Therefore, on the day after his arrival, Kin-Fo, leaving this city, which is an important business centre between Central Asia, Thibet, Mongolia, and China, continued on his way to the North. Following Kao-Lin-Sien, Sing-Tong-Sien, through the valley-route of the Ouei-Ro, whose waters are tinged with the yellow hue of the loess through which it has made its bed, the little party reached Roua-Tcheou, which was the centre of a terrible Mussulman insurrection in 1860. Kin-Fo and his companions, after great fatigue, travelling sometimes in a boat and sometimes in a wagon, reached the fortress of Tong-Kouan, which is situated at the confluence of the Ouei-Ro and the Rouang-Ro.

      The Rouang-Ro is the famous Yellow River. It descends directly from the north, and, crossing the eastern provinces, flows into the sea which bears its name, and is no more yellow than the Red Sea is red, the White Sea white, or the Black Sea black. Yes, it is a celebrated river, of celestial origin no doubt, since its color is that of the emperors, the Sons of Heaven; but it is also “China’s Sorrow,” a title given it on account of its terrible overflows, which have partially rendered the Imperial Canal impassable.

      At Tong-Kouan the travellers would have been safe even at night. It is no longer a commercial, but a military city, in which the Mandshurian Tartars, who form the chief number of the Chinese army, live in fixed habitations, and not in camps. Possibly Kin-Fo intended to stop here and rest a few days, or, perhaps, would have sought a good room, bed, and table in a desirable hotel,—which would not have displeased Fry-Craig, and less likely Soun. But this blundering fellow had the imprudence to give to the custom-house officer his master’s real instead of assumed name, which cost him a good inch of his braid. He forgot that it was no longer Kin-Fo, but Ki-Nan, whom he had the honor of serving. Kin-Fo’s anger was extreme, and it led him to leave the city at once. The name had produced its effect. The celebrated Kin-Fo had arrived at Tong-Kouan. People wished to see this unique man, whose “sole and only desire was to become a centenarian.”

      The terrified traveller, followed by his two guards and his valet, had just time to take his flight through the crowds of curious people who followed in his footsteps. “On foot this time, on foot!” he ordered, and ascended the shores of the Yellow River, proceeding thus till he and his companions stopped from exhaustion in a little town where his incognito must secure him some hours of tranquillity.

      Soun, who was absolutely disconcerted, dared not say a word. He in his turn, with the ridiculous little rat-tail yet remaining, was an object of the most disagreeable ridicule. The boys ran after him, mocking him, and calling him names. So he, too, was in a great hurry to arrive. But where? since his master, as Mr. Bidulph said, expected to keep on the move, and was doing so.

      This time there were no horses, asses, wagons, or chairs in this modest town, twenty leagues from Tong-Kouan, where Kin-Fo sought refuge. There was no prospect but to remain here, or continue on foot. This was not likely to inspire good humor in the pupil of the philosopher Wang, and he showed little philosophy on this occasion. He accused every one, with only himself to blame. Ah! how he sighed for the time when he had nothing to do but live! If to appreciate happiness, it was necessary to know ennui, trouble, and torments, as Wang used to say, he had plenty of them now, and some to spare.

      And yet, in running about the country, he met on the way worthy people without a sou, who, nevertheless, were happy. He was able to observe those varied forms of happiness which cheerfully performed labor brings.

      Here were laborers bending over their ploughing, and there workmen singing as they handled their tools. Was it not precisely to this absence of labor that Kin-Fo owed the absence of desires, and, consequently, the lack of happiness here below? Ah! the lesson was complete: he believed so, at least. No, friend Kin-Fo, it was not.

      After searching thoroughly in the village, and knocking at every door, Craig and Fry finally discovered only one vehicle, and that it would only carry one person; and, graver still, that the propelling power of said vehicle was wanting.

      It was a wheelbarrow,—Pascal’s wheelbarrow,—and perhaps invented before his time by those ancient inventors of powder, the art of writing, the compass, and kites. In China the wheel of this conveyance, which is rather broad in diameter, is placed, not at the end of the shafts, but in the middle, and moves across the body of the wheelbarrow, like the central wheel in some steamboats. The body is, then, divided into two parts, following its axis, in one of which the traveller can stretch himself out, and in the other stow his baggage.

      The propelling power is and can be only a man, who pushes it before him instead of dragging it after him, and is therefore behind the traveller, whose view he does not obstruct, as does the driver of an English cab. When the wind is favorable,—that is, when it blows from behind,—man joins to his efforts this natural force, which costs him nothing, by setting a mast in the fore part of the vehicle, and raising a square sail; so that, when the breeze is strong, instead of pushing the wheelbarrow, it is the latter which draws him along,—often faster than he wishes.

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