We had decided, upon leaving Pekin, to spend the greater part of the day in the sedans. The very name of this vehicle has a luxurious sound, and we looked forward to pleasant hours of travel at any rate as far as the Great Wall of China. But man is doomed to disappointment. For fatigue and discomfort, amounting at times to sheer physical pain, commend me to a Chinese mule litter, which is simply a kind of box or covered chair, hung on two long and slender poles. To it are harnessed, before and behind, two mules gaily caparisoned with feathers, highly-coloured trappings and bells. The latter, which keep up a loud and incessant jingle, are supposed to relieve the monotony of the journey. To the Chinese mind, perhaps, they do. The motion, to those not subject to sea-sickness, is not disagreeable, nor would it be tiring, had not the occupant to keep constantly in the same position, as in a canoe or outrigger, for the slightest movement to the right or left overturns the whole concern. Also, should the leading mule fall, a not unfrequent occurrence, the passenger is almost certain to get a nasty fall; should the hind one make a false step, he finds himself helpless, with his feet in the air and at the mercy of the leader’s heels, for the front and sides of the litter are open. With these trifling exceptions, the mule litters have no discomforts, always excepting the vermin that infest them.

We halted about two o’clock in the afternoon, at a wayside inn, on the banks of a clear pebbly stream. In front of the inn, under the shade of some willow-trees, were some twenty or thirty men and women, seated at marble tables, drinking tea and a kind of white compound, in which floated huge lumps of ice, out of pretty transparent porcelain cups. Curiosity prompted me to taste the latter, which I found simply delicious, and not unlike French “orgeat” or barley water. A troop of cavalry passed while we were discussing our frugal meal, a little way apart from the noisy, chattering crowd, who, after the usual inspection of our clothes and arms, left us in peace. On the arrival of the soldiers, tall, swarthy fellows, clad in dark blue uniform, flat round hats, with streaming peacock feathers, and armed with rusty old flintlocks, we prepared to start without delay. We had been warned at Pekin and Shanghai against the Chinese military, had been told that they invariably insulted and sometimes outraged Europeans, when out of the protection of their legations. If so, these were a decided exception to the rule, for not only would they not hear of our proceeding on our journey till we had “chin-chind” with their officer, a cheery, nice-looking lad of eighteen or twenty, but as we left, all shook hands, Chinese fashion (clasping the hands and lifting them up and down in front of the breast), and gave us rendezvous at Kalgan, whither they, as well as we, were bound.

We were away again before four o’clock, by which time the heat had lessened and the fierce heat of the sun somewhat decreased in power. A ride of half an hour in the litters had convinced us that anything, even walking, was preferable to those cranky conveyances; though, thanks to our sturdy little steeds, we were never driven to take to Shank’s mare. One of the pleasantest recollections I have retained of that weary journey is that of the little beast who carried me so pluckily across a third of Asia! I verily believe, had it been a question of stamina and endurance, and not of time, I could have ridden him to Moscow in eight months, or even less. Good as “Karra”^[3] was in other ways, he was not what is called a pleasant hack, having, like most Mongolian ponies, but two paces: a walk and a canter, or rather gallop, for the instant he broke into a canter he would take the bit in his teeth and bolt. It was sheer fun, however, for unlike most of his breed, he had not an atom of vice in his composition.

I have seldom seen lovelier scenery than we rode through that day. The dark wooded mountains in the distance standing out in striking contrast to the green plains of maize and barley, the clear sparkling streams, spanned by picturesque bridges glittering with enamel and porcelain. The park-like domain of some mandarin, fringed with belts of dark forest, and relieved by patches of light green sward, on which the deer and cattle were browsing, composed a very different picture to that with which we had always associated these so-called uncivilized regions. The country in North China is densely populated. The whole way from Pekin to Kalgan one was never out of sight of human beings. We must have ridden through at least twenty villages the first day——villages only in name——for each must have contained quite four or five thousand souls, though deserted when we passed through them, for the men and women were out at work in the fields and the narrow streets given up to dogs and naked children rolling about together promiscuously in the dusty roadway. It was only towards sunset that we passed through avenues of happy, contented-looking peasants, sitting at their doorways discussing tea and iced drinks, and dreaming the hours away till bedtime, after the heat and labour of the day. The agricultural labourer in China is better off than his European brother.

The natives evinced but little surprise at our appearance the first day. All seemed good tempered, friendly fellows, but (at the same time) not at all the kind of people to stand any nonsense. They were the finest-built men, physically speaking, I have ever seen, excepting perhaps in parts of European Russia.

Towards the latter part of our first day’s journey, a great portion of the road or pathway was paved with enormous blocks of granite in much the same way as that on the outskirts of Tungchow, and described in a former chapter. Here, however, it was in better repair——and presumably not so old——for the road in parts was as smooth and unbroken as asphalte. Bell, the traveller (1720), narrates that some eight hundred years since, a terrible earthquake occurred here and laid waste the whole of the country lying between Pekin and the Great Wall of China, occasioning great loss of life. It seems curious that no shocks of earthquake have ever been felt since in these latitudes, though they are of frequent occurrence in other parts of the Chinese Empire, as many as seven shocks having occurred at Shanghai alone in 1847.

It was past seven o’clock and nearly dark when we reached “Koo-ash,” our first resting-place, a pretty Alpine-looking village nestling under a chain of hills, about four hundred feet high, bare of trees and vegetation, and composed of huge granite boulders. The heat of the day and fatigue of a ten hours’ ride made the shelter of even a Chinese inn acceptable, though the stench of the place was awful, and the flies positively maddening. (The latter, though of the common household kind, were the largest I have ever seen.) Floor and walls were black with them, and one crushed them as one turned on the stone slab that did duty for a bed. It may be as well to give the reader a brief description of the hostelry in which we took our first night’s rest——for one native inn is precisely like another throughout the Chinese Empire. The inn at “Koo-ash” was, luckily for us, the best that exists on the road to the Great Wall. Had it been as bad as the one we reached the next night at “Kwi La ShaÏ,” I verily believe we should have turned tail, and returned to Pekin without setting eyes upon that euphoniously named city. Coming, so to speak, into shallow water before we tried deep, saved us from ignominious defeat.

A Chinese inn, then, is usually constructed of dried mud, whitewashed, and built round three sides of an open courtyard, as a rule knee deep in filth and garbage, in which pigs, sheep, cows, and poultry roam about at leisure. An open cesspool usually occupies the centre. The buildings on the right and left are the kitchen, innkeeper’s room, cart-shed, stables, &c., that at the farthest end, and facing you on entry, is that set apart for the guests. It is usually a bare dirty room, about eighteen feet by eighteen, a third of which is separated by a bamboo screen or partition, four or five feet high, for more favoured guests who wish to be separated from the common herd. Sometimes the screen is dispensed with, and the partition made by a chalk mark on the floor! This cheerless apartment is devoid of furniture save for a “K’ang” or stove bed, a broad ledge of brick covered with matting. In winter a fire is lit under the “K’ang,” which is built to accommodate ten to twelve sleepers. The flooring of the room is of uncarpeted brick, and there is no furniture of any kind. At Koo-ash, however, there were two inlaid chairs of the most delicate and beautiful workmanship I have ever seen. They would have fetched 50l. or 60l. in England. Most of these gruesome apartments swarm with rats, a circumstance that annoyed me more than all other discomforts put together, for I have always had a loathing for this animal. But I had not then been to Siberia.

We had our own food, of course. No European stomach could stand the cuisine in these parts. Tea was the only thing drinkable——sweet, washy stuff, as unlike our idea of that beverage as can well be, and drunk out of tiny cups holding about a couple of tablespoonsful. Our greatest difficulty was to obtain permission to use the kitchen in these caravanserai to cook ourselves a tin of soup or preserved meat. It was somewhat disheartening to have to put up with a biscuit smeared over with a spoonful of jam after a hard day’s work in the blazing sun——but this was often the case. There is no race in the world so obstinate as the northern Celestial; and in these parts, unlike in the south, even filthy lucre will not tempt them.

Still we had nothing to complain of on this score at Koo-ash. The proprietor, a big, burly Chinaman, clad in a pair of short white drawers (and nothing else), superintended our culinary arrangements himself, and turned us out a smoking dish of Irish stew in no time, served upon plates that would not have disgraced a dinner-table in the height of the London season. I tried to buy one of them, of transparent, violet porcelain of the most delicate tint imaginable. But mine host would not part with it on any consideration. It was an heirloom. “Drop it on the floor and break it,” whispered Jee Boo. “He will sell it you then, and you can get it mended in England.” I admired the astuteness of the Pekinite, but did not feel justified in risking the experiment. To say nothing of my scruples, we were no longer within reach of English protection!

A couple of glasses of whisky and water revived the inner man, and we clambered into the “K’ang,” where, in spite of the hardness of this novel kind of bed, we were soon in oblivion and back again in our dreams to less desolate regions. I was somewhat startled in the middle of the night by a dark, cold mass being thrust into my face until by the dim light of the moon struggling in through the paper window, I realized what the intruder was——a calf from the cattle-shed next door, who was making a nocturnal expedition in search of food. I lay awake the remainder of that night, for the enemy were upon me, and had evidently been for some hours, judging from the intense irritation and itching of my face and hands. Had it not been for them, however, I should have been equally wakeful; for the cheering spectacle of a couple of large rats disporting themselves on the further corner of the “K’ang” successfully murdered sleep till the morning.

Splendid weather favoured our journey. Though the heat at mid-day was intense, and the fierce sun compelled us to seek shelter in the litters, the mornings and evenings were cool and delicious. We left Koo-ash the following day at five a.m. Our bill for the night was certainly not ruinous eighty cash, or something under 7d., for the whole party.

The road ceases after leaving Koo-ash, and our way the second day lay through a succession of small paths or raised footways running in all directions through rice and cotton-fields. How the muleteers kept on the right track is a mystery to me, for there was apparently nothing to guide them. The paths or boundaries of the fields seemed to have been constructed with a view to leading wayfarers astray, like the maze at Hampton Court. There seemed to be no lack of water, the plains being cut up into squares of various sizes, and the water brought by means of small canals or ditches from the nearest stream or river. The method of pumping is the same as in Egypt: a couple of buckets worked by a swing beam handled by one or two men. A sheet of water some inches deep, is by this means kept over the surface of the rice-fields, which are so numerous in parts as to give the country the appearance of being in a state of inundation.

We reached the city of Nankow at mid-day, but did not halt there, preferring to go straight through and take our mid-day meal (if a piece of chocolate and a biscuit can so be called), in the open country. A large wall runs through Nankow, often regarded by tourists as the Great Wall of China. Many Europeans are brought here from Pekin, and return thoroughly satisfied in their own minds, that they have seen the Great Wall, when, in fact, they have done nothing of the kind. The wall at Nankow is simply an offshoot of the real thing, and runs at right angles to it; moreover, the former is not so high, and its stones are cemented, which those of the Great Wall are not. I trust I am not a kill-joy to those who, reading these pages, have seen the Nankow wall, but as a matter of fact, the two are as different, both in construction and appearance, as black to white.

We were forced to take refuge in our litters traversing the city (which is one of some fifty thousand inhabitants), for the unwonted sight of Europeans in their midst, appeared to give the Nankowites great umbrage for some reason or other. Indeed, this was the sole instance of our being treated with anything but courtesy and good temper. The streets were so crowded as to make our progress extremely difficult, for it was market-day, and half the roadway was taken up with canvas booths and stalls for the sale of silks, tea, crockery, and hardware, or fish, vegetables, and fruit, while every fifty yards or so, the fumes from “Kabob” stalls poisoned the air with a sickly, greasy odour. We were not sorry to get within sight of the outer gate. Near here was an open-air theatre in full swing, adding its quota of drums, clashing cymbals, and squeaky reed-pipes, to the general din. Some two or three hundred struggling men and women occupied the partition in front of the stage, meant to hold about half the number. No attempt had been made to shelter the audience from the blazing sun, and the smell that arose from this human cattle-pen, beggars description. Some six or seven performers in grotesque garments and hideous masks, were twisting their bodies about, singing through their noses, and endeavouring by their united efforts to drown the instruments at the back of the stage, in which they were only partly successful. The play, Jee Boo informed us, had been going on for a week, and was only half over. We stopped for a few minutes to watch the performance, the audience being too much engrossed with it to pay any attention to us. Most of the action seemed to consist exclusively of fighting and love-making. The scenes dealing with the latter, were certainly more realistic than refined. There was no scenery, and apparently no dressing-rooms. One of the performers, after being slain by his adversary, got up again in a few seconds, and retiring to the back of the stage, changed all his clothes in full view of the audience, an operation that necessitated his appearing in a state of complete nudity, after which he calmly returned to the front to represent another part. There is apparently no Chinese Lord Chamberlain.

It took us nearly two hours to get clear of the city. Shortly afterwards, we entered the Nankow Pass, one of the most beautiful bits of scenery we passed through. The going was terribly rough, so much so that we had to dismount and lead the ponies, while the mule-litters plunged and rolled about among the boulders like ships in a storm. The road is simply formed by a kind of water-bed, about 150 yards across, which is in summer rendered almost impassable by the huge rocks and boulders that bar the way at every step. In winter it becomes a raging torrent, sweeping all before it, and after heavy rains does considerable damage to life and property. The pass (which is a gradual ascent the whole way, and about thirteen miles long) compares very favourably with some of the grandest scenery in Switzerland or the Tyrol. Rugged, precipitous rocks overhang the defile on either side, great crags of granite that look as if a touch would send them crashing into the valley a hundred feet below. Although not a leaf or tree is visible, the different shades of colour taken by the rocks are even more beautiful than any vegetation could make them. As we neared the end of the pass, little bits of verdure became visible: oases of rich grass and cultivated flower-gardens banked round with bamboos, looking almost as if they were hanging perpendicularly on the steep grey walls; while tiny streamlets seemed to spring up from under our very feet to lose themselves a few yards lower down among the crevices formed by the huge rocks and boulders. After two hours’ hard work, we emerged on a vast plain again, a plain of waving corn and barley, relieved here and there by brown villages and gaily coloured temples, while a glance behind showed us the city of Nankow spread out like a map at our feet, the rice and cotton plains we had passed through, and the distant village of “Koo-ash,” its temples and pagodas sparkling like diamonds on the far horizon.

A strange apparition appeared as we ate our solitary meal by the roadway. A tall gaunt European, bestriding an attenuated-looking mule, an individual who by his dress might have been anybody. A rough grey coat with yellow facings, a red handkerchief tied round the head, a pair of short thin cotton drawers reaching to the knee, and bare legs and feet, is hardly the costume with which we are wont to associate a courier of the Czar! but such the stranger proved to be. He eyed our whisky bottle wistfully as he passed us, and reined up the melancholy mule with a jerk. “Kouda?” (“whither?”) he asked. “Moscow,” we replied, at the same time filling him a bumper of Glenlivat, a proceeding that seemed to interest him much more than our probable destination. “Franzouski?” (French). “Niete: Anglis-ki.” “Ah,” he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders, and, tossing off the tumbler of raw whisky without a wink, rode off again, with the remark, “Ya Pekin” (I am for Pekin), but not a word of thanks. This was our first experience of the Russian Cossack, and I was afterwards glad to find this rude boor an exception even to the lowest orders of that cheery, hospitable race,——better fellows than whom it would, as a rule, be hard to meet.

The country towards evening became flatter; the rice and cotton having given way to a bare sandy plain, stretching away on either side as far as the eye could reach without a break. The glare of the sun became very painful after the first hour or two, and we suffered a good deal that day from our eyes, a complaint that seems very prevalent among the inhabitants of the villages in this sterile region. The people, too, seemed very different in appearance and manner to those we had left in the plains below Nankow. Instead of the cheery “good-day” and smile with which many of the latter had greeted us, we were now looked upon only with a sullen stare: a kind of ocular “What do you want here?” This was all, however, for after Nankow we experienced no incivility whatsoever up to the Great Wall.

This was perhaps the hardest day’s work we experienced throughout the whole voyage. Leaving Koo-ash at 5 a.m., we travelled incessantly, save for a halt of twenty minutes at mid-day, till eight at night. Over fourteen hours’ hard work on a stick of chocolate and a glass of whisky and water is not calculated to raise one’s spirits under ordinary circumstances; but had we known what was before us we should have been even more depressed than we were, when, towards seven o’clock the towers and battlements of Kwi-La-ShaÏ appeared on the horizon, and we knew that our day’s journey was nearly over.

The sun was setting as, crossing the river that flows past the walls of Kwi-La-ShaÏ, we drew up at the eastern gate of the city and awaited the permission of the guard to enter. But for fatigue and stiffness, I would willingly have remained outside the walls till the sun had disappeared. I have seldom seen a lovelier picture. It was like a scene from fairyland. The broad, swift stream at our feet had caught the reflection of the western sky, which, one glow of rose colour, brought out the frowning walls and battlements of the city black and distinct as a pen-and-ink drawing. The whole vault of heaven was one flush of ever-changing hue, varying almost imperceptibly from the faintest shades of pink and gold in the west to where in the east stars were already glimmering in the steel-blue horizon. The black, frowning walls, the desolate landscape around us, the confused and indistinct murmur of the huge population of which one could see nothing, made one almost wonder whether one was not dreaming and would not presently awake in a comfortable bed resolving never again to commit the imprudence of a late supper. It was not without a weird feeling that we rode into the city and heard the heavy iron gates close with a crash behind us. One felt so utterly at the mercy of the inhabitants of these remote cities, who, as they have so often shown, are angels one minute and devils the next.

The streets were, as usual, crowded, for the night was hot, and the population had apparently turned out en masse to take the air, and what air! Like many other beautiful things in this world, Kwi-La-ShaÏ is best seen at a distance, for we found it on closer acquaintance worse even than Pekin in point of stenches and filth. It is called in China a “village,” which means that it is rather larger both as regards size and population than Birmingham. Though the streets were unlit, we managed to get to the inn by the aid of a guide, and once there, found no lack of light——indeed the courtyard was one blaze of Chinese lanterns——nor of society either, for there must have been at least fifty men crowded into the small guest-room, to say nothing of camels, oxen, ponies, and carts, that crowded the muddy courtyard.

We rode into the yard and waited while Jee Boo went to interview the proprietor of this den, which for squalor and filth I have never seen equalled in the worst slums of London or Paris. We soon saw by the light of the lanterns that our fellow-lodgers were not Chinamen. Their quaint barbaric dress, to say nothing of swarthy flat faces and beady black eyes, at once proclaimed them Mongols. Twenty or thirty of them were round us, in less than five minutes after our arrival, squatting on their hams in the mud and passing their opinions on our appearance. Many of them, Jee Boo said, had never seen a European before. They annoyed us not a little, too, by continually feeling our clothes, boots, and even faces, with their hot grimy hands, a proceeding that, tired and hungry as we were, with no prospect of rest or food, did not tend to improve the temper. A pair of velvet cord breeches that Lancaster wore came in for the greater share of their attention, which I was (selfishly, I own) not sorry for.

Two half-naked men, who had been attending to a couple of large cauldrons in a kind of outhouse, now summoned our inquisitive friends, much to our relief. We saw them enter the shed, where each man having produced a wooden platter they set to and left us in peace, at any rate, for a time.

Jee Boo returned soon after.

“Big caravan from Mongolia. No can have room,” was his first remark. “Money no good,” he added, on my suggesting a few dollars as bribery; anything for a fairly clean place to lay our weary bones. What was to be done? We could not sleep in the courtyard, that was very certain, when a bright thought suddenly struck me——the litters.

Alas! they, too, were gone, and the muleteers with them, in quest of lodgings elsewhere. They had fortunately omitted to take our box of provisions with them. Jee Boo had meanwhile disappeared, but soon after returned with the information that on payment of $8 we could have the room of the chief of the caravan. “A very good place,” urged our interpreter, who, was evidently standing in with the Mongol. However, we should have been only too glad to pay double the price for a dog-kennel that night. Anything to lie down upon, and get away from the attentions of the Mongols, who had by this time finished their meal, and were again issuing from the kitchen, lighting their pipes, and preparing for another examination of the “White Devils.”

It was only after a good deal of demur that the good gentleman I have mentioned turned out of his lair——a place about nine feet square, with a raised wooden platform upon which he had been reclining, and upon which he was thoughtful enough to leave us several souvenirs which I need not mention. To say the place was dirty conveys but a very poor impression of the filth that lay thickly on the walls, and the nameless abominations that strewed the sleeping-place——half a dozen rough boards about a foot from the floor. There were luckily two large holes in the rafters which would give us, at any rate, some ventilation, for the glazed paper window was not made to open. Cooking was, of course, out of the question, but we managed to boil some water in the spirit-lamp, and get a basin of Liebig. Our Valentine meat-juice had, unluckily, gone on with the other stores. It would have been priceless that night, and never again will I embark on a journey of this kind without it.

We had reckoned without our host when we thought that bolting and barring the door would ensure us privacy. First a finger, then a thumb, then a whole hand was pushed through the paper window, notwithstanding all our protestations. We did not like to use threats, or show firearms, for an Englishman more or less would have been of little moment to the good people of Kwi-La-ShaÏ. So we had to sit and suffer in silence, until one of our tormentors, more pushing than the rest, who had climbed upon the roof to obtain a bird’s-eye view, came crashing through the rickety rafters on to our heads. We certainly did bundle him out with scant ceremony, and banging the door after him, blew out the light and composed, or tried to compose ourselves, to slumber.

But no sooner was the light out than we were attacked by vermin in myriads. A quarter of an hour of it nearly drove us mad, and we resolved to strike a light, rising only to find that we had no matches, and that all in the yard was now dark and silent as the grave. So, resigned to our fates, we lay still, and, like the shipwrecked mariner, prayed for dawn! Tired and worn out as we were, five minutes’ sleep was out of the question. We had good cause to remember Kwi-La-ShaÏ; indeed, it was a good three weeks before we were entirely free from the animal nocturnal visitors of that unsavoury city.

The caravan had already started on its way to Pekin when we set off at six the next morning. Our mule-driver and Jee Boo had evidently made a night of it on the proceeds of their bargain, for the former only arrived on the scene five minutes before the hour fixed for departure, and our interpreter turned up hopelessly fuddled just as we were getting the mules in and ponies saddled. We were amply avenged, though, for the day was the hottest we had yet experienced, and Jee Boo suffered the tortures of mal de mer in a litter the greater part of it!

The road now lay through deep sand, in which, however, the caravan track was distinctly discernible. A boisterous and hot wind made it very unpleasant travelling, and we were not sorry to reach the village of Tchuan-Ha-Ho at midday, where we insisted on a halt of five hours at least, for the purpose of indulging in a “square meal,” as Americans say, and a rest, of which we were much in need. Just before reaching the town, we passed a string of over two hundred camels laden with Siberian furs for Pekin. Also a drove of some three hundred or four hundred Mongolian ponies. Some of the latter, though small, were remarkably well-shaped and good-looking.

Tchuan-Ha-Ho is the only place I retain a pleasing recollection of, lying between Pekin and the Great Wall of China. The inn was fairly clean, and the proprietor not only suggested, but cooked us a dish of excellent poached eggs. Rarely have I enjoyed a meal as I did that. One must have fasted for nearly thirty-six hours as we had, to really appreciate food. It is worth all the tonics in the world. We felt much tempted to stay here the night, but our mule-drivers were inexorable. They had contracted to get us to Kalgan by a certain date, and at Kalgan, on that date, dead or alive, we must be!

The sandy desert ceased after leaving Tchuan-Ha-Ho, and we again entered a fertile country, set apart apparently for the exclusive cultivation of the poppy. White, red, and blue——poppies were everywhere——the plain presenting a succession of waves of colour as far as the eye could reach. Beyond this lay Ching-Ming-Ying, lying under a perpendicular rock about 800 feet high. This village, which contains seven thousand inhabitants, is strongly walled and fortified. The rock or mountain is on three sides sheer precipice. Notwithstanding this, there are some twenty or thirty houses on the extreme summit, built so near the edge that their sides actually form part of the precipice. Seventy or eighty human beings live on this eminence, though the path up is dangerous to any but experienced mountaineers, and the area of the summit but three hundred yards square. This was undoubtedly one of the most interesting and curious sights of the whole voyage, for there are men and women over forty years of age living upon this mountain that have never descended to the plains below. Supplies and stores are taken up by men kept specially for the purpose.

Coal is worked out of the base of the Ching-Ming Ying mountain by the Chinese Government, to whom the mines belong. It seemed to be put out in a very desultory sort of way. Some thirty men only were engaged in the mines, though with their usual contradictory spirit the Government had provided the manager or overseer with a palatial residence at the foot of the mountain, embowered in bright flower-gardens and willow-trees.

The weather, which had up till now been bright and clear, now grew overcast, and, shortly after leaving Ching-Ming-Ying the rain came down in torrents, rendering travelling very unpleasant, not to say dangerous. Our way now lay along a road hewn out of the solid rock, by the banks of a foaming torrent some hundred yards broad, which we followed the course of till we reached our destination for the night——Tsiang-Shui-Poo. Here we rode along now a foot or so above the water’s edge, anon at least fifty feet above the water, in places where a false step or slip would have sent one flying into the torrent below, for there was no guard-rail, and the path, broken and rugged, was at times scarcely three feet wide. I thought discretion the better part of valour after a time, and led Karra till we got on to terra firma again in the shape of a broad stretch of sand, which brought us to the village of Tsiang-Shui-Poo, wet through, and without any means of changing, but at the same time relieved that the next day with any luck would see us at Kalgan.

The village of Tsiang-Shui-Poo was really a village, for it boasted of some hundred inhabitants and thirty or forty houses. The inn (an open shed in which cattle and men slept promiscuously) was at any rate clean, and we managed to get a good sleep on a wisp of straw free from the stench of sewage that had annoyed us so much everywhere else. Some of the inhabitants came to look at us as we discussed the evening meal. The men were cheery, good-looking fellows, and the women far prettier than any I had yet seen, for their faces were devoid of paint——and they had almost European complexions. Tsiang-Shui-Poo was to us an Elysium——a haven of rest——which reminded one for all the world of the lovely Kentish village of Farningham, which is no doubt known to many of my readers. There was the trout stream at the bottom of the garden, the clover meadows with their fresh, sweet scent, the corn ripening for the sickle on the hill behind the inn——although, to be sure, two stunted willows had to do duty for the famous chestnut-tree in front of that cosy old inn, the “Red Lion;” and, I fancy, even the genial host of that celebrated hostelry would have lost his temper at the fare set before him by Boniface of the “Cattle-Shed Hotel” at Tsiang-Shui-Poo!

By next morning the rain had entirely disappeared, and with a blue sky and cool breeze we left Tsiang-Shui-Poo, invigorated in mind and body by a good long sleep. I cannot pronounce, much less write, the name of the village we halted at at mid-day. It was evident we were nearing Kalgan, for we passed at least a dozen large caravans during the morning, to say nothing of carts, litters, and stray horsemen. The poppy-fields were now superseded by rice-plains, irrigated as before by “shaloofs,” and interspersed with enclosures of corn and maize.

We lunched in a fairly clean room of the inn at the town with the unpronounceable name. Many Russians appeared to have visited it, for their names (in Russian characters) were scrawled all over the place. In one corner, in small capitals, we read:——“Bordeaux À Pekin par terre. Sep. 4th, 1870.” Shortly before five o’clock a low chain of hills appeared on the horizon. Had it not been specially pointed out to me, I should never have noticed the thin serpentine thread winding its course along their summit——an irregular white line lost to sight at times, in places where it was broken into by forest or undergrowth: a very different edifice from one’s preconceived ideas of the Great Wall of China.

We entered Kalgan at half past six o’clock. It will give the reader some idea of the size of the place when I say that it took us nearly two hours to ride from the southern gate to the suburb of Yambooshan, where the Russian tea-merchants lived, to whom we were provided with a letter of introduction. The population of Kalgan is estimated at over one hundred and fifty thousand.

Our mule-drivers suggested an immediate adjournment to the inn, for the Russians, they said, lived outside the gates of Kalgan, at Yambooshan. The gate was shut at seven, after which hour, no one, European or otherwise, was permitted to enter or leave the city; but we stuck to our determination of seeing M. Batouyeff before nightfall. Riding out of the southern gate, we emerged on to a dry river-bed, on either banks of which stood several substantial and well-built houses of Chinese architecture. At the head of the valley stood apart from the others a single dwelling À l’EuropÉenne——a pretty two-storied house with verandah and gaily coloured Venetians, standing in a spacious garden, down the centre path of which, as soon as we came in sight, two white-clad Europeans hurried to meet us.

One of these proved to be M. Ivanoff——partner of M. Batouyeff, who was, he explained, at that time away at Chefoo for a couple of months, enjoying the sea breezes after a residence of five years here without a break. Luckily for us M. Ivanoff spoke English fluently, having spent several years at Tientsin. He laughed outright when we asked him to direct us to the inn. “Ah, gentlemen, I hope you have not such a poor opinion of Russian hospitality as that,” said our friend, as he led the way up the neat gravel walk, lined with rose and geranium beds, to the house——where we found two large airy bedrooms, a sitting-room, and, best of all, a large bath-room placed at our disposal. “I do not live here myself, but my clerk will do anything for you. You have but to call ‘Michailof.’ He lives next door. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock. Gentlemen, I wish you good evening, and will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you again to-morrow.”

Here was luxury indeed. The sight of the bed was almost too much for me. I felt inclined to forego dinner altogether, jump in, and revel in its clean, soft sheets and white dainty curtains! A delicious warm bath, a change of clothes, and we found ourselves seated at an open window, looking down upon the moon-bathed valley of Yambooshan, enjoying an excellent dinner À la russe, washed down by a still more excellent bottle of Chateau Lafitte. “Here’s to the Russians,” said Lancaster, as we tossed off for the first time a glass of that insidious though delicious liqueur “Vodka.” “How the English do misunderstand them,” I echoed: a sentiment I had occasion to repeat more than once during our weary pilgrimage through the Asiatic realms of the White Czar.