Shantung is the most interesting (historically) of all the provinces in the Empire, and we determined to visit two particularly sacred spots which were not far from the capital—Tai Shan (one of the four sacred mountains of China) and Küfow, the home of Confucius.

We started on a beautiful autumn morning, with quite an imposing cortège. First came our mounted military escort, then ourselves in two light mountain chairs, each carried by two men and with two to relieve them. Next came the cart, with our interpreter (a minute person clad in khaki, boasting the name of Fergus Summer—though a Chinaman), the cook, some baggage, and the men’s bedding. Finally a mule brought up the rear, carrying our baggage, some one’s bedding, and our other servant perched cross-legged on the top. It was a delightfully exhilarating day, and not less so the thought that we were really beginning our adventures off the beaten track, and had said good-bye to the railway for at least three weeks, to try far pleasanter, if slower, means of transit. The chairs were light frames with a hanging foot-rest, quite comfortable when padded with our bedding, and with an awning fastened on light bamboo rods above us. We were well manned, so we comforted ourselves as to the fact of their carrying us between twenty and thirty miles a day by remembering that they were only too pleased to get the job. They were pleasant, cheery fellows, with fine mahogany-coloured backs, and did not seem the least bit jaded at the end of the day’s march. They go lightly clad, the most solid part of their clothing being the pig-tail curled round their heads. The rest of their garments were well ventilated, and sometimes seemed in danger of falling to pieces altogether. Their food seemed most inadequate—a chunk of bread, an onion (alas for the passenger who hates the smell of an onion!), endless cups of tea at wayside restaurants, and frequent whiffs of smoke from their tiny pipes. They are wonderfully good-tempered, always ready for a laugh, and most attentive and careful for one’s comfort.

The first day passed without any adventure, but was pleasantly spent in charming scenery, and we passed a somewhat uneasy night trying to accustom ourselves to our new beds (light camp mattresses with an air pillow under the hips—an excellent arrangement) and strange surroundings in an inn. It was an easy task to get up early next day, and we started at 6 A.M., so as to do a four hours’ stage before breakfast—fifteen miles. The country was full of interesting sights: one hamlet we passed through seemed to have a monopoly of whips; every shop was full of them and of nothing else. In another plaited straw for hats was the only article for sale. Farther on, we came to a district where each village had large bunches of maize hanging in golden clusters from the trees, looking like fruit. As we turned a corner into a deep gully we came into a bevy of barrows in full sail—like a fleet of blue-sailed boats—bearing down upon us. They were the only ones we saw, as there was not much wind, but it was an unforgettable sight.

As we approached the city of Tai An we were met by a fine soldier in red plush breeches, but the rest of his costume was not to match! He had come six miles from the city to act as our escort, and told us of a noted Buddhist temple that we must stop and visit. There was an extraordinary seated gilt Buddha, with a broad grin on his face, and another grave one standing, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy, as far as we could see. The soldier told us that preparations had been made for our entertainment at the inn, but we had arranged to stay with a hospitable American lady, who had lived out here for over fifty years, and as soon as we arrived she sent to engage chairs to take us next day up the holy mountain. Chinese books say that it has been the holy mountain of the East for the last 4000 or 5000 years; it is certainly one of the most frequented to-day, and at the usual times of pilgrimage (February and March) as many as 10,000 will go up in a day. Most of the pilgrims go up on foot, a few on their knees, and the wealthy ones in chairs.

We started betimes in chairs—there is a special guild of chair-bearers, and they are simply wonderful—they are called “climb-mountain tigers,” and as soon as they saw my size they demanded an extra man. I was quite willing to comply with the demand, though they would not have suggested it to a Chinaman of twice my bulk! It was a lovely morning, worthy even of such an expedition. We were carried about two miles across the fields before we came to the foot of the mountain, and from there to the top the way is well paved or made in flights of granite steps, some ten to twelve feet wide, up to the top of the mountain. There is even a well-built wall of cut stone on either side, the cost of this road being defrayed (as well as the upkeep of the temples) by the gifts of worshippers. The road was not very steep at first, and was lined by houses, where no doubt a profitable trade is plied by the sellers of paper money, shoes to be presented to the goddess P’i-Hsia Yuam-Chun, incense, and “light refreshments.” There are many temples on the mountain—in fact, there seems to be one every few yards—but we had not time to spend in visiting them; and we set our faces to walk up a large part of the 6600 steps which lead to the top. It took us some five and a half hours to climb up, and as we neared the Gate of Heaven (the pink gateway in the sketch) the steepness grew, the last flight being over 1000 steps (I counted them), most of which were so narrow that not more than part of the foot could be accommodated: the steps were much higher than they were wide, so that it was more like a ladder than a staircase. Heavy iron chains were suspended at the sides for the worshippers to drag themselves up by, and a Chinese woman with us went up on all-fours. The way towered above us in contrast to the “Peaceful Mile,” a shady part of the road lower down; but it was very lovely, with its scent of wild thyme, fragrant grasses, and yellow chrysanthemums. Earlier in the year it is bright with violets, forget-me-nots, and honeysuckle, and the cypresses and pine trees give great dignity to the landscape. We followed the rocky bed of the stream, which becomes a brawling torrent after rain. We only halted for half-an-hour on our way up, and the “tigers” did their work well. After we had passed through the Gate of Heaven we came on to a comparatively flat piece of tableland with thatched cottages, which might have been a Scotch moor. On the top were several temples, one to Confucius, in which was a replica of his big statue in the temple of Küfow; another to Yu-Huang, the Taoist Emperor of the Sky, who first drained the Empire; and—most sacred of all—a rough block of granite, said to have been erected there by the conqueror Ch’in Shih-Nuang.

The great Emperor Shun (B.C. 2255–2205) is said to have visited Tai Shan, “where he presented a burnt offering to God and sacrificed to the Mountains and Rivers.” Certainly he could not have selected a better spot for the purpose: from the summit you look down upon a vast expanse of hilltops, like the waves of the ocean, and the lovely shining rivers below wind away like silver threads between them. This represents the oldest form of worship in China, existing before the rise of Taoism, Confucianism, and Buddhism. The earliest sacrifices are said by Chinese writers to have been organised by Fu Hsi, nearly 3000 years B.C. His successor built a temple for the worship of God, where sacrifices were offered to the mountains and rivers. This was followed by the worship of the sun, moon, and five planets, and there are traces of this still to be found in Chinese Buddhism, which has incorporated so many alien ideas from other religions.

The great sacrifices to God and to earth were offered at the winter and summer solstices by the Emperor: he also sacrificed to the four quarters and to the mountains and rivers of his Empire. The nobility sacrificed each to their own quarter, with its rivers and mountains. The royal sacrifice was a young ox of one colour, which had been specially reserved for the purpose. The sacrifices of the people varied according to rank and to the season of the year—a bull, a ram, a boar, scallions and eggs, wheat, fish, millet, a sucking pig, unhulled rice, a goose.

The sacrifices in early times consisted of meat and drink; those offered to heaven were burnt, and those to earth were buried, accompanied by the beating of an earthen drum. But sacrifices were not very frequent; in the “Book of Rites” it says: “Sacrifices should not be frequently repeated. Such frequency is indicative of importunateness; and importunateness is inconsistent with reverence. Nor should they be at distant intervals. Such infrequency is indicative of indifference, and indifference leads to forgetting them altogether. Therefore the superior man, in harmony with the course of nature, offers the sacrifices of spring and autumn. When he treads on the dew, which has descended as hoarfrost, he cannot help a feeling of sadness which arises in his mind, and cannot be ascribed to the cold. In spring, when he treads on the ground, wet with the rains and dews that have fallen heavily, he cannot avoid being moved by a feeling as if he were seeing his departed friends. We meet the approach of our friends with music, and escort them away with sadness, and hence at the sacrifice in spring we use music, but not at the sacrifice in autumn” (Legge’s translation).

Such a poetic description of worship is worthy of the scene which greeted our gaze on the mountain after we had passed through the Gate of Heaven, the fine culminating point of the steep ascent. The view from the summit, which is but a gentle ascent from the Gate of Heaven, was absolutely glorious—range upon range of mountains, countless villages dotted over the forty miles of plain and in the folds of the hills, and above all the winding, shining river, going away, away, away, till it was lost in infinite space. Was it that the effect of such a vision unhinged the minds of worshippers, since this became the place where people cast themselves down into the abyss? There were so many deaths that the authorities have had it walled in, and the place is called “Cliff of the Love of Life.”

When we began our descent we resolved to do the correct thing—despite the terror it inspired in us—and be carried down the almost perpendicular stairway. The men carry the chairs sideways, because of the narrowness of the steps, and run down, pitter-patter, as hard as they can go. I had my watch in hand and timed them—a thousand steps in six minutes. The most horrible moment was when they flung the chair, with a dexterous turn of the wrist, from one shoulder to the other. One false step and we should all have been killed together; but the “tigers” never make a false step. Really the only danger is that the carrying poles may snap. The whole return journey—reckoned at thirteen miles—took only two and a half hours. The height of the mountain is 5500 feet, whereas Tai-an is only 800 feet above sea-level. Stones are carried from it to all parts of the province, and when a house is built with an unlucky aspect—namely, facing a cross-road or a turning—one of these stones is built into the wall, with an inscription, “The stone from Tai Shan accepts the responsibility.”