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For undergraduate courses in Management Science.

A logical, step-by-step approach to complex problem-solving

Using simple, straightforward examples to present complex mathematical

concepts, Introduction to Management Science gives students a strong foundation
in how to logically approach decision-making problems. Sample problems are
used liberally throughout the text to facilitate the learning process and
demonstrate different quantitative techniques. Management Science presents
modeling techniques that are used extensively in the business world and provides
a useful framework for problem-solving that students can apply in the workplace.

The Twelfth Edition focuses on the latest technological advances used by

businesses and organizations for solving problems and leverages the latest
versions of Excel 2013, Excel QM, TreePlan, Crystal Ball, Microsoft Project 2010,
and QM for Windows.

1. Introduction to Management Science

2. Introduction to Management Science
3. Brief Contents
4. Contents
5. Preface
6. New to This Edition
7. Learning Features
8. Instructor Resources
9. Student Resources
10.Chapter 1 Management Science
11.The Management Science Approach to Problem Solving
12.Observation
13.Definition of the Problem
14.Model Construction
15.Model Solution
16.Implementation
17.Management Science and Business Analytics
18.Model Building: Break-Even Analysis
19.Components of Break-Even Analysis
20.Computing the Break-Even Point
21.Graphical Solution
22.Sensitivity Analysis
23.Computer Solution
24.Excel Spreadsheets
25.The Excel QM Macro for Spreadsheets
26.QM for Windows
27.Management Science Modeling Techniques
28.Linear Mathematical Programming Techniques
29.Probabilistic Techniques
30.Network Techniques
31.Other Techniques
32.Business Usage of Management Science Techniques
33.Management Science Models in Decision Support Systems
34.Summary
35.Problems
36.Case Problem The Clean Clothes Corner Laundry
37.Case Problem The Ocobee River Rafting Company
38.Case Problem Constructing a Downtown Parking Lot in Draper
39.Case Problem A Bus Service For Draper
40.Chapter 2 Linear Programming: Model Formulation and Graphical
Solution
41.Model Formulation
42.A Maximization Model Example
43.Decision Variables
44.The Objective Function
45.Model Constraints
46.Graphical Solutions of Linear Programming Models
47.Graphical Solution of a Maximization Model
48.The Optimal Solution Point
49.The Solution Values
50.Slack Variables
51.Summary of the Graphical Solution Steps
52.A Minimization Model Example
53.Summary of LP Model Formulation Steps
54.Decision Variables
55.The Objective Function
56.Model Constraints
57.Graphical Solution of a Minimization Model
58.Surplus Variables
59.Irregular Types of Linear Programming Problems
60.Multiple Optimal Solutions
61.An Infeasible Problem
62.An Unbounded Problem
63.Characteristics of Linear Programming Problems
64.Properties of Linear Programming Models
65.Summary
66.Example Problem Solutions
67.Problem Statement
68.Solution
69.Problem Statement
70.Solution
71.Problems
72.Case Problem Metropolitan Police Patrol
73.Case Problem “The Possibility” Restaurant
74.Case Problem Annabelle Invests in the Market
75.Chapter 3 Linear Programming: Computer Solution and Sensitivity
Analysis
76.Computer Solution
77.Excel Spreadsheets
78.QM for Windows
79.Sensitivity Analysis
80.Changes in Objective Function Coefficients
81.Objective Function Coefficient Ranges with the Computer
82.Changes in Constraint Quantity Values
83.Constraint Quantity Value Ranges with Excel and QM for Windows
84.Other Forms of Sensitivity Analysis
85.Shadow Prices
86.Summary
87.Example Problem Solutions
88.Problem Statement
89.Solution
90.Problems
91.Case Problem Mossaic Tiles, Ltd.
92.Case Problem "The Possibility" Restaurant—Continued
93.Case Problem Julia's Food Booth
94.Chapter 4 Linear Programming: Modeling Examples
95.A Product Mix Example
96.Summary of Linear Programming Model Formulation Steps
97.Decision Variables
98.The Objective Function
99.Model Constraints
100. Model Summary
101. Computer Solution with Excel
102. Computer Solution with QM for Windows
103. Solution Analysis
104. Sensitivity Analysis
105. A Diet Example
106. Decision Variables
107. The Objective Function
108. Model Constraints
109. Model Summary
110. Computer Solution with Excel
111. Solution Analysis
112. Sensitivity Analysis
113. An Investment Example
114. Decision Variables
115. The Objective Function
116. Model Constraints
117. Model Summary
118. Computer Solution with Excel
119. Solution Analysis
120. Sensitivity Analysis
121. A Marketing Example
122. Decision Variables
123. The Objective Function
124. Model Constraints
125. Model Summary
126. Computer Solution with Excel
127. Solution Analysis
128. A Transportation Example
129. Decision Variables
130. The Objective Function
131. Model Constraints
132. Model Summary
133. Computer Solution with Excel
134. Solution Analysis
135. A Blend Example
136. Decision Variables
137. The Objective Function
138. Model Constraints
139. Model Summary
140. Computer Solution with Excel
141. Solution Analysis
142. Sensitivity Analysis
143. A Multiperiod Scheduling Example
144. Decision Variables
145. The Objective Function
146. Model Constraints
147. Model Summary
148. Computer Solution with Excel
149. Solution Analysis
150. Sensitivity Analysis
151. A Data Envelopment Analysis Example
152. Decision Variables
153. The Objective Function
154. Model Constraints
155. Model Summary
156. Computer Solution with Excel
157. Solution Analysis
158. Summary
159. Example Problem Solution
160. Problem Statement
161. Solution
162. Problems
163. Case Problem Summer Sports Camp at State University
164. Case Problem Spring Garden Tools
165. Case Problem Susan Wong’s Personal Budgeting Model
166. Case Problem Walsh’s Juice Company
167. Case Problem The King’s Landing Amusement Park
168. Chapter 5 Integer Programming
169. Integer Programming Models
170. A Total Integer Model Example
171. A 0–1 Integer Model Example
172. A Mixed Integer Model Example
173. Integer Programming Graphical Solution
174. Computer Solution of Integer Programming Problems with Excel
and QM for Windows
175. Solution of the 0–1 Model with Excel
176. Solution of the 0–1 Model with QM for Windows
177. Solution of the Total Integer Model with Excel
178. Solution of the Mixed Integer Model with Excel
179. Solution of the Mixed Integer Model with QM for Windows
180. 0–1 Integer Programming Modeling Examples
181. A Capital Budgeting Example
182. A Fixed Charge and Facility Location Example
183. A Set Covering Example
184. Summary
185. Example Problem Solution
186. The Problem Statement
187. Solution
188. Problems
189. Case Problem PM Computer Services
190. Case Problem The Tennessee Pterodactyls
191. Case Problem New Offices at Atlantic Management Systems
192. Case Problem Scheduling Television Advertising Slots at the United
Broadcast Network
193. Case Problem The Draperton Parks and Recreation Department’s
Formation of Girls’ Basketball Teams
194. Case Problem Developing Project Teams for Management 4394
195. Case Problem Scheduling the Lead Balloon’s Summer Tour
196. Case Problem Developing Kathleen Taylor’s 401(k) Plan
197. Case Problem The Baseball Park Tour
198. Chapter 6 Transportation, Transshipment, and Assignment
Problems
199. The Transportation Model
200. Computer Solution of a Transportation Problem
201. Computer Solution with Excel
202. Computer Solution with Excel QM
203. QM for Windows Solution
204. Sensitivity Analysis
205. The Transshipment Model
206. Computer Solution with Excel
207. The Assignment Model
208. Computer Solution of an Assignment Problem
209. Computer Solution with Excel
210. Computer Solution with Excel QM
211. Computer Solution with QM for Windows
212. Summary
213. Example Problem Solution
214. Problem Statement
215. Solution
216. Problems
217. Case Problem The Department of Management Science and
Information Technology at Tech
218. Case Problem Stateline Shipping and Transport Company
219. Case Problem Burlingham Textile Company
220. Case Problem The Graphic Palette
221. Case Problem Scheduling at Hawk Systems, Inc.
222. Case Problem Tech's "Give-Back" Weekend
223. Case Problem Global Shipping at Erken Apparel International
224. Case Problem WeeMow Lawn Service
225. Chapter 7 Network Flow Models
226. Network Components
227. The Shortest Route Problem
228. The Shortest Route Solution Approach
229. Computer Solution of the Shortest Route Problem with QM for
Windows
230. Computer Solution of the Shortest Route Problem with Excel
231. The Minimal Spanning Tree Problem
232. The Minimal Spanning Tree Solution Approach
233. Computer Solution of the Minimal Spanning Tree Problem with QM
for Windows
234. The Maximal Flow Problem
235. The Maximal Flow Solution Approach
236. Computer Solution of the Maximal Flow Problem with QM for
Windows
237. Computer Solution of the Maximal Flow Problem with Excel
238. Summary
239. Example Problem Solution
240. Problem Statement
241. Solution
242. Problems
243. Case Problem The Pearlsburg Rescue Squad
244. Case Problem Around the World in 80 Days
245. Case Problem The Battle of the Bulge
246. Case Problem Nuclear Waste Disposal at PAWV Power and Light
247. Case Problem A Day in Paris
248. Case Problem Suntrek Global Container Network Flow
249. Chapter 8 Project Management
250. The Elements of Project Management
251. Project Planning
252. Project Return
253. The Project Team
254. Scope Statement
255. Work Breakdown Structure
256. Responsibility Assignment Matrix
257. Project Scheduling
258. The Gantt Chart
259. Project Control
260. Project Risk
261. CPM/PERT
262. AOA Networks
263. AON Networks
264. The Critical Path
265. Activity Scheduling
266. Activity Slack
267. Probabilistic Activity Times
268. Probabilistic Time Estimates
269. Probability Analysis of the Project Network
270. CPM/PERT Analysis with QM for Windows and Excel QM
271. Microsoft Project
272. Project Crashing and Time–Cost Trade-Off
273. Project Crashing with QM for Windows
274. The General Relationship of Time and Cost
275. Formulating the CPM/PERT Network as a Linear Programming
Model
276. Solution of the CPM/PERT Linear Programming Model with Excel
277. Project Crashing with Linear Programming
278. Project Crashing with Excel
279. Summary
280. Example Problem Solution
281. Problem Statement
282. Problems
283. Case Problem The Bloodless Coup Concert
284. Case Problem Moore Housing Contractors
285. Chapter 9 Multicriteria Decision Making
286. Goal Programming
287. Model Formulation
288. Labor Goal
289. Profit Goal
290. Material Goal
291. Alternative Forms of Goal Constraints
292. Graphical Interpretation of Goal Programming
293. Computer Solution of Goal Programming Problems with QM for
Windows and Excel
294. QM for Windows
295. Excel Spreadsheets
296. The Analytical Hierarchy Process
297. Pairwise Comparisons
298. Developing Preferences Within Criteria
299. Ranking the Criteria
300. Developing an Overall Ranking
301. AHP Consistency
302. AHP with Excel Spreadsheets
303. Scoring Models
304. Scoring Model with Excel Solution
305. Summary
306. Example Problem Solutions
307. Problem Statement
308. Solution
309. Problem Statement
310. Solution
311. Problems
312. Case Problem Oakdale County School Busing
313. Case Problem Catawba Valley Highway Patrol
314. Case Problem Katherine Miller’s Job Selection
315. Case Problem Selecting National Baseball Hall of Fame Members
316. Case Problem Suntrek’s Global Denim Jeans Factory and
Distribution Center
317. Chapter 10 Nonlinear Programming
318. Nonlinear Profit Analysis
319. Constrained Optimization
320. Solution of Nonlinear Programming Problems with Excel
321. A Nonlinear Programming Model with Multiple Constraints
322. Nonlinear Model Examples
323. Facility Location
324. Investment Portfolio Selection
325. Summary
326. Example Problem Solution
327. Problem Statement
328. Solution
329. Problems
330. Case Problem Admissions at State University
331. Case Problem Selecting a European Distribution Center Site for
American International Automotive Industries
332. Chapter 11 Probability and Statistics
333. Types of Probability
334. Objective Probability
335. Subjective Probability
336. Fundamentals of Probability
337. Statistical Independence and Dependence
338. Independent Events
339. Probability Trees
340. The Binomial Distribution
341. Dependent Events
342. Bayesian Analysis
343. Expected Value
344. The Normal Distribution
345. Sample Mean and Variance
346. The Chi-Square Test for Normality
347. Statistical Analysis with Excel
348. Summary
349. Example Problem Solution
350. Problem Statement
351. Solution
352. Problems
353. Case Problem Valley Swim Club
354. Chapter 12 Decision Analysis
355. Components of Decision Making
356. Decision Making Without Probabilities
357. Decision-Making Criteria
358. The Maximax Criterion
359. The Maximin Criterion
360. The Minimax Regret Criterion
361. The Hurwicz Criterion
362. The Equal Likelihood Criterion
363. Summary of Criteria Results
364. Solution of Decision-Making Problems Without Probabilities with
QM for Windows
365. Solution of Decision-Making Problems Without Probabilities with
Excel
366. Decision Making with Probabilities
367. Expected Value
368. Expected Opportunity Loss
369. Solution of Expected Value Problems with QM for Windows
370. Solution of Expected Value Problems with Excel and Excel QM
371. Expected Value of Perfect Information
372. Decision Trees
373. Decision Trees with Excel QM
374. Decision Trees with Excel and TreePlan (http://www.treeplan.com)
375. Sequential Decision Trees
376. Sequential Decision Tree Analysis with Excel QM
377. Sequential Decision Tree Analysis with Excel and TreePlan
378. Decision Analysis with Additional Information
379. Decision Trees with Posterior Probabilities
380. Computing Posterior Probabilities with Tables
381. Computing Posterior Probabilities with Excel
382. The Expected Value of Sample Information
383. Utility
384. Summary
385. Example Problem Solutions
386. Problem Statement
387. Solution
388. Problems
389. Case Problem Steeley Associates versus Concord Falls
390. Case Problem Transformer Replacement at Mountain States Electric
Service
391. Case Problem The Carolina Cougars
392. Case Problem Evaluating R&D Projects at WestCom Systems
Products Company
393. Chapter 13 Queuing Analysis
394. Elements of Waiting Line Analysis
395. The Single-Server Waiting Line System
396. The Queue Discipline
397. The Calling Population
398. The Arrival Rate
399. The Service Rate
400. The Single-Server Model
401. The Effect of Operating Characteristics on Managerial Decisions
402. Alternative I: The Addition of an Employee
403. Alternative II: The Addition of a New Checkout Counter
404. Computer Solution of the Single-Server Model with Excel and Excel
QM
405. Computer Solution of the Single-Server Model with QM for
Windows
406. Undefined and Constant Service Times
407. Computer Solution of the Constant Service Time Model with Excel
408. Computer Solution of the Undefined and Constant Service Time
Models with QM for Windows
409. Finite Queue Length
410. Computer Solution of the Finite Queue Model with Excel
411. Computer Solution of the Finite Queue Model with QM for
Windows
412. Finite Calling Population
413. Computer Solution of the Finite Calling Population Model with Excel
and Excel QM
414. Computer Solution of the Finite Calling Population Model with QM
for Windows
415. The Multiple-Server Waiting Line
416. Computer Solution of the Multiple-Server Model with Excel and
Excel QM
417. Computer Solution of the Multiple-Server Model with QM for
Windows
418. Additional Types of Queuing Systems
419. Summary
420. Example Problem Solutions
421. Problem Statement
422. Solution
423. Problems
424. Case Problem The College of Business Copy Center
425. Case Problem Northwoods Backpackers
426. Case Problem Analyzing Disaster Situations at Tech
427. Case Problem Forecasting Airport Passenger Arrivals—Continued
428. Chapter 14 Simulation
429. The Monte Carlo Process
430. The Use of Random Numbers
431. Computer Simulation with Excel Spreadsheets
432. Decision Making with Simulation
433. Simulation of a Queuing System
434. Computer Simulation of the Queuing Example with Excel
435. Continuous Probability Distributions
436. Simulation of a Machine Breakdown and Maintenance System
437. Computer Simulation of the Machine Breakdown Example Using
Excel
438. Statistical Analysis of Simulation Results
439. Crystal Ball
440. Simulation of a Profit Analysis Model
441. Verification of the Simulation Model
442. Areas of Simulation Application
443. Queuing
444. Inventory Control
445. Production and Manufacturing
446. Finance
447. Marketing
448. Public Service Operations
449. Environmental and Resource Analysis
450. Summary
451. Example Problem Solutions
452. Problem Statement
453. Solution
454. Problems
Other documents randomly have
different content
the towns, but in the country, within fifteen miles of Peking, it is in
full swing. Not only are these “golden lilies” considered beautiful, but
the woman with bound feet is popularly supposed to care more for
the caresses of her lord, than she with natural feet. Of course, a
man may not choose his wife, his mother does that for him, he may
not even see her, but he can, and very naturally often does, ask
questions about her. The question he generally asks is not: “Has she
a pretty face?” but: “Has she small feet?” But if he did not think
about it, the women of his family would consider it for him.
A woman told me, how, in the north of Chihli, the custom was for
the women of the bridegroom's family to gather round the newly
arrived bride who sat there, silent and submissive, while they made
comments upon her appearance.
“Hoo! she's ugly!” Or worst taunt of all, “Hoo! What big feet she's
got!”
Many will tell you it is not the men who insist upon bound feet,
but the women. And, if that is so, to me it only deepens the tragedy.
Imagine how apart the women must be from the men, when they
think, without a shadow of truth, that to be pleasing to a man, a
woman must be crippled. The women are hardly to be blamed. If
they are so ignorant as to believe that no woman with large feet can
hope to become a wife and mother, what else can they do but bind
the little girls' feet? Would any woman dare deprive her daughter of
all chance of wifehood and motherhood by leaving her feet
unbound? Oh the lot of a woman in China is a cruel one, civilised
into a man's toy and slave. I had a thousand times rather be a
negress, one of those business-like trading women of Tarquah, or
one of the capable, independent housewives of Keta. But to be a
Chinese woman! God forbid!
It seems very difficult to make a Chinaman understand that a
woman has any rights, even a foreign woman, apart from a man. I
remember being particularly struck with this once at Pao Ting Fu,
the capital of Chihli, a walled town about three hours by rail from
Peking. I lost a third of my luggage by the way, because the powers
that be, having charged me a dollar and a half for its carriage,
divided it into three parts, and by the time I had discovered in what
corner the last lot was stowed, the train was moving on, and I could
only be comfortably sure it was being taken away from me at the
rate of twenty miles an hour. However, the stationmaster assured Dr
Lewis, the missionary doctor with whom I was living, that it should
be brought back by the next day.
Accordingly, next day, accompanied by a coolie who spoke no
English, I wended my way to the railway station and inquired for
that luggage. The coolie had been instructed what to say, and I
thought they would simply bring me into contact with my lost
property. I would pay any money that was due, and the thing would
be finished. But I had not reckoned on my standing, or want of
standing, as a woman.
 Nobody could speak a word of English. In the course of five
minutes I should say, the entire station staff of Pao Ting Fu stood
around me, and vociferously gave me their views—on the weather
and the latest political developments for all I know. If it was about
the luggage I was no wiser. Some were dressed in khaki, some in
dark cloth with uniform caps, and most had the wild hair that comes
to the lower classes with the cutting off of the queue. There were
about a dozen of them with a few idlers in blue cotton, patched,
dirty, faded, and darned, and some of these wore queues, queues
that had been slept in for about a week without attention, and they
were all quite anxious to be nice to the foreign woman, and took
turns in trying to make her understand. In vain. What they wanted I
could not imagine. At last a lane opened, and I guessed the
vociferating crowd were saying: “Here is the very man to tackle the
situation.” There came along a little man in dark cloth who stood
before me and in the politest manner laid a dirty, admonitory finger
upon my breast He had a rudimentary knowledge of English but it
was very rudimentary, and I remembered promptly that this was a
French railway.
“Parlez-vous Français?” said I, wondering if my French would
carry me through.
He shook his head. As a matter of fact English, pidgin-English, is
the language of China, when another tongue is wanted, and my new
friend's English was not at all bad—what there was of it. Though
why I should go to their country and expect these people to
understand me I'm sure I do not know.
“Your luggage is here,” said he very slowly, emphasising every
word by a tap.
“Thank Heaven,” I sighed, “take me to it,” but he paid no heed.
“You”—and he tapped on solemnly—“must—send—your—
husband.”
This was a puzzler. “My husband,” I said meekly, “is dead.”
It looked like a deadlock. It was apparently impossible to deliver
up her luggage to a woman whose husband was dead. Everybody on
the platform, including the idlers, made some suggestion to relieve
the strain, and feeling that it might help matters, I said he had been
dead a very long time, I was a lonely orphan and I had no brothers.
They probably discussed the likelihood of my having any other
responsible male belongings and dismissed it, and the man, who
knew English, returned to the charge.
“Where—do—you—stay?” and he tapped his way through the
sentence.
 “At Dr Lewis's.” I felt like doing it singsong fashion myself.
“You—must—tell—Lu Tai Fu—to—come.”
“But,” I remonstrated, “Dr Lewis is busy, and he does not know
the luggage.”
There was another long confabulation, then a brilliant idea flashed
like a meteor across the crowd. "You—must—go—back—and—write
—a— letter,” and with a decisive tap my linguist friend stood back,
and the whole crowd looked at me as much as to say that settled it
most satisfactorily.
I argued the matter. I wanted to see the luggage.
“The—luggage—is—here”—tapped my friend, reproachfully, as if
regretting I should be so foolish—“you—must—go—back—write—
one— piecey—letter.”
“I'll write it here,” said I, and after about a quarter of an hour
taken up in tapping, I was conducted round to the back of the
station, an elderly inkpot and a very, very elderly pen with a point
like a very rusty pin were produced, but there was no paper.
Everyone looked about, under the benches, up at the ceiling, and at
last one really resourceful person produced a luggage label of a
violent yellow hue, and on the back of that, with some difficulty, for
as well as the bad pen, there was a suspicion of gum on the paper, I
wrote a letter to “Dear Sir” requesting that responsible individual to
hand over my luggage to my servant, I signed my name with as big
a flourish as the size of the label would allow, and then I stood back
and awaited developments.
Everybody in the room looked at that valuable document. They
tried it sideways, they tried it upside down, but no light came. At last
the linguist remarked with his usual tap:
“No—can—read.”
Well, I could read English, so with great empressement and as if I
were conferring a great favour, I read that erudite document aloud
to the admiring crowd, even to my own name, and such was the
magic of the written word, that in about two minutes the lost
luggage appeared, and was handed over to my waiting coolie! Only
when I was gone doubt fell once more upon the company. Could a
woman, a masterless woman, be trusted? they questioned. And the
stationmaster sent word to Lu Tai Fu that he must have his card to
show that it was all right!
If a woman counted for so little in a town where the foreigner was
well known, could I expect much in out-of-the-way parts. I didn't
expect much, luckily. The people came and looked at me, and they
were invariably courteous and polite, with an old-world courtesy that
must have come down to them through the ages, but they did not
envy, I felt it very strongly—at bottom they were contemptuous. As I
have seen the lower classes in an Australian mining town, as I
myself have looked upon a stranger in an outlandish dress in the
streets of London, so these country people looked upon me. It was
just as well to make the most of a show, because their lives were
uneventful, that was all.
It began to get on my nerves before I had done, this
contemptuous curiosity. I don't know that I was exactly afraid, but I
grew to understand why missionaries perish when the people have
all apparently been well-disposed. These people would not have
robbed me themselves, but had I met any of the robbers I had been
threatened with in Peking, I am sure not one of them would have
raised even a finger to help me, they would not even have
protested. I was outside their lives.
And at last, at Malanyu, the hills that at first had loomed purple on
the horizon, fairly overshadowed us, and I had arrived at the first
stage of my journey, the Tungling, or Eastern Tombs. We did forty
miles that day over the roughest road I had gone yet, and thankful
was I when we rumbled through the gates of the dirty, crowded,
little town.
We put up at the smallest and filthiest inn I had yet met. Chinese
towns, even the smallest country hamlet, are always suggestive of
slums, and Malanyu was worse than usual, but I slept the sleep of
the utterly weary, and next morning at sunrise I had breakfast and
went to see the tombs. I went in state, in my own cart with an extra
mule on in front, I seated under the tilt a little back, and my servant
and the head “cartee man” on the shafts; and then I discovered that
if a loaded cart is an abomination before the Lord, a light cart is
something unspeakable. But we had seen the wall that went round
the tombs the night Before, just the other side of the town, so I
consoled myself with the reflection that my sufferings would not be
for long.
When the Imperial Manchus sought a last resting-place for
themselves they had the whole of China to choose from, and they
took with Oriental disregard for humbler people; but—saving grace—
they chose wisely though they chose cruelly. They have taken for
their own a place just where the mountains begin, a place that must
be miles in extent. It is of rich alluvial soil swept down by the rains
from the hills, and all China, with her teeming population, cannot
afford to waste one inch of soil. The tiniest bit of arable land, as I
had been seeing for the last three days, is put to some use, it is
tilled and planted and carefully tended, though it bear only a single
fruit-tree, only a handful of grain, but here we entered a park, waste
land covering many miles, wasted with a royal disregard for the
people's needs. It lay in a great bay of the hills, sterile, stony,
rugged hills with no trace of green upon them, hills that stand up a
perfect background to a most perfect place of tombs. I had thought
the resting-place of the Mings wonderful, but surely there is no such
place for the honoured dead as that the Manchus have set up at the
Eastern Tombs.
Immediately we entered the gateway, the cart jolting wickedly
along a hardly defined track, I found myself in a forest of firs and
pines that grew denser as we advanced. Here and there was a
poplar or other deciduous tree, green with the greenness of May
time, but the touch of lighter colour only emphasised the
sombreness of the pines and firs that, with their dark foliage,
deepened the solemnity of the scene. Through their branches
peeped the deep blue sky, and every now and again they opened
out a little, and beyond I could see the bare hills, brown, and
orange, and purple, but always beautiful, with the shadows chasing
each other over them, and losing themselves in their folds. Spacious,
grand, silent, truly an ideal place for the burial of Emperors and their
consorts is hidden here in the heart of mysterious, matter-of-fact
China, and once again I was shown, as I was being shown every
day, another side of China from the toiling thousands I saw in the
great city and on the country roads.
Dotted about in this great park, with long vistas in between are
the tombs. They are enclosed in walls, walls of the pinkish red that
encloses all imperial grounds, generally there is a caretaker, and they
look for all the world like comfortable houses, picturesque and
artistic, nestling secluded and away from the rush and roar of cities,
homes where a man may take his well-earned rest. The filthy inn at
which I stayed, the reeking little town of Malanyu, though it is at the
very gates, is as far-removed from all contact with the tombs as are
the slums of Notting Dale from the mansions in Park Lane, or the
sordid, mean streets of Paddington from the home of the King in
Buckingham Palace. The birds, the innumerable, much-loved birds of
China sang in the trees their welcome to the glorious May morning,
and the only thing out of keeping was my groaning, jolting,
complaining Peking cart and the shouts of the “cartee man” assuring
the mules, so I have been told, that the morals of their female
relatives were certainly not above suspicion.
Here and there, among the trees, rose up marble pillars tall and
stately, carved with dragons and winged at the top, such as one sees
in representations of Babylon and Nineveh, there was a marble
bridge, magnificent, with the grass growing up between the great
paving-stones that here, as everywhere in China, seem to mark the
small value that has been put on human flesh and blood, for by
human hands have they been placed here, and the uprights are
crowned by the symbolic cloud form, caught in the marble. This
bridge crosses no stream. It is evidently just a manifestation of
power, the power that crushes, and beyond it is an avenue of marble
animals. There they stand on the green sward, the green sward
stolen from the hungry, curving away towards the p'ia lou stand, as
they have stood for many a long year, horses, elephants, fabulous
beasts that might have come out of the Book of Revelations,
guarding the entrance to the place of rest. They are not nearly so
magnificent as the avenue at the Ming Tombs, they are only quaintly
Chinese, it is the winged pillars, the silence, the sombre pine and fir-
trees, and the everlasting hills behind that give them dignity.
And now Tuan became very important. I began to feel that he had
arranged the whole for my benefit, and was keeping the best piece
back to crown it all. We came to a piece of wild country and I was
requested to get out of the cart. Getting out of the cart where there
was no place to step was always a business. I was stiff from the
jolting, felt disinclined to be very acrobatic, and Tuan always felt it
his bounden duty to stretch out his arms to catch me, or break my
fall. He was so small, though he was round and fat, that he always
complicated matters by making me feel that if I did fall I should
certainly materially damage him, but it was no good protesting, it
was the correct thing for him to help his Missie out of her cart, and
he was prepared to perish in the attempt. However, here was a soft
cushion of fragrant pine needles, so I scrambled down without any
of the qualms from which I usually suffered. We had come to a halt
for a moment by the steep side of a little wooded hill where a
narrow footpath wound round it. Just such a modest little path
between steep rising ground one might see in the Surrey Hills. It
invites to a secluded glen, but no cart could possibly go along it, it is
necessary to walk. I turned the corner of the hill and lo! there was a
paved way, a newly paved way, such as I have seldom seen in
China. The faint morning breeze stirred among the pine needles,
making a low, mysterious whispering, and out against the back
ground stood, a splash of brilliant, glowing colour, the many roofs of
golden-brown tiles that cover the mausoleum of the great woman
who once ruled over China, the last who made a stand, a futile
stand, against foreign aggression, and now a foreigner and a
woman, unarmed and alone, might come safely and stand beside
her tomb.
 Perhaps that was the best way to view it, at any rate inside I could
not go, for the key I discovered was at Malanyu, and it would have
taken me at least half a day to go back and get it. Besides I don't
think I wanted to go inside. I would not for the world have spoilt the
memory that remains in my mind by any tawdry detail such as I had
seen at the younger Empress's funeral. It was just a little spoilt as it
was by my boy, who came along mysteriously and pointed with a
secret finger at the custodian of the tomb, who had not the keys.
“Suppose Missie makee littee cumshaw. Suppose my payee one
dollar.”
And I expect the man did get perhaps sixty cents, because Tuan
was bent on impressing on these people the fact that his Missie was
a very important woman indeed.
It was worth it, it was well worth it.
They say that the old in China is passing away. “Behold upon the
mountains the feet of him that bringeth good tidings.” Will they
sweep away these tombs and give this land to the people? I hope
not, I think not, I pray not. The present in China is inextricably
mixed up with the past. “Oh Judah keep thy solemn feast, perform
thy vows.” Sometimes it is surely well that the beautiful should be
kept for a nation, even at great cost.
 CHAPTER XI—A WALLED CITY
Numerous walled towns—The dirt of them—T'ung Chou—Romance
of the evening light—My own little walled city—The gateways—
Hospitable landlady—Bald heads—My landlady's room—A return
present—“The ringleaders have been executed”—Summary justice—
To the rescue of the missionaries at Hsi An Fu—The Elder Brother
Society-Primitive method of attack and defence—The sack of I Chun.

O
h that first walled city! It was the first of many walled cities,
many of them so small that it did not take us more than a
quarter of an hour to cross from gate to gate; but to enter
one and all was like opening a door into the past, into the life our
forbears lived before the country I was born and brought up in was
ever thought of. When I was a little girl, I cherished a desire to
marry a German baron, a German baron of the Middle Ages, who
lived in a castle, and I could not help thinking, as the influenza left
me and I regained my powers of thought, that here were the towns
of my German baron's time—dirt and all. In my childhood I had
never thought of the dirt, or perhaps I had not minded. One thing is
certain, in the clean land of my childhood I never realised what the
dirt that comes from a packed population, from seething humanity,
can be like. The Chinese live in these crowded towns for the sake of
security—of security in this twentieth century—for even still, China
seems to be much in the condition of Europe of the Middle Ages,
safety cannot be absolutely counted upon inside the gates of a town,
but at least it is a little safer than the open country.
We passed through T'ung Chou when the soft tender evening
shadows were falling upon battlements and walls built by a nation
that, though it is most practical, is also one of the most poetical on
earth; we passed through Chi Chou when the shadows were long in
the early morning, and in the sunlight was the hope of the new-born
day. Through the gate was coming a train of Peking carts, of laden
donkeys, of great grain carts with seven mules, all bound for the
capital in the south.
I remember these two perhaps because they were the first of
many walled towns, but Tsung Hua Chou will always remain in my
memory as my own little walled city, the one that I explored
carefully all by myself, and, when I think of a walled town, my
thoughts always fly back to that little town, three-quarters of a mile
square, at the foot of the hills that mark the limit of the great plain
of China proper.
It was Tuan's suggestion we should stay there. I would have
lingered at the tombs, but he was emphatic.
“Missie want make picture. More better we stop Tsung Hua Chou.
Fine picture Tsung Hua Chou.”
There weren't fine pictures at Tsung Hua Chou. He had struck up
a great friendship with the “cartee man,” and, perhaps, either he or
the “cartee man” had a favourite gaming-house, or a favourite
singing girl in the town. At any rate we went, and I, for some hardly
explainable reason, am glad we did.
The road from the tombs was simply appalling. The hills frowned
down on us, close on either side, high and steep and rugged, but
the rough valley bottom, up which we went, was the wildest I was to
see for a long time. To say I was tossed and jolted, is to but mildly
express the condition of affairs. I sat on a cushion, I packed my
bedding round me, and with both my hands I held on to the side of
the cart, and if for one moment I relaxed the rigidity of my aching
arms, my head or some other portion of my aching anatomy, was
brought into contact with the woodwork of the cart, just in the place
I had reckoned the woodwork could not possibly have reached me.
There were little streams and bridges across them, which I
particularly dreaded, for the bridges were always roughly paved, but
it was nobody's business to see that the road and the pavement met
neatly, and the jolt the cart gave, both getting on and getting off,
nearly shook the soul out of my body. I thought of walking, for our
progress was very slow, but in addition to the going being bad, the
mules went just a little faster than I did, three and a half miles an
hour to my three, and I felt there was nothing for it but to resign
myself and make the best of a bad job. Not for worlds would I have
lingered an hour longer on that road than I was absolutely obliged.
And yet, bad as it was, it was the best road I had till I got back to
Peking again. There may be worse roads than those of China, and
there may be worse ways of getting over them than in a Peking cart,
but I do trust I never come across them.
We entered the gates of the city as the evening shadows were
growing long, and as usual, I was carried back to the days of the
Crusaders—or farther still to Babylon—as we rumbled under the
arched gateway, but inside it was like every other town I have seen,
dirty, sordid, crowded, with uneven pavements that there was no
getting away from. Within the curtain wall, that guarded the gate,
there were the usual little stalls for the sale of cakes, big, round, flat
cakes and little scone-like cakes, studded with sesame seed, or a
bright pink sweetmeat; there were the sellers of pottery ware,
basins and pots of all sorts, and the people stared at the foreign
woman, the wealthy foreign woman who ran to two carts. It is an
unheard-of thing in China for a Chinese woman to travel alone,
though sometimes the foreign missionary women do, but they would
invariably be accompanied by a Chinese woman, and one woman
would not be likely to have two carts. One thing was certain
however, my outfit was all that it should have been, bar the lack of a
male protector. It bespoke me a woman of wealth and position in
the eyes of the country folk, and the people of the little towns
through which I passed. It is possible that a mule litter might have
enhanced my dignity; but after all, two Peking carts was very much
like having a first-class compartment all to myself.
There were no foreigners, that I could hear of, in Tsung Hua Chou.
The missionaries had fled during the Boxer trouble, and never come
back, so that I was more of a show than usual, though indeed, in all
the towns I passed through I was a show, and the people stared,
and chattered, and crowded round the carts, and evidently closely
questioned the carters.
They tell me Chinese carters are often rascals, but I grew to like
mine very much before we parted company.
They were stolid men in blue, with dirty rags wrapped round their
heads to keep off the dust, and I have no reason to suppose that
they affected water any more than the rest of the population,
whereby I perceive, my affections are not so much guided by a
desire for cleanliness as I had once supposed. They both had the
hands of artists, artists with very dirty nails, so it may be a feeling of
brotherhood had something to do with my feelings, for I am hoping
you who read will count me an artist in a small way. What romance
they wove about me, for the benefit of the questioning people, I
don't know, but the result of their communications was that the
crowd pressed closer, and stared harder, and they were evil-smelling,
and had never, never in all their lives been washed. I ceased to
wonder that I ached all over with the jolting and rumbling of the
cart, I only wondered if something worse had not befallen me, and
how it happened that these people, who crowded round, staring as
if never in their lives had they seen a foreign woman before, did not
fall victims to some horrible pestilence.
For once inside Tsung Hua Chou I saw no beauty in it, for all the
romantic walls outside. The evil-smelling streets we rumbled through
to the inn were wickedly narrow, and down the centre hung notices
in Chinese characters on long strips of paper white and red, and
pigs, and children, and creaking wheelbarrows, and men with loads,
blocked the way. But we jolted over the step into the courtyard of
the inn at last, quite a big courtyard, and quite a busy inn. This was
an inn where they apparently ran a restaurant, for as I climbed stiffly
out of my cart a servant, carrying a tray of little basins containing
the soups and stews the Chinese eat, was so absorbed in gazing at
me he ran into the “cartee man,” and a catastrophe occurred which
was the occasion of much bad language.
 The courtyard was crowded. There were blue-tilted Peking carts,
there were mules, there were donkeys, there were men of all sorts;
but there was only one wretched little room for me. It was very dirty
too, and I was very tired. What was to be done?
“Plenty Chinese gentlemen sleep here,” declared Tuan, and I could
quite believe it. At the door of every lattice-windowed room that
looked out on to that busy courtyard, stood one, or perhaps two
Chinese of the better class—long petticoats, shaven head, queue
and all—each held in his hand a long, silver-mounted pipe from
which he took languid whiffs, and he looked under his eyelids, which
is the polite way, at the foreign woman. The foreign woman was
very dirty, very tired, and very uncomfortable, and the room looked
very hopeless. The “cartee men” declared that this was the best inn
in the town, and anyhow I was disinclined to go out and look for
other quarters. Then there came tottering forward an old woman
with tiny feet, one eye and a yellow flower stuck in the knot at the
back of her bald head. China is the country of bald women. The
men, I presume, would not mind it very much, as for so long they
have shaven off at least half their hair, but the women certainly
must, for if they can they dress their dark hair very elaborately. And
yet have I seen many women, like this innkeeper's wife, with a head
so bald that but a few strands of hair cover its nakedness, yet those
few poor hairs are gathered together into an arrangement of black
silk shaped something like a horn, and beside it is placed a flower, a
rose, a pink oleander blossom, or a bright yellow flower for which I
have no name. That flower gives a finish to a sleek and well-dressed
head, when the owner has plenty of hair, but when she has only the
heavy horn of silk, half a dozen hairs, and the rest of her bald pate
covered with a black varnish, it is a poor travesty. When a girl
marries, immediately after her husband has lifted her veil and she is
left to the women of his family they pluck out the front hairs on her
forehead, so as to give a square effect, and the hair is drawn very
tightly back and gathered generally into this horn. I suspect this
heavy horn is responsible for the baldness, though an American of
my acquaintance declares it is the plucking out of the hairs on the
forehead. “The rest of the hair,” says he, “kinder gets discouraged.”
This innkeeper's wife was very kindly. She said I should not sleep
in that room, I should have her room, and she would go to her
mother's. The mother was a surprise to me. I hope when I am as
old as she looked I shall have a mother to go to.
Now I do not as a rule embrace my landlady. In England I couldn't
even imagine myself feeling particularly kindly towards a dirty little
woman clad in a shirt and trousers of exceedingly dirty blue cotton,
but the intention was so evidently kind and hospitable, I knew not a
word of her tongue, and was by no means sure the valued Tuan
would translate my words of thanks properly, so I could but take
both her very dirty little hands in mine, clasp them warmly, and try
and look my thanks.
Then I inspected her room. It was approached through an
entrance where lime was stored, it was rather dark, and it was of
good size, though on one side was stacked a supply of stores for the
restaurant. Chinese macaroni, that looks as if it were first cousin to
sheet gelatine, stale eggs and other nondescript eatables. There was
a k'ang, of course, quite a family k'ang, and there was a large mirror
on one wall. I had forgotten my camp mirror, so I looked in it
eagerly, and the reflection left me chastened. I hadn't expected the
journey to improve my looks, but I did hope it had not swelled up
one cheek, and bunged up the other eye. I felt I did not want to
stay in the room with that mirror, but there were other things worse
than the mirror in it. The beautiful lattice-work window had
apparently never been opened since the first cover of white tissue
paper had been put on it, and the smell of human occupancy there
defies my poor powers of description. The dirty little place I had at
first disdained, had at least a door opening on to the comparatively
fresh air of the courtyard. I told Tuan to explain that while I was
delighted to see her room, and admired everything very much in it,
nothing would induce me to deprive her of its comforts. She
certainly was friendly. As I looked in the chastening mirror, I, like a
true woman, I suppose, put up a few stray locks that the jolting cart
had shaken out of place, and she promptly wanted to do my hair
herself with a selection from an array of elderly combs with which
she probably dressed her own scanty locks. That was too much. I
had to decline, I trust she thought it was my modesty, and then she
offered me some of the macaroni. I tried to say I had nothing to
give in return and then Tuan remarked, “As friend, as friend.” So as a
friend, from that little maimed one-eyed old woman up in the hills of
China, I took a handful of macaroni and had nothing to give in
return. I hope she feels as friendly towards me as I shall always do
towards her.
It is not always that the difficulty of giving a return present is on
the foreign side, sometimes it is the Chinese who feel it. I remember
a traveller for a business house telling me how on one occasion he
had gone to a village and entertained the elders at dinner, giving
them brandy which they loved, and liqueurs which seemed to the
unsophisticated village fathers ambrosia fit for the gods. The next
day, when he was about to take his departure, a small procession
approached him and one of them bore on a tray a little Chinese
handleless cup covered with another. They said he could speak
Chinese, so there was no need for an interpreter, that he had given
them a very good time, they were very grateful, and they wished to
make him a present by which he might remember them sometimes.
But their village was poor and small. It contained nothing worth his
acceptance, and after much consultation, they had come to the
conclusion that the best way would be to present him with the
money, so that he might buy something for himself when he came to
Peking or some other large town. Thereupon the cup was presented,
the cover lifted off, and in the bottom lay a ten cent piece, worth
about twopence halfpenny. Probably it seemed quite an adequate
present to men who count their incomes by cash of which a
thousand go to the dollar.
I don't think my landlady minded much my declining the
hospitality of her room. Possibly she only wished me to see its
glories, and presently she brought to the little room I had at first so
despised, and now looked upon, if not as a haven of rest, at least as
one of fresh air, a couple of nice hard wood stools, and a beautifully
carved k'ang table thick with grease.
“Say must make Missie comfortable,” said Tuan with the usual
suggestion he had done it himself.
And those stools were covered, much to my surprise, with red
woollen tapestry, and the pattern was one that I had seen used
many a time in a little town on the Staffordshire moors, where their
business is to dye and print. And here was one of the results of their
labours, a “Wardle rag,” as we used to call them, up among the hills
of Northern China.
I was too tired to do anything but go to bed that night as soon as
I had had my dinner. I had it, as usual, on the k'ang table, the dirt
shrouded by my humble tablecloth, and curious eyes watched me,
even as I watched the trays of full basins and the trays of empty
ones that were for ever coming and going across the courtyard.
Next morning my friendly landlady brought to see me two other
small-footed women, both smoking long pipes, women who said,
through Tuan, their ages were forty and sixty respectively, and who
examined, with interest, me and my belongings. They felt my boots
so much, good, substantial, leather-built by Peter Yapp, that at last I
judged they would like to see what was underneath, and took off a
boot and stocking for their inspection, and the way they felt my foot
up and down as if it were something they had never before met in
their lives, amused me very much, At least at first it amused me,
and then it saddened me. Though they held out their own poor
maimed feet, they did not return the compliment much as I desired
it. They took me across the courtyard into another room where,
behind lattice-work windows, that had not been opened for ages,
were two more women sitting on the k'ang, and two little shaven-
headed children. These were younger women, tall and stout, with
feet so tiny, they called my attention to them, that it did not seem to
me possible any woman could support herself upon them. My boy
was not allowed in, so of course I could not talk to them, could only
smile and drink tea.
These two younger women, who were evidently of superior rank,
had their hair most elaborately dressed and wore most gorgeous
raiment. One was clad in purple satin with a little black about it, and
the other, a mere girl of eighteen, but married, for her hair was no
longer in a queue, and her forehead was squared, wore a coat of
pale blue silk brocade and grass-green trousers of the same
material. Their faces were impassive, as are the faces of Chinese
women of the better class, but they smiled, evidently liked their
tortured feet to be noticed, gave me tea from the teapot on the
k'ang table, and then presently all four, with the gaily dressed
babies, tottered out into the courtyard, the older women leading the
toddling children, and helping the younger, and, with the aid of
settles, they climbed into two Peking carts, my elderly friends taking
their places on the outside, whereby I judged they were servants or
household slaves.
“Chinese wives,” said Tuan, but whether they were the wives of
one man, or of two, I had no means of knowing. The costumes of
the two younger were certainly not those in which I would choose to
travel on a Chinese road in a Peking cart, but the Chinese have a
proverb: “Abroad wear the new, at home it does not matter,” so they
probably thought my humble mole-coloured cotton crêpe, equally
out of place.
And when they were gone I set out to explore the town.
It was only a small place, built square, with two main roads
running north, and south, and east, and west, and cutting each
other at right angles in the heart of it. They were abominably paved.
No vehicle but a springless Peking cart would have dreamt of making
its way across that pavement, but then probably no vehicle save a
cart or a wheelbarrow in all the years of the city's life had ever been
thought of there. The remaining streets were but evil-smelling alley-
ways, narrow in comparison with the main ways which, anywhere
else, I should have deemed hopelessly inadequate, thronged as they
were with people and encroached upon by the shops that stood
close on either side. They had no glass fronts, of course, these
shops, but otherwise, they were not so very unlike the shops one
sees in the poorer quarters of the great towns in England. But there
was evidently no Town Council to regulate the use to which the
streets should be put. The dyer hung his long strips of blue cloth half
across the roadway, careless of the convenience of the passer-by,
the man who sold cloth had out little tables or benches piled with
white and blue calico—I have seen tradesmen do the same in King's
Road, Chelsea—the butcher had his very disagreeable wares fully
displayed half across the roadway, the gentleman who was making
mud bricks for the repair of his house, made them where it was
handiest in the street close to the house, and the man who sold
cooked provisions, with his little portable kitchen and table, set
himself down right in the fairway and tempted all-comers with little
basins of soup, fat, pale-looking steamed scones, hard-boiled eggs
or meat turnovers.
This place, hidden behind romantic grey walls, at which I had
wondered in the evening light, was in the morning just like any other
city, Peking with the glory and beauty gone out of it, and the people
who thronged those streets were just the poorer classes of Peking,
only it seemed there were more naked children and more small-
footed women with elaborately dressed hair tottering along,
balancing themselves with their arms. I met a crowd accompanying
the gay scarlet poles, flags, musical instruments and the red sedan
chair of a wedding. The poor little bride, shut up in the scarlet chair,
was going to her husband's house and leaving her father's for ever.
It is to be hoped she would find favour in the sight of her husband
and her husband's women-folk. It was more important probably, that
she should please the latter.
The bridal party made a great noise, but then all in that town was
noise, dirt, crowding, and evil smells. The only peaceful place in it
was the courtyard of the little temple close against the city wall.
Outside it stand two hideous figures with hands flung out in
threatening attitude, and inside were more figures, all painted in the
gayest colours. What they meant I have not lore enough to know,
but they were very hideous, the very lowest form of art.
 There was the recording angel with a black face and the open
book—after all, the recording angel must often wear a black face—
and there was the eternal symbol that has appealed through all ages
to all people, and must appeal one would think above all, to this
nation that longs so ardently for offspring, the mother with the child
upon her knee. But they were all ugly to my Western eyes, and the
only thing that charmed me was the silence, the cleanliness, and the
quiet of the courtyard, the only place in all the busy little city that
was at peace.
 When I engaged Tuan I had thought he was to do all the waiting
upon me I needed, but it seems I made a mistake. The farther I got
from Peking the greater his importance became, and here he could
not so much as carry for me the lightest wrap. His business
appeared to be to engage other people to do the work. There was
one dilapidated wretch to carry the camera, another the box with
the plates, and yet a third bore the black cloth I would put over my
head to focus my pictures properly. It was not a bit of good
protesting, two minutes after I got rid of one lot of followers,
another took their place, and as everyone had to be paid,
apparently, I often thought, for the pleasure of looking at me, I
resigned myself to my fate.
Accompanied by all the idlers and children in the town I climbed
the ramp on to the walls, which are in perfect order, three miles
round and on the top from fifteen feet to twenty broad. That ramp
must have been always steep, the last thing a Chinese ever thinks
about is comfort, steep almost as the walls themselves, and
everywhere the stones are gone, making it a work of difficulty to
climb to the top. Tuan helped me in approved Chinese fashion,
putting his hand underneath my elbow, and once I was there the
town was metamorphosed, it was again the romantic city I had seen
from the plain in the evening light. Now the early morning sunlight,
with all the promise of the day in it, fell upon graceful curved
Chinese roofs and innumerable trees, dainty with the delicate vivid
verdure that comes in the spring as a reward to a country where the
winter has been long, bitter, and iron-bound.
The walls of most Chinese cities are built square, with right angles
at the four corners, but in at least two that I have been in, T'ung
Chou and Pao Ting Fu, one corner is built out in a bow. I rather
admired the effect at first, till I found it was a mark of deepest
disgrace. There had been a parricide committed in the town. When
such a terrible thing occurs a corner of the city wall must be pulled
down and built out; a second one, another corner is pulled down
and built out, and a third likewise; but the fourth time such a crime
is committed in the luckless town the walls must be razed to the
ground. But such a disgrace has never occurred in any town in the
annals of Chinese history, those age-long annals that go back farther
than any other nation's, for if a town should be so unlucky as to
have harboured four such criminals within its walls they generally
managed, by the payment of a sum of money, to get a city that had
some of its corners still intact to take the disgrace upon itself.
I strongly suspect too, that it is only when the offender is in high
places that his crime is thus commemorated, for I have only heard of
these two cases, and yet as short a while ago as 1912 there was a
terrible murder in Pao Ting Fu that shocked the town. It appeared
there was an idle son, who instead of working for his family, spent
all his time attending to his cage bird, taking it out for walks,
encouraging it to sing, hunting the graves outside the town for
insects for it. His poor old mother sighed over his uselessness.
“If it were not for the bird!” said she.
The young blood in China, it seems, goes to the dogs over a cage
bird, a lark or a thrush, as the young man in modern Europe comes
to grief over horse-racing, so we see that human nature is the same
all the world over. This Chinese mother brooded over her boy's
wasted life, and one day when he was out she opened the cage door
and the bird flew away.
When he came in he asked for the bird and she said nothing, only
with her large, sharp knife went on shredding up the vegetables that
she was putting into a large cauldron of boiling water for supper. He
asked again for the bird. Still she took no notice, and he seized her
knife and slit her up into small pieces and put her into the cauldron.
He was taken, and tried, and was put to death by slicing into a
thousand pieces—yes, even in modern China—but they did not think
it necessary to pull down another corner of the city wall. Possibly
they felt the disgrace of a bygone age was enough for Pao Ting Fu.
The corners of the walls of Tsung Hua Chou were as they were
first built, rectangular, and the watch-towers at those corners and
over the four gates from the distance looked imposing, all that they
should be, but close at hand I saw that they were tumbling into
ruins, the doors were fallen off the hinges, the window-frames were
broken, all was desolate and empty.
“Once the soldier she watch here,” said my boy, whose pronouns
were always somewhat mixed.
“Why not now?”
“No soldier here now. She go work in gold mine ninety li away.
Gold mine belong Plesident.”
Tuan had got as far as the fact that a President had taken the
place of the Manchu Emperor, but I wondered very much whether
the inhabitants of Tsung Hua Chou had. I meditated on my way back
to “Missie's inn” on the limitations of the practical Chinese mind that
because it is practical, I suppose, cannot conceive of the liberty,
equality, and fraternity that a Republic denotes. The President, to
the humble Chinese in the street, has just taken the place of the
Emperor, he is the one who rules over them, his soldiers are
withdrawn. That there was a war in Mongolia, a rebellion impending
in the south, were items of news that had not reached the man in
the street in Tsung Hua Chou who, feeling that the soldiers must be
put to some use, concluded they were working in the President's
gold mine ninety li away.
 A foreigner went to a Chinese tailor the other day to make him a
suit of clothes, and he found occasion to complain that the
gentleman's prices had gone up considerably since he employed him
last. The man of the scissors was equal to the occasion, and
explained that, since “revelations,” so many Chinese had taken to
wearing foreign dress, he was obliged to charge more.
“You belong revolution?” asked the inquiring foreigner, anxious to
find out how far liberty, fraternity, and equality had penetrated.
 The tailor looked at him more in sorrow than in scorn. How could
he be so foolish.
“I no belong revelation,” he explained carefully, as one who was
instructing where no instruction should have been necessary. The
thing was self-evident, “I belong tailor man.”
When the revolution first dawned upon the country people all they
realised—when they realised anything at all—was that there was no
longer an Emperor, therefore they supposed they would no longer
have to pay taxes. When they found that Emperor or no Emperor
taxes were still required of them, they just put the President in the
Emperor's place. I strongly suspect that if the greater part of the
inhabitants of my walled city were to be questioned as to the
revolution they would reply like the tailor: “No belong revolution,
belong Tsung Hua Chou!”
But in truth the civilisation of China is still so much like that of
Babylon and Nineveh, that it is best for the poor man, if he can, to
efface himself. He does not pray for rights as yet. He only prays that
he may slip through life unnoticed, that he may not come in contact
with the powers that rule him, for no matter who is right or who is
wrong bitter experience has taught him that he will suffer.
We do not realise that sufficiently in the West when we talk of
China. We judge her by our own standards. The time may come
when this may be a right way of judging, but it has not come yet.
Rather should we judge as they judged in the days of the old
Testament, in the days of Nineveh and Babylon, when the
proletariat, the slaves, were as naught in the sight of God or man.
A man told me how in the summer of 1912, travelling in the
interior, he came to a small city in one of the central provinces, a city
not unlike Tsung Hua Chou, like indeed a thousand other little cities
in this realm of Cathay. The soldiers quartered there had not been
paid, and they had turned to and looted the town. The unwise city
men, instead of submitting lest a worse thing happen unto them,
had telegraphed their woes to Peking, and orders had come down to
the General in command that the ringleaders must be executed. But
no wise General is going to be hard on his own soldiers. This
General certainly was not. Still justice had to be satisfied, and he
was not at a loss. He sent a body of soldiers to the looted shops,
where certain luckless men were sadly turning over the damaged
property. These they promptly arrested. The English onlooker, who
spoke Chinese, declared to me solemnly these arrested men were
the merchants themselves, their helpers and coolies. That was
nothing to the savage soldiery. There had to be victims. Had not the
order come from the central government. Some of the men, there
were twenty in all, they beat and left dead on the spot, the rest they
dragged to the yamen. The traveller, furious and helpless, followed.
Of course the guilt of the merchants was a foregone conclusion.
They never execute anyone who does not confess his guilt and the
justice of his sentence in China, but they have means of making sure
of the confession. Presently out the unfortunate men came again,
stripped to the waist, with their arms tied up high behind them,
prepared, in fact, for death. The soldiers dragged them along, they
protesting their innocence to unheeding ears. Their women and
children came out, running alongside the mournful procession,
clinging to the soldiers and to their husbands and fathers, and
praying for mercy. They tripped and fell, and the soldiers, the
soldiers in khaki, pushed them aside, and stepped over them, and
dragged on their victims. The traveller followed. No one took any
notice of him, and what could he do, though his heart was sore, one
against so many. Through the narrow, filthy streets they went, past
their own looted shops. They looked about them wildly, but there
was none to help, and before them marched the executioner, with a
great sharp sword in his hands, and always the soldiers in modern
uniform emphasised the barbarity of the crime. Presently they had
distanced the wailing women and were outside the walls, but the
foreign onlooker was still with them.
“And one was a boy not twenty,” he said with a sharp, indrawn
breath, wiping his face as he told the ghastly tale.
 They knelt in a row, just where the walls of their own town
frowned down on them, and one by one the executioner cut off their
heads. The death of the first in the line was swift enough, but, as he
approached the end of the row the man's arm grew tired and he did
not get the last two heads right off.
“I saw one jump four times,” said the shocked onlooker, “before he
died.”
And then they telegraphed to Peking that order had been
restored, and the ringleaders executed.
Since I heard that man's story, I always read that order has been
restored in any Chinese city with a shudder, and wonder how many
innocents have suffered. For I have heard stories like that, not of
one city, or told by one man, but of various cities, and told by
different men. The Chinese, it seems to me, copy very faithfully the
European newspapers, the great papers of the Western world.
Horrors like that are never read in a Western paper, therefore you
never see such things reported in the Chinese papers. After all they
are only the proletariat, the slaves of Babylon or Nineveh. Who
counted a score or so of them slain? Order has been restored,
comes the message for the benefit of the modern world, and in the
little city the bloody heads adorn the walls and the bodies lie outside
to be torn to pieces by the wonks and the vultures.
And when I heard tales like this, I wondered whether it was safe
for a woman to be travelling alone. It is safe, of course, for the
Chinaman, strange as it may sound after telling such tales, is at
bottom more law-abiding than the average European. True, he is
more likely to insult or rob a woman than a man, because he has for
so long regarded a woman as of so much less consequence than a
man, that when he considers the matter he cannot really believe
that any nation could hold a different opinion. Still, in all probability,
she will be safe, just as in all probability she might march by herself
from Land's End to John o' Groats without being molested. She may
be robbed and murdered, and so she may be robbed and murdered
in China. The Chinese are robbed and murdered often enough
themselves poor things. Also they do not suffer in silence. They
revenge themselves when they can.
A man travelling for the British and American Tobacco Company,
he was a young man, not yet eight-and-twenty, told me how, once,
outside a small walled town, he came upon a howling mob, and
parting them after the lordly fashion of the Englishman, who knows
he can use his hands, he saw they were crowding round a pit half
filled with quicklime. In it, buried to his middle, was a ghastly
creature with his eyes scooped out, and the hollows filled up with
quicklime.
“If I had had a pistol handy,” said the teller of the tale, “I would
have shot him. I couldn't have helped myself. It seemed the only
thing to put him out of his misery, but, after all, I think he was past
all feeling, and I wonder what the people would have done to me!”
They told him, when he investigated, that this man was a robber,
that he had robbed and murdered without mercy, and so, when he
fell into their hands, they had taken vengeance. Was that Babylon,
or Nineveh, I wondered? Since such things happen in China one
feels that the age of Babylon and Nineveh has not yet gone by. Talk
with but a few men who have wandered into the interior, and you
realise the strong necessity for these walled towns.
When the rumour of the slaughter of the Manchus, and the killing
in the confusion of eight Europeans at Hsi An Fu in Shensi in October
1911, reached Peking, nine young men banded themselves together
into the Shensi Relief Force, and set out from the capital to relieve
the missionaries cut off there. One of these young men it was my
good fortune to meet, and the story of their doings, told at first
hand, unrolled for me the leaves of history. They set out to help the
men and women of their own colour, but as they passed west from
Tai Yuan Fu, again and again, the people of the country appealed to
them to stop and help them. The Elder Brother Society, the Ko Lao
Hui were on the warpath, and, with whatever good intentions this
society had originated, it was, on this way from Tai Yuan Fu to Hsi
An Fu, nothing less than a band of robbers, pillaging and murdering,
and even the walled cities were hardly a safeguard. Village after
village, with no such defences, was wrecked, burned, and destroyed,
and their inhabitants were either slain or refugees in the mountains.
And the suffering that means, with the bitter winter of China ahead
of them, is ghastly to think of. They died, of course, and those who
were slain by the robbers probably suffered the least.
“What could we do? What could we possibly do?” asked my
informant pitifully. At last they came to Sui Te Chou, a walled city,
and Sui Te Chou was for the moment triumphant. It had driven off
the robbers. The Elder Brother Society had held the little city closely
invested. They had built stone towers, and, from the top of them,
had fired into the city, and at the defenders on the walls, and, under
cover of this fire from the towers, they had attempted to scale the
battlements. But the people on the walls had pushed them down
with long spears, and had poured boiling water upon them, and,
finally, the robbers had given way, and some braves, issuing from
the south gate had fallen upon them, killing many and capturing
thirty of them. It was a short shrift for them, and a festoon of heads
adorned the gateway under which the foreigners passed.
But, though victorious, the braves of Sui Te Chou knew right well
that the lull was only momentary. They were reversing the Scriptural
order of things, and beating their ploughshares into swords. The
brigands would be back as soon as they had reinforcements, the
battle would be to the strong and it would indeed be “Woe to the
Vanquished!”
“We could not help them. We could not,” reiterated the teller of
the tale sadly; “we just had to go on.”
It was old China, he said, let us hope the last of old China. In that
town were English missionaries, a man and his wife, another man
and two little children, members of the English Baptist Church,
dressed in Chinese dress, the men with queues. These they rescued,
and took along with them, and glad were they to have two more
able-bodied men in the party, even though they were
counterbalanced by the presence of the woman and two children,
for everywhere along the track were evidences of the barbaric times
in which they lived. Human head? in wicker cages were common
objects of the wayside, and the wolves came down from the
mountains and gnawed at the dead bodies, or attacked the sick and
wounded. Old China was a ghastly place that autumn of 1911,
during the “bloodless” revolution. Chung Pu they reached
immediately after it had been attacked by six hundred men.
“I had to kick a dog away that was gnawing at a dead body as we
led the lady into a house for the night,” said the narrator. “I could
only implore her not to look.”
But at I Chün things were worse still. They reached it just as it
had fallen into the hands of the Elder Brother Society, and they
began to think they had taken those missionaries out of the frying-
pan into the fire. I Chün is a walled city up in the mountains of
Shensi, and the only approach was by a pathway so narrow that it
only allowed of one mule litter at a time. On one side was a steep
precipice, on the other the city wall, and along that wall came racing
men armed with matchlocks, spears, and swords, yelling defiance
and prepared, apparently, to attack. The worst of it was there was
no turning that litter round. They halted, and the gate ahead of
them opened, and right in the centre of the gateway was an ancient
cannon with a man standing beside it with a lighted rope in his
hand. Turn the litter and get away in a hurry they could not. Leave it
they could not. There was seemingly no escape for them. It only
wanted one of those excited men to shout “Ta, Ta,” and the match
could have been applied, and the ancient gun would have swept the
pathway. Then the leader of the band of foreigners stepped forward.
He flung away his rifle, he flung away his revolver, he flung away his
knife, and he stood there before them defenceless, with his arms
raised—modem civilisation bowing for the moment before the force
of Babylon. It was a moment of supreme anxiety. Suppose the
people misunderstood his actions.
“We scarcely dared breathe,” said the storyteller. Every heart stood
still. And then they understood. The man with the lighted rope
dropped it, and they beckoned to the strangers to come inside the
gates.
It required a good deal of courage to go inside those gates, to put
themselves in the power of the Elder Brother Society, and they spent
an anxious night. The town had been sacked, the streets ran blood,
the men were slain, their bodies were in the streets for the crows
and the wonks to feed on, and the women—well women never count
for much in China in times of peace, and in war they are the spoil of
the victor—the Goddess of Mercy was forgotten those days in I
Chün. All night long the anxious little party kept watch and ward,
and when day dawned were thankful to be allowed to proceed on
their way unmolested, eventually reaching Hsi An Fu and rescuing all
the missionaries who wished to be rescued.
“It was exciting,” said my friend, half apologising for getting
excited over it. “It was the last of old China. Such things will never
happen again.”
Exciting! it thrilled me to hear him talk, to know such things had
happened barely a year before, to know they had happened in this
country. Would they never happen again? I was not so sure of that
as I went through walled town after walled town, as I looked up at
the walls of Tsung Hua Chou. This was the correct setting. To talk in
friendly, commonplace fashion to people who lived in such towns
seemed to annihilate time, to bring the past nearer to me, to make
me understand, as I had never understood before, that the people
who had lived, and suffered, and triumphed, or lived, and suffered,
and fallen, were almost exactly the same flesh and blood as I was
myself.
Back at the inn my friend the landlady brought me her little
grandson to admire. He was a jolly little unwashed chap with a
shaven head, clad in an unwashed shift, and I think I admired him
to her heart's content. It was evidently worth having been born and
lived all the strenuous weary days of her hard life to have had part
in the bringing into the world of that grandson. His little sister in the
blue-cornered handkerchief, looking on, did not count for much, and