THOSE, who remember their sensations as children, when first taken to plunge into the cold sea, can realise a little the feeling, with which I contemplated starting off on a tour round the south of China among complete strangers to oppose footbinding, one of China's oldest, most deep-rooted, domestic customs.

The honorary secretary of our Natural Feet Society— to translate its Chinese name of Tien Tsu Hui—had done her best to prepare the way by writing beforehand to say that I was coming on behalf of the society, and the China Merchants’ Company—the one great Chinese steamship company—had most kindly at once granted me a free pass by their steamers all round China, but this made me all the more feel that I must work hard and accomplish much in order to justify their liberality. They had promised introductions to leading Chinese. But I had but few introductions to Europeans, and having mostly lived in the far west of China had hardly any acquaintance in the south.

We had taken of late to inviting Chinese officials to our meetings, and I still recalled the sinking of my heart when, the new Victoria Hall having been hired at Hankow, and the chairman of the Municipal Council having himself arranged the seats, the audience began to come in, official after official, some with retinues, some without, some also with that tremendous swagger, that makes one feel, as if the man, who thus walked, could think no subject in heaven or earth worthy of his interest.