of the province. The old and extensive suburbs are gradually being rebuilt from their ruins. Outside the south gate (there are six gates) there is now a long street of depôts for the salt, which comes from the wells to the north-west. The city itself is kept decidedly clean; bullock carts daily go round and collect the garbage from the streets, which are fairly broad for a Chinese town. What strikes the traveller most, in passing through these streets thronged with well-dressed and evidently well-to-do foot-passengers, is the large admixture of non-Chinese features. Here Mohammedans, Chinese, Shans, and Lolos, and mixtures of these races, jostle each other in the market place and in the daily business of the world.

COURTESY OF MISSIONARIES.

During my two days’ stay in the city, I received every possible kindness at the hands of the members of the two missionary bodies at work there—Les Missions Etrangères de Paris and the China Inland Mission. At the handsome palace of the French Bishop, I met a Father from Ta-li Fu, who gave me such a glowing account of Western Yün-nan, that I at once made up my mind to visit that part of the province on a future occasion, a resolution which I was fortunately able to carry out.

The good Bishop handed me a letter which he had just received from Mr. Colquhoun, from P’u-êrh Fu, stating that his funds were all but exhausted, and requesting a loan to enable him to proceed from Ta-li, whither he was bound, to Bhamo. I at once arranged with the Bishop to despatch a messenger with sixty taels of silver; but Mr. Colquhoun succeeded in obtaining funds from the China Inland Mission at Ta-li, and, ere my messenger reached that city, he and his companion, Mr. Wahab, had left on their westward journey.

To speak of Yün-nan Fu without a reference to the famous tea, for which it is the entrepôt, would be a serious omission. P’u-êrh tea, so named from the department in which it is widely grown, is the leaf of the Camellia thea Link., and for purposes of transit is steamed and made up into cakes, which find their way to the remotest parts of the Empire. Much of the leaf, however, is brought to the city of P’u-êrh from the Shan States, beyond the southern frontier of Yün-nan. It varies in price, according to quality, from tenpence to one shilling and fivepence a pound; but the cost of overland transit is so great as to virtually exclude it from the foreign market.

The lake, known in books as the Tien Ch’ih, and colloquially as the K’un-ming—the name of the district in which the city of Yün-nan is situated—is a fine expanse of water, said to be seventy miles long, and in some places to attain a breadth of twenty miles. These figures are, however, very much exaggerated. The lake drains into the Yang-tsze, an artificial channel having been cut, to prevent flooding, from a point on its south-western shore to the river which flows past An-ning Chow, a city to the west of the provincial capital. Junks and passenger boats of fair size navigate the lake between the cities and villages that lie on and near its shores. In 1883 it was my own fate to be a passenger on its waters.

At Yün-nan Fu a number of trade routes converge and connect it with the Yang-tsze, Burmah, the Song-koi, and the West River; but I will not dwell upon them now. They will be found discussed at some length in Chapter XII., which is specially devoted to the trade of Western and South-Western China.

I had now reached the place which I had fixed upon as my farthest point, and, having attained the object of my journey, I resolved to strike the Yang-tsze at Hsü-chou Fu, following in the main the route traversed six years before by the Grosvenor Mission on its way to Yün-nan Fu to enquire into the death of Margary. With an au revoir to the city on the morning of the 31st of May, we began to retrace our steps to Yang-lin, where the Kuei-yang and Hsü-chou roads to Yün-nan Fu meet. For some days previous to our arrival in the provincial capital, rain had considerably interfered with our progress, nor, when we proceeded to return to Yang-lin, did the province belie its reputation.

A PRUDENT CHAIR-BEARER.

It was during one of these downpours that an incident occurred which deserves a passing notice. Several of my followers were opium smokers, and one of my bearers had contracted a great craving for the drug. He was somewhat disreputable in appearance, but a willing worker. His baggage consisted of the clothes on his back and a small bundle, containing his opium pipe and the necessary paraphernalia for smoking. I observed when leaving Yün-nan Fu that the bundle had assumed larger dimensions; but certain speculations which I had made as to its contents were soon proved to be erroneous and altogether wide of the mark.

A few miles to the west of Yang-lin, a halt was called for a rest and the cakes on a roadside stall were quickly bought up and devoured. Sitting apart on the edge of the stone road the opium smoker thus addressed another of my bearers:—“How is it that you are all eating and drinking, and I haven’t a single cash to follow your example?” The other put his thumb to his mouth and, pretending to inhale, pronounced the single word “Opium,” at which the smoker smiled and was silent. Next day we were suddenly overtaken by a sharp rainstorm, and, when the other bearers were searching for shelter, the smoker solemnly produced his bundle and, gravely undoing the cover, unfolded and donned a first-class waterproof coat which he had wisely purchased in the capital. The astonishment visible on their faces, and the look of triumph in which the smoker indulged, were a study. The latter, notwithstanding his misfortune, had more respect for his back than his belly.

An immense plain, beautifully irrigated, stretches north from Yang-lin; and, as we passed through it northwards on the 2nd of June, it was teeming with life. The numerous villages, nestling among trees which dot the plain, had sent forth their able-bodied men and women to pluck up the paddy shoots from the nurseries, make them into bundles, and carry them to the submerged rice-fields, where they were being planted out in rows. Truly a happy, sunny picture. Not cloudless, however; for what are those high upright posts with balance beams near their tops, which occur at somewhat regular intervals along the plain? They are intended for suspending cages containing the heads of highwaymen, who waylay travellers and traders and rob and murder without mercy. Nor were the cages all empty. Two ghastly heads adorned the entrance to the village, which sheltered us at the end of the first stage from Yang-lin.

In the northern part of the plain, which is stony and unsuitable for rice and which ultimately merges in the red-soiled uplands already so familiar in the west of Kuei-chow and the east of Yün-nan, the potato was growing abundantly between rows of withered poppy stems. Yellow wheat and barley were being plucked up by the roots, for not even the sickle was here in use. Patches of buckwheat and oats completed the cultivation. Much of the land, however, was covered with wild grass, on which herds of swine, goats, sheep, ponies, and oxen were feeding. The whole country, from the immediate north of Yang-lin to the southern edge of the large plain, wherein lies the prefectural city of Tung-ch’uan Fu, may be described as a series of valleys barred by red uplands, mountain ranges stretching away to the west to the Yang-tsze and the home of the Lolo. The road is frequently the bed of a mountain torrent, which has to be crossed and re-crossed many times a day.

INSECURITY AND DISTRUST.

The people along the route seemed to entertain the greatest distrust of us; small wonder, when robberies are of such frequent occurrence. They even refused us house-room for our meals, which had often to be spread in the shade of a pine tree. At one village we borrowed the public school-room, an act which, I fear, gave a half-holiday to the scholars who, five in number, divided their attention for a time between writing their characters and watching the frolics of my dog. The master himself disappeared, and the scholars were not slow to follow his example, each, however, preparatory to leaving, carefully depositing his books, paper, pens, and ink in his own basket hanging from a bamboo partition in the room. A sixth basket was for the discarded written characters.

It was just before entering this village that I was witness of a curious superstition. We were caught in a drizzle, and, as the shower clouds with a vivid rainbow approached us, my followers covered their mouths with their hats, fearful of the poisonous vapour which, they said are given forth by rainbows. I laughed at their superstition, and, as luck would have it, was seized, a few hundred yards beyond, with a sudden fit of vomiting. I received no sympathy, and my sickness gave strength to their theory.

The city of Tung-ch’uan lies five miles from the edge of the plain, down the west of which, through one of the most fertile fields of Western China, flows the I-li River on its way to join the Yang-tsze. The plain was one mass of green tints, from the light green of the paddy in the nurseries to the dark green of the more matured shoots in the fields. The town, which is nearly eight hundred feet above the Yün-nan Fu plain, is not at all imposing, consisting, as it does, of one main street; but the hills to the west impart to it its reputation of being one of the wealthiest prefectures of the province. They contain the most celebrated copper mines in the Empire.

A French Father, who resided here, welcomed me as if I had been a compatriot, and insisted on my spending the whole of the 8th of June in his company. He had a regular battery of rifles and fowling pieces, and turned out to be a keen sportsman. He had a stable of two splendid ponies, on whose backs we spent nearly the whole day careering through the Tung-ch’uan plain. None but those who have spent years in solitude in a strange land can realize what it is to meet a fellow European. China was entirely forgotten in the discussions of French and British politics, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I could tear myself away from his kind hospitality on the following morning. All honour to men of surpassing ability who give up their lives for heart-breaking work in China!

A SUCCESSFUL RUSE.

On entering the hills which bound the Tung-ch’uan plain on the north, and which were almost devoid of human habitations, we were overtaken by a rainstorm, which continued throughout the day, and compelled us to abandon the hope of reaching the end of the stage that night. The road was soon reduced to a mass of pulp, bordering yawning chasms, whose circumvention by chairs was a source of difficulty and delay. The roof of the room in which we huddled together, in the wretched hamlet of Pan-pien-ch’ing, leaked at every tile, and necessitated the erection of a tent with our india-rubber sheeting. My troubles were only beginning, however, for, the rain still continuing on the following morning, my men refused to stir. My appeal that they were daily nearing Ssŭ-ch’uan, and that they had just rested a whole day in Tung-ch’uan, moved them not; and, seeing that the limit of concessions for their convenience had been reached, I took up the small iron box containing my supply of silver, and, calling my dog, set out alone. Plodding through a shallow mountain torrent, which now occupied the valley, I proceeded until I was out of sight of the hamlet, when I sat down upon a rock to wait the issue of events. The ruse was thoroughly successful; in half an hour the whole caravan turned up in the sullenest of tempers.

As luck would have it, our difficulties were just beginning. The torrent was soon blocked by hills, its waters obliterated the high-road, and we had to take to the hills on the left before it could be regained. We had not proceeded a mile, after a late breakfast, when we found the road effectually cut off by a raging torrent thirty yards in breadth and reaching above the waist. A whole hour was wasted in trying to find a shallow crossing, but in vain. The village of “Natural Bridge” (what a mockery!) lay on the left bank, and we called in eight of its most able-bodied to strip and assist in carrying our chairs across.

The sensation of fording was not a pleasant one. Twelve men with hands joined shouldered my chair, which rocked about like a boat in a stormy sea, now up, now down, as this or that man was washed off his feet. One of my servant’s bearers was carried away for a distance of thirty yards, and was ultimately rescued more dead than alive by a cordon of men from the opposite bank. Several strings of cash which he had round his neck acted as an anchor to his head, and it was only when they disappeared in the current that he was able to regain his footing. Another who attempted to cross with the assistance of a pole had also to be dragged ashore.

CHINESE HOSPITALITY.

On a ridge five miles beyond is the hamlet of Liang-shui-ching, which, as the name implies, is provided with a splendid well of cold, clear water. Here the inhabitants had turned the middle of the road into a kitchen, where sundry messes were being cooked for hungry wayfarers. Sitting round a stove, presided over by a buxom young lady, my followers regained their good humour in recounting the adventures of the day; and, when a complaint was raised because salt was not forthcoming, the beauty laughingly told them that travellers by this route did not care for salt!

It is a trite but true saying, that misfortunes never come singly. Owing to the numerous delays that had occurred during the day, it was late in the afternoon before we reached the hamlet of Shan-hu-shu, where, notwithstanding its uninviting appearance, we found it necessary to put up for the night. There was no inn, and every room was already occupied by its legitimate owners. The quest seemed hopeless when I stepped into a mud hut of two rooms, one tenanted by a crowd of natives, the other by a couple of cows and a pig. After a considerable expenditure of argument and less money, we induced the owners to remove and fraternize with their cattle for the night, and hand over the byre for our accommodation. The pig was the only one who offered any serious objection; his gruntings over-night and attacks on the intervening door somewhat disturbed our slumbers, while sundry squeals told me that my men found his familiarities too pronounced.

Trade had now begun to assume formidable dimensions; hundreds of ponies, mules, and donkeys, laden with native cottons from the central provinces and salt from Ssŭ-ch’uan, were daily hurrying southwards, while P’u-êrh tea and lead kept us company. It was no great surprise to us, when crossing the cultivated hills to the north of Shan-hu-shu, to come upon carcases of beasts of burden that had succumbed to the hardships of the route. Strong as these little ponies are, there comes a time when they are tried beyond their strength by their merciless drivers, and fall down never to rise again.

CHAIN BRIDGE OVER THE NIU-LAN.

The delays that occurred during the first day north of Tung-ch’uan, threw our marches into utter confusion; instead of striking the Niu-lan River on the 11th June and resting for the night on its left bank, we were compelled by darkness to stop at the hamlet of Tu-kê-t’ang, where I occupied an underground mud chamber, certainly not an improvement on the byre of the previous night. This was our consolation after a march of thirty miles, begun at four o’clock in the morning and continued till dark. Part of the road was exceedingly precipitous, and had to be accomplished on all fours. Loud were the lamentations of my followers when we attained the ridge overlooking the Niu-lan River; the road zigzagged down a deep precipitous valley strewn with huge boulders, while opposite rose an equally steep range of mountains, which had to be overcome during the day. The Niu-lan rushed north-west, hurrying to the Yang-tsze between two steep mountain ranges, which are connected at the village of Chiang-ti, where we would fain have tarried for the day and gazed into the roaring torrent from the windows of a promising inn, by the chain bridge of “Eternal Peace.” Ten rows of iron rods linked together are built into twenty yards of solid masonry at either end of the bridge and into stone piers, one distant twelve yards from the Chiang-ti, the other twenty yards from the opposite shore, leaving a central span of thirty-five yards. Planks placed on the chains formed a roadway four yards in breadth, and slight iron supports were suspended on either side from a row of thick linked rods stretched over stone supports erected on the piers. Thankful were we for the rest-houses that dotted the opposite bank, which proved the steepest and most difficult ascent we had yet encountered; and grateful we were for the beverage compounded of water and brown sugar exposed to allay the thirst of weary wanderers. Talk of railways by this route—as well talk of railways to the moon! Both are equally feasible.

To compensate man and beast for their struggles on the banks of the Niu-lan, a spring of deliciously cold water gushes from the highest ridge that separates the river from the Chao-t’ung plain. It rises out of an extensive coal-field. Beyond the spring a glimpse of the plain, with several sheets of water, is obtained, and eagerly did we commence the descent, which is comparatively easy. The city of Chao-t’ung Fu, which is 6580 feet above the level of the sea, lies nearly twenty miles from the southern edge of the plain, which ultimately stretches westward and is bounded eight miles to the north of the city by low hills. Flourishing villages dotted the plain, and the city itself showed signs of being a great trade centre. Traffic was no longer confined to man and beast, for the level ground had called the cart into requisition. To reach the city with greater despatch we engaged a number of small skiffs and crossed a large lake—shallow, and, to judge from dykes appearing here and there, occupying former paddy land. These lakes are numerous, and well stocked with fish.

The hills to the north of the plain are inhabited chiefly by Lolos, who have not a very honourable reputation. Stories of bloodshed and robbery committed by them poured from the lips of the villagers who dwelt by the roadside, and an idea that I entertained of spending a day with this degenerate branch of the tribe had to be abandoned. There would appear to be some foundation for these roadside statements; villages, and even single residences, were provided with watch-towers and refuges, and ammunition in the shape of stones was piled on the battlements to resist attacks.

The descent from the Chao-t’ung plain commences in earnest thirty miles to the north of the city. In company with a caravan, consisting of one hundred ponies laden with P’u-êrh tea and tin, we zigzagged in a dense fog down the northern face of the plateau, over a stone road, rendered all but impassable by over-night rain. In many places it skirts deep chasms, down which mountain torrents were leaping and roaring. On the edge of one of these a carrier narrowly escaped destruction; he lost his footing, and was just in the act of falling over with his load, when I succeeded in grasping the end of his carrying pole and dragging him back to the pathway.

CITY OF TA-KUAN T’ING.

On the afternoon of the 15th of June, we entered the sub-prefectural city of Ta-kuan T’ing, which is barely 3000 feet below the plateau. The tinkling of many bells, issuing from the inns which we passed on the way to our hostel, announced that several caravans had already taken up their quarters for the night. These bells are fixed in rows on broad leather straps, which run over the necks and down the breasts of the pack animals. In some caravans, only the leader is provided with such a circlet. The head waters of the Hêng River, which we had struck soon after our steep descent, flow northwards to the west of the city; but, the current being very rapid and the bed strewn with boulders, navigation is out of the question. Another descent of 2500 feet had to be made before boat traffic commenced, the river meantime being considerably augmented by an affluent from the west.

The road, which was execrable, follows the banks of the river to the market-town of Lao-ya-t’an, or Lao-wa-t’an, which lies on the right bank, and is the point of junction of the two trade routes from Hsü-chou Fu, in Ssŭ-ch’uan, to Yün-nan Fu, by way of the Hêng and Nan-kuang Rivers, which enter the Yang-tsze, the one to the west and the other to the east of the former city, respectively. Lao-wa-t’an is entered over a fine suspension bridge, the road following for about sixty miles the left bank of the river through scenery of considerable grandeur, resembling at some spots, though on a less magnificent scale, the gorges of the mighty river it helps to swell. Four, instead of two, suspension chains divide the bridge into a like number of alley-ways, each of sufficient breadth to admit of the passage of a single chair only. As the Grosvenor Mission had followed the land route, by the banks of the Hêng River from the Yang-tsze to Lao-wa-t’an, I resolved to strike east, cross the Yün-nan-Ssŭ-ch’uan frontier and descend the Nan-kuang River. Only one range now lay between us and Ssŭ-ch’uan, and from the summit we looked north-east on range after range of mountains, which, happily for us, we had not to cross.

RETURN TO CH’UNG K’ING.

My men, who for the last few days had been unable to procure rice, and had subsisted for the most part on bean-curd, rejoiced to find themselves in a valley of their own province where paddy, maize, tobacco, hemp, and beans were well advanced, where silk was being reeled and tea-plantations abounded. A streamlet flows north-east down the valley, and following its course for two days, we found ourselves on the 24th of June in the village of Huang-shui-k’ou, where we soon engaged a long empty cargo boat; and, shipping our whole caravan, sped down the Nan-kuang River. On its upper course it is confined by rocky hills, some eight hundred feet in height, and little wooded, while huge boulders coop up its waters and cause numerous rapids, down which our craft, guided by stern and bow sweeps, dashed four and five feet at a bound. In its lower course the country opens out, and the boulders and rapids disappear. A bed of rocks, over which the river falls, obstructs navigation within a few hundred yards of its mouth, and we landed on the 25th at the market town of Nan-kuang on its left bank, whence the river derives its name. Had my followers known how to cheer they would have made the welkin ring, when, just beyond Nan-kuang, the mighty Yang-tsze in full flood burst upon us. For the present their work was done; and, instead of carrying, they were now to be carried back to their homes in Ch’ung-k’ing. Crossing in boats to Hsü-chou Fu, which lies on the north bank at the junction of the Chin-sha Chiang—the upper waters of the Yang-tsze—and the Min river, we at once proceeded to hire a large travelling boat, and at 1 P.M. the following day we were gliding eastwards to Ch’ung-k’ing, which we reached on the evening of the 28th of June after an absence of sixty-eight days.

CHAPTER V.

FROM CH’UNG-K’ING TO THE CAPITAL OF SSŬ-CH’UAN.

Fu-t’ou-kuan—The country and its products—Chinese New Year—Charcoal from bracken—Ramie fibre and grass-cloth—Down a tributary of the T’o—The T’o and its commercial importance—The salt wells of Tsŭ-liu-ching—Sugar and Safflower—The Chêng-tu plain—Beggars—The capital of Ssŭ-ch’uan.

In February, 1883, I found myself at liberty to carry out the resolution which I had made to visit Ta-li Fu and the west of Yün-nan—all that remained for me to do was to decide what route I should follow. Mr. Baber’s admirable description of that part of Western Ssŭ-ch’uan which he had explored, induced me to endeavour to penetrate Yün-nan through the valley of Chien-ch’ang, and accomplish the journey which Baron von Richthofen had attempted, but, owing to an unfortunate accident, had been compelled to relinquish. As a preliminary to the execution of this scheme, it was necessary to reach Chêng-tu, the capital of Ssŭ-ch’uan, and the present chapter will be devoted to a description of the products and industries of the country lying between Ch’ung-k’ing and that city.

My caravan was, owing to the length of the proposed journey, somewhat larger than on the previous expedition. There was one pack animal which, however, succumbed to the hardships of the route.

FU-T’OU KUAN.

The small walled town of Fu-t’ou-kuan, some four miles to the west of Ch’ung-k’ing, is perched on the sandstone shoulders of the peninsula which divides the Yang-tsze from its northern tributary, the Chia-ling. Midway, and near the entrance to the village of Hsin-p’ai-fang, is a large Mohammedan cemetery, sloping towards the left bank of the Great River. In Ch’ung-k’ing, the followers of the Prophet are reckoned by thousands, and it is to their presence that the foreign resident owes one or two of the daily luxuries—in more civilized parts of the world they would be called the necessities—of life. With the exception of a spacious temple, erected in honour of the Goddess of Sericulture, with extensive grounds crowded with mulberry trees, just inside the west gate, Fu-t’ou-kuan has little to boast of in the way of architecture; but outside the gate a number of fine memorial stone portals arch the roadway, which is also edged at short intervals with stone tablets recounting the virtues of deceased officials, and acts of filial affection.

To the west of Fu-t’ou-kuan the country is somewhat broken; low hills alternate with plains dotted with farm-houses, nestling amid clumps of bamboo—a proof that here at least there is security for life and property. Nor are villages and market-towns wanting. The latter frequently vie with walled cities in commercial importance. In the plains, wheat, beans, rape, poppy, and peas were growing luxuriantly, while many plots of paddy land were submerged in preparation for the summer sowing. The hill-sides were also covered with beans, which seem to thrive well on a scanty soil. The low, umbrageous wood-oil tree was likewise scattered thickly on the rocky ground. Beneath the huge, dark-green, spreading banyans by the road-side, houses and restaurants spring, mushroom-like, and invite the traveller to tarry for a moment and enjoy their cool shade. As pack animals are usually turned loose to forage for themselves, the peasantry, whose lands adjoin the high-road, have hit upon a novel plan to prevent their depredations. Wheat and beans were thickly sprinkled with feathers, which, as might naturally be supposed, are not a pleasant sauce.

For some days at the Chinese New Year, business of every description comes to an absolute stand-still; houses and shops are shut, and in semi-darkness the inmates eat, drink, and make merry. As we started from Ch’ung-k’ing on the fourth day of the first moon (February 11th), we found that the people were still bent on pleasure, and that dice and theatrical performances were dividing the attention of those who had escaped from their New Year’s imprisonment.

Although coal is found in abundance near the district city of Yung-ch’uan—some sixty miles to the south-west of Ch’ung-k’ing—I noticed in the streets large quantities of charcoal, prepared from the stems of bracken. These are placed in a pit and covered over, so as to prevent blazing after ignition.

CHINESE CLOTH MAKERS.

The district city of Jung-ch’ang Hsien lies on the left bank of a tributary of the T’o River, which enters the Yang-tsze at the city of Lu Chou. It is distant forty miles west by north from Yung-ch’uan, and is approached through the same broken hilly country. It is famous for its breed of pigs, and is noted as a centre for the manufacture of fans and grass-cloth. The bamboos, of which the framework of the fans is made, are carefully cultivated along the banks of the river, while the cloth is manufactured from Ramie fibre, Boehmeria nivea, grown extensively in the district. The Chinese, unlike the home manufacturers, have not yet been inflamed with the desire to possess machinery capable of separating the fibre, and at the same time preserving the silky gloss which adds so much to the beauty and value of the cloth. Here it is entirely hand labour. The stems are cut down in the fields and carried home for manipulation. The skin or bark is first removed from the stems by hand and the branches and leaves from the bark, which is steeped for a few minutes in water. The strips are then taken one by one by the operator, who is provided with a thick broad iron thumb ring on which a short blunt blade is fixed and a curved knife equally blunt, and passed rapidly between the two blades, which are held in the left hand. By this means the green or outer bark is removed and the inner white fibre remains. The latter is afterwards handed over to women, who shred and twist it into thread ready for weaving.

The process of removing the bark from the stem has reached a higher state of development in the seaboard provinces, and merits the attention of cultivators in other countries. In the province of Chê-kiang, where I am now writing, decortication is effected in the field. The workman grasps the plant between the finger and thumb of his left hand, about six inches above the ground, and drawing it slightly towards him, seizes it two inches or more higher up, between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. A smart forward push with the right at once causes a compound fracture of the stem; the forefinger of the right hand is inserted at the point of fracture and drawn up to the top of the plant, separating the bark on the left from the bark and broken stem on the right; the bark on the left is then drawn down and is easily detached at the root, the bark and stem on the right being treated in the same manner. The stem is removed with ease, and the branches and leaves give way when the strips of bark are passed through the right hand. By this means a much longer fibre is obtained, and the branches and leaves remain on the field to assist in manuring the second and third crops. Care must be taken not to twist the plant in giving the forward push; I spoiled at least a dozen stems before I succeeded in causing the necessary compound fracture. In Chê-kiang, a flat piece of wood takes the place of the blade on the thumb-ring, and the curved knife is supplanted by an instrument resembling a shoe-horn made of iron. The cloth, after it leaves the loom, has to undergo a considerable amount of bleaching, before it attains the beautiful white colour which it presents in the piece. It is of various qualities, and ranges from one pound to two shillings and sixpence per piece of forty-six Chinese feet long and eighteen inches broad.

Instead of crossing the handsome stone bridge of seven arches, the “Lion’s Bridge,” which spans the river to the west of the city, we took boat and dropped westward with the stream for a distance of five miles. The river frequently expands to a breadth of one hundred yards; but even in the short space it bore us, rocks project into it at two places from the left and right bank respectively, leaving only a very narrow channel just sufficient for one of these small boats to pass. A little above our landing place on the right bank, a stone bridge of thirty-eight arches runs across the river, rocks showing everywhere. The arches are very low—only one is available for boat traffic—and we slipped through with very little to spare between the roof of the arch and the tops of our chairs. Excellent coal in large quantities was being carried up river to Jung-ch’ang.

THE CITY OF LUNG-CH’ANG.

On the afternoon of the 15th of February we entered the city of Lung-ch’ang, which presented a picture of business both outside and inside its walls. It is also famed for its grass-cloth. It lies in the centre of a carboniferous region, about a hundred mines existing in the neighbourhood. Many of them, however, have suffered that fate which attaches to most mining industries in China: they have been flooded, and the workmen are not supplied with the necessary appliances called pumps.

The immense salt traffic, which we met going east, tempted us to leave the main road to the capital and pay a visit to the celebrated salt wells of Tzŭ-liu-ching, farther west. Two stages lay between us and the wells, and we spent the first night on the left bank of the T’o River, probably the busiest stream of its size in Western China. Rising to the north-east of the provincial capital, it flows through the great sugar region of the province, and to the south of the district city of Fu-shun it is joined by a tributary which connects it with the salt wells. In return for its salt and sugar, it absorbs enormous quantities of raw cotton and cotton cloth, so that there is one continuous stream of traffic on its waters. The sugar factories to the west of the river were indeed merry; the din that came from them resembled very much the music from an iron foundry, only louder.

On the following day we struck the left bank of the tributary, took boat for a short distance, and again landed on the left bank before ascending the low hill, on the slope of which the town of Tzŭ-liu-ching is built.

This great salt belt stretches west to the left bank of the Min River and south towards the Yang-tsze. In the Shê-hung district, a hundred miles to the north-west, salt beds are also found and worked; but it is from the former that the greater parts of the provinces of Ssŭ-ch’uan, Kuei-chow, and the north-east of Yün-nan are supplied. I spent a whole day in visiting the larger wells, which are situated inside the town, and a short description of one of the greatest industries of Western China cannot fail to be of some interest.

SALT WELLS.

When I had prevailed on the immense crowd that accompanied me on my round of sight-seeing, to leave an open space, so that I might be observed to greater advantage, and that I might catch a glimpse of what I had come so far to see, I found myself seated—a settle had been procured for me—beside a square stone embedded in the ground, with a central hole a few inches in diameter. From the hole there was issuing a hempen rope, about an inch thick, which, ascending, passed over a movable wheel fixed at the top of a staging some sixty feet high and bearing a striking resemblance to the shears at a dockyard. On leaving the shears, the rope descended and passed under another wheel fixed a few feet above ground, whence for the moment it escaped from our range of vision. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the top of a tube, from nine to ten inches in circumference, attached to the rope, made its appearance and was drawn up to within a foot of the wheel. Meantime a workman, stationed at the mouth of the wheel, had thrown a rope round the tube, which was composed of the stems of a number of bamboos fixed together, and, immediately the lower end appeared, he drew it to one side and over a wooden reservoir built into the ground. Embracing the tube with his left arm, he plunged an iron rod which he held in his right hand into the bottom, and raising a leather valve, which was there adjusted, allowed the contents, consisting of black, dirty-looking water, to escape into the reservoir. This was the brine. The tube was again placed over the well, and descended with great rapidity. Whence the motive power that raised the brine? Following the rope after it left the second wheel, I found that it entered a large shed, the floor of which was several feet underground. In the centre of the building was an enormous bamboo wheel or drum, twelve feet in height and sixty in circumference, placed on a vertical axis, to which the rope was attached six feet from the ground. As I entered, four huge water-buffaloes were being harnessed, at equal distances, to the circumference of the drum; each buffalo had a driver, whose duty it seemed to be to belabour the animal with a short, stout hempen rope to induce it to break into a trot. As the drum revolved, the rope coiled round it at a sufficient height not to impede the buffaloes. For a quarter of an hour, that is, until the tube had been again raised, this unmerciful beating went on, when the poor beasts, exhausted and white with froth, were unharnessed and led back to their stable, whence a fresh relay was brought. When the animals were unharnessed and the signal given, the drum reversed with great velocity, creating a violent wind all round. Forty animals were employed at this well, and each relay raised the brine about ten times every twenty-four hours. They are specially selected for the work, and cost from forty to fifty taels apiece. The specimens I saw were fat and in excellent condition; but, although they are carefully fed and attended to—each costing three hundred cash a day—their staying power does not exceed five years. Many even fail within the first year; nor is this to be wondered at, for the make of the animal fits it for a slow plodding life only.

PROCESS OF EVAPORATION.

Retracing my steps to the large reservoir by the well, I found that the brine was being carried off in bamboo pipes laid down between it and smaller wooden reservoirs in the evaporating sheds, which I next visited. On the floors of the latter, rows of brick furnaces with round openings at the tops were built. On each furnace rested a round, shallow, iron pan, about four feet in diameter, filled with brine conducted in open bamboo pipes from the reservoirs, which occupy one side of each shed. Where was the fuel? Under each pan was a flame blazing from a bamboo tube coated with lime and fitted with an iron burner, while all round flames burst from smaller upright tubes and lighted the sheds, for there is no cessation, night or day, in the work of evaporation. I was next conducted to the “fire-well” whence the fuel is procured. It was quite close to the brine well, and was carefully built over, bamboo tubes covered with lime to prevent escape ramifying from the cap covering the mouth to the evaporating sheds. There can be little doubt that the “fire wells,” which are nearly all situated within the town, contain petroleum from which the vapour or gas arising supplies the natural fuel. They have, however, never been worked for the oil. The stench which permeates the whole town reminds one forcibly of a gasworks, but the gas has not, as in some parts of Ohio, been utilized to light the streets. All the wells, which are worked by private companies, are now under Government control, and there is an office established at Tzŭ-liu-ching through which all salt transactions are carried on. The actual cost price of the salt is thirteen to fourteen cash a catty, but the Government manages to extract from buyers twenty-two to twenty-three cash.

THE WORKING OF THE SALT WELLS.

The salt is of two kinds—pan or lump, and granular salt. The former is from two to three inches in thickness, and is of the same shape and size as the evaporating pans. In preparing the latter, bean flour is used to give it a whiter appearance. The work of evaporation occupies from two to five days, according to the strength of the gas-flame. As the salt wells number over a thousand, and the “fire wells” only about a score, much of the brine is carried into the town for evaporation. Pans are leased by the year, the privilege costing about forty taels each. A contractor supplies the pans, which weigh 1600 lbs. apiece, for from thirty to forty taels a year each—the old pans, which are changed about once a fortnight, being the property of the contractor. Brine is found at depths varying from 700 to over 2000 feet, and from a dirty yellow in the shallower, becomes a deep black in the deepest wells. Twice as much salt is evaporated from the black as from the yellow brine—the deeper the well the stronger the solution. As the region in which the wells are situated is of sandstone formation, the difficulties of boring to these great depths, even with primitive machinery, are not very great. A bamboo lever is erected over the spot where the operations are to be carried on; an iron jumper over one hundred pounds in weight is attached by a bamboo rope to the thin end of the lever; on both sides of the thicker end, scaffoldings with plankways are built; several men jump simultaneously from the planking on one side to the planking on the other, using the lever as a stepping stone; and the jumper is raised, released, and falls crushing the stone, a rotary motion being imparted to the weight by a man who stands by the mouth of the well, and twists the bamboo rope as the lever is about to drop. The rope is lengthened as required by adding strips of split bamboo. I have heard doubts expressed as to the depths of these wells; but the figures given are unimpeachable. The well which I visited was over 2000 feet in depth, and I arrived at this result by a very simple calculation. The drum was sixty feet in circumference, and thirty-four coils of rope were wound up before the tube reached the mouth of the well. In boring in the vicinity of the town, at least, it is impossible to predict whether petroleum or brine will be struck; but as both are valuable, the result is always satisfactory.

The workmen presented a very worn and unhealthy appearance, and, to judge from the alarming number of beggars in the town, life at the wells must be very trying and short. Their wages range from 1200 to 1300 cash per month, with board—not a large sum for labour amid noxious gases which permeate the whole place.

The history of this great industry is lost in antiquity; but salt is said to have been worked at Tzŭ-liu-ching as early as the Minor Han Dynasty, which was established in Ssŭ-ch’uan, A.D. 221-263.

We had found the inns on the main road comparatively comfortable; on the branch road to Tzŭ-liu-ching we were confronted with wretched dens specially intended for the accommodation of salt carriers. A bed-room is easily described. A trestle framework, two feet high, ran the length of the narrow cell; on the top was spread a straw mattress, an inch and a half thick, covered with a rush mat. During the day the bedding, which consisted of a long bag padded with cotton, was stowed in the office, and was not issued till payment of the few cash necessary to ensure a night’s lodging.

Daylight of the 19th of February found us marching northwards to regain the high-road to the provincial capital. On leaving the salt area the road winds round low hills terraced and cultivated, each terrace rising above the other and faced by a wall of dark, bare sandstone. So much did they resemble circular forts, that one felt inclined to look for the embrasures and guns. These rocks were, however, fast crumbling into soil, their colour being easily distinguishable in the adjacent fields amid the beans and peas springing up from the old cane-brakes, and the rape and wheat which occupied the rest of the arable land. Farther north the yellow soil showed that hills had been entirely disintegrated by the weather, assisted by the hoe. In other places the hills were partly clad with stunted pines, while clumps of bamboo and an occasional pumelo and banyan were to be seen. The poppy was not at all prominent—it prefers a heavier soil than sandstone. The 20th of February broke dull, and by noon, when we struck the right bank of the T’o River, opposite the city of Tzŭ Chou, the day had fairly broken down; and on a vote being taken whether we should proceed or spend the afternoon and night within the walls, my followers to a man—just as I expected—preferred the latter course. The river was of no great depth: a bamboo proved sufficient to guide the movements of the small boats in which we were ferried across.

SUGAR AND SAFFLOWER.

Tzŭ Chou is an inviting city; it possesses broad streets of large, prosperous-looking shops, and its numerous blue-brick houses give it an air of substantiality. The district in which it is situated is a great producer of sugar; while the soil, being light and sandy, is likewise favourable to the growth of the ground-nut, Arachis hypogæa L., whence a sweet cooking-oil is extracted. Coal is also found in the immediate hills. The distance from this city to the provincial capital is reckoned as four stages; but, although we succeeded in accomplishing the first without mishap, rain and snow compelled us to distribute the remainder over four days. Beyond the weather, no other difficulty presented itself. The sandstone country extends a little to the north of the district city of Tz’ŭ-yang Hsien, which, like Tzŭ Chou, stands on the right bank of the T’o River, whose course the high-road follows in the main. Bare, red hills then put in an appearance, and cultivation, except at their bases, stops. This belt of hills extends for twenty-five miles, when it gives place to a long, wide plain—the plain of Chien Chou—famous for its opium. It is interesting to watch the effect which one foreign industry has had on this remote spot. Previous to the introduction of aniline dyes into China, the department of Chien Chou was widely famed for its safflower, Carthamus tinctorius L., which, with that grown within the Shun-ching prefecture, not only sufficed to meet the wants of the province, but was annually sent eastward in large quantities. All is now changed. Safflower has been supplanted by “Pure Soluble Scarlet” in bottle, and the plain of Chien Chou has been converted into a poppy garden. The plant is still cultivated, but in very small quantities and almost entirely for local use. The plain, which was dotted with farm-houses and homesteads peeping out from bamboos and cypresses, runs due north and south. In the north lies the city of Chien Chou, the approach to which is marked by three pagodas, one of them thirteen storeys high. It occupies the right bank of the river, which is joined to the immediate north of the city by a tributary from the west. Crossing the latter by a five-arched stone bridge, we followed the main river through orange groves and copses of bamboo and cypress, which would have met with admiration but for a low thermometer, a piercing north wind, and a drenching rain. A few salt wells to the north of the city were being worked, charcoal being the fuel used in evaporation.

A STARTLING CONTRAST.

Leaving the river we struck west by north through the belt of low hills which separates the Chien Chou and Ch’êng-tu plains. These hills are rocky and little cultivated, the thin poor soil not holding out that inducement which even a Chinese expects for his labour. Snow was falling thickly when we reached the rim of the immense plain—the plain par excellence of the province of Ssŭ-ch’uan—and the imperfect glimpses which we caught through the snow-flakes revealed flooded paddy-fields and the ordinary winter crops, the most prominent of which was the poppy. Over fifteen miles still separated us from the eastern wall of the city, but we were fated, before reaching this centre of wealth and luxury, to be reminded that riches and poverty always go hand in hand. Under a memorial archway near the entrance of one of the market-towns in the plain, lay a beggar stark and stiff. The yard of matting, which was the only clothing he possessed and which covered his loins, had proved insufficient to ward off the chill hand of death. A few yards off sat some companions, listless shivering wretches, with faces pinched and worn, outcasts from their kind. Hundreds of beggars crowded the eastern suburb of the city, and it was with difficulty that we pushed our way through the mass of rags and dirt that held the bridge, which spans the stream flowing southwards under the eastern wall. They seemed to have just returned from the public soup-kitchens, which open in the large towns of China during winter, and dole out to the most necessitous enough to keep them from actual starvation. We had no sooner settled down in a comfortless inn than the underlings of the various officials came to prey upon us. They came laden with offers of assistance; they departed, each with a handful of cash, satisfied that they had done their duty. We saw none of them again—the key to peace and quietude was cheap at the price.

Ch’êng-tu, the capital of the largest and probably the richest province in the Empire, is a splendid city, fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, enclosed by an excellent wall about twelve miles in circumference. It is the seat of a Viceroy, or Governor-General, whose jurisdiction extends over the one province only. With the exception of Chihli, it is the only province in China which is thus honoured. Of the other sixteen, each is entrusted to the care of a Governor; but with the exception of Shantung, which has no superintending Viceroy, and of the three Provinces of Kiangsu, Kiangsé, and Anhui, which are under one Viceroy, they are divided into groups of two, with a Viceroy over each group. The city is divided into two parts, the quarter occupied by the Tartar garrison and their families, and the Chinese or commercial quarter. It is without exception the finest city I have seen in China; Peking and Canton will not bear comparison with it. The streets in the Chinese quarter are fairly broad, paved with stone, and slope gently to either side. They were clean and in excellent repair. During my two days’ sojourn I traversed many of the streets, and, notwithstanding the fact that it rained heavily the whole time, they were crowded with moving masses of bustling, gaily-dressed, well-to-do people. Chairs with their passengers and ponies with their riders were everywhere on the move. But the prettiest sight of all was the signboards. The reader must bear in mind that these are not placed horizontally over the shop doors as in Europe; they hang vertically from iron bars projecting from the walls. In Ch’êng-tu they are one mass of gold and colour, decorating the streets and proclaiming, at the same time, the names of the shops—not the names of the owners—and the wares on sale. It may be that the unfortunate weather prevented me from seeing anything prepossessing or attractive in the Tartar quarter. Here the streets were broad, unpaved, and muddy; the people, especially the women, were badly, even slovenly, dressed; everything announced the presence of parasites battening on Government pay, without affording any adequate return. Much of the land in this quarter, which is thickly wooded, is devoted to gardens; but I should question whether these slip-shod, down-at-heel, lazy-looking Tartars possessed the energy to grow sufficient vegetables to supplement their government rice.

Ch’êng-tu derives considerable importance from being the meeting point of the great high-roads from the Eastern and Northern provinces, from Yün-nan and Tibet, and it is undoubtedly the place whence the latter may most easily be entered from the Chinese side.

A FRESH START MEDITATED.

My aim was now to reach Ta-li Fu, in Western Yün-nan, by way of Ya-chou Fu, the valley of Chien-ch’ang or Ning-yuan, and Yung-pei T’ing. In undertaking a long and arduous journey such as this, it might have been more advisable to take boat to Chia-ting on the Min River, or even as far as Ch’êng-tu, and then start afresh; but in that case I would have missed one of the most interesting sights and industries of the province—the salt wells of Tzŭ-liu-ching. My men grumbled loudly because I declined to stay longer than two days in Ch’êng-tu. Finding, however, that I was inexorable, they gave in, and on the morning of the 28th of February, we were all ready to penetrate the wilds and backwoods of Western China.

CHAPTER VI.

THROUGH LOLODOM AND THE VALLEY OF CHIEN-CH’ANG.

A Tibetan criminal in a cage—The armed ruffians of Chiung Chou—A floating bamboo bridge—Brick tea for Tibet—Fraternizing with Tibetan pilgrims on the summit of the Flying Dragon Pass—Chinese originality—Over the Ta Hsiang Ling Pass—A non-Chinese race—Across the Ta-tu River under Sifan protection—In the country of the Lolos—Lolo language—Sifan language—Asbestos cloth—A dangerous country—Lolo rogues—Over the Hsiao Hsiang Ling Pass—Lolo women—The valley of Chien-ch’ang—Ning-yuan Fu.

Leaving the city by the south gate and crossing the bridge which spans the river flowing under the wall, we proceeded south-west through the great plain of Ch’êng-tu. Here there is a perfect network of limpid streams and irrigating canals rushing swiftly southwards, and fitted with sluices to ensure the flooding of the plots which in summer and autumn form one vast rice-field. As might be expected, this water-power is not allowed to run to waste; tiny mills for hulling rice and grinding wheat were to be seen on the banks of many of the streamlets. Clumps of bamboo and plantations of fir encircled the farm-houses, and a tree called by the Chinese ching-mu—probably a species of beech—grew extensively along the narrow waterways. It is a tree of rapid growth; it is allowed three years to develop, when it is cut down for firewood and supplanted by a young sapling. The primitive Chinese barrow was much in use in the plain for passenger and other traffic, nor was the squeaking of the wheel absent.

A CAGED CRIMINAL.

To the south of the small district city of Shuang-liu, we met a party of Tibetans clad in their long, reddish, woollen gowns. They were on foot, but each was leading his pony by the bridle. A few hundred yards behind them was a large, wooden, barred cage, slung on a couple of carrying-poles supported by a pair of bearers. In the chair sat an individual heavily chained, and clothed in even a more pronounced red than his guards. Although I was unable to get at the details of the case, beyond the apparent fact that the gentleman in irons was a criminal being escorted to Ch’êng-tu, yet the method of conveyance told me that he was a criminal of no ordinary type.

Cotton spinning and weaving and the manufacture of looms and iron pans were the chief industries of the plain. At many of the country villages the raw cotton, which comes by water from the central provinces, was being handed to the women, who brought in exchange yarn and cotton cloth of their own spinning and weaving.

Before entering the district city of Hsin-ching, which lies about fifteen miles south by west of Shuang-liu, we had to cross three branches of a river, a tributary of the Min, by wooden bridges of somewhat novel construction. Stones in bamboo baskets were piled on both banks of the river, and on these the ends of the bridges rested. On the stages supporting the floors, similar baskets of stones were suspended, to keep them from being washed away by the rapid current. Pigs’ bristles, which, the western farmer will be somewhat surprised to learn, are highly prized as manure, formed an important item of the trade seen on the plain.

From Hsin-ching the road runs west over a fine level tract of country as far as the city of Chiung Chou. I must confess that I felt considerable anxiety in approaching this place. Baron von Richthofen has drawn a very dark picture of it. He says:—“All the men are armed with long knives and use them frequently in their rows. I have passed few cities in China in which I have suffered so much molestation from the people as I did there; and travellers should avoid making night quarters there, as it was my lot to do. The city is large and overcrowded with people. They are badly dressed, and have repulsive features.”

It was with the view of ascertaining whether the morals of the people of Chiung Chou had improved since the Baron’s visit, and to impress upon the inhabitants, if necessary, the words of their sage Confucius, who preached “How pleasant a thing it is to be able to attract strangers from afar,” that I resolved to spend the night of the 1st of March within the walls. I was quite prepared to be greeted by a population of armed ruffians; but, more fortunate than the Baron, I was agreeably disappointed. The people were not more curious than in other towns; and, as for knives, I failed to see any except in the hands of innocent-looking butchers. My writer, however, declared that he saw one young fellow with a knife, but he explained that only the young blades carry such dangerous weapons. I did not observe any one particularly well dressed or good looking, nor, on the other hand, did I see any one with repulsive features. There were beggars and dirt as a matter of course. What I did specially notice, however, was that the place had a very sleepy atmosphere; the whole street of shops, which strikes the main street at right angles and leads to the south gate, remained closed as we left the city early next morning.

CELESTIAL MEDICINES.

Chiung Chou lies on the south-western edge of the Ch’êng-tu plain. A fine stone bridge of fifteen arches spans the river—the Nan Ho—which flows eastwards to the south of the city. It is two hundred and fifty yards long and twenty-four feet broad; at either end there is a stone archway, and on the centre stands a pavilion, whence we caught a glimpse of snow-clad mountains to the west. The piers of the bridge are heavily buttressed. To the south of the river low uplands, well covered with pine, succeed the plain, and stretch with two breaks of valleys, wherein lie the market-town of Pai-chang-ch’ang, or Pai-chang-yi, and the district city of Ming-shan, respectively, as far as the left bank of the Ya Ho. In the Pai-chang valley a stream flows north-east to join a larger affluent of the Min River. Here we met a number of carriers with medicines from Yün-nan. The Chinese pharmacopœia is very comprehensive; tigers’ bones and deer’s horns are well-known celestial remedies, but dried armadillo skins as a drug had hitherto escaped our ken. Bundles of rush wicks—the pith of the Juncus effusus L.—were also going north in large quantities from the Ming-shan district. The road west of Ch’êng-tu was for the most part unpaved, but to the south of Chiung Chou boulders from the bed of the Nan Ho were laid in glorious disorder on the pathway. Even for the Chinese straw sandal they proved impracticable, and one of my bearers slipped and fell forward on his carrying pole, one of the brass spikes of which pierced his temple. Now, thought I, had the time arrived to display my store of foreign medicines, and I was looking forward to the effect which an application of Friar’s Balsam would have on the patient and his comrades, when there was a sudden call for tobacco. My pleadings to be allowed to treat the case were in vain—a handful of cut tobacco was placed over the wound, and all the assistance I was permitted to give was the loan of my handkerchief to bind the head and keep the narcotic in position.

From the low, rising ground to the west of Pai-chang-ch’ang we obtained a good view of the country beyond; dark hills with a snow-clad range in their rear lay before us. The white foamy crest of a huge billow breaking on a darker sea would fairly represent the picture. The Chin-chi pass, two thousand feet above the sea, divides the valley in which Ming-shan is situated from the valley of the Ya Ho. The cultivated terraces on the hill sides which bound the latter were built up with rounded stones and baskets of shingle lying by the left bank indicated that the valley is liable to inundation. We struck the river, which flows east, five miles from Ya-chou Fu, the city on the right bank from which it derives its name. Crossing a tributary by a wooden bridge of seven arches, we were soon face to face with the main river, which we passed over by a floating bridge, the first of its kind I had seen in China. High cones of stones in baskets were piled on both banks, and round these a huge cable of woven split bamboo was wound; bundles of bamboos firmly tied together, about a foot apart, floated on the surface of the water, each bundle being securely fastened to the cable at its up-river end; planks were spread on the bundles to form a roadway; and rails of bamboo ran along both sides of the plankway. The city, which is picturesquely situated on rising ground, has broad streets and possessed, what was indeed a luxury to us, a good inn. It was altogether too tempting, and I determined to take a day’s rest, and make some enquiries as to the trade in brick tea, of which it is the centre.

BRICK TEA FOR TIBET.

Within and on the borders of the prefecture of Ya-chou, all the brick tea sent to Tibet is prepared. The tea-growing districts, in their order of production, are Jung-ching, Ya-an, and Ti’en-ch’üan Chou. Chiung Chou produces least. On the Mêng-shan Hills, which lie within the Ming-shan district, a tea is grown exclusively for use in the Imperial Palace, and is brought to Ya-chou for transmission to Peking. The estimated total value of the tea grown within the prefecture is one million taels, while the duties collected were given as forty thousand taels. The best tea is picked by hand in the second moon; the coarse tea is picked, or rather cut—a knife is used for the purpose—during the third moon, when leaves and twigs are indiscriminately collected. The growers sell to the tea hongs, fine leaf at from four to five taels per picul (133⅓ lbs.), coarse leaf at about 1·8 taels for the same quantity. Three qualities of tea are prepared, known respectively as “Ku yü,” “Mao chien,” and “Sui fang,” the selling price being two, one and a half, and one mace per catty. The leaf is steamed, and made up into long, narrow, flat packages, having an inner casing of banana leaf, and an outer casing of matting. A package of the finer tea weighs eighteen catties, or twenty-four pounds, while a package of the coarser tea frequently weighs only ten catties, or thirteen and a third pounds. The standard of sale at Ya-chou is the sum of fifty taels, the number of packages that can be bought for this sum varying according to the state of the market.

The total value of the tea trade with Tibet amounts in round numbers to between £150,000 and £200,000. All this tea is carried on the backs of porters, piled on a wooden framework which curves forward over the head, and is thus conveyed from Ya-chou to the town of Ta-chien-lu, near the Tibetan frontier, the journey usually occupying fifteen days. The number of packages in a load varies, of course, according to the quality of the tea. I have counted as many as fourteen packages, but the average load contained from eight to nine. The freight per package between the two places was said to be three hundred cash, but as loads varied as to the number of packages or bricks, and the bricks themselves as to weight, there must be some more satisfactory method of calculation in making payment. Like the salt carriers in Kuei-chow, these porters, whom we counted by hundreds daily to the south of Ya-chou, were wanting in leg, nothing beyond an ordinary development being observable. During their arduous mountain journey they rest frequently and long.

This tea differs altogether from the brick tea prepared in the Russian tea hongs at Hankow. The latter is manufactured from the dust and broken leaf of fine teas into hard, solid bricks, or into thin, ridged cakes, an infusion of which is exceedingly palatable. The Tibetans, on the other hand, eat the leaves churned up with butter, not even a twig being lost.

But the products of the prefecture are not confined to tea; two varieties of drugs are largely exported. They are called Hou p’o and Huang lien. The former is the bark of Magnolia hypoleuca, S. et Z, and the latter consists of the rhizomes of Coptis teeta Wall. The bark of the wild Magnolia being thicker, is preferred to the bark of the cultivated tree and fetches a much higher price. Coal and iron are also mined and worked.

THE FLYING DRAGON PASS.

We spent the greater part of the 5th of March struggling in a dense mist along the right bank of a small tributary of the Ya Ho. A pass, called the “Flying Dragon,” 3580 feet above the sea, lies between this and a larger tributary of the same river. A long pull over a frightful road brought us to the summit, where we sat down and made friends with a number of Tibetans of both sexes, who were engaged in a pilgrimage to the sacred mountains of Western China. The women were sturdy and good-looking, gaily ornamented with ear-rings and brooches, and had none of that lifelessness and insipidity which characterize their almond-eyed sisters. No mock-modesty debarred them from chaffing and laughing at my European features and dress. Up the west side of the pass scrambled about twenty ponies and mules, panting and blowing; not without sufficient cause, for they were carrying heavy loads of copper from Ning-yuan, and, from Yün-nan, the bark of a species of Rhamnus, which is used for making a green dye.

Are the Chinese wanting in the faculty of invention? It is well known that they will make an exact copy of any pattern that may be supplied to them. A tailor has been known to produce a new coat duly patched to match the exemplar; but the ability of the race to give an original idea to the world has been hotly disputed. I think the water-wheels of Kuei-chow, which I have described in a previous chapter, are novel and ingenious, and south of Ya-chou I saw the water-wheel turned to two skilful and, at the same time, practical uses. A part of the horizontal axle of the wheel was removed, and an iron elbow inserted; to the elbow a long iron rod was attached by an eye; to the lower end of the rod was fixed a polisher, which, as the wheel revolved, was drawn backwards and forwards over the surface of a stone pillar being prepared for building purposes. On exactly the same principle, except that the axle of the wheel was vertical instead of horizontal, the rod was made to blow a blacksmith’s bellows.

TRUTH AT A DISCOUNT.

Descending from the pass, we took up our head-quarters for the night on the right bank of the Jung-ching River, as this tributary of the Ya Ho is called. Great excitement now began to manifest itself among my followers. We were only a day’s journey from the foot of the Ta Hsiang Ling Pass, and carriers from Yün-nan, who came to our inn, were cramming them with the difficulties that had to be surmounted. Snow, so they said, was lying deep on the passes, and they had only just managed to get through with their lives. Chinese statements have invariably to be heavily discounted, and the problem as to how far a Chinese believes his most intimate friend has been present with me for many years, and still remains unsolved. Instead of following the hill road along the right bank of the river to the city of Jung-ching, we crossed to the left bank by a ferry a few miles from our night’s quarters, and traversed a plain well watered and cultivated. We saw one or two villages on the plain, but they were miserable places, and scarcely a soul was visible as we passed through them. Recrossing the stream by a plank bridge, we soon caught sight of the low stone walls of the city. The universal clanging of the blacksmith’s anvil, loudly proclaimed the local industry. Coal and iron are both found in the neighbourhood, and agricultural implements, cooking pans, and crampoons were being hammered into shape. South of Jung-ching the valley contracts, frequently leaving room for the bed of the stream only, and the hills are more precipitous, rocky, and uncultivated. They were not bare, however, for the tea-tree was everywhere prominent.

The village of Huang-ni-p’u lies 1400 feet above the city of Jung-ching, and 5640 feet under the summit of the Ta Hsiang Ling, which was clad with snow. When we awoke on the morning of the 7th of March, we found the whole mountain enveloped in a thick mist, which became denser as we ascended. When we reached the Hsiao Kuan, or Lower Pass (4800 feet), the snow lay thick by the roadside; but all around was buried in white gloom. Huge icicles hung from rocks projecting over the rugged path, and we frequently heard their crashing as they fell, amid the din of roaring torrents, into the depths below. As we ascended, the snow became deeper, increasing from two to three inches above the Lower Pass to a couple of feet. The pathway, which skirts the edges of ravines and precipices, was one continuous mass of slush, snow, and ice—higher up, dry and crisp; and, starting from Huang-ni-p’u at half-past six in the morning, we stood on the summit (9366 feet) at half-past two in the afternoon, having indulged in two short intervals of rest. A stiff, north wind was blowing over the ridge, and I overheard one of the escort duly warning my followers that shouting on the summit would most certainly provoke a storm. For a time not a sound but that of our own footfalls on the crisp snow broke the stillness of the gloomy scene. It became monotonous, and, when I took to snowballing my dog in sheer desperation, my laughter and his joyous barking made them hurry down the southern face of the Pass.

On leaving the clouds, we looked down into a plain shut in by lofty ranges and broken by spurs bounding ravines washed out by mountain torrents. On a plateau in the plain, stands the district city of Ch’ing-ch’i Hsien, nearly four thousand feet below the summit of the Ta Hsiang Ling. Down the plain, which runs almost due north and south, flows a stream, nurtured by the melting snows on the surrounding peaks. The city is of no great size; but it is exceedingly interesting, as being the junction where the main high-road from Tibet to China and the road from Yün-nan by the Chien-ch’ang valley meet. Here we parted with the brick-tea carriers, sorry that it was not our fortune to accompany them to Ta-chien-lu, and attempt the country beyond that famous border town. From Ch’ing-ch’i the road goes south, descending to the bases of the precipitous mountain ranges hemming in a valley, which expands and contracts, and is plentifully strewn with stones and pebbles. Fifteen miles to the south of the city, the road suddenly descends about two hundred feet down into a wider valley. Far below us, we could see the hamlet of Lung-tung, encircled by plots of yellow rape and green wheat and poppy—a real oasis in the white stony valley. This descent leads not only to a new country, but to a new race.

A NON-CHINESE RACE.

At Lung-tung I noticed a marked difference in the features of the people, especially the women. The faces were sharper and more pointed than the ordinary Chinese type, while the foreheads were exceedingly prominent. There was an undoubted mixture of foreign, probably Sifan, blood. It is a peculiarity of all these non-Chinese races that the women are the last to abandon their national dress, and they cling with tenacity to profuse decoration. The women of Lung-tung backed up their facial distinction with a lavish display of silver ornaments.

For some distance south of the hamlet there was no attempt at cultivation in the stony wilderness; but gradually we found signs of stones having been collected, patches of land dyked, and rivulets diverted for irrigation purposes. Watercress was growing wild in the limpid water. Trees, although not very numerous, were not wanting; the mulberry, orange, red-date, and pear were to be seen. The orange was a tall tree, bearing a small round fruit with a thick wrinkled skin, which reminded me forcibly of a miniature “Buddha’s Hand”—Citrus sacrodactylus. Cotton in small quantities was also growing in this valley. Many of the houses were roofed with thin boards weighted with stones, instead of the usual Chinese tiles, and the graves were covered with mounds of rounded stones carefully whitewashed.

The garrison town of Fu-lin, whence a bridle-path leads over the mountains to Ta-chien-lu, lies at no great distance from the left bank of the Ta-tu River, the southern boundary of the valley. In the immediate neighbourhood of the town were a few cultivated patches; but agriculture, to judge from the precautions taken against inundation from the waters of the Liu-sha, which was hurrying down the valley to join the Ta-tu, would appear to be carried on under difficulties. A line of white shingle, running east and west, backed by rising ground, was the only visible indication of the presence of a watercourse, and it was only on reaching the miserable village of Wa-wa, built on a sandbank held together by bushes of luxuriant cactus, that we were able to espy the green waters of the Ta-tu rushing violently eastward in its pebbly bed, to be quickly lost in a gap in the mountains to the south-east. Several forks, into which the river is divided, unite to the west of Wa-wa.

AN EXCITING SCENE.

Descending to the ferry, we found ourselves face to face with a pure non-Chinese race. The boatmen, who were tall—one was over six feet—wiry fellows, with level grey eyes, at once fraternized with me and took me under their protection. They were Sifans, and spoke Chinese with a decidedly foreign accent. One of them, with a fearlessness impossible in a Chinese, asked me a few questions in a most respectful manner, and answered with readiness and evident pleasure the queries I put to him regarding the river. To a random question as to its breadth, a Chinese by my side at once answered over a hundred ch’ang, or one thousand Chinese feet, but my protector quietly rebuked him, remarking that one should not answer such a question off-hand, and, after some reflection, said the river was six hundred feet broad. I estimated the breadth at nearly two hundred yards; but it was difficult to fix distances with any accuracy in the presence of mountains which threw everything else into insignificance. The Sifans smiled when I tried to ascertain the depth by plunging a bamboo over the side of the boat in mid river.

Owing to numerous falls and rapids, only rafts can be navigated the entire distance to Chia-ting Fu, where the Ta-tu, after its junction with the Ya Ho, enters the Min. Once a year there is a busy scene on the banks of the Ta-tu River. In the end of April, thousands of carriers have to cross the river at this very spot, with their precious loads of white wax insects from the valley of Chien-ch’ang, on their way to the prefecture of Chia-ting. As delay is injurious to their living freight, they haste and race to be first at the ferry. Crossing the Ta-tu as we did on the 9th of March, we were too early to witness the flight of these carriers, which ceases not night or day. Trade, as we saw it, was of a less exciting nature; copper and pine boards from the south, met cotton and salt from the north.

In the walled town of Ta-shu-pao, less than a mile from the south bank of the river, the fine tall men and sprightly women of an alien race, could, without difficulty, be picked out from the Chinese. They wore white turbans jauntily inclined to one side, and carried themselves with a grace that savoured of independence. The Ta-tu River may be looked upon as the southern limit of the region inhabited by Sifan tribes, and the northern boundary of the Lolo country which stretches southwards to the Yang-tsze and east from the valley of Chien-ch’ang towards the right bank of the Min. I found a few Sifans to the south of the Ta-tu, but they were isolated families who had lost touch with their respective tribes. Amongst the Chinese they have an evil repute for immorality; yet my experience of them, limited as it necessarily was, proved that they possessed certain traits of character which are altogether wanting in the Celestial, or, if not altogether wanting, at least existing in a very rudimentary form only.

A “TAME WILD MAN.”

One instance will suffice to explain my meaning. I had expressed a wish for a lengthened interview with a Sifan, and, on arrival at P’ing-pa, the second stage south of the Ta-tu, word was brought to me that there was a “tame wild man” in the village. With some difficulty he was induced to come to our inn, the reason of his hesitancy being, as he explained when alone with me in my room, that the Chinese might treat him badly if they knew that he was talking with me. When I had calmed his fears and elicited from him as much information as I could regarding his language, I asked him before leaving to accept a couple of hundred cash for the trouble I had caused him, and as a reward for the knowledge which he had imparted. This he absolutely declined, saying that he had rendered me no service deserving of reward. As, in the course of conversation, he had informed me that his home was in the hills three miles distant, and that he had come to P’ing-pa to make a few purchases, I pointed out to him that, by accepting this trifling sum, he would be able to secure a small present from me to his family. More argument convinced him that there would be no harm in accepting it on this condition, and he left after profuse thanks on behalf of the other members of his household. Would a Chinese have hesitated? I trow not.

LOLO LANGUAGE.