I now must go back to my first coming to Tientsin in 1893. From Shanghai I came in a coasting steamer, and it was after starting that I made the rather disconcerting discovery that I was the only woman on board. Nevertheless it was the pleasantest voyage I ever had, as my cabin had a proper bed in it and its own bathroom, and I made the happy discovery that Chinese servants could be the best in the world, while the officers all conspired to amuse me. The voyage lasted a week, and the slow passage up the mouth of the Peiho (ho means “river”) was quite a new experience. We ran into the soft banks pretty frequently, and they crumbled like dust; sometimes we were in imminent danger of carrying away a hut as well, but happily that did not occur. One dreadful object kept recurring again and again—a tall pole on the river-bank with a basket on the top, containing a criminal’s head.

At Tientsin I was met by one of my sisters and her husband, who had come to take me into Shansi. The European town was very dull and prosaic, and the native city abjectly squalid, but now the former is well laid out and there are plenty of large houses, shops, schools, colleges, and tramways. I was not sorry to get away from it, however, as I was anxious to see the real China, and we soon got our things accommodated in a small house-boat to travel up the river to Paoting-fu. Three little compartments were all we had, but we spent a good part of each day walking on the banks and admiring the lovely autumn colouring of the rushes. On my return a year later we were not so fortunate, as the war with Japan was in full swing, so that the country was too disturbed for us to walk about, and we had to take whatever could be got in the way of a boat, namely, one infested with cockroaches and other vermin. For three days and nights we sat in misery, scarcely able to eat or sleep, and when we opened our trunks at Tientsin we found them simply swarming with cockroaches. They had eaten all the straw of a bonnet, leaving nothing but lining and trimmings!

At Paoting-fu we left the river, and I had a mule litter while the others rode. These litters are the most horrible invention, as the mules perpetually tumble down, and even though you pad the sides with your bedding you get much shaken. When we came to a river we had to ford it or be ferried across, for there are no bridges in this part, and often the rivers are very dangerous. On the roads we met long strings of camels carrying packs, the tail of one animal being attached to the nose of the one behind. They have inns of their own, being cantankerous beasts, and are supposed to travel at nights, because of being such an obstruction to traffic. Certainly if you lie awake you can generally hear the tinkle of their bells. They are a most attractive feature of the landscape in the north, whether seen in the streets of Peking, or on the sandy plains of Chili. My sketch was taken in the summer when the camels were changing their coats, so that the one in the front has a grey, dishevelled look, corresponding with Mark Twain’s description. He says that camels always look like “second-hand” goods; but it is clear that he cannot know the fine stately beast of North China.

The road leading to Taiyüanfu—our objective—was always thronged with traffic, men on foot, on horseback, in chairs, or in carts. The official messengers wore yellow, and dashed along faster than any one else; but one day we met six mandarins in four-bearer chairs, carrying an important document from the Emperor at Peking into Szechwan, the western province. They were received everywhere ceremoniously, and crackers sent off in their honour; they were accompanied by a military escort and gorgeous banners.

At nights we often had to put up in wretched inns. The cold was extreme at this time of year (November), and the brick bedsteads were heated from underneath by a fire. This was all very well if it was properly regulated, but sometimes it was allowed to get too hot, and then you woke to find yourself baked like a biscuit. The nights were short, for we often arrived after dark and had to get up at 4.30. Even then it was difficult to get the men started at six, sometimes only at seven o’clock. The clear cold moonlight mornings were very lovely, and I was glad enough to walk to keep warm.

One day my brother-in-law made a détour to visit a village where there is an interesting Christian community, whose history is a remarkable one. It was the home of a thief, who in his wanderings happened to go into a mission hall and heard the story of the life of Christ. The next time he returned home, amongst other items of news he retailed what he could remember of this strange story, and so deeply interested the listeners that they found his knowledge far too meagre to satisfy them; they decided to send two of their most respected seniors to learn more about it. These men went to the mission station, were carefully instructed and became Christians. They returned to their village in course of time, taking a supply of Christian literature, and thenceforward they have given themselves entirely to the work of evangelisation at their own cost. Occasionally a missionary goes round to see them—as in the present instance—but otherwise they work steadily and successfully, without any assistance from Europeans. This is an example of a fact which holds good in China generally, namely, that the people do not leave mission work to be done only by the missionaries, but become the best workers themselves when they have accepted Christianity. What Mr. James (of the Bombay Civil Service) says of the work of the Presbyterians in Manchuria exemplifies this same fact: “Of 600 people who have been baptized since Mr. Ross came to Manchuria, not more than a dozen owe their conversion primarily or chiefly to the foreign missionaries; the others have become disciples of these converts, and this spiritual seed has produced within a dozen years the sixth or seventh generation.” This is the experience of workers throughout the Empire, and was expressed by a Chinese lady visiting England in a pathetic appeal for more missionaries: “If only you will send us teachers now—for a few years—we will do the rest.”

To return to our narrative, my brother-in-law brought the two Chinese elders with him when he rejoined us on the road, and they greeted us like old friends, with radiant happiness. It was inspiring to see their simple, heartfelt piety and their absolute realisation of Christian brotherhood. We chanced to come across them again a year later on my return journey to the coast, and again I saw their simple, joyous faith, the sincerity of which could not be doubted by the most cynical sceptic. It was the one bright spot in an otherwise very trying and anxious journey, for the country was much disturbed, owing to the war with Japan, and one of our party was ill with fever—a boy of seven—and growing daily worse, so that when we at last reached Tientsin he had a temperature of 107°.

When we approached the province of Shansi we got into a hilly district, and crossed several ridges called “the Heavenly Gates.” In some cases the ascent was pretty steep (2860 feet), and there were temples at the bottom where the coolies prayed for a safe journey up. When I stopped to sketch it aroused much interest, and spectators always treated me with respect. It was explained to them that I desired to show my mother the beauties of their country, so I became the type of English “filial piety”!

The dangers of the road are numerous, and crossing the rivers is often a very perilous proceeding: sometimes it is possible to ford them, but the river-beds are so changeable that it was usually necessary to have the guidance of experienced men. Sometimes we had to be carried across on men’s backs, and it is not altogether a pleasant experience to cling on to a bare, greasy back in a kneeling position, with your arms round a most unwashed neck! Sometimes we were ferried over, which was much the safest and pleasantest way of crossing, and the charge is infinitesimally small.

Another danger of the road arises from the nature of the soil, which is largely a loess formation. The road runs through deep gulleys, often over 100 feet deep and quite narrow, but the loess walls are apt to give way, especially after rain. One day we were walking quietly along under a high cliff, when a deafening thunderclap close behind us made us start and look back, to see a dense cloud of dust where the cliff had fallen right across the path we had just traversed. We had a very close shave that time. About a year later my cousin was killed by the similar breaking down of a road alongside a river; she was riding in a cart, and was buried under it in the river. A friend who was with her had just got out to walk a little, and consequently escaped.

During the rains travellers are often drowned by the sudden rush of water down the gullies, and there are places of refuge in the high banks—little caves or hollows. In some of the villages where we had to stop the night the houses were dug in these cliffs, and were really caves. The smells were atrocious, as there was but little ventilation. The chimneys form danger traps to the unwary traveller walking along the top of the cliffs; he may easily step into one, if he is not looking carefully where he is going.

The day before we reached Tai Yuänfu, the capital of Shansi, we stopped at a mission station in the charge of a delightful, courtly old Chinese evangelist, whose hospitality I enjoyed several times. He treated us royally, cooking dinner for us in European style, and would have been sorely grieved had we offered him any remuneration. When the troubles came later, not only he but every member of his little flock—forty-one in all—were “faithful unto death,” refusing to accept life at the price of recantation.

The journey from the coast took altogether a fortnight, and I was glad when at last we reached the wide plain in which Tai Yuänfu is situated. In May it is a vision of loveliness with its crops of millet, sorghum, and poppy—white and puce colour—but now it was one monotonous expanse of dust. The dust storms which blow across the plain are terribly trying; they are as bewildering and as blinding as a fog, and they sometimes go on daily for weeks during the early part of the year.

Shansi is one of the worst provinces of all as regards opium-smoking, and the poppy is largely cultivated. In the accompanying sketch a group of patients is seen, who have come to a mission refuge to try and break off the habit. They are allowed to smoke tobacco, but are mostly resting or sleeping on the khang; the brick bed seen in every inn and in most private houses. On the floor in front of it is seen a small round aperture, where the fire is fed, which heats the whole khang. The present Governor of Shansi is taking active steps to put down opium cultivation, and the prospect seems hopeful. Revenons à nos moutons. When we reached the city gate there was a slight delay, as carts are apt to get jammed in it. Though the gateway is large it is considerably blocked by stones, set up by a former governor to prevent carts of above a certain gauge from entering the city: this was to encourage the trade of the wheelwrights. Now there is a railway right up to the walls of the city, but from what I have already said it will be easily understood how difficult a task it has been to construct a safe line. The railway joins the Péhan line at Cheng Ting.