We left Moukden at 8 A.M. by the ordinary Japanese train, but the permanent line to Antung is only completed for a short distance. In our carriage there was a framed notice in Japanese, of which there was apparently an abbreviated form in English below, which ran, “Hands off the rope, please.” No rope or check-string was visible, so the order was rather a dead letter. After travelling two and a half hours we had to change to the light railway on which are no first-class carriages. The accommodation was limited in every way, and the narrow benches made us long for the “cushioned seats” which Maggie’s brothers found so reposeful in “What every woman knows.” Despite the beauty of the scenery the way seemed long: hour after hour passed by, while still we crept up the mountain gorges. The Manchurian side showed little vegetation on the crags, except some stunted pine-trees. On all the Japanese lines we were struck with the large number of soldiers hanging about. The Chinese Government granted permission for one soldier to every ten miles of railway; but there are 15,000 men to 703 miles of railway, according to Mr. Tyenaga’s reckoning in an article entitled “Manchuria’s Strategic Railway.” They are quartered in various places. Yet Japan notified to the Powers the withdrawal of her troops from Manchuria only a few months ago! At midday we made a short halt, and the Japanese officers had tea served to them, and produced their “luncheon baskets.” These consisted of three neat little trays, a paper serviette, and chopsticks: the top tray was filled with rice, the next with a vegetable salad, and the third with rissoles, fish, and other savouries. Another Japanese passenger produced from his sleeve a toothpick, knife, fruit, &c. It was a continual source of interest to us to see what came out of that receptacle—note-book, pencil, handkerchief, cigarettes, matches, a veritable box of tricks; finally he selected a lump of coal from a truck attached to the rear of the carriage, wrapped it in paper, and added it to the other treasures up his sleeve, or perhaps it would be more correct to say down his sleeve, for it formed a sort of pouch. He was an interesting specimen of the indeterminate Jap, so common in Manchuria; his clothes, the first day of the journey, were a mixture of European, Chinese, and Japanese, but next day he appeared in a sort of European clerical black suit and white shirt, a costume which was by no means adapted to his mode of sitting. He took off his elastic-sided boots, climbed on to the narrow seat on which he had previously placed a folded blanket, gathered his clothing carefully together, and sat down cross-legged. If it had not been for the large felt wideawake hat which rested on his ears, he would have looked, with his folded arms, like some contemplative Buddha. Much of the time he spent in sleep, but every now and then he woke up, and at once set to work with feverish energy, writing rapidly in his note-book.

As we zig-zagged up the mountain the air grew colder and denser, for our carriage was full, and every one smoked but ourselves. We managed to light the stove with the remains of the luncheon boxes, and fortunately there was a scuttle of coal with which to replenish it. The main drawback was the difficulty of escaping being burnt owing to the narrow space, and one’s dress paid with a couple of holes.

At 7.40 P.M. the train stopped for the night, and we betook ourselves to a Japanese inn tinctured with Europeanism. It consisted of a squat tower with ten sides, of which the centre, also ten-sided, formed the parlour. Each of these inner walls formed a door, seven of which opened into bedrooms. As they were all alike, no one seemed able to remember which was his room, so we had to barricade our door if we wanted to exclude visitors. The other guests were led off in turns to have a bath, and returned in due course arrayed in hotel dressing-gowns and slippers to sit before the stove and smoke. Next morning we started again at 8 o’clock, and spent a similar day to the previous one, climbing through mountain gorges and crossing and recrossing the same river. The hill-sides boasted more vegetation, and the brown autumn leaves still clung to the trees, of which a number are wild mulberry, which grows freely in these mountains. We reached Antung soon after 6 o’clock, and went to a Japanese inn, recommended by the proprietor of the one where we had spent the previous night: he telegraphed to them to meet us at the station. Antung is a considerable place, and the Japanese town is situated quite apart from the Chinese; the railway and ferry were near the hotel, and we started betimes for the latter, which runs in connection with the train at Wiju on the south bank of the Yalu River. We took our tickets, but they possessed literally no change at the ticket-office. I was able to pay almost the correct sum, only three farthings in excess of the full price, and the man offered to give me the change later on. It did not seem worth while struggling through a dirty crowd for this magnificent sum afterwards, so I did not return, but an hour later, when we were seated in the train at Wiju, an official solemnly presented the three farthings to me!

The river was full of ominous-looking blocks of ice, and the tug looked sadly unequal to making its way through it: in fact it had missed running on that account more than one day the same week, so we thought ourselves fortunate in getting across the river at once. There is often considerable delay, both at the time of the freezing and of the thawing of the river, and unfortunately there is no bridge of any kind. The permanent line will necessitate the building of a bridge, but it is not expected to be ready within the next two years, though the Japanese are straining every nerve to complete the line. The tug was wretchedly small and crowded, but performed its journey valiantly, crunching through the ice, and landing us in about a quarter of an hour on the Korean bank of the Yalu, where a well-appointed train awaited us. Never was a first-class carriage more welcome to weary travellers, never was an excellently cooked lunch which was served in due course more highly appreciated, and the attendant gave the finishing touch to our contentment by administering a much-needed brush down before our arrival at Pyöng Yang. Everything was a strange contrast from what we had left; the cold colouring of Manchuria was replaced by a warm red soil, through which the first tokens of spring green were beginning to appear. Instead of the blue clothing to which we had been accustomed, every one here was clad in white, both in town and country. Rice fields greet the eye at every turn, for this is the main cereal grown. The only things that were the same were the Japanese line and the Japanese official, no more conspicuous here than in Manchuria, and apparently firmly rooted in both.

Korea is somewhat larger in extent than Great Britain, about 80,000 square miles in size, and the population is estimated at about twelve to thirteen millions. Owing to the mountainous character of Korea, a large part of it, especially in the north, is uninhabitable; in fact some people estimate that only one quarter is occupied. No census of the population was taken till that made by the Japanese in 1904. As the people feared that this was preliminary to a tax, they made every effort to prevent correct numbers being ascertained, and consequently the returns were less than nine and a half millions. Another census is now being taken, which, in all probability, will be much more accurate.

Korea is a country abounding in valuable products, one of the chief of which is gold. There are also excellent anthracite coal and other minerals, but as yet these resources have been little utilised. At the present time no less than one hundred and eighty-four mining concessions have been granted to British, American, German, and French companies, and their prospects are thoroughly encouraging. Korea is the fifth largest cotton producing country in the world, and now that it is opening up to trade, with fresh facilities of transport by land and sea, it is likely to make rapid progress. The people are naturally peaceful and diligent, and under a wise rule the land ought to become an ideal one. Christianity and education are spreading rapidly, the former being said to have already 200,000 adherents. The written language is alphabetical, and consists of twenty-five letters, but the literate Koreans use Chinese characters, and all of them are expected to know that language. The missionaries decided to use the Un Mum, the native script, and most of the Christian literature is published in that form. The Protestant Missions have been working only about twenty-five years in Korea, but the Roman Catholics were there long ago, and the terrible persecutions they underwent form one of the most striking chapters in Korean history. The former have had remarkable success, and have introduced fresh methods of missionary enterprise, which will be described in the next chapter, as they are likely to have great influence on the future development of missions in other countries. Nowhere have the people of a country more thoroughly recognised their duty of handing on the gift they have received, or of accepting their personal responsibility for evangelising their own people.