TO THE WHITE WAX COUNTRY, THE SACRED MOUNT O-MEI, AND THE HIGHEST NAVIGABLE POINT ON THE YANG-TSZE.

In the spring of 1884, I received instructions from the Foreign Office to report fully, for the information of the Director of the Royal Gardens at Kew, on the subject of Chinese Insect White Wax, and to collect and transmit specimens illustrative of this remarkable industry. In China, so much of the marvellous is always mixed up with fact that, in order to gain trustworthy information on anything that savours of obscurity, personal observation is essential. To comply with my instructions, therefore, I found it necessary to pay a visit to the centre of this wax culture in the province of Ssu-ch’uan, and I resolved to combine with my researches the ascent of the Sacred Mount O-mei, from whose summit the famous Glory of Buddha is to be seen, and to strike on my way back the highest navigable point on the Yang-tsze. I was, fortunately, able to carry out this programme, and the present and subsequent chapters are devoted to an account of the journey and its results.

In the two preceding years, I had been able so to regulate my departure from Ch’ung-k’ing as to enjoy comparatively cool weather during my journeys, but the fact that the white wax industry is carried on and completed during the summer months, compelled me to delay starting till June. My caravan was much the same as on previous occasions. Had I so willed, I might have ascended the Yang-tsze by boat to Sui Fu and its tributary the Min to Chia-ting, and thus saved myself much overland toil; but, as every explorer knows, the thirst for new fields becomes after a time irresistible and must be satisfied. Boat-travelling would have been altogether too monotonous and uninteresting. My plan, briefly, was to make for Ho Chou, a trade centre on the Chia-ling, which enters the Yang-tsze at Ch’ung-k’ing, strike west in as direct a line as possible to the Min River and Chia-ting, go west to Mount O-mei, then proceed south along the eastern borders of Lolodom to the Yang-tsze, and return, if possible, by water.

The evening of the 1st of June, which was an excessively hot day even for Ch’ung-k’ing, saw all our arrangements completed for a start the following morning. Overnight, thunder and rain raised some doubts whether my followers would be willing to proceed until the weather had settled, and when the rain was still descending heavily at daylight, my doubts became almost a certainty. They turned up, however, and begged for delay; but I succeeded in persuading them, by a series of rather doubtful arguments, that the heavens had all but exhausted themselves, and that the sun would show his face before noon. Unfortunately, my prognostications did not come true, and by the time we reached Fu-to’u-kuan we were all drenched. But a start had been effected, and there was no turning back.

At Fu-to’u-kuan the road to Ho Chou leaves the highway to the capital, and goes north by west through broken country to avoid the windings of the Chia-ling, which twists and turns from east to west and west to east in its hurry to reach the Yang-tsze. In the bottom lands, on terraced hill-sides, and wherever water could be retained, paddy was planted out; Indian corn, tall millet, [Sorghum vulgare], tobacco, melons, ginger, taros [Arum aquaticum], indigo, beans, and hemp or China grass were everywhere growing luxuriantly. Amid these plots were the farm-houses, the homesteads nestling in clumps of bamboo and fir. Here and there rose a fan-palm and a banyan, and the wood-oil tree was at home on rocky ground. Bushes of scrub-oak occupied uncultivated hill-sides, and plantations of mulberry trees and orange groves were occasionally to be seen. Coal and lime were everywhere abundant. Several small streams flow through this country and swell the Chia-ling.

On the afternoon of the 4th of June, we stood on the northern brink of this broken country, to the north-east and not far below us stretched a plain, while four miles to the north rose a thirteen-storied pagoda, which marks the approach to the city of Ho Chou. On reaching the pagoda, we found ourselves near the right bank of the Fu Chiang, one of the chief tributaries of the Chia-ling. The busy market town of Nan-ching-kai, which stands on the right bank, seemed to be almost entirely devoted to cotton-weaving; the click-clack of the loom was heard in every street through which we passed to the ferry. Ho Chou occupies low rising ground just above the junction of the two rivers; to it come for distribution the rich and varied products of north-eastern Ssu-ch’uan—salt, silk, safflower, lumber, rape-oil, tobacco, grass-cloth, vegetables, spirits, and a whole catalogue of medicines.

A special industry of the city is the manufacture of a soy, which is famous, not only in Ssu-ch’uan, but in other provinces. Chinese soy, as is well known, is imported into England in large quantities, and is, I believe, used in the manufacture of sauces. In China itself there is amongst foreigners a decided prejudice against soy, and a fresh arrival is often solemnly assured that it is made of boiled down cockroaches; yet, to the best of my information, it contains nothing more deleterious than the juice of a bean.

On leaving Ho Chou we were again ferried across the Fu Chiang, and soon reached the western rim of the plain. Beyond stretches the same broken hilly country, where I noticed, besides the trees already mentioned, the varnish tree—Rhus vernicifera—growing to a height of about twenty feet. To obtain the varnish, incisions are made in the bark near the foot of the tree in July and August and slips of bamboo inserted. As in the case of the poppy, the incisions are made at night and the sap collected next morning. On exposure to the air, it quickly assumes a dark brown and ultimately a jet-black colour, and becomes very sticky. It is used for a great variety of purposes, and I may state for the information of those interested in the subject that pure varnish is an excellent natural cement. The chief objection to its employment for this purpose is its black colour; but chemical science might come to the rescue and make it white or colourless.

In this fertile land every available spot is utilised; even on the low dykes which divide the paddy fields, mulberry trees and beans spring up. Great though the quantity of silk produced in the province of Ssu-ch’uan is, the output might be quadrupled if some means could be devised for delaying the hatching of the silkworm eggs. The silk season is over, and the trees are still laden with leaves. Here I observed an ingenious device for obtaining young trees from the old; round a promising branch of a tree a piece of bamboo about a foot in length, which has previously been divided into two parts along its length, is tied, and the hollow between the branch and the interior of the bamboo filled with mould. In a short time suckers leave the branch and descend into the mould, and, when they are sufficiently developed, the branch is cut off and planted, the suckers forming the roots of the young tree.

The Ssu-ch’uanese are essentially a light-hearted and merry race. I have already mentioned how the boatmen on the Upper Yang-tsze give vent to their feelings in song as they toil upwards through the gorges. In the paddy fields I frequently noticed as many as twenty men and boys advancing in line, nearly knee-deep in mud and water, removing with their toes the weeds from the roots of the young shoots, and firming the latter in the ground. A song with a rousing chorus invariably accompanied the work.

Six miles to the south of T’ung-liang Hsien, the first district city through which we passed to the west of Ho Chou, there is a range of hills, about two thousand feet above the surrounding country, where tea is grown in considerable quantities. The summits of the range, in which coal, iron, and lime are all found, were fringed with firs. On leaving T’ung-liang, which is a centre of cotton-weaving, we succeeded in accomplishing a stage of about twenty miles in a burning temperature, which towards night culminated in a thunder and rain storm, bringing down the thermometer from 90° F., at which it stood at 9 P.M. on the 6th, to 69° F. at noon the following day. So pitilessly did the rain continue to descend on the 7th of June, that we had to break the day’s march at eleven o’clock at the city of Ta-tsu Hsien, having only covered ten miles. We were all wet, cold, and dispirited; the only living things that seemed to be positively enjoying themselves were the ducks flapping their wings and wagging their tails on the edges, the bull frogs croaking in the centres, and the swallows skimming low over the surfaces of the flooded paddy-fields. To the east of Ta-tsu we crossed, by a fine stone bridge of five arches, that tributary of the T’o River on which we took boat for a short distance last year at the city of Jung-ch’ang farther south.

A long march of nearly thirty miles from Ta-tsu, through a beautiful country, brought us on the evening of the 8th of June to the market-town of Hsing-lung-ch’ang, on the left bank of the Ching-liu, another tributary of the T’o. A slight sketch of this splendid country is applicable to the whole of eastern Ssu-ch’uan. On the slope of a red-soiled hill is a clump of bamboos bending their feathery heads before the breeze. Creeping down the bank is the melon with its mottled leaves and large yellow star-shaped flower; and on the edge is a framework supporting ripe cucumbers. Beneath is a plot of taros, with their graceful heart-shaped leaves lowering their tips to the water which half covers their stems, while underneath, terrace after terrace of flooded plots of young paddy, divided by fringes of beans, stretches into the valley, and miniature foamy cascades dash from terrace to terrace to join the gurgling brook below. Frame the picture with tall firs, straight young water-oaks, low umbrageous wood-oil trees, and the palm with fan-shaped leaves, and, if the peasantry of this part of Ssu-ch’uan are not content with all this beauty, we will add a rich and fertile soil, and an abundant water supply.

At the western end of Hsing-lung-ch’ang a large stone bridge of seven arches spans the river, here sixty yards in breadth. Instead of crossing the bridge, we hired four small boats, and dropped down stream for a distance of ten miles, where a waterfall, with a drop of from fifteen to twenty feet, obstructs navigation. The river teemed with fish, and otter-fishing was in full swing. The net was circular and fringed with sinkers, and the fisherman, standing in the bows of the boat, cast his net with a semicircular sweep, covering a large surface of water. The net disappeared, the fisherman holding on to a rope attached to the centre of the net, where there was also a small circular opening. Drawing the rope gently until the centre of the net appeared above the surface, he seized the otter, which was chained to the boat, and dropped it into the opening. After allowing the otter a short time to rout out the fish from the bottom and drive them upwards, net, fish, and otter were all drawn up together into the boat. The results were fairly successful.

Two miles south-west of the waterfall we again took boat, and descended for seven miles between boulders backed by cliffs full of Man-tzu caves. I had already explored similar caves on the right bank of the Chia-ling above Ch’ung-k’ing; but my followers, who had never previously heard of their existence, listened breathlessly to the boatman, who described them as the ancient dwelling-places of the aborigines of the country. These cave-dwellings extend westward to the Min River, along the banks of which they are particularly numerous. Landing on the right bank, we proceeded westward, and soon entered a busy market-town on the left bank of the T’o River, opposite the important district city of Nei-chiang Hsien. This city lies on the high-road from Ch’ung-k’ing to the capital of the province, but, as last year I made a detour in order to visit the salt wells of Tzu-liu-ching, it did not at that time come within our ken. Before striking the river, I noticed a few patches of a plant very much resembling Abutilon Avicennae, or Ssu-ch’uan hemp. There was this important distinction, however, the stems were dark brown, almost black. It was locally called T’ung-ma. Ropes and sacking are manufactured from its disintegrated bark.

Nei-chiang, where we rested for a day, is the centre of an extensive sugar region, and, being in water communication with the Yang-tsze, it has the great advantage of being able to distribute its produce speedily and cheaply. It also exports opium, a little cotton, excellent grass-cloth, silk, wood-oil, and bean-sauce. To the west of the T’o, the soil is lighter than to the east, and there was the necessary adjustment of crops; paddy, of course, filled the valleys, while sugar-cane, ground-nuts, tall millet, buckwheat, and sweet potatoes—Batatas edulis, Chois—covered the hill slopes. Tobacco was also prominent and growing luxuriantly; the tops of the stems had recently been plucked to cause a greater development of the large under leaves.

It took us six days to cross from the T’o to the Min; the country is very similar throughout, the existence of reservoirs showing, however, that the water supply is not so good to the west as to the east of the former river. The crops were the same; but a number of new trees put in an appearance, including the tallow tree—Stillingia sebifera, or Sapium sebiferum, Roxb., a bushy thorn some fifteen feet in height—Cudrania triloba, Hance, and the wax tree—Fraxinus Chinensis—a species of ash. A belt of salt wells extends for some miles to the east of the left bank of the Min, where the brine was being raised much in the same way as at Tzu-liu-ching.

Two days before reaching the Min, we caught sight of Mount O-mei towering away to the westward. As the river is neared, the road winds between stone cliffs full of ancient cave-dwellings, which are still more numerous on the left bank of the Min itself. Beautiful relief carvings adorned the entrances of many of them. The city of Chia-ting Fu stands on the right bank of the Min at its junction with the T’ung, which consists of the waters of the Ya Ho and Ta-tu, both of which I crossed in their upper reaches last year, and which unite a little to the west of the city. It is the greatest centre of sericulture and silk-weaving in the province, and it marks the eastern boundary of the white wax industry. I spent the 17th of June among the wax trees to the north-east of the city; but, finding that I could conduct my investigations with greater ease and quietude farther west, I resolved to proceed at once to the district city of O-mei Hsien, some twenty miles distant and near to the base of the Sacred Mountain.

We passed through the west gate of Chia-ting soon after daybreak of the 18th of June, accompanied by hundreds of pilgrims of both sexes from all parts of Ssu-ch’uan on their way to visit the sacred shrines of O-mei. The road follows the left bank of the Ya Ho till the latter bends southwards, when it crosses a mile of sand and shingle, and again strikes the river at the ferry. From the right bank we entered one of the prettiest and most fertile plains in Western China, watered by streamlets which, rising in the mountains to the west, go to join the Ya and Ta-tu Rivers, are easily available for purposes of irrigation, and fill a perfect network of canals surrounding the plots of land into which the plain is divided. On the divisions of the plots rows of wax trees grew thickly. In the city of O-mei Hsien I spent four days, pursuing my investigations into the subject of wax culture and the general trade of the whole district; and at daylight on the morning of the 23rd, I left with a few of my followers to ascend the mountain. As it was impossible to obtain meat in the sacred precincts of Buddha, we purchased and killed a goat and carried the carcase with us. A stream of pilgrims, each provided with a bundle of joss-sticks, candles in baskets, and small pieces of sandalwood slung in a yellow bag over the shoulder, bore us company. The mountain lies to the south-west of the city; and, issuing from the west gate, we proceeded under the western wall to the south gate, which, at the time of our visit, was closed against a lengthened drought. The road then runs south-west over the plain. Banyans—some of them of immense size—lined the road, and, farther west, wax trees took their place. Shrines and temples were thickly dotted on both sides, and at each of these the pilgrims made obeisance, lighted joss-sticks or candles, and passed on. There was an impressive solemnity in the worship which I have not observed elsewhere in China. No levity broke the living cord of gravity which stretched from shrine to shrine and temple to temple. The wax trees increased in numbers as we advanced, and the under sides of the boughs and twigs were here and there silvered with the wax; they appeared as if a gentle snowstorm had recently passed over and scattered its flakes on the branches. But trees and temples were not the only things that lined the roadway; beggars, mostly women and girls, were obstinate in their demands for alms, and no sooner had one gone than another appeared. Mount O-mei towered above the other ranges that bound the plain to the south-west, itself the highest point in a range which descends southwards with giant strides and blocks the plain. The gray, rocky, rugged, precipitous face lit up by the morning sun seemed to bid defiance to the pilgrim, while the lower slopes that hid the giant’s feet were dark with pine, broken occasionally by bare patches where cultivation had encroached. Gradually the plain began to undulate, and we soon entered the mountains under pine woods, through patches of tall millet, beans, and Indian corn, and up stone steps—ladders would be a more appropriate term—until at a distance of nearly twenty miles from the city we reached Wan-nien-ssu—the “Temple of a Myriad Ages”—where we spent the night.

No sooner had we settled down in the fine clean quarters which the temple affords than the priests came to pay their respects, and regaled me with the “sweet tea,” which the discovery of Mr. Baber has rendered famous. All the way up the mountain side, I had been making enquiries regarding this tea and its preparation, but the evidence was decidedly conflicting. Some said that it was prepared in the ordinary way; others, that the leaves were first steeped in molasses. Although the infusion was extremely sweet, I must confess that I failed to detect any flavour of tea. Be it remembered that the Chinese never take sugar in their tea. The priests told me that the plant, whence the leaves are picked, grows in only one gorge in the mountain. The leaves are large and do not bear the slightest resemblance to the tea-leaf. I subsequently forwarded a packet of this “tea” to Hankow to be tasted, and the reply of an expert came back prompt and concise, “I never tasted such muck in all my life!” But all doubts have recently been set at rest, for the plant which provides the leaves has been identified as the Viburnum phlebotrichum.

A glance at a map showing the comparative heights of mountains, will give a good idea of how the top of the giant has to be reached. Peak rises behind peak, and each of these has to be surmounted on the way to the summit. Beyond Wan-nien-ssu, which is more than 3000 feet above the plain, the road is so steep that no means of conveyance is possible and cultivation soon ceases. Starting at five o’clock on the morning of the 24th, we ascended this steep winding ladder and gained the summit in twelve hours after many a weary step and many a rest. In fact, had it not been that British pluck was in the balance, I should have given in long before. As it was, drenched with perspiration and mist, I just succeeded in dragging my weary aching limbs into the temple that crowns the summit, 11,100 feet above the sea.

A few hundred yards above Wan-nien-ssu we entered the clouds, and from that point upward nothing but impenetrable whiteness was visible. The road, if I may use the word, ascends through dense pine and brushwood, and here and there a gulf of whiteness warned us that we stood on the verge of a precipice.

At the rear of the temple on the “Golden Summit” is the terrible precipice which is seen from even beyond the Min. On its very brink once stood a temple of bronze, which has twice succumbed to lightning shafts and fire. It was built during the Ming Dynasty, and rebuilt after its first fall; but on the second occasion portions of it fell over the precipice, and the only parts still in their original positions are three small bronze pagodas, bearing unmistakable traces of fire. Their tops have been melted and twisted. Beautifully carved bronze doors, pillars, tiles, and other pieces of what must have been a magnificent building, lay about in heaps. It is from the terrace on which the three pagodas stand that the celebrated “Glory of Buddha” is to be seen. A low fence of boulders of iron ore prevents the too anxious sightseer from precipitating himself into the terrible abyss. If the future traveller should be as unfortunate as I was, he will stand by this fence with white clouds overhead and around him, and gaze down eastwards into impenetrable whiteness, in the vain hope of seeing the sun burst through the clouds overhead, and reveal his image on the clouds below. Not once did this occur during the day of the 25th of June, and we left the spot in the belief that the “Glory of Buddha” was not for us. But a single gaze into this impenetrable white gloom was to me as impressive as a thousand “Glories of Buddha” could possibly have been.

The pilgrims in their penance—for it is a penance to ascend the mountain—frequently appealed to the Great Buddha of O-mei as they scrambled up the steep steps polished by the feet of myriads. On the summit they paid their devotions to Buddha, lighted their joss-sticks and candles, prostrated themselves on long stools covered with palm-coir, threw their incense into the flames, and gazed to see the “Glory of Buddha.” This ceremony over, they took from their pockets a few cash and polished them on the bronze pagodas and doors. These they carry back to their homes as charms and souvenirs of their visit to the Golden Summit of O-mei. The pilgrims come from their native places in groups, accompanied by one who can read. The latter is the mouthpiece of his comrades, and recites their prayers to the Great Buddha.

I have already said that beggars lined the road to the mountain; but greater and still more importunate beggars dwell on the mountain side and on the summit. The priests, smooth-tongued and polite, draw from the pockets of the pilgrims money to repair the temples and the road. I did not escape their rapacity. The appeal was, however, made in such a pleasant way that it could not be resisted. A few potatoes grown on the acre which forms the summit were presented to me, and had to be paid for by a sum much in excess of their value. The workmanship of the temples, which are numerous and built of pine from the forests by which they are surrounded, is often excellent, the artificers being the priests themselves. The mountain is credited as being the home of various kinds of wild animals—among them the tiger. Fortunately for us, he did not put in an appearance, and we saw nothing more deadly than a couple of large monkeys, one of which had just leaped from a tree on one side of a chasm to a tree on the other, while the second was arrested in his pursuit by our sudden appearance. Medicines of several sorts, including a species of wild ginseng, were exposed for sale on the stalls which clung to the mountain side. As the day of the 26th of June broke as gloomy as its predecessor, and there was no hope of catching even a glimpse of the “Glory of Buddha,” I resolved to delay no longer on the chance of a struggle with the unseen. The descent was more difficult than the ascent, and I must confess to three fair falls on the slippery steps, rendered still more slippery by mist and rain, which accompanied us half-way down to Wan-nien-ssu. Two hundred yards above the temple, I succeeded in placing my right foot between two stones forming a step, and so twisting it that a tendon behind the knee refused to perform its duty and, with excruciating pain, I managed to crawl down a hundred yards of precipitous steps, where a small chair could reach me from below.

On the morning of the 27th we continued the descent by a different road from that by which we ascended, previously, however, purchasing a couple of curiously-carved alpenstocks from the priests, their makers. A snake in relief twined upwards round the stock, ending in a head surmounted by a couple of horns.

The road wound eastward down a gorge between high precipices, from which numerous cascades leaped and bounded into a stream flowing eastward, over a narrow bridge of iron rods spanning the stream near the end of the gorge, and, after crossing several small plains, joined the high-road to O-mei Hsien.

On my return to the city, I found that every possible obstacle was being raised to prevent the completion of my journey. The magistrate sent his secretary to inform me that there was no road southwards to the Yang-tsze, and even those of my own men who had been left behind were unwilling to proceed. It was suggested that I should return to Chia-ting, take boat to a point farther south, and then strike inland. I thereupon sent in search of a trader, who quickly appeared, and gave me the names of the different stages to the next city of Ma-pien T’ing. Arming my writer with the list, I packed him off post haste to the magistrate with a demand for a double escort to enable me to penetrate this unknown country. He at once complied with my demand. Had I been told, what the magistrate himself probably did not know, that a desultory warfare was being waged with the aborigines to the west near Ma-pien, I should have reconsidered my route, so as not to embroil responsible officers in case of any accident to my party; but so palpable was the untruth told me that I did not hesitate for a moment about proceeding. The unwillingness of my own men, as I subsequently learned, was due to the fact that two of my bearers were struck down by typhoid fever during my absence; and, on my return, they had to be sent back to Chia-ting, and thence shipped to Ch’ung-k’ing. It is well that the future is not revealed to us, for, had I known then that one human life was to be sacrificed to the privations of the route, I should at once have relinquished further exploration, and left to others the honour of descending the Yang-tsze from its highest navigable point.

The O-mei plain stretches south and south-east for some fifteen miles to within a short distance of the left bank of the Ta-tu River, when it is bounded by a spur which projects south-east from a low range of hills which lies to the south and east of the chief O-mei range. The southern half of the plain was in as high a state of cultivation as the northern, while the wax tree was still more thickly grown. On descending to the river we found it in full flood; junks and rafts were being hurried along by the current at lightning speed, and on the right bank trackers were dragging their craft up river at snail’s pace. The road followed for two days first the left and then the right bank of the Ta-tu—which we crossed at the market-town of Fu-lu-ch’ang—till, baulked in its eastern course by hilly ground to the south of the walled village of Tung-kai-ch’ang, the river flows northwards under precipitous rocky heights forming its left bank.

Leaving the Ta-tu at the bend, we struck south over the mountains to Tz’u-chu-p’ing, which, like every other town and village, is surrounded by a wall and provided with a garrison. Great excitement was visible everywhere; the defences of even the meanest hamlet were conspicuously displayed; rusty gingalls, mounted on tripod stands and loaded, were placed within the gates ready to resist attack. But why all this excitement? A raid by Lolos—Man-tzu they were called—was recently successfully organised and carried out, a village was burned to the ground, and many of its male inhabitants carried off into the mountains to the west, to be utilised as shepherds or to await ransom. What the Chinese greatly resented, however, was the slaughter of a harmless blind man. The Lolos had swept him off with the crowd; but, finding after a time that he was sightless, they did him to death. “Might it not be that they mistook his blindness for unwillingness to be a slave?” “No,” said the Chinese, “the Lolos have no mercy.”

There must be something very unhealthy about this part of the country. At the end of the first stage from O-mei Hsien, two more of my men were struck down with fever; one of them had to be left behind, the other determined not to leave us and soon recovered under repeated doses of quinine. Little did I think when I was acting the rÔle of physician that I was to be the fifth victim.

When we left Tz’u-chu-p’ing on the morning of the 1st of July, I observed that my escort had been very materially strengthened, and that the soldiers, instead of straggling hither and thither, kept close to our caravan. Rumours were current that a band of Lolos, some two hundred strong, were in the immediate hills ready to raid, but undecided as to their ultimate point of attack, and extra precautions were taken against our being made unwilling visitors to Lolodom.

Proceeding south-east we crossed a low range, and dropped into a narrow valley between low rocky heights clad with brushwood. Beyond the valley, waves of terraced hills crowned with fir and oak had to be surmounted, and early in the afternoon we looked down into a deep narrow gorge, wherein a stream flowing northwards suddenly turns east. On the north bank, on the only piece of level ground to be seen, stands the walled town of Chou-pa-ch’ang, facing precipitous cliffs on the opposite shore. Most of the houses were furnished with watch-towers on their roofs, and in these, round smooth stones from the stream’s shingly bed were piled to resist attack.

Here very poor quarters were available; my room was over a tenanted pig-sty, and the floor was full of holes. I awoke next morning, after a restless night, burning with fever, and scarcely able to leave my bed. In this wretched inn I lay five whole days, and had ample time to ponder over the discomforts which the traveller, who has been brought up under sanitary laws, has to endure in this land of dirt. Confinement ultimately became so irksome and depressing that, although unable to walk to my chair without assistance, on the morning of the 7th of July I determined to proceed, and trust to the invigorating influence of fresh air to effect a cure.

Chou-pa-ch’ang is the highest navigable point for small craft on the river which is known on Chinese maps as the Ching-shui, but is locally called the Ma-pien River, from the city of that name near its source. Two rapids to the south of the town obstruct navigation, except for descending rafts. Crossing a streamlet, which enters the Ma-pien four miles to the south of Chou-pa-ch’ang, by a narrow chain bridge, the road leaves the main river, where it makes an eastern bend and goes south through broken country fairly wooded with the mulberry, wood-oil, and tallow trees, and, after ascending some low heights, descends into a large basin, at the southern end of which we again struck the left bank of the river at the town of Ni-tien-ch’ang, with the usual miserable accommodation. Next morning we crossed the river, and after two days’ winding west and south-west along its right bank, reached the departmental city of Ma-pien T’ing. Our approach had been announced by one of the escort who had preceded us in search of an inn, and half the population lined the left bank, on which the city stands, and blocked the streets through which we had to pass to our quarters.

A guerilla warfare had been waged with the Lolo mountaineers some time previous to the date of our arrival; detachments of fifty soldiers had been repeatedly sent to carry on the work of extermination, but had not returned to announce their success. Preparations were being made to conduct operations on a larger scale, and fifteen hundred troops were quartered in the city and its neighbourhood. It was forbidden to kill or dispose of cattle and live stock generally, except for the use of the soldiery, and we had considerable difficulty in procuring supplies of any sort.

My escort was now strengthened by a dozen men, mostly Hunan braves, armed with swords, to conduct me in safety to the Yang-tsze. To the south-east of the city the road enters the mountains, where not a single Lolo was to be seen; the few houses visible were in reality forts, built on most inaccessible heights. A solid square of masonry, ten to twelve feet in height, with only one opening to serve as a doorway, supported a storey with windows and frequently a watch-tower. On this stage there was great trouble about food; rice could not be had for money, and, when I was partaking of my frugal breakfast, which I had taken the precaution to carry with me from Ma-pien, I saw my writer triumphantly waving in his hand, to the envy of all my other followers, an egg which he had either purloined or purchased, and off which he was about to make as hearty a meal as circumstances would allow.

During the day I was told that we should be able to buy an ox at Ting-nan-pa, the end of the stage, and we hurried on to prepare the feast of which we were all so much in need. On arrival, it was suggested in answer to our enquiries that an ox might be had some miles further on; but this was little satisfaction to hungry men. A Good Samaritan at length came to the rescue, and sold us, at a fabulous price, a leg of some animal or other—to this day I have no idea what it was—which made an excellent repast.

According to the record of stages which I had procured in Ma-pien, we were still a three days’ journey from the Yang-tsze; but so many difficulties were crowding around us—no food, and my horse-boy very sick—that I determined to make a forced march and avoid at least one day of misery. When we left Ting-nan-pa on the morning of the 11th of July, I at once abandoned my chair, proceeded with my escort on foot, and, after a brisk walk of four hours, reached the hamlet which was marked on my list as the end of the stage. It was a dismal place, and without waiting for my followers, who were still miles in our rear, I pushed on to the next stage. I was duly warned that the road was difficult, but the traveller in this land is accustomed to prevarication, and invariably finds it hard to elicit the truth.

For some distance east and south-east, the road was all that could be desired for a Chinese road, and I was beginning to chuckle to myself at the exposure of the imaginary difficulties, when it descended to the right bank of a stream which we had struck and crossed early in the morning. Here it was studded with huge boulders, over which we had literally to crawl. After an hour of this work, I stopped to allow my men to catch us up. When they arrived they were bursting with anger.

Having breakfasted off a couple of boiled Indian corn cobs, I followed my tactics of the morning and went ahead with my escort. There is no language strong enough to describe the road that we had then to follow; it wound with the right bank of the stream through a mountain gorge and ultimately descended into a stony plain, through which we made our way to the market-town of Chung-tu-ch’ang, the end of the stage. I arrived, dead beat, at five o’clock in the afternoon, after a walk of thirty miles over a frightful road and under a broiling sun. The whole caravan did not turn up till long after dark; my chair was battered, torn, and tattered; and my horse and mule were hopelessly lame. The only thing that saved us from utter collapse was the knowledge that we were only one short stage from the left bank of the Yang-tsze, where our overland journeying would probably be at an end.

With as light hearts as we could muster, on the morning of the 12th of July we left Chung-tu-ch’ang and the stream which flows behind it, and struck south-east and south over high hills. To the north towered confused mountain ranges, peak rising behind peak, dark and cloud-capped as we passed. On reaching the southern edge of an undulating plateau we looked into a deep ravine, down which flowed the stream; and far away to the south-east a yellow spot could be made out at the base of a dark mountain range. “What is that yellow spot?” I asked the keeper of a solitary inn shaded by a large banyan, just under the brow of the plateau. “That is the Chin Chiang,” was the welcome reply—the Golden River, the upper waters of the Yang-tsze. For a long time we sat under that shady banyan, indulging recklessly in rice-broth to strengthen and cheer us in our hour of joy. There was no laggard now; down the steep mountain side we hurried to the stream, and followed its right bank for four miles to the town of Man-i-ssu, which clings to the steep face of the left bank of the Golden River, and is about fifty miles higher than the highest point reached by the Upper Yang-tsze Expedition in 1861. Here, after a vain search for suitable night quarters, we engaged three small boats which were moored under the town, and dropped down river for a distance of twelve miles to the town of Fu-kuan-ts’un on the right bank and within the province of YÜn-nan.

To my surprise, I found that the Yang-tsze is the boundary of the provinces of Ssu-ch’uan and YÜn-nan to within a short distance of the mouth of the HÊng River, which enters it opposite the town of An-pien, on the left bank, sixteen miles west of Sui Fu. Fu-kuan-ts’un was crowded with agents buying up native opium, and it was only with the assistance of the local authorities that I was able to secure a small room in an inn. At the back, however, I soon discovered an outhouse which I much preferred to the room, and where I was removed from the glassy eyes of crowds.

Two courses were now open to me—to proceed overland to P’ing-shan Hsien and there take junk to Sui Fu and Ch’ung-k’ing, or to risk the descent of two dangerous rapids in a boat from Fu-kuan-ts’un. I decided to adopt the latter alternative; but, as trade so far west is insignificant and boats do not attempt the descent unless heavily laden, I had to wait three days till sufficient cargo had been collected for the craft which I had engaged. It was so hot on shore that I spent the night of the 15th on board, for the double purpose of catching any stray breeze on the river, and of being able to start at daylight on the morrow.

Our boat was of considerable length, deeply laden, and fitted with long sweeps at both ends, weighted with large stones to balance the outlying portions. At daylight we shipped a special crew of ten men, including a pilot, to help us down the rapids. They took entire possession of the fore part of the boat, while the regular crew, also numbering ten, were relegated to the stern, to work the sweep and a side spar which four men kept pumping up and down in front of the sweep. The pilot was a small wizened man of about sixty, with grizzled beard and moustache, and a keen piercing eye. His crew of nine—all young active fellows—at first took to the oars, the bow sweep being fastened to the deck by a noose. Six men hung on the stern sweep, and four worked the side spar. The descent was comparatively easy for twelve miles as far as Shih-ch’i-ch’ang, a market-town on the YÜn-nan side, where we moored above a rapid, and my followers, with the exception of my writer, personal servant, and one of the soldiers who had special instructions never to lose sight of me, took eager advantage of the skipper’s order to go on shore. I also landed my horse and mule.

Casting off our moorings, we soon slid into the Chi-kan-shih, which is a long confused mass of water stretching across the whole breadth of the river. Currents rush in all directions, causing waves and whirlpools. The moment we entered the rapid, the pilot shouted out the order, “To the bow sweep!” Seven of the oars were quickly thrown aside, and the seven rowers with the pilot clung round the sweep. With his left hand on its butt end, the pilot gave his orders to the steersmen by means of an old fan which he carried in his right, for the noise and hissing of the waters drowned his shrill voice. The difficulty was to keep the boat’s bows with the stream through the currents and whirlpools. This we accomplished, shipping only a little water.

From this rapid the river rushes with considerable force south-east and south, till it is barred in the latter direction by a mountain whose bare cliffs, which have successfully resisted the attacks of the current, rise sheer from the angry waters. Foiled in its southern onset, it rushes east and at right angles to its former course, causing the most dangerous of all the rapids—of which the boatmen enumerate twenty—on this section of the river. It is called the Wan-wan T’an, or “Winding Rapid,” and well does it deserve the name. The river rushes swiftly to the cliffs, seemingly bent on carrying all with it. The confusion caused by the rush, the sharp bend and the sudden contraction is terrible, and we were, to all appearances, being swiftly hurried to destruction. But the eye of the pilot wavered not. His crew on the bow sweep and his old fan saved us from the cliffs. Once, however, the steersmen were slow in obeying an order, when the old man threw his fan on the deck, and with his clenched right hand repeatedly struck his left palm. The boat’s stern was within arm’s length of the cliffs! Our soldier fired a shot from a horse-pistol as we entered each rapid, whether in its honour or in its defiance I know not. The rapids passed, the pilot and his crew left us, and we re-shipped our men, escort, and animals, and proceeded to Sui Fu, which we did not reach till dark.

We spent the greater part of the 17th of July in hiring and inspecting a passenger boat to convey us to Ch’ung-k’ing, and in the afternoon everything was arranged for a start next morning. Towards night, word was brought to me that my horse-boy, who occupied a room in the inn immediately underneath my own, and who, I noticed, left the boat very much exhausted the previous night, was dangerously ill with dysentery, brought on by the hardships of the route. I at once consulted his wishes as to proceeding or remaining to recruit with one of my servants, who was a relative, to attend to him. He expressed a desire to proceed, and I ordered a chair to be in waiting next morning to take him on board. At two o’clock in the morning I was roused from my sleep by what appeared to be a shout in Chinese, “Your horse-boy is dead.” I got up and lit my candle; but there was neither sound nor movement anywhere. I went to bed again, and at daybreak my servant announced the poor man’s death. After the funeral—I buried him at Sui Fu—we embarked, and before noon of the 21st of July we lay off Ch’ung-k’ing, glad that our overland struggles were at an end.