aristocrat, as only officials or the rich use such chairs in the
country, though in cities they are a common means of conveyance.
Besides, I had travelled in a chair in Korea and I
wished to try something else in China.

The Chinese wheelbarrow is a clumsy affair with a narrow
seat on each side of a central partition. When large and with
an awning, it is not so uncomfortable, but it is not well adapted
to a long journey as it is slow and toilsome. When the mud is
deep, progress is almost impossible. Moreover, the labour of
the barrow-men constantly excites the sympathy of the humane
traveller and the dismal screech of the wheel revolving upon
its unoiled axle is worse than the rasp of filing a saw. The
Chinese depend upon the shrieks of the wheel to tell them how
the axle is wearing, but the disconsolate foreigner finds that his
nerves wear out much faster than the wooden axle. In Tsing-
tau, that agonizing screech proved too much even for the stolid
Germans and they posted an ordinance to the effect that all
barrow axles must be greased. The Chinese demurred, but a
few arrests taught them obedience, so that now the streets of
the German metropolis no longer resound with the hysterical
wails and moans so dear to the heart of the Celestial.

The Chinese cart is a curious affair. There are no roads in
the interior of China, except the ruts that have been made by
the passing of many feet and wheels for generations. In dry
weather, they are thick with dust and in the wet season they
are fathomless with mud. Almost everywhere they are distractingly
crooked, and in many places they are plentifully bestrewn
with boulders of varying sizes. Instead of spending