From Chefoo to Peking is a journey of about seven hundred miles, and we go by the Old Highways.

Old Highways indeed! old, almost beyond historical record. Trodden by the feet of more than a hundred generations, they are yet fresh as of yore, and ever and anon present landscapes of the rarest beauty. To one acquainted with the language and habits of the people these highways are a never-ending book of antiquity, from which to read the story of the past, blended with the life thoughts of the present. China comes to us like a submerged continent newly upheaved from the ocean of time; and on its vast extent there are no objects of interest greater than China's daughters. Beautiful they are with a certain beauty of their own. On them, alas! centuries of non-culture have pressed heavily; but now, Undine-like, each Chinese maid and matron seems rising and asking for a soul.

On the journey my interest was chiefly in the women, and I looked at all through a woman's eyes.

April 7th is the day fixed for our start. The muleteers promise to be in good time; all arrangements have been made, and nothing has to be done in the morning but to load the animals.

Our preparations have not been extensive, as we depend on native sources for our supplies.