AN expedition up the river is one of the pleasures of Shanghai life. People's faces brighten as they talk of “going to the hills.” And there being no roads, the only way of really getting into the country is either to take a houseboat, and wind in and out of the various creeks, or with a yacht drop down to Woosung, or sail up the Huang Pu. We did the latter one winter's day, and the expedition left me rather meditative. Just as in the north I decided the graves were the only liveable-in places, being the only spots sheltered from sun and wind by trees, so here I found the graves were the only things, that made any variety in the landscape of flat alluvial plain, all cultivated, with every here and there a grave mound! It suggested irresistibly that the lives of those around were all flat, full of labour, varied but by deaths, and those not tragic, nor specially interesting.

We sailed on and on, beating against the wind as I have been told no yacht in England could, only a Shanghai yacht with its ingenious adaptation of the Chinese rig. We passed Ming Hong with its picturesque Lekin (Inland Taxes) and Life Saving Station, its pretty pavilion-topped gateway, and Bund, all facing south along the river side. No other boats ventured against the strong north-west blow, and the river felt lonely as we neared the Pagoda of Ta Kong. It seemed a pity not to land and look at something.