A CENTRE OF TRADE 



Szechuan, Russia, Mongolia, Manchuria and the 

 East. To it came, with his father and uncle, a 

 young Venetian who, thirty years later, wrote a 

 book, still, after a lapse of six and a half centuries, 

 one of the greatest books on travel ever written. 

 There, on the outskirts of a great Empire, I 

 seemed to see them bronzed and weary crossing 

 the broad river and entering the city which has 

 so little changed. In imagination I saw them 

 setting out again towards the east, to riches and 

 honours and the city of the great king. Theirs 

 was a different road from that by which we made 

 our approach. As we drew near, the ravine, 

 whose steep sides shut us in, became choked 

 with a struggling mass of men, carts and animals. 

 Long strings of camels, looking clean and fit in 

 their splendid winter coats, waited with an in- 

 sufferable air of self -appreciation for a way to be 

 made. Patient little donkeys pottered con- 

 scientiously in and out between carts with 

 wheels six foot and more in diameter. Women 

 and children peered curiously at us from houses 

 far above our heads. Men shouted, swayed and 

 surged ; we were back in the Middle Ages, obvious 

 anachronisms among the relics of a primitive 

 civilisation. 



Then, amid these strange surroundings, appeared 

 a little party of Europeans. It transpired that 

 most of the missionaries were leaving for Titao on 

 account of the troubles. Mr. Ross, however, the 

 postmaster, and Mr. George Andrews, jnr., were 

 returning to the city. It was obvious as we 

 entered the west suburb that something had dis- 

 turbed the populace. The streets were literally 



