The Siberian Overland Route from Peking to Petersburg,
by Alexander Michie · English · Gutenberg #45167 · 789,074 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Siberian Overland Route from Peking to Petersburg,
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Siberian Overland Route from Peking to Petersburg,
Author: Alexander Michie
Release date: March 18, 2014 [eBook #45167]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45167
Credits: Produced by Melissa McDaniel, Julia Neufeld and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIBERIAN OVERLAND ROUTE FROM PEKING TO PETERSBURG, ***
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
The carat character (^) indicates that the following letter
is superscripted (example: M^r.). If two or more letters are
superscripted they are enclosed in curly brackets (example:
MOUN^{T.S}).
* * * * *
[Illustration: PAGODA AND GARDENS OF THE EMPEROR'S SUMMER PALACE,
YUEN-MIN-YUEN.
Photo. by Beato.
(_Frontispiece._)]
THE
SIBERIAN OVERLAND ROUTE
FROM PEKING TO PETERSBURG,
THROUGH THE DESERTS AND STEPPES OF MONGOLIA,
TARTARY, &c.
BY ALEXANDER MICHIE.
[Illustration: TOMB AT THE DEPOT, PEKING.]
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1864.
PREFACE.
The following work has but moderate claims, I fear, to public
attention; and it would probably not have seen the light at all but
for the urgent request of friends, who think better of it than the
author does. It has no pretensions to any higher merit than that of
being a plain narrative of the journey, and an impartial record of
my own impressions of the people among whom I travelled.
Although some portions of the route have been eloquently described
by Huc and others, I am not aware that any continuous account of the
whole journey between the capitals of China and Russia has appeared
in the English language for nearly a century and a half. Important
changes have occurred in that period; and, if I may judge of
others by myself, I suspect that many erroneous notions are afloat
respecting the conditions of life in these far-off regions, and more
especially in Siberia. Observation has modified my own pre-conceived
opinions on many of the subjects touched on in the following pages,
and I am not without a hope that they will be found to contain some
information which may be new to many people in this country.
If I have indulged in irrelevant digressions, I can only say that I
have limited myself to those reflections which naturally suggested
themselves in the course of my travels; and the subjects I have
given most prominence to are simply those which happened to be the
most interesting to myself.
My thanks are due to various friends for useful hints, confirming
and correcting my own observations; but I am especially indebted for
some valuable notes on Siberia, its social phenomena, gold mines,
&c., to Edwin E. Bishop, Esq., whose long residence in the country,
and perfect acquaintance with the language and customs of the
people, constitute him an authority on all matters connected with
that part of the world.
22, BERKELEY SQUARE,
_October 28th, 1864_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
SHANGHAI TO TIENTSIN.
PAGE
John Bell--"Overland" routes--Peking a sealed book--Jesuits--
Opening of China--Chinese jealousy of Mongolia--Errors of
British policy--Their results--Preparations for journey--
Leave Shanghae--Yang-tse-kiang-- Changes in its channel--
Elevation of the delta--Chinese records of inundations--The
Nanzing--Shantung promontory in a fog--Chinese coasters--
Advantages of steam--Our fellow-passengers--Peiho river--
Intricate navigation--Sailors in China--Tientsin--New
settlement--Municipal council--Improvements--Trade--Beggars--
Health--Sand-storms--Gambling 1
CHAPTER II.
TIENTSIN TO PEKING.
Modes of travelling--Carts, horses, boats--Filthy banks of the
Peiho--Voyage to Tungchow--Our boat's crew--Chinese distances--
Traffic on the Peiho--Temple at Tungchow--Mercantile priests--
Ride to Peking--Millet--Eight-mile bridge--Resting place--
Tombs--Filial piety--Cemeteries--Old statues--Water
communication into Peking--Grain supply 23
CHAPTER III.
PEKING.
Walls of Peking--Dust and dirt--Street obstructions--The model
inn--Restaurant--Our boon companions--Peking customs--Rule of
thumb--British legation--Confucian temple--Kienloong's
pavilion--Lama temple--Mongol chants--Roman and Bhuddist
analogies--Mongols and Chinese--Hospitality of lay brother--
Observatory--Street cries--Temple of Heaven--Theatres--
European residents--Medical mission under Dr. Lockhart--
Chinese jealousy of Mongolia--Russian diplomacy--Reckoning
with our host--Ice--Paper-money 32
CHAPTER IV.
PEKING TO CHAN-KIA-KOW.
Return to Tungchow--Disappointment--Priest conciliated by
Russian language--Back to Peking--Negotiations--Ma-foo's
peculation--Chinese honesty and knavery--Loading the
caravan--Mule-litters--Leave Peking--Sha-ho--Cotton plant--
Nankow--Crowded inn--Difficult pass--Inner "great wall"--
Cha-tow--Chinese Mahommedans--Religious toleration--Christians
in disfavour--Change of scene--Hwai-lai--Ruins of bridge--Bed
of old river--Road traffic--Watch-towers--Chi-ming-i--Legend
of monastery--the Yang-ho--Pass--Shan-shui-pu--Coal--
Suen-wha-fu--Ride to Chan-kia-kow 56
CHAPTER V.
CHAN-KIA-KOW.
Arrival at Chan-kia-kow--Focus of Trade--Mixed population--
Wealth--Mongols--Russians--Name of Kalgan--Chinese
friends--Russian hospitality--Disappointment--Proposed
excursion to Bain-tolochoi--Camels at last procured--
Noetzli returns to Tientsin--The pass--Mountains--Great
Wall--The horse-fair--Dealers--Ox-carts--Transport of wood
from Urga--Shoeing smiths--Our Russian host arrives--The
"Samovar"--Tea-drinking in Russia--Change of temperature--
Elevation of Chan-kia-kow--Preparations for the desert--
Cabbages--Warm boots--Camels arrive--Leave Chan-kia-kow--
The pass--Superiority of mules, &c., over camels 72
CHAPTER VI.
MONGOLIA.
Leave China--Mishap in the pass--Steep ascent--Chinese
perseverance--Agricultural invasion--Our first encampment--
Cold night--Pastoral scene--Introduction to the Mongols--The
land of tents--Our conductors--Order of march--Mongol
chants--The lama--Slow travelling--Pony "Dolonor"--Night
travelling--Our Mongols' tent--Argols--Visitors--Mongol
instinct--Camels quick feeders--Sport--Antelopes--Lame
camels--Scant pastures--Endurance of Mongols--Disturbed
sleep--Optical illusions--"Yourt," Mongol tent--Domestic
arrangements--Etiquette--Mongol furniture--Sand-grouse--
Track-- Wind and rain--A wretched night--Comfortless
encampment--Camels breaking down--The camel seasons--No
population--No grass--Mingan 83
CHAPTER VII.
MONGOLIA--_continued_.
Visitors at Mingan--Trading--Scene with a drunken Mongol--
Good horsemen--Bad on foot--Knowledge of money--Runaway
pony--A polite shepherd--Gunshandak--Wild onions--Halt--
Expert butcher--Mongol sheep, extraordinary tails--A Mongol
feast--Effects of diet--Taste for fat explained--Mongol
fasts--Our cooking arrangements--Camel ailings--Maggots--
Rough treatment--Ponies falling off--Live in hopes--Dogs--
The harvest moon--Waiting for Kitat--Lamas and their
inhabitants--Resume the march--Meet caravan--Stony
roads--Disturbed sleep--Gurush--Negotiations at Kutul-usu--
Salt plains--Sporting lama--Ulan-Khada--Trees--Reach
Tsagan-tuguruk--Lamas and black men--Small temple--Musical
failure--Our new acquaintances--Horse-dealing--Greed of
Mongols--Fond of drink--A theft--The incantation--Kitat
returns--Camel lost--Vexatious delay--Start from
Tsagan-tuguruk 102
CHAPTER VIII.
MONGOLIA--_continued_.
Marshes--Camels dislike water--Chinese caravan--Travellers'
tales--Taryagi--Looking for cattle in the dark--
Butyn-tala--An addition to our party--Russian courier--
Water-fowl--Bad water--Kicking camel--Pass of Ulin-dhabha--
Mongols shifting quarters--Slip 'tween the cup and the
lip--Mountains--The north wind--Guntu-gulu--An accident--
Medical treatment--Protuberant ears--Marmots--Ice--Dark
night--Bain-ula--Living, not travelling--Charm of desert
life--Young pilgrim--Grand scenery--Steep descent--Obon--
Horror of evil spirits--Mongol and Chinese notions of
devils--Dread of rain--A wet encampment--Snow--The White
Mountains--The Bactrian camel--Capability of enduring
cold-- Job's comforters--Woods appear--The yak--Change
of fuel 122
CHAPTER IX.
URGA TO KIACHTA.
Maimachin in sight--A snow storm--Hasty encampment--Tolla in
flood--Delay--Intercourse with Mongols--The night
watches--Tellig's family--Rough night--Scene at the Tolla--
Crossing the river--the "Kitat" redivivus--His
hospitality--How Mongols clean their cups--Maimachin--The
Russian consulate--Russian ambition--Its prospects--The
Urga, or camp--Kuren--Fine situation--Buildings--
Horse-shoeing--Hawkers--The lamaseries--An ascetic--The
Lama-king--Relations between Chinese emperors and the Lama
power--Urga and Kara Korum--Historical associations--Prester
John and Genghis Khan--Leave Urga--Slippery paths--
More delays--The pass--A snow storm--Fine scenery--Rich
country--Another bugbear--The Boro valley--Cultivation--
Khara-gol--The pass--Lama courier--Shara-gol--Winter
quarters--The transmigration--Iro-gol--Forced march--
Kiachta in sight 141
CHAPTER X.
MONGOLS--HISTORICAL NOTES.
Early history of Huns--Wars with China--Dispersion--Appear
in Europe--Attila--His career--And death--Turks--Mixture
of races--Consanguinity of Huns and Mongols--Genghis--His
conquests--Divisions of his empire--Timour--A Mahommedan--
His wars--And cruelties--Baber--The Great Mogul in India--
Dispersion of tribes--Modern divisions of the Mongols--
Warlike habits--Religions--The causes of their success
in war considered--Their heroes--Their characters--And
military talents--Superstition--Use of omens--
Destructiveness and butcheries of the Huns and Mongols--
Antagonistic traits of character--Depraved moral
instincts--Necessity of culture to develop human
feelings--Flesh-eating not brutalising--Dehumanising
tendency of war--Military qualities of pastoral peoples--
Dormant enthusiasm of the Mongols 166
CHAPTER XI.
MONGOLS--PHYSICAL AND MENTAL CHARACTERISTICS.
Physical characteristics--Meanness--Indolence--Failure in
agriculture--Hospitality--Its origin--Pilfering--Honesty--
Drunkenness--Smoking--Ir'chi or Kumiss--Morality--Of
lamas--Women fond of ornaments--Decency of dress--
Physique--Low muscular energy--A wrestling match--Bad
legs--Bow-legged--Its causes--Complexions--Eyes--Absence
of beard--Comparison with Chinese and Japanese--Effect
of habits on physical development--Animal instincts in
nomads--Supply the place of artificial appliances--
Permanence of types of character--Uniformity in primitive
peoples--Causes that influence colour of skin--Mongol
powers of endurance--Low mental capacity--Its causes--
Superstition produced by their habits--Predisposed to
spiritual thraldom--The lamas and their practices--
Prayers--Knaveries of lamas--Vagabond lamas--The spread
of Bhuddism--Superior to Shamanism--Shaman rites--Political
result of Bhuddism--The Mongol kings--Serfs 185
CHAPTER XII.
KIACHTA.
Approach Kiachta--Maimachin--Chinese elegance--The
frontier--Russian eagle--The commissary of the frontier--
"Times" newspaper--Kiachta--Troitskosarfsk--Meet a
countryman--Part from our Mongols--Their programme--A
Russian bath--Siberian refinement--Streets and pavement--
Russian conveyances--Aversion to exercise--
Semi-civilisation--Etiquette--Mixture of peoples--Wealth
of Russian merchants--Narrow commercial views--The Chinese
of Maimachin--Domestic habits--Russian and Chinese
characters compared--Chinese more civilised than the
Russians--The Custom-house--Liberal measures--Our droshky--
Situation of Kiachta--Supplies--Population--Hay-market--
Fish--The garden--Domestic gardening--Climate salubrious--
Construction of houses--Stoves--Russian meals--Commercial
importance of Kiachta--Inundation of the Selenga--
Travelling impracticable--Money-changing--New travelling
appointments--Tarantass--Passports--Danger of delay--Prepare
to start--First difficulty--Siberian horses--Post-bell 203
CHAPTER XIII.
KIACHTA TO THE BAIKAL.
Leave Troitskosarfsk--Hilly roads--Bouriats--The first
post-station--Agreeable surprise--Another stoppage--A
night on the hill-side--Hire another carriage--Reach the
Selenga--The ferry--Selenginsk--A gallery of art--
Cultivation--Verchne Udinsk--Effects of the inundation--
Slough of despond--Fine scenery--A dangerous road--A
press of travellers--Favour shown us--Angry Poles--
Ilyensk--An obsequious postmaster--Tidy post-house--A
night at Ilyensk--Treachery suspected--Roads destroyed--
Difficult travelling--An old Pole--Baikal lake--Station
at Pasoilské--A night scene--The Selenga river--And
valley--Agriculture--Cattle, sheep, pigs, dogs 223
CHAPTER XIV.
LAKE BAIKAL TO IRKUTSK.
Morning scene at Pasoilské--Better late than never--
Victimised--Russian junks--Primitive navigators--Storms on
the Baikal--Scene at the shipping port--Religious
ceremony--A polite officer--Inconvenience of the Baikal
route--Engineering enterprise--More delay--Fares by the
Baikal steamer--Crowing and crouching--The embarkation--The
General Karsakof--A naval curiosity--The lake--Its depth--
And area--The "Holy Sea"--The passage--Terra firma--
Custom-house delay--Fine country--Good roads--Hotels Amoor
and Metzgyr 234
CHAPTER XV.
IRKUTSK.
In sight of Irkutsk--Handsome town--Wrong hotel--Bad
accommodation--Suffocation--Bad attendance--The cuisine--
Venerable eggs--Billiards--Meet a friend--Beauties of
Irkutsk--Milliners--Bakers--Tobacconists--Prison--
Convicts--Benevolence of old ladies--Equipages--Libraries--
Theatre--Population--Governor--Generalship--The levée--
Governing responsibilities--Importance of commerce--
Manufactures insignificant--Education--Attractions of
Siberia--Society--Polish exiles--The Decembrists--The
sentence of banishment--Its hereditary effect--Low
standing of merchants--Discomforts of travelling--Engage
a servant--The prodigal--A mistake--Early winter--The
Angara--Floating-bridge--Parting view of Irkutsk 246
CHAPTER XVI.
IRKUTSK TO KRASNOYARSK.
Leave Irkutsk--Roads and rivers--Capacity for sleep--
Bridges--Break-neck travelling--Endurance of Russian
ponies--Verst-posts--Appalling distances--Irregular
feeding--Tea _versus_ grog--River Birusa--Boundary
of Irkutsk and Yenisei--Stoppage--The telegraph wires--
Improved roads--River Kan--The ferrymen--Kansk--A new
companion--Prisoner of war--Advantages and disadvantages
of travelling in company--Improved cultivation--A
snow-storm--Cold wind--Absurd arrangement of stations--
The river Yenisei--Mishap at the ferry--The approach to
Krasnoyarsk--The town--Population--Hotel--Travellers'
accounts--Confusion at the station--The black-book--The
courier service 262
CHAPTER XVII.
KRASNOYARSK TO TOMSK.
Sledges--Sulky yemschiks--Progress to Achinsk--Limit of
Eastern Siberia--Game--The Chulim--Difficult ferry--
Government of Tomsk--Bad roads again--Job's comforters--
Mariinsk--An accident--And another--Resources of a
yemschik--A drive through a forest--Ishimskaya--A
day too late--A sporting Pole--Disappointment--Annoying
delay--Freezing river--A cold bath--Sledge travelling--A
night scene--Early birds--Arrive in Tomsk--Our lodging--
Religion of Russians--Scruples of a murderer--Population
and situation of Tomsk--Fire Insurance--Climate of Tomsk--
Supply of water--Carefulness and hardiness--Skating--Demure
little boys--An extinct species--The gold diggings--The
Siberian tribes 273
CHAPTER XVIII.
TOMSK TO OMSK.
Refitting--The optician--The feather-pillow question--A
friend in need--A dilemma--Schwartz's folly--Old Barnaul
leaves us--We leave Tomsk--A weary night--A Russian
dormitory--Construction of houses--Cross the Tom--And the
Ob--Enter the Baraba steppe--Kolivan--The telegraph--The
ladies of Baraba--Game--Windmills--A frozen marsh--Kainsk--
Reach Oms--Outbreaks on the Kirghis steppe--Russian
aggression--Its effects on different tribes 290
CHAPTER XIX.
OMSK TO OCHANSK.
Leave Omsk--Recruiting--Cross the Irtish--Tukalinsk--
Yalootorofsk--Reach Tumen--Improved posting--Snowroads--
Ekaterineburg--Mint--Precious stones--Iron works--
Englishmen in Siberia--Iron mines--Fish trade--A recruiting
scene--Temperature rising--Game--The Urals--Disappointing--
A new companion--The boundary between Europe and Asia--
Yermak the Cossack--Discovery and conquest of Siberia--
Reach Perm--Too late again--Progress of inland navigation--
Facilities for application of steam--Water routes of
Siberia--Railways--Tatars--Cross the Kama to Ochansk--
Dissolving view of snow roads 305
CHAPTER XX.
RUSSIAN AND SIBERIAN PEASANTRY.
Siberian and Russian peasantry--The contrast--Freedom and
slavery--Origin of Siberian peasants--Their means of
advancement--Exiles--Two classes--Their offences and
punishments--Privileges after release--Liberality of the
government--Its object--Extent of forest--One
serf-proprietor in Siberia--Exemptions from conscription--
Rigour of the climate on the Lena and Yenisei--Settlers
on Angara exempted from taxes--Improvement of Siberian
peasants--A bright future--Amalgamation of classes--Slavery
demoralising to masters--The emancipation of the serfs--
Its results 320
CHAPTER XXI.
KAZAN.--POLISH EXILES.
Road to Kazan--Polish prisoners--Arrive at Kazan--More
croaking--Temptations to delay--Sell our sledge--View of
Kazan--The ferry at the Volga--Ice-boats and icebergs--The
military--Tatars--Polish exiles--Kindly treated by their
escort--Erroneous ideas on this subject--The distribution
of exiles in Siberia--Their life there--The Polish
insurrection--Its objects--Imprudence--Consequences--Success
would have been a second failure 331
CHAPTER XXII.
KAZAN TO PETERSBURG.
A day lost--The moujik's opportunity--Return to Kazan--Hotel
"Ryazin"--Grease and butter--Evening entertainment--Try
again--The ferry--A term of endearment--Ferrymen's
devotions--A Jew publican--"Pour boire"--Villages and
churches--The road to Nijni--Penance--A savage--A
miserable night--Reach Nijni--"Sweet is pleasure after
pain"--The great fair--Nijni under a cloud--Delights of
railway travelling--A contrast--Reach Moscow--Portable
gas--Foundling hospital--The Moscow and Petersburg
railway--Grandeur of Petersburg--Late season--Current
topics--Iron-clads--The currency--Effects of Crimean war--
Russian loyalty--Alexander II. as a reformer--Leave
Petersburg 343
CHAPTER XXIII.
RUSSIA AND CHINA.
Earlier intercourse--Analogies and contrasts--Progress of
Russia and decadence of China--Permanence of Chinese
institutions--Arrogance justified--Not really bigoted--
Changes enforced by recent events--The rebellion--
Fallacious views in parliament--British interest in
China--A bright future--Railways--Telegraphs--Machinery
and other improvements--Resources to be developed--Free
cities 357
POSTSCRIPT 401
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
PAGODA AND GARDENS OF THE EMPEROR'S SUMMER PALACE,
YUEN-MIN-YUEN. (From a Photograph by Beato) _Frontispiece._
TOMB AT THE DEPOT. PEKING. (From a Photograph
by Beato) _Vignette._
TUNG CHOW PAGODA. (From a Photograph by Beato) 27
WALLS OF PEKING. (From a Photograph by Beato) 32
PAVILION OF THE SUMMER PALACE OF YUEN-MIN-YUEN. (From a
Photograph by Beato) 37
THIBETIAN MONUMENT IN LAMA TEMPLE. PEKING. (From a Photograph
by Beato) 42
GREAT TEMPLE OF HEAVEN. PEKING. (From a Photograph by Beato) 48
PART OF THE EMPEROR'S PALACE, YUEN-MIN-YUEN. DESTROYED
1860. (From a Photograph by Beato) 55
THE NANKOW PASS 63
HALT IN THE DESERT OF GOBI 104
FORDING THE TOLLA NEAR URGA 147
VIEW OF EKATERINBURG. SIBERIA. (From a Russian Photograph). 307
[Illustration: A GENERAL MAP OF NORTHERN ASIA.
_M^r. Michie's route coloured._
_London John Murray, Albemarle S^t_]
THE SIBERIAN OVERLAND ROUTE FROM PEKING TO PETERSBURG.
CHAPTER I.
SHANGHAE TO TIENTSIN.
The charming narrative of John Bell, of Antermony, who, in the reign
of Peter the Great, travelled from Petersburg to Peking in the suite
of a Russian ambassador, inspired me with a longing desire to visit
Siberia and other little-known regions through which he passed.
Having occasion to return to England, after a somewhat protracted
residence on the coast of China, an opportunity presented itself of
travelling through the north of China, Mongolia, and Siberia, on my
homeward journey. This is, indeed, the real "overland route" from
China, and it may as properly be styled "maritime," as the mail
route per P. & O. steamers "overland." The so-called overland route
has, however, strong temptations for a person eager to get home.
There is a pleasing simplicity about the manner of it which is a
powerful attraction to one who is worn out with sleepless nights in
a hot climate. It is but to embark on a steamer; attend as regularly
at meal times as your constitution will permit; sleep, or what is
the same thing, read, during the intervals; and fill up the blanks
by counting the passing hours and surveying your fellow passengers
steeped in apoplectic slumbers under the enervating influence of the
tropics. The sea route has, moreover, a decided advantage in point
of time. In forty-five or fifty days I could have reached England
from Shanghae by steamer: the land journey viâ Siberia I could not
hope to accomplish in less than ninety days.
But the northern route had strong attractions for me in the kind
of vague mystery that invests the geography of strange countries,
and the character, manners, and customs of their inhabitants.
Ever-recurring novelties might be expected to keep the mind alive;
and active travelling would in a great measure relieve the tedium
of a long and arduous journey. Of the two, therefore, I preferred
the prospect of being frozen in Siberia to being stewed in the Red
Sea. The heat of Shanghae in the summer was intense and almost
unprecedented, the supply of ice was fast undergoing dissolution,
and an escape into colder regions at such a time was more than
usually desirable.
A few years ago it would have been about as feasible to travel from
China to England by way of the moon as through Peking and Mongolia.
Peking was a sealed book, jealously guarded by an arrogant, because
an ignorant, government. Little was known of the city of the khans
except what the Jesuits had communicated in the last century, and
what that prince of travellers, Marco Polo, had handed down from
the middle ages. No foreigner dared show his face there, except in
the guise of a native, and even then at the risk of being detected
and subjected to the greatest indignities. The Jesuits, it is true,
in the face of the prohibition, continued to smuggle themselves
into China, and even into Peking itself, and their perseverance
and tenacity of purpose are entitled to all praise. But they
occasionally paid dearly for their temerity, and not unfrequently
got themselves and their "Christians" into hot water with the
authorities. This received the high-sounding name of "persecution;"
and if any one lost his life for meddling in other people's affairs,
or interfering with the prerogative of the government, he was
honoured with the name of a "martyr." The Jesuits had their day of
power in China, and if they had but used it modestly they might
still have stood at the elbow of the Emperor. They were tried and
found wanting, expelled from Peking, and China was closed against
foreigners, not, it must be confessed, without some reason.
All that has been changed again. The curtain has risen once more;
foreigners are free to traverse the length and breadth of China,
and to spy out the nakedness of the land. The treaty of Tientsin
and convention of Peking, ratified in November, 1860, which opened
up China to travellers for "business or pleasure," was largely
taken advantage of in the following year. In 1861, foreign steamers
penetrated by the great river Yang-tsze into the heart of China.
Four enterprising foreigners explored the river to a distance of
1800 miles from the sea, and many other excursions were set on foot
by foreigners, in regions previously known only through the accounts
of Chinese geographers or the partial, imperfect, and in some
instances obsolete, descriptions of the older Jesuits.
Mongolia, being within the dominions of the Emperor of China, was
included in the passport system; and although the Chinese government
has made a feeble attempt to impose restrictions on foreign
travellers in that region on the ground that, although Chinese, it
is not China, up to the present time no serious obstacles have been
placed in the way of free intercourse in Mongolia; nor can the plain
language of the treaty be limited in its interpretation, unless
the ministers of the treaty powers should voluntarily abandon the
privilege now enjoyed. It is devoutly to be hoped that no envoy of
Great Britain will again commit the error of waiving rights once
granted by the Chinese. However unimportant such abandoned rights
may appear, experience has shown that the results are not so. Sir
Michael Seymour's war at Canton in 1856-7 could never have occurred
if our undoubted right to reside in that city had been insisted on
some years previously. Our disaster at the Taku forts in 1859 would
have been prevented if the right of our minister to reside in Peking
had not, in a weak moment, been waived. What complications have
not arisen in Japan, from our consenting to undo half Lord Elgin's
treaty and allowing the port of Osaca to remain closed to our
merchantmen! We cannot afford to make concessions to Asiatic powers.
Give them an inch and they will take an ell: then fleets and armies
must be brought into play to recover ground we have lost through
sheer wantonness.
Too late to join a party who preceded me, I had some difficulty
in finding a companion for the journey, but had the good fortune
to make the acquaintance of a young gentleman from Lyons, who
purposed going to France by the Siberian route with or without a
companion. We at once arranged matters to our mutual satisfaction,
and proceeded with the preparations necessary for the journey.
Having the advantage of excellent practical advice on this head
from gentlemen who had already gone over the ground, we had little
difficulty in getting up our outfit. A tent was indispensable for
Mongolia, and we got a very commodious one from a French officer. A
military cork mattress, with waterproof sheets, proved invaluable
in the desert. Our clothing department was inconveniently bulky,
because we had to provide both for very hot and very cold weather.
The commissariat was liberally supplied, rather overdone, as it
turned out, but that was a fault on the safe side. The accounts
we heard of the "hungry desert," where nothing grows but mutton,
induced us to lay in supplies not only for an ordinary journey
across, but for any unforeseen delay we might encounter on the way.
We had first to get to Tientsin, six hundred miles from Shanghae,
and two steamers were under despatch for that port. I embarked
on board the _Nanzing_, Captain Morrison, about midnight on the
28th July, 1863. Taking advantage of the bright moon, we steamed
cautiously down the river Wong-poo for fourteen miles, past the
village of Woosung, "outside the marks," and into the great river
Yang-tsze, where we cast anchor for the night. It would be hazardous
to attempt the navigation of the estuary of the Yang-tsze, even in
bright moonlight. Its banks are so flat as to afford no marks to
steer by. The estuary is very wide, but the deep water channel is
narrow, with extensive shallows on either side. The upper parts
of the Yang-tsze-kiang, where the river narrows to a mile or two
in breadth, and flows through a bolder country, are more easy of
navigation. In the broad part of the river, near its mouth, the deep
water channels have a tendency to shift their positions. The surveys
of the river from its mouth to Nanking, made in 1842, were found
inapplicable in 1861. Where shallows were marked in 1842, deep water
was found in 1861, and dry patches were found where the navigable
channels were before. The delta of this noble river is rapidly
growing into dry land; the "banks" are fast rising into islands, and
the channels of the river becoming more circumscribed. The rapidity
with which this process is going on is most remarkable. From a point
nearly fifty miles from the mouth of the river it is divided into
two great branches, called by hydrographers the north and the south
entrances. Twenty years ago extensive shallows lay between, and
many a good ship found a final resting-place on these treacherous
banks. The most dangerous of these are now above water, and are
visible from a distance sufficient to enable the pilot to keep clear
of them. In the small river Wang-poo also, at and below the town of
Shanghae, the land is gaining considerably on the water. An island
has formed and is still growing near the mouth of the Wang-poo,
known to pilots as the "middle-ground." Until a very few years ago
it was entirely under water. In the year 1855 I was aground on the
top of it in a schooner near low water, and the rising tide floated
us off easily. The island is now so high as to remain uncovered
in the highest spring tides. Thus, in the space of eight years,
this island has risen more than twelve, and probably not less than
eighteen feet. The formation is extending itself downwards; the
tail of the island stretching away under water brought up many
vessels in 1862 and 1863, where there was plenty of water a year or
two before. On the south shore of the Yang-tsze-kiang the lines of
embankment mark the different stages of the aggression of the land
on the water. When a dry flat was formed liable to inundations in
high tides, an embankment of mud was built for the protection of
the inhabitants who settled on the reclaimed land. In process of
time more land was made, and another embankment formed. Thus three
distinct lines of embankment, several miles inland from the present
water line, are to be traced from below Woosung towards Hang-chow
Bay, and a very large tract of good arable land has been reclaimed
from the river, or, as the Chinese call it, the sea, within
comparatively modern times. From the causes we see now in active
operation, it is easy to trace the formation of the vast alluvial
plain which now supports so many millions of inhabitants.
There are, indeed, intimations in the Chinese records of some of
these changes. Islands in the sea are mentioned but a few centuries
back, which are now hills in inhabited districts. In the dawn of
Chinese history allusions are made to a great flood which desolated
the land, and the Emperor Yaou has been immortalised for his
achievements in subduing and regulating the waters. Yaou reigned
about 2200 B.C., and the rising of the waters in his time has been
referred by some to the Noachian deluge. But the Chinese empire at
that time extended as far south as the Great River, and included
three great valleys. It is not an improbable conjecture therefore
that there was a large circumference of debateable land barely
reclaimed from the sea. With the imperfect means then at command for
keeping out the water it is easy to suppose that an unusually high
tide would break down the defences and overflow the flat country.
It may also be, of course, that then, as now, the Yellow River
caused trouble by arbitrarily changing its course, and the patriotic
labours of Yaou may have been limited to damming up that wayward
stream, which has been called "China's sorrow." But the chronicles
of the great inundation do not appear to have been satisfactorily
explained, and it may be said of the annals of the reigns of Yaou
and Shun, that the interest which attaches to them is in direct
proportion to their obscurity.
A few hours' steaming on the 29th took us out of the turbid waters
of the Yang-tsze-kiang, but during the whole of that day we
continued in shallow water of a very light sea-green colour. The
weather was fine, and though still extremely hot, the fresh sea
air soon produced a magical effect on our enfeebled digestion. The
voyage was as pleasant as a good ship, a good table, and a courteous
commander could make it. On the 30th a thick fog settled down on
the water, and on the following morning all eyes were anxiously
straining after the Shantung promontory, which was the turning-point
of our voyage. By dead reckoning we were close to it, but there is
no accounting for the effect of the currents that sweep round this
bold headland. The tide rushes into the Gulf of Pecheli by one side
of the entrance, and out at the other. But from the conformation of
the gulf the tidal currents are subject to disturbances from various
causes, of which the direction of the wind is the most potent. A
north-westerly wind keeps the tide wave at bay, and drives the
water out of the gulf, until its level has been lowered several
feet below that of the ocean. Great irregularities in the ebb and
flow are occasioned by this; and when the cause ceases to act, the
reaction is proportionate to the amount of disturbance; the pent-up
waters from without flow in with impetuosity, and the equilibrium is
restored.
In the dense fog, our commander could only crawl along cautiously,
stopping now and again to listen for the sound of men's voices, or
the barking of dogs, take soundings, and watch for any indications
of the near vicinity of land. At length, to our great joy, the fog
lifted over a recognisable point of the promontory, and immediately
settled down again. The glimpse was sufficient however, and the
good steamer was at once headed westward, for the mouth of the
Peiho river, and bowled along fearlessly on her way. As the sun
rose higher the mist was dispersed, and the bold rugged outline of
the Shantung coast was unveiled before us. The clear blue water
was alive with Chinese coasting craft, small and large, of most
picturesque appearance. The heavy, unwieldy junks of northern China
lay almost motionless, their widespread sails hanging idly to the
mast, for there was just wind enough to ripple the surface of the
water in long patches, leaving large spaces of glassy smoothness
untouched by the breeze.
The crews of the northern junks are hardy stalwart fellows, inured
to labour, and zealous in their work. Their vessels are built very
low-sided, to enable them to be propelled by oars when the wind
fails them. The crews work cheerily at their oars, both night and
day, when necessary, keeping time to the tune of their half-joyous,
half-melancholy boat-songs. With all their exertions, however,
they drive the shapeless lump but slowly through the water, and
one cannot help feeling pity for the poor men, and regret for the
waste of so much manual labour. It is to be hoped that this hardy
race of seamen will find more fruitful fields wherein to turn
their strength to account when foreign vessels and steamers have
superseded the time-honoured but extravagant system of navigation
in China. This end has, indeed, been already reached to a certain
extent. China has been imbued with the progressive spirit of the
world, to the great advantage both of themselves and foreigners. The
southern coasts swarm with steamers, and the Gulf of Pecheli, in
this the third year from the opening of foreign trade in the north,
was regularly visited by trading steamers. In all discussions in
England on the subject of the development of trade in China, the
vast coasting trade is generally overlooked, as a matter in which we
have no interest. This is a mistake, however, for foreigners have
a considerable share in that trade directly, and their steamers
and sailing vessels are employed to a very large extent by the
Chinese merchants. All produce is very materially reduced in price
to the consumer by the facilities for competition among merchants
which improved communication affords, and by the diminution in
expenses of carriage, which is the necessary result. The rapidity
with which foreign vessels can accomplish their voyages as compared
with Chinese junks enables the native trader to make so many more
ventures in a given time, that he can afford to take smaller
profits than formerly, and yet on the average be no loser. Or even
if the average results of the year's trade be less profitable to
individuals than before, its benefits are spread over a greater
number, and, in the aggregate, suffer no diminution. The general
interests of the country have been subserved in an important
degree by the extension of the coasting trade, where no disturbing
influences have been at work; and the prosperity of the general
population cannot fail to react favourably on the mercantile class,
through whom the prosperity primarily comes.
Chefoo, the new settlement on the Shantung coast, is frequently a
port of call for steamers trading between Shanghae and Tientsin. We
did not touch there in the _Nanzing_, but passed at a distance of
twelve miles from the bluff rocky headland from which the settlement
takes its name. Before darkness had closed in the view we had
reached the Mia-tau group of islands which connect the mountain
ranges of Shantung, by a continuous chain, with the Liau-tung
promontory at the north of the entrance of the Gulf of Pecheli.
There is not much difficulty or danger in getting through these
islands even at night, but it is always an object to a navigator to
reach them before dark. The course is then clear for the Peiho, and
he has a whole night's straight run before him with nothing to look
out for.
The Peiho river must be an awkward place to "make," except in clear
weather. The land is lower even than that of the valley of the
Yang-tsze-kiang; the shoal water runs out a long distance into the
gulf; and a dangerous sand spit, partly above, and partly under
water, stretches fifty miles out to sea on the north of the approach
to the river. On reaching the outer anchorage, where vessels of
heavy draught lie, the celebrated Taku forts are dimly visible in
the haze of the horizon, and masts may be seen inside the river, but
the low land on either side is still invisible. A shoal bar, with a
very hard bottom, lies between the outer anchorage and the river,
and the _Nanzing_, drawing less than ten feet, was obliged to anchor
outside until the rising tide enabled her to get in.
Our Chinese fellow passengers, who had kept remarkably quiet during
the voyage, as is their invariable custom, became animated as we ran
in between the Taku forts. They were a motley crowd of all classes
of people--mercantile, literary, and military. The students who
go to Peking to undergo examinations for literary degrees travel
now in great numbers by steamer, and doubtless many who, from want
of means, want of time, or from any other cause, might hesitate
before undertaking such a long journey by the old land route, are
now enabled, by means of the coasting steamers, to accomplish the
object so deeply cherished by all Chinese literati. The "plucked"
ones, and there are many such in China, can now more easily renew
their efforts. Men have been known to repair year after year to the
examination-hall from their youth upwards, and get plucked every
time,--yet, undaunted by constant failure, they persevere in their
vain exertions to the winter of their days. The country that can
produce such models of perseverance in a hopeless cause may claim to
possess elements of vitality, and the usual proportion of fools.
Among our Chinese passengers was an athlete from Fokien, who was
bound to Peking to try his prowess in archery. He was a man of great
muscular power, fat, and even corpulent. It is remarkable that the
training system adopted for the development of the muscles should
produce so much fat. I had not observed this before in the Chinese;
indeed, the few feats of strength I have seen performed by them have
been by men well proportioned and free from fat. But the Japanese
wrestlers, who are carefully trained, are generally fat.
The entrance to the Peiho was, as usual, crowded with native and
foreign craft, and so narrow and tortuous is the river that great
care is necessary to work a long steamer through without accident.
Tientsin is distant from Taku, by the windings of the river, between
sixty and seventy miles. By the cart road it is only thirty-six.
The _Nanzing_ made good way up the river until darkness compelled
her to anchor. In the morning the difficulties of the inland
navigation began. The river was actually too small for a steamer
over two hundred feet long, the turns were too sharp, the ordinary
means of handling a steamer were no longer of any avail,--we hauled
round several bad turns by means of anchors passed on shore in
the boats, but were at length baffled after running the steamer's
nose into cabbage-gardens, breaking down fences, and alarming the
villagers, who turned out _en masse_ to watch the iron monster
as she struggled to force a passage out of her natural element.
Partly out of compassion for the men, who were worn out with the
uncongenial toil of trudging knee-deep through heavy mud, planting
anchors and picking them up again, and partly from some vague hope
of a change of tide in the afternoon, the steamer was brought to
anchor and hands piped to dinner.
The crews of steamers on the coast of China are usually of a
cosmopolite character, chiefly Malays, with a boat's crew of
Chinese, the foreign element being reduced to a minimum comprising
the officers and engineers. Asiatic sailors do very well when there
are plenty of them, the estimate of their value being two of them
to one European. They sail for lower wages, but not low enough
to compensate the ship-owner for the additional numbers that are
necessary. But the Asiatics are more easily handled than Europeans;
their regular "watches" may be broken in upon with impunity; they
are easier fed, and less addicted to quarrelling with their bread
and butter than Europeans, and more especially Englishmen. But any
doubt on the part of a shipmaster as to what crew he will employ,
will generally be solved by the sailors themselves, who, if English
or American, will desert at every port the vessel touches at.
Having my saddle and bridle handy I landed at a village, and
borrowing a horse from the farmers, rode to Tientsin, which was
only some eight miles distant by the road. The heat was scorching,
but greatly mitigated by the mass of bright green foliage that
covered the whole country. The soil though dry and dusty is rich to
exuberance, fruit grows in great abundance, and, for China, in great
perfection. Apples, pears, peaches, apricots, loquats, grapes, are
common everywhere in the north, which may be considered the orchard
of China. The waving crops of millet, interspersed with patches
of beans, and here and there strips of hemp, fill up a vast green
ground dotted thickly with villages and pretty clumps of trees. The
houses form a dull contrast to the cheerful aspect of the country.
In most of the villages they are constructed of mud and straw, which
becomes hard enough to be impervious to rain, but the dull parched
colour, the small apertures for doors and windows, and general
cheerlessness of exterior painfully oppress the sight. The dust
of the roads is also an unfavourable medium through which to view
the tame though rich beauties of the country. The north of China
is cursed with dust, the roads generally are as bad as the road to
Epsom on a "Derby day," when that happy event happens to come off in
dry weather.
I got back to the _Nanzing_ in time for the final effort to double
the difficult corner. The first attempt was successful, and we
steamed on gaily through fields and gardens, washing the banks with
the wave formed in our wake, which sometimes broke over the legs
of unwary celestials who stood gazing after the steamer in stupid
wonder like a cow at a railway train. The Chinese take such mishaps
good-naturedly--the spectators are always amused, and the victims
themselves when the shock of surprise passes off laugh at the joke.
The most serious obstacle to our progress had yet to come, however,
the "double," a point where the river bends abruptly like the
figure S compressed vertically. Extra caution being used there,
the appliances of anchors and warps were efficacious, and we passed
the double successfully. The smoke of the _Waratah_, a steamer that
left Shanghae the day before us, and which we had passed at sea,
now appeared over the trees close to us. There were several reaches
of the river between us, however, and we traced the black column
of smoke passing easily round the bends that had caused us such
difficulty. The _Waratah_ was gaining on us fast, and late in the
evening her black hull appeared under our stern, while the _Nanzing_
was jammed at the last bend of the river, unable either to get round
herself or to make room for the smaller vessel. Hours were spent
in ineffectual endeavours to proceed--the tantalised _Waratah_
could stand it no longer--the captain thought he saw room to pass
us, and came up at full speed between us and the bank. But as the
sailors say "night has no eyes" even when the moon is shining, and
our friend paid for his temerity by crashing his paddle box against
our bow. Time and patience enabled us to reach Tientsin at midnight
on the 1st August, after spending half as much time in the Peiho
river as the whole sea voyage had occupied. I have said enough, and
probably much more than enough, to demonstrate the difficulty of
navigating the Peiho river with vessels not adapted to it. No vessel
should attempt it that is over one hundred and fifty feet in length,
for though the risk of loss from stranding is extremely small, the
loss of time to large vessels must be serious.
A marvellous transformation had taken place in Tientsin since
my previous visit to it in 1861. At that time the few European
merchants who had settled there were confined to the Chinese town,
the filthiest and most offensive of all the filthy places wherein
celestials love to congregate. Now in 1863, the "settlement," that
necessary adjunct of every treaty port in China, had been made
over to foreigners, laid out in streets, and a spacious quay and
promenade on the river bank formed, faced riverwards with solid
masonry, the finest thing of the kind in China, throwing into the
shade altogether the famous "bund" at Shanghae. The affairs of the
settlement are administered by a thoroughly organised "municipal
council" after the example of Shanghae, the "model settlement." The
newly opened ports have an immense advantage over the original five
in having the experience of nearly twenty years to guide them in all
preliminary arrangements. That experience shows first--although the
soundness of the deduction has been questioned by some able men--the
desirability of securing foreign settlements where merchants,
consuls, and missionaries may live in a community of their own
entirely distinct from the native towns, within which they may put
in operation their own police regulations, lay out streets to their
own liking, drain, light, and otherwise improve the settlement,
levy and disburse their own municipal taxes, and, in short, conduct
their affairs as independent communities. These settlements have
the further advantage of being susceptible of defence in times of
disturbance with the minimum risk of complication between the treaty
powers and the Chinese government. Much of the importance Shanghae
has achieved of late years is due to the foreign settlement which,
being neutral ground and defensible, has become a city of refuge
for swarms of Chinese who had been ousted from their homesteads by
the rebels. The cosmopolite character of the Shanghae settlement
has entailed various inconveniences, which it is thought might be
obviated in the new settlements by keeping the different foreign
nationalities distinct. Time has not yet pronounced on the success
of this experiment. There will probably be a difficulty in putting
it thoroughly in practice; no arbitrary regulations will be able
to prevent nationalities from fusing into each other to such an
extent as the higher laws of interest and policy may dictate. And
it will be impossible in practice to subject a mixed community to
the laws of any one power. In the meantime concessions are claimed
from the Chinese government by each of the treaty powers separately,
and so far they have been granted. Whether the isolation of the
various concessions be permanent or not, it secures for them at the
outset more unanimity in laying out streets and framing preliminary
regulations for their good government hereafter. This is of great
importance, and the experience of Shanghae is most valuable in
this respect. The narrowness of the streets in the settlement
there--twenty-two feet--is a standing reproach on the earlier
settlers who, with short-sighted cupidity, clung with tenacity to
every inch of land at a time when land was cheap and abundant. This
fatal error has been avoided in the recent settlements.
The municipality of Shanghae established under the auspices of Sir
Rutherford (then Mr.) Alcock, at that time British consul, has
on the whole proved such a success that the same system has been
adopted in the new settlements. The legality of the institution has
often been questioned, but the creation of some such authority was a
necessity at the time, and it has worked so well for ten years that
it has not only subsisted, but gathered strength and influence by
the unanimous will of the community.
Several fine European houses were already built and inhabited on
the Tientsin settlement. The ground had been well raised, so as to
keep the new town dry, and ensure it a commanding position. It is
about two miles lower down the river than the native town, has a
fine open country round it, and plenty of fresh air. It is several
degrees cooler in the British settlement than in the Chinese town,
and altogether the very best site for the purpose has been selected.
The merchants retain their offices in the Chinese town, riding or
sailing to and fro every day. This system will probably continue to
be practised for some time longer, or perhaps altogether, for the
convenience of the Chinese dealers. A small minority of the foreign
merchants would compel all to retain their business premises in
Tientsin, and nothing less than an almost entire unanimity among
them would effect the transfer to the new town.
As a dépôt of trade, Tientsin labours under certain disadvantages;
the shallow bar outside, and intricate navigation of the river,
prevent any but small craft from trading there. Larger vessels
do sometimes, or rather did,--for I fancy the practice is
discontinued,--repair to the outer anchorage. But the expense of
lighterage, and the detention incurred in loading or discharging
at such a distance from the port, are so great as to drive such
competitors out of the field. The other drawback to Tientsin is
the severe winter, and the early closing of the river by ice. This
generally happens before the end of November, and the ice does not
break up before February or March.
However, Tientsin is the feeder of a large tract of country
containing a large consuming population, and the trade is no doubt
destined to increase. Much disappointment has, indeed, been felt
that the extraordinary start made, chiefly in the sale of foreign
manufactures, in the first year of its existence as a port of
foreign trade, has not been followed up. This may be explained,
however, by the circumstance that in 1860-61 manufactured goods
were extremely depressed by over-supply in the south of China.
These goods were introduced into Tientsin, and sold direct to the
Chinese there, untaxed by the intermediate profits and charges they
formerly had to bear when sold in Shanghae, and thence forwarded
by Chinese merchants, in Chinese junks, to Tientsin and the north.
Prices in Tientsin soon fell so low that the merchants were tempted
into large investments during 1861. The markets of the interior
became overstocked, and, before the equilibrium was restored, the
cotton famine began to be felt, and prices of goods (the Tientsin
trade is chiefly opium and cotton goods) rose so high as to deter
purchasers, and in a material degree to reduce the consumption of
foreign cottons. Another circumstance also operated adversely to a
maintenance of the lively trade that grew up in 1861. There were
no exports in Tientsin suitable to any foreign market. The foreign
trade was therefore limited to the sale of imports, which were paid
for in specie. A heavy drain of bullion was the result, more than
the resources of the country could bear for any length of time. This
of itself was enough to check the further development of trade; for
though the precious metals were merely transferred from one part
of the country to another, no counter-balancing power then existed
by which they could be circulated back to the districts whence
they came. There is no good reason why produce suitable to foreign
markets should not be found in Tientsin. Wool and tallow will no
doubt be obtainable in considerable quantities in process of time,
for the country is full of sheep and cattle, and Tientsin is only
six days' journey from the frontier of Mongolia, where flocks and
herds monopolise the soil.
I must mention a circumstance connected with the Tientsin trade,
which is remarkable among an eminently commercial people like the
Chinese. At the opening of the trade, in the end of 1860, the
relative values of gold and silver varied fifteen per cent. between
Tientsin and Shanghae. Gold was purchased for silver in the north,
and shipped to Shanghae, at a large profit, and a good many months
elapsed before an equilibrium was established.
In and about Tientsin, as almost everywhere else in China, the
population is well affected towards foreigners. The British troops
that garrisoned Tientsin from 1860 till 1862 left behind them the
very best impressions on the inhabitants. Not that these troops
were any better than any other well-disciplined troops would have
been, but the Chinese had been taught to regard foreigners as a
kind of aquatic monsters, cruel and ferocious; so when the horrible
picture resolved itself into human beings, civil and courteous in
their disposition, honestly paying for all they wanted, of vast
consumptive powers in the matter of beef and mutton, fruit and
vegetables, and, on the whole, excellent customers, the Chinese
took kindly to the estimable invaders, and had cause to regret
their departure. Foreign merchants were held in high estimation
from the first. The free hospitals for Chinese, set on foot by the
army surgeons, not only did a great deal of good in alleviating
suffering, but prepared the way for mutual good feeling in the after
intercourse between natives and foreigners. It has been questioned
whether the Chinese, as a race, are susceptible of gratitude. But,
at any rate, the respectable classes are sufficiently charitable
themselves to appreciate philanthropy in others; and, in the
self-imposed and gratuitous labours of the surgeons for the benefit
of the sick poor, they saw an example of pure benevolence, which
could not but excite their admiration.
The population of Tientsin is supposed to be about 400,000, residing
chiefly in the suburbs, for trade is generally carried on without
the walls, not only here, but in all Chinese cities. There is an
unusually large proportion of beggars about Tientsin, and loathsome
objects they are, as they whine about the streets, half clad, in
tatters, starved, and often covered with sores. They never sleep but
on the ground. At night, when the streets are quiet, the beggars
may be discovered huddled together at every corner and on every
door-step. Begging is an institution in China, and to qualify for
the craft, men have been said to burn out their own eyes, in order
to excite compassion for their blindness. A Chinese householder
seldom allows a beggar to go away empty. Charity is cheap; a handful
of rice, one copper cash, value the fourth part of a farthing,
suffices to induce the disgusting object to move on to the next
shop. The beggars have seldom any cause to starve in China, but
they do very often, and it is probable they bring diseases on
themselves in their efforts to excite pity, which carry them off
very rapidly. In winter, especially in the north, they seem to die
off like mosquitoes, and no one takes any notice of them except to
bury them--for the Chinese don't like to leave dead bodies about
the streets. In spring they reappear--not the identical beggars,
certainly--but very similar ones, and the ranks of the profession
are kept filled.
The wealthier natives of Tientsin, traders and shopkeepers, are
fond of good living and gambling. They are robust people, and bear
up well against the effects of late hours and gross dissipation.
The close, filthy atmosphere in which they live and breathe does
not seem to injure their health. Epidemics do make great havoc
among them occasionally; one year it is cholera, another year it
is small-pox; but the general healthiness of the people does not
seem to suffer. The climate is exceedingly dry. Little rain or
snow falls; but when it does rain, the whole heavens seem to fall
at once, not in torrents, but in sheets of water. The peculiar
sand-storms, so common in the north of China, have not as yet been
satisfactorily investigated. They often come on after a sultry day.
A yellow haze appears in the sky, darkening the sun; then columns
of fine dust are seen spinning round in whirlwinds. At that stage
every living thing seeks shelter, and those who are afield are lucky
if they are not caught in the blinding storm before they reach
their houses. But even a closely shut-up house affords but half
protection, for the fine powdery dust insinuates itself through the
crevices of doors and windows, and is palpably present in your soup
and your bread for some time after. The most obvious source whence
these sand-storms come, is the great sandy desert of Mongolia, but
such an hypothesis is hardly sufficient to account for all the
phenomena which accompany the sand-storms. It has been supposed that
they are due to some peculiar electrical condition of the atmosphere.
The Chinese are passionately addicted to gambling, and the endless
variety of games of chance in common use among them does credit to
their ingenuity and invention, for it is not likely that they have
learned anything from their neighbours. The respectable merchant,
who devotes the hours of daylight assiduously to his business,
sparing no labour in adjusting the most trifling items of account,
will win or lose thousands of dollars overnight with imperturbable
complacency. Every grade of society is imbued with the passion. I
have amused myself watching the coolies in the streets of Tientsin
gambling for their dinner. The itinerant cooks carry with them, as
part of the wonderful epitome of a culinary establishment with which
they perambulate the streets, a cylinder of bamboo, containing a
number of sticks on which are inscribed certain characters. These
mystic symbols are shaken up in the tube, the candidate for hot
dumpling draws one, and according to the writing found on it, so
does he pay for his repast. So attractive is gambling in any form
to the Chinese, that a Tientsin coolie will generally prefer to
risk paying double for the remote chance of getting a meal for
nothing. On one occasion I volunteered to act as proxy for a hungry
coolie who was about to try his luck. The offer was accepted with
eagerness, and I was fortunate enough to draw my constituent a
dinner for nothing. I was at once put down as a professor of the
black art, and literally besieged by a crowd of others, all begging
me to do them a similar favour, which, of course, I prudently
declined. Had I indeed been successful a second time, the dispenser
of the tempting morsels would certainly have protested against my
interference as an invasion of his prerogative, which is to win, and
not to lose.
The Chinese gamblers are, of course, frequently ruined by the
practice. They become desperate after a run of ill luck; every
consideration of duty and interest is sunk, and they play for stakes
which might have startled even the Russian nobles, who used to
gamble for serfs. In the last crisis of all, a dose of opium settles
all accounts pertaining to this world.
In games of skill the Chinese are no less accomplished. Dominoes,
draughts, chess, and such like, are to be seen in full swing at
every tea-house, where the people repair to gossip and while away
the evening. The little groups one sees in these places exhibit
intense interest in their occupation; the victory is celebrated by
the child-like exultation of the winner, and any pair of Chinese
draught-players may have sat for Wilkie's celebrated picture.
CHAPTER II.
TIENTSIN TO PEKING.
There are several modes of going from Tientsin to Peking. The most
common is in a mule cart, which is not exactly a box, but a board
laid on wheels with a blue cotton covering arched over it. The cart
is not long enough to enable one to lie down full length, nor is it
high enough to enable him to sit upright in the European fashion.
It has no springs; the roads are generally as rough as negligence
can leave them; it is utterly impossible to keep out the dust;
and the covering gives but slight protection from the sun. A ride
in a Chinese cart is exquisite torture to a European. It is true
that experience teaches those who are so unfortunate as to need
it several "dodges" by which to mitigate their sufferings, such
as filling the cart entirely with straw, and then squeezing into
the middle of it. But then the traveller must have some means of
securing the feet to prevent being pitched out bodily, and he must
hold on to the frame-work of the side by both hands to break the
shock of sudden jerks. With all that he will come off his journey
feeling in every bone of his body as if he had been passed through
a mangle. That the Chinese do not suffer from such treatment I can
only attribute to a deficiency in their nervous system. If they
suffered in anything like the same degree that a European does,
they would have invented a more comfortable conveyance before the
Christian era. But the only improvement in comfort I ever heard of
is in the carts made for the great mandarins, which have the wheels
placed far back, so that between the axle-tree and the saddle the
shafts may have an infinitesimal amount of spring in them.
The next mode of travelling is on horseback, which, if you happen
to have your own saddle and bridle, is very pleasant, provided the
weather is not too hot or too cold. There are plenty of inns on the
road-side where you can rest and refresh yourself; but woe betide
the luckless traveller who, like myself, nauseates the Chinese
_cuisine_, should he have neglected to provide himself with a few
creature comforts to his own liking.
The weather was excessively hot, and judging that there would be
many calls on our stamina before our long journey was done, we
prudently husbanded our strength at the outset. We therefore chose
the slower but more luxurious (!) means of conveyance by boat up the
Peiho river to Tungchow, a walled city twelve miles from Peking.
Boat travelling in the north has not been brought to such a state
of perfection as in the creek and canal country in Chekiang and
Keangsoo. In the latter provinces it is practically the only means
of travelling, and though slow, is most comfortable. In the north
the boats are a smaller edition of those used for transporting
merchandise, the only convenience they have being a moveable roof.
In two such craft our party embarked on the night of 5th August,
1861, and at 11 p.m., by moonlight, we languidly shoved off from
the filthy banks of the Peiho river, the few friends who were kind
enough to see us off, with a refinement of politeness worthy of a
Chinaman, refusing a parting glass, knowing that we had none to
spare. Our sails were of little assistance, so after threading our
way through the fleet of boats that lay anyhow in the first two
reaches, our stout crews landed with their towing line, by which
means we slowly and painfully ascended the stream. Tientsin, as I
have said, is the filthiest of all filthy cities; and the essence
of its filth is accumulated on the banks of the river, forming an
excellent breakwater, which grows faster than the water can wash
it away. The putrid mass is enough, one would think, to breed a
plague, and yet the water used by the inhabitants is drawn from this
river! It was pleasant, indeed, to escape from this pestilential
atmosphere, and to inhale the cool fresh air of the country for
an hour or two before turning in, as we reflected on the long and
tedious journey we had before us, embracing the whole breadth of the
continents of Asia and Europe.
The voyage to Tungchow was monotonous in the extreme. Nothing of
the country could be seen; for though the water was high enough at
the time to have enabled us to look over the low flat banks, the
standing crops effectually shut in our view. Four days were occupied
in travelling 400 li. We had engaged double crews, in order that
we might proceed night and day without stopping, but it was really
hard work for them, and we did not like to press them too much.
There is no regular towing path on the banks of the Peiho, and at
night the men floundered in the wet mud amongst reeds. A youngster
of the crew gave us a great deal of trouble--always shirking his
work and complaining of hunger. He was a wag, however, and kept both
us and the crew in amusement. I have noticed in nearly all Chinese
boat-crews there is a character of this sort, whose business seems
to be to work as little as possible himself, and keep up a running
fire of wit to beguile the toil of the others. A good story-teller
is much valued among them. We had also an old man, whose chief
business was to boil rice and vegetables for the others, and to
steer the boat. His kitchen duties were no sinecure, for the men did
get through an incredible quantity of rice in the course of the day.
Rice is a poor thing to work on; it is a fuel quickly consumed, and
requires constant renewal.
It is the nature of Chinese boatmen to be constantly asking for
money. The custom is to pay about half the fare in advance before
starting, and the other half when the journey is completed. But no
sooner are you fairly under way, than a polite request is made for
money to buy rice. It is in vain you remind them of the dollars you
have just paid as a first instalment. That has gone to the owner
of the boat, of course, but as for them, the boatmen, they have
nothing to eat, and cannot go on. Defeated in your arguments you
nevertheless remain firm in your purpose; the morning, noon, and
evening meals succeed each other in due course. Every one is to
be the last, and is followed by the most touching appeals to your
benevolence--they will go down on their knees, they will whine and
cry, they will beat frantically on their empty stomachs, and tell
you "they are starving" in tones and gestures that ought properly
to melt the heart of a stone. It is in vain that you deride their
importunity; it is in vain that you reproach them with their
improvidence. You sternly order them to their work, but are met by
the unanswerable question, how can they work without food? You--if
you have gone through the ordeal before--know well that you will
have no trouble on this score on the second day out.
Has any one ever tried to arrive at the exact value of a Chinese
measure of distance? Their li has no doubt been reduced to so many
yards, feet, and inches, equal to about one-third of an English
mile, on paper; but on the road it is the vaguest term possible. Ask
a countryman how far it is to Chung-dsz, and he will answer after
a great deal of prevarication ten li. Walk about that distance and
inquire again, and you are told it is fifteen li. This will puzzle
you if you are a stranger, but go on another half mile, and you find
you are at your destination. In the common acceptation of the word,
I am convinced it is more a measure of time than distance, and
100 li is an average day's journey. Our Tientsin boatmen put this
very prominently when questioned, as they were nearly every hour
of the day, as to how far we still were from Tungchow, one of them
answered, "If you travel quick it is about 100 li, but if slow it is
well on to 200!"
[Illustration: TUNG CHOW PAGODA.
(Page 27.)]
In the first part of our journey we met with no traffic on the
river, but towards Tungchow we passed large fleets of junks bound
upwards and a few bound down. John Bell says of this river, "I saw
many vessels sailing down the stream towards the south-east. And I
was informed there are nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine
vessels constantly employed on this river; but why confined to such
an odd number I could neither learn nor comprehend." I should say
that during the 140 years that have elapsed since that was written
the fleet is more likely to have been shorn of a few odd thousands
than increased by the odd unit.
On the fourth day, as we were panting for breath, with the
thermometer standing at 97° Fahr., and with anxious eyes
contemplating our almost empty ice-box, the pagoda of Tungchow was
descried over the tall reeds on the river bank, and we soon were
made fast in front of a temple called Fang-wang-meaou.
At this point the Peiho dwindles away into a very small and shallow
stream, and practically Tungchow is the head of the navigation, the
shipping port of Peking, and the beginning of the land carriage to
the north-west provinces of China.
The Fang-wang-meaou is much used by Russians as a dépôt for their
goods in transit from Tientsin and Shanghae to Siberia. We found
a considerable quantity of tea stored in the temple waiting for
transport. In this temple, therefore, by the favour of the reverend
personages who preside over it, we bestowed our _impedimenta_, and
took up our quarters for the night in a wing of the building.
The Bhuddist priests are in the habit of transacting business for
strangers, and we therefore entered into negotiation with them to
provide us carriage either by mules or camels, from Tungchow to
Chan-kia-kow, the frontier town between China and Mongolia. We
thought by this arrangement we could ride to Peking, do what we
wanted there in the way of getting passports, &c., and return to
Tungchow and take our departure thence. This proved a delusion, and
lost us some valuable time.
There is nothing remarkable about the city of Tungchow. It is
situated on a dead level. From a tower on the wall a view of the
country is obtained, including the mountains north of Peking. There
is a tall pagoda in the city, but as it has no windows in it, it is
useless as a look-out.
I found here two ponies that I had sent from Tientsin, in charge of
a Chinese "ma-foo" or groom, who agreed to accompany me as far as
Chan-kia-kow. My object was to be independent of the Chinese carts
at Peking and on the road, and I looked forward to taking one, if
not both, of my ponies a considerable distance into the desert of
Mongolia. I strongly recommend this plan to any one travelling in
that quarter.
On the 10th of August I rode to Peking, the rest of the party
following in carts. This would no doubt be a very pretty ride at
another season of the year, but in the month of August the millet
crops stand as high as twelve and fifteen feet, completely shutting
in the road for nearly the whole distance. At eight li from Tungchow
we passed the village and handsome stone bridge of _Pa-li-keaou_
or "eight-mile-bridge," which euphonious name gives a title to a
distinguished French general. There are no "high" roads, but many
bye-roads, and it is not difficult to lose one's way amongst the
standing millet. Many parts of the country are very prettily wooded,
and there is a half-way house at a well-shaded part of the road,
where you naturally dismount to rest yourself under a mat shed, and
indulge yourself with hot tea, than which nothing is more refreshing
on a hot day, provided the decoction be not too strong, and is
unadulterated by the civilised addition of sugar or milk. You may
eat fruit here also if you are not afraid of the consequences (but
take care that it is ripe), and some naked urchins will cut fresh
grass for your beasts. This little place, like many others of its
kind, is a "howf" for many loafers, who seek the cool shade, and sit
sipping their boiling tea, and languidly fanning themselves while
they listen abstractedly to the conversation of the wayfarers.
As we near Peking we come to some slight undulations, and notice
some very pretty places with clumps of old trees about them. These
are principally graves of great men, and it is remarkable to
observe how much attention is paid by the Chinese to the abodes
of their dead. Wealthy people will pass their lives in a dismal
hovel, something between a pig-stye and a rabbit-warren, into which
the light of day can scarcely penetrate; the floors of earth or
brick-paved, or if the party is luxurious, he may have a floor of
wood, encrusted with the dirt of a generation. But these same people
look forward to being buried under a pretty grove of trees, in a
nicely kept enclosure, with carefully cultivated shrubs and flowers
growing round. Some of the loveliest spots I have seen in China are
tombs, the finest I remember being at the foot of the hill behind
the city of Chung-zu, near Foo-shan, on the Yang-tsze-kiang. These
tombs, adorned with so much taste and care, were in strange contrast
with the general rottenness around. But armies have since been
there, and it is probable that the angel of destruction has swept it
all away.
I am unable to say from what feeling springs this tender regard for
tombs among the Chinese. It may be that they consider the length of
time they have to lie in the last resting-place, reasonably demands
that more care be bestowed on it than on the earthly tenement of
which they have so short a lease. Or it may arise simply out of that
strong principle of filial piety so deeply engraven in the Chinese
mind, and which leads them to make great sacrifices when required
to do honour to the names of their ancestors. From whatever motive
it comes, however, this filial piety, which even death does not
destroy, is an admirable trait in the Chinese character; and I have
even heard divines point to the Chinese nation--the most long-lived
community the world has seen--as an illustration of the promise
attached to the keeping of the fifth commandment. The greatest
consolation a Chinaman can have in the "hour of death" is that he
will be buried in a coffin of his own selection, and that he has
children or grandchildren to take care of his bones. It is to this
end that parents betroth their children when young, and hasten the
marriages as soon as the parties are marriageable. To this end
also I believe polygamy is allowed by law, or at all events not
interdicted. If a Chinaman could have the promise made to him, "Thou
shalt never want a man to stand before me," he would live at ease
for the rest of his days.
There are no cemeteries in China, that I know of, except where
strangers congregate--when they of a family, a district, or even a
province, combine to buy a piece of ground to bury their dead in.
In hilly countries pretty sites are always selected for tombs. In
the thickly settled parts of the country every family buries its
own dead in its own bit of ground. Thus, when they sell land for
building purposes, negotiations have to be entered into for removing
the coffins of many forgotten generations. The bones are carefully
gathered up and put into earthenware jars, and labelled. This
operation is profanely called "potting ancestors." These jars are
then buried somewhere else--of course with great economy of space. A
house built on the site of an old grave that is suspected of having
been only partially emptied, would remain tenantless for ever, and
if the ghosts of the departed did not destroy the house, the owner
would be compelled to do so.
But I am getting away from the Peking road. Amongst the tombs
of great families, outside the walls of the city, are many old
marble colossal sculptures of men and animals. The same figures,
in limestone, are common in other parts of the country. These
sculptures are all more or less dilapidated; some of the figures are
still erect; many have fallen down and got broken; and many have
been ploughed in. There is nothing remarkable about the workmanship
of these, although the colossal size of some of them is striking.
They are interesting as memorials of departed greatness, and record
their silent protest against the corruption, decay, and degeneracy
that has brought the Chinese empire so low.
Water communicating with the Peiho river goes up to the walls of
Peking, but is not navigable. It forms a quiet lagoon, the delight
of great flocks of the most beautiful ducks and geese. The streams
that run through the city can also be connected with the water
outside through the arches in the wall; and I am told the intention
of those truly great men, who conceived and executed the grand
canal, was to bring the water through the city and into the imperial
quarters by navigable canals, so that the grain-junks from Keangsoo,
which were to supply the capital with food, might be brought in to
the gate of the Emperor's palace. It is not to be wondered at that
this scheme should have broken down, considering the engineering
difficulties attending it.
CHAPTER III.
PEKING.
Nothing of the city of Peking is visible until you are close under
the walls, and then the effect is really imposing. The walls are
high, massive, and in good repair. The double gates, with their
lofty and large three-storied towers over them, and the general
solid appearance, inspire one with some of the admiration which
poor old Marco Polo used to evince when speaking of the glories of
Kambalic, or the city of the Grand Khan.
Once inside the walls you instinctively exclaim, What a hot,
dusty place this is! and you call to mind that that is exactly
what everybody told you long before its threshold was polluted by
barbarian footsteps. Peking is celebrated for its carts, its heat,
and its dust. If it rained much the streets would be a sea of mud.
We pursue our way along the sandy tracks between the city wall and
the buildings of the town for a mile or two, then plunge into the
labyrinth of streets, crowded, dirty and odoriferous. We are being
conducted to an inn which is to be better than any that foreigners
have been admitted to before.
[Illustration: WALLS OF PEKING
From a photograph.
(Page 32.)]
In our way we crossed the main street which leads from the imperial
city straight to the Temples of Heaven and Earth. This street is
very wide, and has been very fine, but now more than half its width
is occupied by fruit, toy, and fish stalls. The centre of the street
has been cut up by cart-wheels for many centuries, and is full of
holes and quagmires, so that the practicable portion of this wide
thoroughfare is narrowed down to nothing. So it is with all the wide
streets of Peking. They are never made. Filth accumulates incredibly
fast; and the wider the street the dirtier it is, because it can
hold the more.
At last we arrived at this paragon of inns, and passing through the
courtyard, where the horses and mules of travellers were tied up,
we threaded our way as far into the interior of the establishment
as we could get, and then called the landlord. He pretended to
make a great to-do about receiving us, and strongly urged that we
would find much better accommodation at the West-end. This was not
to be thought of, and we soon installed ourselves in a room--but
such a room! and such an inn! and such attendance! and such filth
everywhere! I have slept in a good many Chinese inns of all sorts,
but the meanest road-side hostelry I have ever seen is a degree
better than this swell inn in this fashionable city of Kanbalu.
Our room was at the far end of the labyrinthine passages, and was
evidently constructed to exclude light and air. It was almost
devoid of furniture. We certainly could make shift for sleeping
accommodation, for travellers can manage with wonderfully little in
that way; but we were miserably off for chairs, the only thing we
had to sit upon being small wooden stools on four legs, the seat
being about five inches wide.
There was no getting anything to eat in this establishment, so we
fell in with the Peking custom of dining at a restaurant, and we
found a very good one on the opposite side of the street. This
was a nice cheerful place, with good airy rooms, and comfortable
cushioned seats--much frequented by the Pekingese. Here we always
got a good dinner, and met good society. We could not stomach the
pure native messes, but as they had always abundance of good mutton
and fish (kept alive on the premises till wanted), also rice, clean
and white, with a little preliminary instruction in our manner of
living, the _cuisinière_ hit off our taste to a nicety. We had our
own knives and forks to eat with, and our own good liquor to season
the repast, so in Peking we may be said to have lived well.
We used to meet a strange mixture of people in this
restaurant--natives of Canton, Yunnan, Szechune, Shansi--in short,
of every part of China; men whose lawful occasions brought them to
the capital. Most of them were merchants, and I presume the students
who flock to Peking in such number form little cliques of their own.
These fellows lead a very jovial life. About seven o'clock, or a
little later, they assemble in parties already made up, and dinner
is laid, each party having a separate room. They eat heartily, and
seem thoroughly to enjoy each other's society. They don't hurry
over their dinner, and they have such an infinity of small dishes,
that their repast spreads itself over several hours. They are very
quiet at the first onset, but as they warm up with their wine, they
get very noisy, and make the whole place ring with the sounds of
merriment. They drink their wine hot, out of small porcelain cups,
and instead of a decanter, a tea-kettle is put on the table. We used
to amuse ourselves by going from one party to another, and joining
for a few minutes in their conviviality. They were always pleased to
see us, and made us sit down and drink with them. We reciprocated
their hospitality, and when we had administered a glass of wine to
one of them, he would sip it with an air of grave meditation, then
slap his paunch vigorously, and, holding up his right thumb, would
exclaim with emphasis "Haou!" "super-excellent."
They have a methodical manner of drinking, which is no less
entertaining to spectators, than agreeable to themselves. The
libations are regulated by a game of forfeits, engaged in by two at
a time. The challenger holds out one or more fingers, accompanying
the action by certain set phrases. The other has to reply promptly
to the word and the pantomime, the penalty for a mistake being to
drink a cup of wine. They begin this process quietly and soberly,
but when an obstinate antagonist is found, who replies to the
challenge five or six times running without a break-down, the
contest becomes exciting. They gradually rise from their seats,
and approach each other across the table, their faces grow red, as
their shouting gets louder, and the repartee more spirited, until
they reach a climax of passion which flesh and blood could not long
sustain, and then explode like a bomb-shell amid tremendous bursts
of unearthly yells from the full company. The loser sips his liquor
with resignation; and the victor generally joins him, by way of
showing himself a generous adversary. I have heard of drinking "by
rule of thumb," in our own country, but this has probably nowhere
been reduced to a science so much as in China.
About nine or ten, a long string of carts (the cabs of Peking),
would be collected at the door, the parties would begin to break
up, and go their several ways to the theatres, or other evening
amusements. They generally make a night of it, and that class of
the Chinese are everywhere late in their habits. I never met a more
robust-looking, or more jovial, hearty set of men, than these, our
boon companions of Peking.
On arriving in Peking, I lost no time in calling on Sir F. Bruce,
our minister there, to get passports put in train. I was fortunate
enough to meet Sir Frederick, as he had just come in for a day from
his retreat in the hills. He has occupied a temple situated on the
hills, some twenty miles from Peking, which forms an admirable
summer residence, free from the putrid smells of the city, and with
a temperature many degrees cooler,--no mean advantage when the
thermometer stands about 90°. The building set apart for the English
legation in Peking is, from an eastern point of view, magnificent.
It was a "foo," or ducal palace, has large space for garden ground
round the principal building, while the smaller buildings would
easily accommodate a full regiment of soldiers.
We found that it would take several days to get our papers in order;
for not only was my passport to be got, but my companion had to get
his through the French legation. There was nothing for it but to
make ourselves easy, having done all that we could do to accelerate
our business. Now, at another season of the year, I could have spent
a week in Peking with pleasure, but in the month of August one
cannot go out with any degree of comfort or safety, except in the
morning or evening, and then the streets are full either of blinding
dust, or black mire, in which your horse is always splashing up
to his hocks. However, we tried to make the best of it, and I was
fortunate enough to meet my old friend, Dr. Lockhart, who had lived
long enough in Peking to know the ropes, and who was good-natured
enough to show me round the principal objects of interest in the
city. Another difficulty besets the sight-seer in Peking, and that
is the "magnificent distances" between the various places one wants
to see. However, by sallying forth betimes, we did manage to visit a
few of the many interesting objects in this old city; for there is
nothing really worthy of note in China, except what bears the stamp
of antiquity.
The Confucian temple was the first object of our curiosity. Here the
great sage is worshipped by the Emperor once a year, without the
medium of paintings or images. In the central shrine there is merely
a small piece of wood, a few inches long, standing upright, with a
few characters inscribed on it, the name of the sage, I believe. On
the sides are a number of still smaller wooden labels, representing
the disciples and commentators who have elucidated the writings
of Confucius. The temple contains a number of stone tablets, on
which are engraved the record of honours conferred on literary men,
and to obtain a place here is the acme of the ambition of Chinese
scholars. In the courtyard there are a number of pine trees, said
to have been planted during the reign of the Mongol dynasty, more
than 500 years ago. These trees have been stunted in their growth,
however, from want of room, and considering their age, their size
is disappointing. The courtyard is adorned by a variety of stone
sculptures, the gifts of successive emperors and dynasties. The
present dynasty has been rather jealous of its predecessors in this
respect, especially of the Ming, and has replaced many fine relics
of their time by new ones of its own. There are, however, several
Mongol tablets to the fore in the Confucian temple. A connoisseur
can at once, from the style, fix the date of any of these works
of art, and when in doubt, the inscriptions are for the most part
sufficiently legible to tell their own tale. In another part of
the building there are some very curious old stones, drum-shaped,
dating from 800 years B.C. These have been carefully preserved,
but the iron tooth of time has obliterated most of the writing on
them. The curious old characters are still to some extent legible,
however. The building itself is, from a Chinese point of view, a
noble one, and singularly enough, it is kept in perfect order, in
strange contrast to Chinese temples and public buildings generally.
It has a magnificent ceiling, very high, and the top of the interior
walls are ornamented by wooden boards, richly painted, bearing the
names of the successive emperors in raised gilt characters. On the
accession of an emperor he at once adds his name to the long list.
[Illustration: PAVILION OF THE SUMMER PALACE OF YUEN-MIN-YUEN.
(Page 37.)]
The hall erected by the learned Emperor Kienloong, although modern
(he reigned from 1736 to 1796), is a magnificent pavilion, not very
large, but beautifully finished, and in perfect good taste. The
pavilion is roofed with the imperial yellow tiles. Round it is a
promenade paved with white marble, with balustrades of the same. At
a little distance from the pavilion stands a triumphal arch, massive
and elegant. The pavilion is intended to be viewed through the arch,
from a stand-point a few yards behind it, so that the arch forms a
frame for the main building. The effect produced is peculiar and
striking, and does infinite credit to the taste of old Kienloong,
who, by the bye, seems to have done everything that has been done
in modern times to beautify the capital. The pavilion stands in the
middle of a large open square, on two sides of which, under a shed,
stand double rows of stone tablets, six or seven feet high. On these
tablets are engraved, in clear and distinct characters, the whole
of the Chinese classics, in such a manner that they can be printed
from. Many copies have actually been struck off from these tablets,
and are held in very high esteem.
The great lamasery is outside the city, but the lama temple or
monastery inside is also well worthy of notice, whether from the
vast quantity of bricks and mortar that go to make the range of
buildings, the extent of the grounds attached to it, including a
fine wooded park, or from the internal economy of the establishment
itself. Two thousand Mongol lamas are maintained here by the
bounty of the Emperor.[1] The other lamaseries are in the same
manner liberally endowed by the government. The Chinese emperors
feel that they have but a slight hold on their Mongol subjects,
scattered as they are over a vast desert, where no Chinese troops
could penetrate, even were the Chinese a match for the Mongols in
a military point of view, which they never were. The independence
of the Mongols would be rather a gain than a loss to China in its
immediate results, but it would establish a warlike race on their
borders, which has been the terror of China from the earliest times.
No doubt, ages of peace have done much to subdue the warlike spirit
of the Mongols, but they retain their ancient habits and lead a life
of privation and hardship from the cradle to the grave. They are
susceptible of the greatest enthusiasm, and at a word from their
chiefs they would be ready to follow them to death or glory. A few
years of fighting would render the Mongol hordes as formidable to
a non-military nation like the Chinese, as they were in the days
of the terrible Genghis Khan. In the present enfeebled condition
of China an irruption of Mongols would be irresistible, and would
sweep everything before it like a flood. The Chinese government are
quite alive to such a possible contingency, and hence the care they
take to conciliate the Mongols. Their forty-eight kings (of whom
San-go-lin-sin is one), nominally tributary to China, are really
pensioned by the Emperor, and every inducement is held out to the
Mongol lamas to settle in the monasteries in Peking. Here they live
in comfort and luxury unknown in their deserts. Their friends have
every facility for visiting them, and carrying back to the "land
of grass" their reports of the goodness of the Chinese Emperor.
The lamas are taken from all parts of Mongolia--we conversed with
several from Dolonor and Kuren (Urga), and many others from the
north and south, the names of whose districts were not included
in my geographical vocabulary. These large Mongol communities,
under the eye and hand of the Emperor, answer the double purpose
of conciliators on the one hand, and of hostages for the loyalty
of distant tribes on the other. The Mongols are as little a match
for the Chinese in craft, as they are superior to them in martial
energy. It is supposed that the Chinese government have a deep
design in supporting and encouraging lamaism, an institution which
makes nearly one-third of the Mongol race celibats--for there are
female as well as male lamas--the object being to keep down the
population of the tribes.
[1] The first Emperor of the Manchu line originated the scheme, but
it has been greatly extended by his successors.
However, the simple-minded Mongols lead a comfortable, easy life
in Peking, free from care, and with no occupation except chanting
their prayers. I was fortunate enough to witness one of their
religious services in the great temple. The building is raised some
ten feet from the ground, a fine flight of steps running round the
four sides of it. The roof is very high, and the sides are open
all round. The lamas muster leisurely out of their cells, dressed
in dirty red cotton garments, and armed with an enormous yellow
cap, with something of a helmet shape, and crested with a long
fringe made, I think, of camel's hair. They carry the cap for the
most part under their arm, seldom wearing it on the head. About
200 of them assembled in the temple, and sung a chant which lasted
about half an hour. The effect was very striking and solemn, for
the music was good, and one or two of the lamas had the finest
bass voices I ever heard. The apparent earnestness with which the
whole congregation joined in the service, and the deep, devotional
character of the music, riveted our attention with an irresistible
power. So different was it from the ludicrous mockery of sacred
things perpetrated by the Chinese Bhuddists, during whose most
solemn services I have seen a dirty fellow push his way through the
devotees and coolly light his pipe at the candles burning on the
altar.
The analogies between the Bhuddist and Roman Catholic forms
of worship have been so hackneyed by writers that it may seem
impertinent in me to allude to them. But I cannot help drawing
attention to the manner in which M. Huc endeavours to explain them.
The analogies are most complete in the Yellow Cap Lama sect, the
origin of which is described at length by Huc. In the thirteenth
century, in the country of Amdo, bordering on Thibet, a child
miraculously conceived was born with a white beard, and from his
birth gave utterance to profound sayings concerning the destiny
of man. His name was Tsong-Kamba. This prodigy of a child became
an ascetic, devoting himself to meditation and prayer. A holy
stranger from the west visited him, and amazed him by his sanctity
and learning. The stranger was remarkable for his long nose. After
instructing Tsong-Kamba for a few years in the mysteries of religion
the holy man died; but Tsong-Kamba became a great reformer, and
originated the new sect of the Yellow Cap Lamas. Huc clutches at
this tradition, and thinks he sees in the mysterious visitor of
Tsong-Kamba a Christian missionary, many of whom had penetrated
about that period into Tartary. The premature death of the master
left incomplete the instruction of the disciple, who, failing to
attain Christianity, stopped short as a reformer of Bhuddism.
After the service we had some talk with the lamas, who were pleased
to see us, and treated us with every civility. They all speak, and
many of them write, Chinese; and in that language we communicated
with them. The ethnical difference between two races supposed to
be of the same origin could not be more apparent than in the case
of these Mongols and the Chinese by whom they were surrounded. The
Mongols have all an unintellectual cast of countenance, low narrow
foreheads, and a simple and open expression. Their features are not
very different from the Chinese. They have the high cheek-bones,
small eyes, and some other characteristics of their neighbours; but
their noses are on the whole not so short and flat, nor their faces
so rounded. It is not so easy to tell in what the difference between
them and the Chinese consists, but the distinction is so marked that
I hardly believe it possible for any one to mistake a Mongol for
a Chinese. The Mongols have unsuspecting honesty written on their
faces. The Chinese, from north to south, bear the stamp of craft
and cunning, and are much superior in intellect to the Mongols. It
is only necessary to remark the physiognomies of the two races to
understand how the Chinese outwit the Mongols in their dealings with
them, and how the Chinese name has in consequence become a bye-word
among the Mongols for everything that is detestable. It should
not be forgotten of course that it is probably the worst class of
Chinese with whom the Mongols come in contact. They are mostly
adventurers who seek their fortunes among the Tartars, for the hard
life they are compelled to live in these outlying countries is not
at all suitable to the Chinese taste. The better sort of merchants
are therefore not likely to wander so far; and those that do go
are in the first instance below the average moral standard of the
Chinese, and, when liberated from the restraint of public opinion
in their own country, they are likely to deteriorate still more. It
would also appear to be true that demoralisation naturally grows out
of the intercourse between two races, one of whom is in a marked
degree inferior to the other in intellectual capacity. In commercial
dealings the Chinese find it so easy to overreach the simple
Mongols, and the temptation to do so is so strong, that the habit is
engendered, which soon becomes part of the character of the Chinese
in Tartary. The Mongols, on their part, learn to form a low estimate
of the honour of human nature. They know they are victimised by the
Chinese, but they are powerless to escape from it; hence they, by a
very natural process, acquire a settled hatred to the whole race.
[Illustration: THIBETIAN MONUMENT IN LAMA TEMPLE. PEKING.
(Page 42.)]
But we have not yet seen the great gilt image of Bhudda, which
stands in a separate building erected for the purpose. We failed
in getting in on the first visit, but afterwards succeeded. The
image is seventy-two feet high, well formed, and symmetrically
proportioned. By a series of narrow and steep staircases we ascend
several stories, at each getting a view of a part of the image. At
the top of all we get out on a balcony, from which a good view of
the city and environs is obtained.
The Grand Lama of this monastery is a Chaberon or living Bhudda,
of whom there are several in Mongolia; and as such he is a sacred
person, and a man of great authority among Mongols, whether lamas or
laymen. We had business to transact with this incarnation of Bhudda,
but, on inquiring for him, we learned that he had left on some holy
mission to the great lamasery at Dolonor, a Mongol town a few days'
journey north-west of Peking. We had a letter from the head priest
of the Fang-wang temple at Tungchow, who, though not belonging to
the Lama sect, which so far as I am aware consists exclusively of
Tartars, was nevertheless on easy terms with the Grand Lama. The
purport of the letter was to recommend us to the attentions of
the Grand Lama, and to request him to give us another letter to
the lamas of a monastery in Mongolia, a short distance beyond the
Great Wall at Chan-kia-kow, to enlist their services in procuring
camels for our journey across the desert of Gobi. We anticipated
some difficulty about this, and wished to have as many strings to
our bow as possible. The letter was written in Mongol, and put in
an envelope addressed in Manchu, for the priest at Tung-chow was
a learned man. No one in the monastic brotherhood could be found
who could read the Manchu address, and they had great difficulty
in finding one who could master the Mongol characters in which the
letter itself was written. We were surprised that they should not
be able to read their own language, and on inquiry found that lamas
are not taught to read Mongol as a necessary branch of study. They
all learn the Lama writing, which they call "Tangut," but which
must be Thibetian, as all their books and prayers are written in
that character, and those lamas who live in Peking generally learn
to read a little Chinese for their own convenience. While the
letter was being deciphered we were introduced to the lay brother
of the monastery, the confidant of the Grand Lama, and factotum in
all secular affairs. A fine, hard-headed, swarthy complexioned,
rough-and-ready burly fellow he was, and he received us with his
rude native hospitality, showing us into the room, and making us sit
on the very _kang_ used by the absent Bhudda. Being naturally slow
of comprehension, and his secretary being equally slow and uncertain
in deciphering the missive, the old fellow had many questions and
cross-questions to ask, with many repetitions, which all being
carried on in a very loud tone of voice, as if he had been bawling
to a man on the main-top, began to get rather tiresome. Having
satisfied himself about the contents of the letter, he entered into
conversation with Noetzli, who, having been in Mongolia before,
and in the very monastery of Bain-tolochoi to which we sought to
be accredited, very adroitly led the conversation to that subject,
and soon showed our Mongol friend that he knew all about the
locality and the personal appearance of the head Lama there, whose
chief characteristic seemed to be that he was inordinately fat. No
sooner had our friend convinced himself that Noetzli had actually
been the guest of the fat Lama, than he took us yet closer into
his confidence, ordered the letter to be written, and at the same
time despatched a boy into the street with some money in his hand.
When the letter was finished, and we rose to leave, the old fellow,
on hospitable thoughts intent, protested, seized our hats, and by
main force pushed us back to the seat of the Grand Lama. To keep
us in play he put fruit before us, but we did not know what it was
all about until our breakfast was brought in in a large basin. It
consisted of about twenty pounds of plain boiled mutton, without
bread, rice, potatoes, or vegetables of any kind. All we had to
eat with it was a solution of salt, soy, vinegar, and sugar. Eat
we must, there was no help for it, and we honestly set ourselves
to do as full justice to the unsavoury meal as we were capable
of, although we had a good breakfast waiting us at home, that is,
at our restaurant, our host all the while standing over us like
a taskmaster to keep us up to our work. When no entreaties would
make us eat more, with looks and expressions of pitying regret, our
uncouth friend showed us how Mongols eat mutton by taking out a
good-sized piece with his fingers, and dropping it down his throat.
Then turning to the youngsters who crowded the room he pitched lumps
of mutton to each of them, who, in like manner, gobbled it like
hungry eagles. Our reception at the Lama temple gave us a fair idea
of Mongol hospitality and habits, and impressed us favourably with
the former. A long ride through the dirty streets of Peking, in a
hot sun, was the least agreeable part of our morning's work.
The old Observatory on the Wall is interesting as a monument of
the early astronomical tastes of the Chinese emperors, and of the
ingenuity of the Jesuits. It was first erected by the Ming before
the Jesuits came to China, or, at all events, before they began
to be influential, and afterwards greatly enlarged and improved
under the auspices of the Jesuits. There is even an old instrument
cast out and lying dishonoured in the grass--an orrery, if I
rightly remember, dating from the Mongol dynasty, 600 years old.
It is probable that the Chinese or Mongols were then in advance of
European nations in their knowledge of celestial phenomena. The
great celestial globe made under the direction of Verbiest, is a
superb casting in bronze, and although the instrument sent from
Paris is the finest in the Observatory, Father Verbiest's celestial
globe was the most interesting to me as a specimen of what a clever
man can do under almost insuperable difficulties. Since the fall of
the Jesuits little attention seems to have been paid to, or use made
of, the Observatory, and the teaching of those talented men is well
nigh lost.
The Temple of Heaven, or, as some people call it, the Altar of
Heaven, is situated near the south wall of the city. We had several
miles to go to it from our residence, in a direct line south,
along the main street from the centre gate between the Tartar and
Chinese cities. The street is wide and straight, but very dirty, and
blocked up with trumpery stalls of all sorts, and kept alive by the
incessant shouts of boys and old women. "Apples! fine apples, to be
sold cheap,--those who have no money can't have any," reminded us
of the pathetic story of "Simple Simon." Jugglers also disported
themselves in the street and attracted good audiences to witness
the swallowing and disgorging of huge stones, feats of strength,
and other miracles. The poor juggler does not seem to take much
by his motions, however, for, after swallowing an intolerable
quantity of stone, and throwing up large bricks, and allowing them
to break themselves on his head, thereby creating baldness on the
crown, and otherwise amusing a distinguished circle of spectators
for twenty minutes, he mildly solicits "cash," and has a wretched
pittance thrown into the ring, much as one would throw a bone to
a dog. I could not help wishing him some more useful outlet for
his talents. Another man would stand with a white painted board in
his hand, slightly covered with ink in a half-liquid state, and,
while conversing with the crowd, he would, by means of his thumb
and fingers, throw off such excellent representations of fishes,
birds, &c., with every fin, scale, and feather done to the life, as
one never sees in the most highly finished Chinese paintings. The
talent displayed by these peripatetic artists proves conclusively
that the Chinese do possess the skill to draw after nature. Then
why don't they do it? A question more easily asked than answered.
But we are supposed to be on the road to the Temple of Heaven.
After walking two miles or so down this great street, we suddenly
come to a break in the houses. There is no more street, but a large
open space before us, lying very low, the road being continued on a
raised causeway, on the same level as the street we have left. This
space was originally a parade-ground. It is now a mud-puddle, cut up
in all directions by innumerable cart-ruts, and most unsightly to
behold. But the Temple of Heaven itself is now in sight, the outer
wall stretching from a point abreast of us on the left to the south
gate of the city, which is dimly visible in the distance over the
miscalled parade-ground. The great centre pavilion, with its blue
roof and large gilt top, resplendent in the afternoon sun, shoots
up into the air, the most conspicuous object to be seen in all
Peking. The outer wall alluded to encloses a square mile of ground.
Opposite to the Temple of Heaven, and on our right, is the Temple
or Altar of the Earth, where the emperors of China repair according
to traditional custom on the first day of spring to inaugurate the
happy season by ploughing the first furrow. The little boy who now
wields the sceptres of the khans must be too young to hold a plough,
and I suppose he does it by commission, if indeed he is not too
degenerate to do it at all.
Entering the outer gate of the Temple of Heaven, we are ushered into
a large park, beautifully laid out with avenues of trees, and with
regular well-paved walks. The whole place is terribly overgrown with
long grass, and the neatly paved walks are all but obliterated by
the same. As we proceed we come to a number of rather fine buildings
for the accommodation of the priests. We saw none of these gentry,
however, and the outer gate is kept by a dirty coolie, who takes
a fee for opening it. The great pavilion stands on the top of a
high causeway, the best part of a mile long, with flights of steps
leading up to it at various parts. The causeway is beautifully paved
with square stones, so regular and well fitted that the joinings
can be traced in straight parallel lines along the whole length,
except where the line of sight is intercepted by rank grass shooting
up through them. The altar is in the great pavilion, which is a
circular building of three storys, each story having wide eaves
projecting over it, all covered with bright blue enamelled tiles.
The roof of the building is of the same material, and is rather a
sharply-pitched cone surmounted by a large round gilt ball. The
whole effect is bright and beautiful. The pavilion is ascended from
the causeway by flights of white marble steps, and a promenade of
the same material runs all round it. On the causeway, and at some
distance from the altar, are large massive arches with gates in
them, and beyond the arches, at a great distance, there is another
pavilion of similar construction to the principal one, but much
smaller, being only one story high, where the Emperor comes once
a-year to worship the true God, or, as some call it, the Dragon.
Be that as it may, however, this is doubtless the purest form of
worship known to the Chinese. When the Emperor takes his place in
the small pavilion the gates of the arches are thrown open, and
through them he can see afar off the altar of Heaven, or the Dragon
throne, as you may please to call it. Sacrifices are made on those
occasions; a large house or temple is set apart for the slaughter of
the animals, and another circular tower of green bricks stands near
it, where the remains of the sacrifices are buried. The whole plan
of this splendid monument is nobly conceived, and would do credit
to the most advanced nation in the world. Unhappily, it seems now
to be utterly uncared for. The pavements on which so much care,
labour, and money have been expended, are being rapidly covered up
with grass. The avenues are like a wilderness, and weeds are even
taking root in the beautiful blue-tiled roofs, which, if not soon
ruined by it, will at all events be twisted out of their symmetrical
proportions. It is melancholy to see that what men of large and
enlightened ideas have been at such pains to build, the present
degenerate race do not consider it worth while to hire half-a-dozen
coolies to keep in order. No further proof is necessary of the state
of imbecility into which the Chinese rulers have fallen than this,
that in their own city they should allow such a monument of the
active energy of their ancestors to go to wreck and ruin for want
of a little looking after. I do not see how good government can be
looked for in the distant provinces when the body politic is so
rotten at the core.
[Illustration: GREAT TEMPLE OF HEAVEN. PEKING.
P. JUSTYNE. DEL J. COOPER, S^c.
From a photograph by Beato.
(Page 48.)]
My opportunities did not allow of my seeing more of the great sights
of Peking, but we have not yet done the theatres. It was, of course,
necessary to patronise some of these establishments, and they afford
great facilities for admitting people whose time is not all their
own. Ours certainly was our own, but we had let it out for other
purposes, and could only steal an hour now and then to give up to
this enjoyment. The theatres are open all day long, and all night,
too, for anything I know. The acting goes on incessantly--one piece
following another without interruption. The favourite pieces with
the actors, and by a natural inference with the audience, are old
historical heroic pieces, which are performed in a wretched falsetto
sing-song voice, and accompanied by the most die-away pantomimic
gestures, even in the chief male characters, painfully monotonous to
European ears and eyes. They are heavy and slow, but afford great
scope for the display of _outré_ costumes, overlaid with fiery
dragons and hideous forms, which delight the eye of the Chinese.
The theatres at Peking are certainly superior, both in the get-up
and acting, to anything else of the kind I have seen in China, and
some comic pieces we saw were so admirably acted that we, knowing
scarcely a word, could follow the story throughout. The houses
were always crowded, and the audience seemed to take more interest
in the performance than is usual in the south of China, no doubt
owing to the language used being the Peking dialect, which is but
indifferently understood by provincial audiences. On our entrance
to a theatre we were always civilly greeted by the officers, and
shown up to the most eligible places in the galleries, where we met
people from all parts of the country, not excepting swell Cantonese,
all dressed in spotless white muslin, as light and airy as if
made from the gossamer's web. We were at once beset by half-naked
peripatetic vendors of fruits, cakes, and comfits, and even cups
of hot tea. The tea was very refreshing in such a hot place, but
our neighbours insisted on giving us little dumplings and other
Chinese delicacies, whose component parts we could not even guess.
It was useless refusing--that was regarded as mock-modesty. We could
only take a quiet opportunity of depositing the suspicious viands
in our pockets, and give them to the first dirty urchin we met in
the street. The Chinese themselves go on crunching ground nuts,
melon-seeds, and rubbish of that sort, the whole time.
Women do not act in China except under very exceptional
circumstances. The female part is acted by men, who, thanks to their
naturally effeminate appearance, make up very well as women, and
the squeaky voice which they practise helps them out. Actors are by
no means held in high repute in China, and they are in general very
ill paid. One of the best actors, who was also highly esteemed as a
singer, that is a squeaker, lodged at our hotel, and he informed us
that he earned on an average about half a dollar a day.
Our lodging being in the Chinese city, was far removed from the
European residents, who all live in the Tartar quarter, and the
gate between the two is closed at sunset. We therefore saw less
of our respective countrymen than we might otherwise have done.
The foreign community in Peking is but small, and foreign trade
being interdicted in the capital, is not likely to be very much
increased. There are the Russian, English, French, American, and I
suppose now the Prussian legations, all well quartered in commodious
official buildings. The Russian is the smallest, because the
oldest. At the time of its establishment it was a great thing to
have a place at all, without quarrelling about the size of it. The
head of the foreign custom-house lives in Peking, and there are a
few student interpreters attached to him, who are in training for
the custom-house service. Two Church missionaries also reside in
Peking, and last, not least, Dr. Lockhart, who has established a
medical mission under the auspices of the London Missionary Society,
on the plan of the one he for many years successfully conducted
in Shanghae. Whatever may have been the past success of medical
missions as an indirect means of introducing Christianity into
China, there can hardly be a doubt that they are of all methods
the best calculated to attain the objects for which they have
been organised. The Chinese are pre-eminently irreligious, I mean
with reference to their own nominal creed--Bhuddism. They are too
keenly intent on minding their worldly affairs to have any thought
to spare for higher considerations. They are entirely free from
the fanaticism which animates other pagan races. Their temples
and priesthood are universally despised and neglected. The only
semblance of religious observances practised by the bulk of the
people, is a very low kind of superstition, and that sits lightly
on them as a rule wherever dollars stand in the way. It is not
unfair to say that they are devoid of the religious faculty, and
are "sunk in material interests." Hence, the didactic inculcation
of strange doctrines is foolishness to them who are indifferent
to any doctrine whatever. Of course I only speak from a secular
point of view, without forgetting that the most impossible things
are easy to the Omnipotent; and he would be a bold man who would
venture to circumscribe the possible results that the future may
develop from the dissemination of the Bible among a reading, and
on the whole not an unthinking people. But the medical missionary
presents Christianity in its most attractive phase, that is,
associated with a noble philanthropy, after the example of the
Founder of our religion, who always accompanied his teaching with
healing the sick. And there is perhaps no form of mere philanthropy
so powerful to exact gratitude from the most unlikely objects, as
that of alleviating pain. The Chinese are probably more open to
this mode of reaching their hearts than to any other. In my rambles
in out-of-the-way places in China, I have frequently been appealed
to for medical aid by poor people who had heard of the repute of
foreign doctors, both for skill and benevolence. And although the
Chinese character is the most hopeless one to expect gratitude from,
still I affirm that if anything can touch them with the sense of an
obligation, it is the ministering to their fleshly infirmities; and
in the case of medical missions, they cannot escape the connection
between them and the religion that prompts them. But I fear I am
getting into too deep waters.
No difficulty was experienced in getting our passports, although
it was intimated to Sir F. Bruce that the passport for Mongolia
was not exactly a thing which could be demanded under the treaty,
and therefore that the issue of such a document might at any time
be refused by the Chinese authorities without infringing any of
the treaty stipulations, the argument being, that Mongolia, though
tributary to China, is not a part of the Chinese empire, in the
treaty interpretation of the word. This is fudge, of course, but
as long as they grant the passports, all right. When they refuse,
it will be time to argue about it. They are no doubt a little
jealous about foreigners poking about in Mongolia: their own hold
on it is so uncertain, and the encroachments of the Russians so
gigantic of late years in other quarters, that is, in Manchuria,
that the Chinese government, who now, if never before, feels its
own decrepitude, does not know which way to turn for security
against aggression. As usual with them, they, in their blindness
to their own best interests, do just the wrong thing. Two schemes
for telegraphic communication from Europe through Mongolia have
been proposed to them, both from English sources: both have
been rejected, from the general and ignorant dread they have of
foreigners establishing stations in Mongolia. Now were their eyes
opened they must see that it is not from England or France they have
anything to fear of aggression in that part of their dominions; but
from Russia alone. But were English or French subjects to settle,
for any purpose whatever, in the Mongolian steppes, under authority
from the Chinese government, no better guarantee could be secured
against Russian aggression. As it now stands, the Russians are
left alone in the field. When they really want to have telegraphic
stations in Mongolia, they will not be refused, and before many
years are over a large slice of Mongolia will be Russian. The
Russians have certain winning ways of their own, altogether foreign
to our system of diplomatic procedure, of getting what they want
from the Chinese. While we are spending millions in sending armies
to fight the Chinese, for questions which are as much or more for
their own interests as for ours, and then as conquerors astonishing
the Chinese by the moderation of our demands, the Russians are in
the most amicable manner possible pushing forward their frontiers,
and slicing off a thousand miles of Chinese coast, all the while
maintaining their position as friendly allies of the Chinese,
in contradistinction to the English barbarians, who are always
blustering and fighting, in utter defiance of the rules of courtesy.
After all it may be as well so. Our interest as a commercial
people is to develop the resources of the world. The Russians will
certainly do this better than the Chinese in those wild northern
regions; at all events, a desert on the one hand, and a wilderness
on the other, cannot be made much less productive than they are. But
the Chinese cannot be expected to view the matter in this light,
and yet they are so infatuated as to nurse the snake in their
bosom to the exclusion of others who would be likely to checkmate
his designs. The Russian government has shown a strange penchant
for annexing vast deserts to its dominions. Much may it make out
of them; but if half the enterprise and money had been expended
in improving the condition of the enormous territory it already
possesses, the Russian empire would have been too powerful for all
Europe. But that is their own affair.
The last thing to be done in Peking was to settle our bills at the
hotel (!) and restaurant, and exorbitant enough they were. On asking
the proprietor of the hotel for his account, he replied, "Oh! pay
what you like." "In that case," said we, "we like to pay nothing."
"All right, as you please," with the most lofty indifference,
answered our host. Driven almost wild by his coolness, we tendered
about six times what we should have paid for better entertainment
anywhere else. The wretch turned up his nose at it with a
supercilious air that nearly roused the British lion. The restaurant
was as unconscionable in its demands, but we had something
substantial for our money there, and did not so much object; but
to pay through the nose for a corner to sleep in, which no gentleman
would think fit for his hounds, did go sorely against the grain. I
cannot imagine what makes things so dear in Peking, nor do I believe
they are so dear to the initiated. One thing is cheap, and that is
ice, and the most refreshing sight we saw during our stay in the
capital, was the cartloads of the precious commodity being carried
about in large square blocks; and how did we pity our friends whom
we had left in Shanghae, sweltering through the worst part of the
summer without this luxury--I ought to say necessary--in such a
climate. No care is taken of ice in Peking. It is collected and
thrown into large pits, and may melt as much as it likes. If there
was any chance of its falling short, it would simply be a question
of a few thousand tons more to be thrown into the heap in the winter.
[Illustration: PART OF THE EMPEROR'S PALACE, YUEN-MIN-YUEN.
DESTROYED 1860.]
The local bank-notes in Peking are a great convenience. They are
issued in amounts from 1000 cash (about a dollar) and upwards, and
are in universal use in the city. The use of them saves the natives
from lugging about huge strings of copper cash, the only coinage
of China, 50 lbs. weight of which are worth about sixty shillings.
These notes are not current outside the city walls, however, and
here is an inconvenience; for whatever cash balance you may have
in that medium must be paid away for something or other before you
leave. It would be possible to change them for copper cash or Sycee
silver, but that would involve delay and perhaps trouble.
CHAPTER IV.
PEKING TO CHAN-KIA-KOW.
On the 14th of August, having arranged all our affairs in Peking, we
set out for Tung-chow, where we had left the priests to provide us
transport to Chan-kia-kow. Disappointment awaited us--nothing was
done. We were very angry, and a hot discussion ensued between us and
the head priest, but we could make neither rhyme nor reason out of
him. Here was a dilemma. Ought we to wait till the morrow, and try
ourselves to hire beasts of burden at Tung-chow, with this shaven
head probably plotting against us? Or ought we to start by break of
day with our whole baggage to Peking, and trust to arranging matters
there? To do that even, we were helpless, unless the priests were
on our side. We resolved, therefore, to conciliate the monk. At
this juncture M. Noetzli, who had kindly volunteered to accompany
us so far, being acquainted with the ways of the road, addressed
the priest in Russian. The effect was marked and instantaneous--the
priest's countenance changed--he opened himself out--explained the
true causes why he had not been able to get the mules, and suggested
that we should get carts to take our baggage to Peking the next
day. He would accompany us himself, and help us to negotiate for
transport in Peking. That settled, we felt relieved, and ate our
frugal dinner in peace and comfort.
I must explain the wonderful effect produced by the use of the
Russian language. I have already intimated that this Fang-wang
temple has been constantly used by the Russians as a dépôt. Intimate
relations have grown up between the Russians and the priests, and
mutual confidence and kindliness has been the result. Several of
the priests have learnt the Russian language in their frequent
intercourse with the Russians. The priests know no other foreigners.
On our own merits we could do nothing with them; but the moment a
connecting link seemed to be shown between us and the Russians, we
were regarded as belonging to a privileged class.
Next morning, we were again on the road to Peking, bag and baggage.
We rode, Noetzli on a mule, which was quiet and tractable enough
till a straw touched his tail, when he bounded off, kicking and
jumping, floundered in a rut, pitched Noetzli over his head, then
tenderly kicked him. _Mem._--Never ride a mule if you can help it,
they are uncouth, unmanageable brutes.
Our late landlord in Peking greeted us obsequiously on our return,
and our old friends at the restaurant were no less delighted that
their newly acquired art of cooking mutton chops was again in
requisition.
Our clerical friend soon appeared with a large, old-fashioned, blue
cotton umbrella. We at once went with him to a shop where mules and
litters were to be hired, and after the preliminary salutations
and cups of tea, we asked for mules, and were told off-hand that
they had none. This we knew to be untrue, because we had seen them.
We tried several others, but met with the same reply. This looked
hopeful, indeed, and it seemed there was nothing left for us that
day, but to go to the theatre, where we saw some good acting and an
audience thoroughly enjoying it; and so we drowned our own troubles
for a time. The next expedient was to order as good a dinner as our
ingenuity could devise, out of the materials at hand. A good dinner
is a wonderful soother, and has been, perhaps, too much overlooked
by philosophers.
The next day, 16th of August, our priest, worn out in our service,
came and reported himself sick. He had feverish symptoms, for which
we administered quinine.
This break-down of our mainstay was unfortunate, for as we could
not get on with his assistance, how could we manage without it?
The mule-proprietors still maintained in the morning that there
were no mules to be had; but at mid-day they sent to say we could
have as many as we liked, at slightly exorbitant prices. We
thereupon engaged eight pack-mules at four taels[2] each, and three
mule-litters at eight taels each, to convey us and our belongings
to Chan-kia-kow, distant about 400 li, or a four days' journey.
It is difficult to divine why it was that these crafty dealers so
obstinately maintained the non-existence of the mules. They refused
even to listen to an offer on the first day. They were prepared to
demand an extortionate price, and we were equally prepared to pay
it, but they determined to play with us a little, in order to work
our feelings up to the requisite pitch. And when they had reduced
us to despair, they thought we would be in a proper frame of mind
to accede to their demands, however extravagant they might be. But
now everything was satisfactorily arranged, and the mules were to be
sent to us early in the morning. The fare amounted to sixty taels
in all, of which we paid one-third on the signing of the contract,
one-third when the mules were loaded, and the balance on arrival at
Chan-kia-kow.
[2] 1 tael equal to 6s. 6d.
My ma-foo now made himself very busy. Up to this time he had done
little but entertain me with cock-and-bull stories about his
late master, and his reasons for leaving his service, at every
favourable opportunity appealing to me for my opinion, as to
whether he was a "good man." I always answered in the negative, but
he solaced himself with the reflection that I would find him out
and do him justice when we got to Chan-kia-kow. Now that we were
about starting, we thought of many little things we wanted for our
comfort on the journey, and who so eligible to make the purchases
as "ma-foo." His eagle eye discerned in this a fine scope for his
energies, for nothing tickles a Chinaman so much as to have money
passing through his hands. "Ma-foo" set to work manfully, and was
proceeding very satisfactorily to all parties, bringing the articles
we wanted, and rendering an account of the prices paid, until he
brought me a coarse cotton bag, which he put in at two dollars.
"No," I said, "I won't have it at that price. Take it back to the
shop." By and by, he re-appeared with the bag, and offered it for
a dollar and a-half. I refused it; and sent him back to the shop.
After a while, he returned to the charge with the wretched bag:
told me he could not take it back, but reduced his demand to one
dollar. I asked him how he could afford to sell it for one dollar,
seeing he had paid two for it. "Maskee--you take it." I saw he was
"stuck" with it, and that if he failed to realise, he would be
under the necessity of stealing something from me to make up for
his loss. I therefore accepted it--not without making him confess
that he had paid only one dollar for the bag. It was now my turn to
ask him where his vaunted goodness was, seeing he tried to cheat me
of a dollar. He only grinned, and said, in this instance he was a
"little" bad. He was but an inexperienced knave. A clever Chinaman,
that is, an ordinary average Chinaman, would have managed an affair
of that kind so adroitly as to defy suspicion, except the general
feeling one always experiences that all Chinamen are rogues. But
small peculations are considered by the Chinese as their legitimate
game. When they are intrusted with commissions, they look on it
as a sacred duty to scrape as much as they can out of the affair
for themselves. This runs through the whole race, and every grade
of society, from the highest official in the empire to the meanest
beggar.
In case these remarks should be taken to contain a general
sweeping charge of dishonesty against the whole Chinese race, I
must explain myself a little more fully. The system of peculation
is recognised in China, as a legitimate source of emolument; and
within certain limits, arbitrarily fixed by custom, it is not held
to be inconsistent with honesty. The government connive at it to
an alarming extent, by paying responsible officers mere nominal
salaries, leaving it to their own ingenuity to improve their
fortunes. But with all that, it is a rare thing for a Chinaman to
betray a trust; the best proof of which is that they are trusted,
under the slenderest of guarantees, with large sums of money.
Among the respectable class of merchants, their word is as good as
their bond. A bargain once concluded is unflinchingly adhered to.
Their slipperiness is exhausted in the preliminary negotiations.
Their "cheating" is conducted on certain broad and well understood
principles. But for practical honesty, the Chinese may well excite
the admiration of many who think themselves vastly superior. When
we were at war with the Viceroy of Canton, the European factories
were burnt, and foreigners compelled to abandon the place, leaving
a great deal of property in the hands of Chinese merchants.
Repudiation never occurred to these Chinamen's minds. On the
contrary, they found their way to Hong-kong, during the blockade
of the Canton river, for the purpose of settling accounts with the
foreigners. China contains good and bad in about the same proportion
as other countries. Old John Bell says of them:--"They are honest,
and observe the strictest honour and justice in their dealings. It
must, however, be acknowledged, that not a few of them are much
addicted to knavery, and well skilled in the art of cheating. They
have, indeed, found many Europeans as great proficients in that art
as themselves." A very fair summary of Chinese character.
Bright and early in the morning the mules and litters came, and
we were three hours at work, loading and arranging everything. It
required a good deal of management, as the loads are not lashed on
the mules' backs, but balanced, so that they must be pretty equally
divided on each side of the pack-saddle.
We had somehow nine mules instead of eight. We had under 3000 lbs.
weight of baggage to carry. That did not give a full load to each
mule, for they are reputed to carry 300 catties, or 400 lbs. each.
The loads of our team averaged 325 lbs.
The mule litter, used in the north of China, is a large palanquin
suspended on the backs of two mules, length-wise. Strong leather
bands connect the points of the shafts, resting on the saddles of
the respective mules. An iron pin, fixed in the top of the saddle,
passes through a hole in the leather, and so keeps it in its place.
The shafts are, of course, a good length, to reach from one mule to
the other, and to leave the animals plenty of room to walk. There
is, consequently, a good deal of spring in the machine. The motion
is not at all disagreeable; compared with a cart, it is luxurious.
There is hardly room in the palanquin to stretch out full length,
but in other respects it is very commodious, having room in the
bottom for a good quantity of baggage.
About 10 o'clock on the 17th August our caravan moved slowly out
of the courtyard of the inn, which we left with no regret, and we
slowly felt our way through the dusty, crowded streets of Peking
towards the North Gate, which was our exit from the city. I was on
horseback, intending to get into my litter should the sun prove too
powerful, which it did when we got to the sandy plain a little way
outside the city. The slow pace of the mules was most disheartening,
but I had yet to learn much patience in travelling.
Our first resting-place was at Sha-ho, a village sixty li or twenty
miles from Peking. Here we made ourselves a dinner, and fed the
cattle. There are two very fine old stone bridges at Sha-ho, but the
river that runs under them is only a ditch now. It was drawing late
in the afternoon before we were on the road again, and we had not
gone many miles before darkness came. The country is well cultivated
with cereals, the chief crop being Barbadoes millet, standing from
ten to fifteen feet high. Strips of cotton plants appear here and
there. It is a delicate-looking plant in this part of the country.
The last five miles of the road to Nankow is very rough and stony,
and as the night was dark when we passed it, our animals had great
difficulty in keeping their legs. About 11 p.m. we arrived at the
inn at Nankow, and created a scene of no small confusion by our
entry into the courtyard. It was already filled with travellers'
gear of all sorts, and it was long before we could pick out a clear
space to unload our mules. The fitful glimmer of the dimmest of all
lanterns helped to make the darkness visible, but did not assist
us in clearing the heels of horses, mules, and donkeys that were
straggling all over the place. In the midst of the Babel of tongues,
and the senseless yells of our fellow-travellers, as they one
after another awoke in a nightmare, we were fain to retreat to our
dormitory, and with a scant supper, lay down to rest hoping to find
everything in its place in the morning.
The village of Nankow is at the entrance of the mountain pass of
that name. It is for this pass alone that the mule-litters are
necessary, for it would be impossible to take any wheeled carriage
through. In a Russian sketch of the route from Peking to Kiachta,
it is stated that the road is passable for carriages throughout.
There are several very difficult rocky passes on the road, but this
one at Nankow is, I am certain, impracticable for carriages.
[Illustration: THE NANKOW PASS.
(Page 63.)]
On the 18th August, early in the morning, we entered the defile. It
is indeed a terrible road, over huge boulders of rock. The pass is
about thirteen miles in length, and for the greater part of that
distance nothing breaks the monotony of the precipitous mountain
wall on either side. The remains of several old forts are seen in
the pass, showing the importance that has been attached to it in
former times. It certainly is the key of the position, and the last
step of an invader towards Peking. But it is so well defended by
nature, that a handful of men could keep an army at bay, if any were
so bold as to attempt to force this thirteen miles of defile. The
care bestowed on the defences hereabouts shows the terror inspired
by the Mongols and other outer tribes in the hearts of the rulers of
China.
Our mules struggled gallantly with their loads, slipping and
tripping at every step, and landed us at the outside of the pass,
without accident of any kind, but not without a good deal of wear
and tear of hoof. They even kept up almost their full travelling
pace of three miles an hour. At the northern exit from the pass
a branch of one of the inner "Great Walls" crosses. It is out of
repair, but still the archway over the port is good, and it would
puzzle anyone to get in or out of the pass without going through the
gate.
At a small walled town, called Cha-tow, just clear of the pass, we
halted for our mid-day meal, at a very good inn. The inns hereabouts
are nearly all kept by Mahommedans, called in Chinese "Hwuy-Hwuy."
The modicum of extraneous civilisation they have acquired, through
the religion of the Prophet, is sufficient to mark them as more
intelligent and enterprising than their fellows. It is not likely
that their tenets are very strictly kept, but they are sufficiently
so to enable the Mohammedans to keep together, and form communities
and associations of their own. Mine host at Cha-tow asked me for
some wine, on which I read him a lecture on the duty of abstinence
inculcated by the Prophet. He admitted this was so, but said they
were not over strait-laced in those parts. The Mohammedans have
their mosques at Tientsin, Peking, and in most large cities in the
north and west of China. They are evidently left unmolested in
the exercise of their religion, and enjoy every social privilege.
The Chinese government is really very tolerant of all religious
opinions, and the Chinese as a race are so supremely indifferent to
religious matters, that they are the last people in the world who
would be likely to work themselves up to fanatical persecution. They
are all too busy to attend to such matters. The Chinese government
has, no doubt, shown itself jealous of the propagation of the
Christian religion, but it is its political tendencies only that
frighten them. They have a wholesome recollection of the ambitious
projects of the Jesuits in their day of influence,[3] and they have
been constantly kept in hot water by the Propaganda. They have to
meet ever-recurrent demands by the self-constituted champion of
religion in the East, for the murder of some French or Italian
priest in some unheard-of part of the country, where he had no right
to be, except at his own proper peril. They see in every native
convert a contingent _casus belli_ with some powerful state, and
very naturally seek to check the spread of such dangerous doctrines
by all indirect means. This unfortunate mixing-up of politics
with religion has been a deadly blow to the real advancement of
Christianity in China. And the abuse of the Christian vocabulary
by the Taeping rebels is not calculated to prepossess the Chinese
authorities in favour of the Western faith. Japan is another
country where the government, and I may say also the people, are
utterly indifferent to religion, but where the Christian religion
has been, and is, tabooed with a vigour unsurpassed in the history
of the world. And who that has read the story of the introduction
of Christianity into that country by the Jesuits, can blame the
government of Japan for its arbitrary exercise of power?
[3] Father Gerbillon, a Jesuit, was the Chinese plenipotentiary who
concluded the treaty of Nerchinsk with the Russians, in 1689.
Huc laments the low status of the Chinese Christians, as compared
with the Mussulmen, and attributes it to the want of self-assertion.
When a Christian gets into trouble his brethren hide themselves. Huc
would have driven them to the other extreme. He advocated strong
associations by which the Christians might "awe" the Mandarins,
as if there must necessarily be antagonism between the two. The
inference from which must be either that the Christians are
systematically persecuted, as such, or that they are in the habit
of committing offences against society. The Chinese government
and people have a horror of secret societies and of any political
associations whatever. But if Huc's converts had been content
to live like ordinary good citizens, neither shrinking from nor
courting publicity, they would probably have disarmed suspicion and
escaped molestation. Above all, if Huc and his clerical brethren
could have divested themselves of the character of spies who had
crept into China in defiance of the law of the land, for purposes
which the government could not understand, and therefore assumed
to be pernicious, they might have saved their disciples from some
annoyance, or, as they love to call it, persecution.
In the inn at Chatow, and in all the other inns north of Peking,
we found a large cauldron of boiling mutton in a central position
in the kitchen. This is kept boiling from morning till night;
and the broth, which, by itself, is by no means unpalatable, is
always handy as a stock for any messes the wayfarers may fancy. A
youth spends his time in kneading chow-patties, which he does very
skilfully and rapidly. These are torn and thrown in pieces into the
boiling mass, and, when sufficiently done, are served out with a
due proportion of broth, as a savoury dish for a hungry man. The
"steward of the cauldron," as Huc would probably have called him,
has acquired great expertness in serving out his stuff. With a
variety of ladles, all sieves, more or less fine, he will serve up
either the plain broth, or nimbly seize any of the morsels that are
tumbling about in confusion in the pot.
Mutton is cheap and abundant here, and is the staple article of
food. The sheep are pastured on many hill-sides that are not fit for
anything else, and the constant droves of sheep that come in from
Mongolia, for the supply of Peking, pass along this road, and are no
doubt to be had cheap.
We now enter a plain about ten miles broad, bounded on either side
by bold mountain ranges running east and west. We cross the plain
obliquely towards the northern mountain chain. This plain must be
elevated more than 1000 feet. The air was fresher than about Peking,
and a very marked difference was apparent in the fertility of the
soil. The millet and other crops were stunted, the soil was arid and
rather stony. The hills are quite bare, but a few trees are dotted
over the plain.
At Hwai-lai-hien, a good-sized walled town, we halted for the
night. Outside the city is a very large stone bridge, evidently
of the same period as those at Sha-ho. Five gothic-shaped arches
are still standing, and another is detached at a distance of some
200 feet, the intermediate part of the bridge having no doubt been
destroyed. There is no water now in the river, but the bed is still
well marked, and the old embankments remain, about 500 or 600 yards
apart. The old bed of the river is in a high state of cultivation
now.
I find the following notice of this bridge and this river in Bell's
Travels. He does not, indeed, give the name of the town, but,
tracing up his march from stage to stage, between the Great Wall
and Peking, it is evident that Hwai-lai is the station referred to.
He says: "About noon, next day, we came to a large, populous, and
well-built city, with broad streets, as straight as a line. Near
this place runs a fine river, which appears navigable, having across
it a noble stone bridge, of several arches, and paved with large
square stones."
Bell also makes frequent allusion to an earthquake, which did great
damage to this part of the country in July, 1719. Many towns and
villages were half destroyed, and some were wholly laid in ruins,
and "vast numbers of people" were engulfed. "I must confess,"
says Bell, "it was a dismal scene to see everywhere such heaps
of rubbish." The district being subject to earthquakes, makes it
probable that the fine bridge has been destroyed by that agency. But
what has become of the fine navigable river that existed in 1720,
and has now disappeared? Has it also been upset by an earthquake?
The river was probably the Kwei-ho, which now runs in another
direction, but some of the gentlemen of Peking or Tientsin, who
have explored the country, will no doubt elucidate this interesting
question.
On the 19th we made an early start, and went at a very steady pace
towards the northern chain of mountains. On approaching them we
turned slightly to the left, and skirted the base of the hills. We
met a good deal of traffic on the road here, all goods being carried
on the backs of mules and donkeys. Coal formed a conspicuous object,
on its way to Peking, where it is used to a considerable extent.
Immense flocks of sheep are continually passing in the direction of
Peking, and we also met a good many herds of horses bound the same
way. Our mid-day halt was at Shacheng, a walled town.
All over this country are the ruins of old forts; and a line of
square towers, with a good many blanks, runs nearly in the direction
of the road. If these forts could speak they could tell a tale of
many a hard-fought battle before and after the Mongol conquest of
China.
This part of the country was hotly contested by Genghis Khan; and,
in the years 1212 and 1213, the town of Suen-wha-foo, and other
places in the neighbourhood, were several times taken and re-taken.
"A bloody battle" was fought near Hway-lai, wherein Genghis defeated
the Kin, a Manchu dynasty who then ruled Kitay or Northern China.
The pass at Nankow, and its fortresses, were taken by Chepe, one of
Genghis's generals.
A story is somewhere told that, in olden times, when intelligence
was transmitted through the country by beacon fires lighted on
these towers, an emperor was cajoled by one of his ladies to give
the signal of alarm and summon his generals and officers from all
quarters. The word was given, and the signal flashed through the
Chinese dominions. The Mandarins assembled in the capital to repel
the invader, but, finding they had merely been used as playthings to
amuse a woman, they returned in wrath to the provinces. By and by
the Tartars did come; the alarm was again given; but this time no
one responded to the emperor's call for aid.
At Chi-ming-i, another walled town, we had done our day's work, but
it was too early to halt, so we pushed on to a small village called
Shan-shui-pu. At Chi-ming-i we met the Yang-ho, a small river that
seems to lose itself in the sand. Turning northwards we followed
the course of the Yang-ho, and entered another defile. The scenery
at the entrance of the pass, where the opening is wide, with a
number of valleys running into the hills, and snug-looking villages
nestling in cosy nooks, is a relief from the dull monotony of the
plain on the one side, and from the wild rocky barriers on the
other. It is a romantic little spot, full of verdure, and completely
sheltered from the north winds. It has therefore been a favourite
resort for ecclesiastics; for, with all their dullness, the Chinese
priests have everywhere displayed excellent taste in the selection
of sites for their temples and monasteries.
The following pretty legend of the place is given by Bell, and, as
he says, it is a fair specimen of the numerous fabulous stories
which the Chinese imagination delights to feed upon:--"Near this
place is a steep rock, standing on a plain, inaccessible on all
sides, except to the west, where a narrow winding path is cut in the
rock, which leads to a Pagan temple and nunnery built upon the top
of it. These edifices make a pretty appearance from the plain, and,
as the story goes, were built from the foundation, in one night, by
a lady, on the following occasion. This lady was very beautiful,
virtuous, and rich, and had many powerful princes for her suitors.
She told them she intended to build a temple and a monastery of
certain dimensions, with her own hands, in one night, on the top
of this rock; and whoever would undertake to build a stone bridge
over a river in the neighbourhood, in the same space of time, him
she promised to accept for a husband. All the lovers having heard
the difficult task imposed on them, returned to their respective
dominions, except one stranger, who undertook to perform the hard
condition. The lover and the lady began their labour at the same
time, and the lady completed her part before the light appeared; but
as soon as the sun was risen, she saw, from the top of the rock,
that her lover had not half finished his bridge, having raised only
the pillars for the arches. Failing, therefore, in his part of the
performance, he also was obliged to depart to his own country, and
the lady (poor lady!) passed the remainder of her days in her own
monastery."
The Yang-ho had been flooded a few weeks before. It had now
subsided, but still it came down from the hills roaring like a
cataract. It runs through the pass, and falls not less than 200 feet
in a distance of five miles. We followed its course through the
mountains, sometimes close to the river. The noise of it at times
was deafening, and one of my ponies could with difficulty be kept on
the path from fright at the noise. The road became very difficult as
we ascended the pass, and it grew dark long before we reached our
halting-place, Shan-shui-pu. When we got there we found but poor
accommodation. We managed to eat some rice and eggs, and surveyed
the premises to find a decent place to sleep, but without success.
Six Mongol travellers were lying on the ground in the outer yard,
side by side, their sleep undisturbed by the noise our party made in
coming into the hostelry. We slept in our litters.
Coal is worked in this neighbourhood, but in a very imperfect way.
As far as I could detect, it is merely scooped out of the hill-sides
where the seam happens to crop out.
At half-past five next morning we left Shan-shui-pu. The road
continued very rocky for a mile or two, and led through an
undulating country. We then got on to another terrace very much like
the one we crossed yesterday, and bounded by two parallel ranges of
hills.
At Suen-wha-fu, a large walled city, we halted to breakfast in a
very comfortable inn, much frequented by Russian travellers, who had
inscribed their names on the walls as far back as 1858.
Mr. Noetzli and I rode ahead of the caravan in order to reach
Chan-kia-kow early, and see how the land lay. Chan-kia-kow was the
critical point in our journey, and we were naturally anxious to
manage matters there with proper address. If we could but get camels
to carry us across the desert to Kiachta, we were safe from all
annoyance and delay for the rest of our journey. So we innocently
thought; but the sequel will show how short-sighted we were.
CHAPTER V.
CHAN-KIA-KOW.
We reached Chan-kia-kow at 1 o'clock, after a hard ride. It is
a large, straggling town, lying in a valley surrounded on three
sides by mountains, and is bounded on the north by the Great Wall,
which descends precipitously from the brow of the hill, crosses
the valley, and up the other side. The town of Chan-kia-kow has a
character peculiarly its own. It derives its importance from its
being the focus of the trade between Russia and China. All goods to
and from Kiachta must pass this way, whether on the direct route
for the Hu-quang provinces or _viâ_ Tientsin. The result is a large
"foreign" population--that is, of Chinese from other provinces.
Many of these men have passed most of their lives in Kiachta, and
speak Russian. Most of them are wealthy; indeed, the Kiachta trade
has been the means of enriching both Chinese and Russians, and many
of both nations who have been engaged in it have amassed large
fortunes. There is an outward appearance of wealth in Chan-kia-kow,
and more show of newness than one meets with in other of their
fusty old towns. Some new temples have lately been built by the
merchants, and new archways, of which the paint is fresh and good,
a thing rarely seen in China. This being the frontier town between
China and Mongolia, attracts considerable numbers of Mongols, who
bring in their camels to hire for the transport of goods across the
desert, and drive in their sheep, cattle, and horses for sale,
taking back with them in exchange store of brick-tea and small
articles of various sorts, such as pipes, tobacco, &c. The Russians,
also, have had a factory here for a few years, and altogether a rare
motley crowd is the population of Chan-kia-kow. The Russians call it
Kalgan, a name of Mongol origin, meaning, according to Bell, "the
everlasting wall." But it is more probably a corrupt form of Halgan,
or Khalgan, signifying a gate. The name is quite out of use among
the modern Mongols, who invariably employ the Chinese name.
Mr. Noetzli first endeavoured to hunt up some of his Chinese
acquaintance, and a tedious business it was, in the interminably
long streets, and in a rather hot sun, fatigued as we were with a
long ride. After several false scents, we hit on the establishment
of a Shanse man who had been thirty years in Kiachta. He and his
household spoke good Russian, and he was proud to serve up tea,
European fashion, with cups and saucers, sugar and teaspoons.
This was very acceptable to us; and we rested as long as we could
under his roof, while he entertained us with much interesting
conversation, and many cups of the cheering beverage. Having got
directions by which to find out the Russians, who had lately gone
into new quarters, we soon traced them out in a neat little house
built on the hill-side, out of town, that is, beyond the Great Wall,
in the narrow pass leading into Mongolia. Mr. Noetzli, being already
acquainted with some of them, and speaking a little Russian, we
soon made friends with them, and induced them to invite us to take
up our quarters with them. So, tying up our beasts, we abandoned
ourselves to tea-drinking for an hour or two. The Russians were
exceedingly kind and hospitable to us. We were much more comfortable
with them than we could hope to be in a Chinese inn; but we derived
other advantages from living with the Russians which were of more
importance to us. We were not friendless; the cunning Chinese could
not look on us merely in the light of victims who had come there
to be choused and swindled. Our negotiations for transport would
pass through the hands of our Russian friends, who were accustomed
to deal in such matters. So far all was well. But Mr. Noetzli had
sent an express on some time before to ask the Russians to prepare
us camels. Had they done it? No. This looked black rather, but we
resigned ourselves to circumstances, confidently believing that
things would mend when they came to the worst. We now prepared
to play our last card, which was that Mr. Noetzli should go,
accompanied by Chebekin, the Russian factotum, a most indefatigable
fellow, who speaks Mongol like a native, to a Lama convent, called
Bain-tolochoi, two days' journey into Mongolia. There they were to
discover a certain priest, to whom Noetzli was accredited by the
lamas at Peking, and endeavour to get him to advise some of his
Mongol brethren to give us camels. The simple Mongols reverence
their lamas, and will readily execute their behests, even at great
personal inconvenience. This lama was a man of great influence in
his own circle, and we were a little sanguine about the result,
if only a favourable reception could be had. It was arranged,
therefore, that our two friends should set out on horseback on the
morrow, while we kicked our heels about in idleness and suspense at
Chan-kia-kow.
The next morning, 21st of August, while we were at breakfast, two
Mongols came lounging into the place. One of them was the courier
who carries the post-bag to Kiachta, who was hanging about waiting
for post-day; the other was a friend of his, but apparently a
stranger to our hosts. We took the opportunity of asking about
camels, and Chebekin set to work palavering. In a quarter of an hour
the whole thing was settled, we were to have camels in four days,
and we should be ready to start on the fifth day. The price we paid
for eight camels (we really had twelve) for 800 miles, was 150 taels
(£50), and two bricks of tea to the ferryman of a certain river.
Thus we were once more at ease in our minds; the two scouts were
well pleased to see their horses unsaddled again, and we were all
happy together.
The next day Mr. Noetzli left us to return to Tientsin, and we
were rather in a bad plight, not being able to communicate with
our Russian friends, except in Chinese, a language of which we
were almost wholly ignorant. One of them vigorously rubbed up some
English he had once learned, and in a few days made great progress.
While we are waiting for our camels we have plenty of time to see
Chan-kia-kow, but after all there is not much to see. The view from
the house where we lived was across the pass, and looked straight
on the mountain wall on the other side. So close were we to the
mountain that the sun was several hours up before he was seen
topping the hill. The Great Wall runs over the ridges of these
hills, nearly east and west. This structure is entirely in ruins
here. The rubbish that once composed it remains and marks the line.
Many of the towers are still standing. I doubt if the wall ever has
been so massive in this quarter as near its eastern terminus, where
I crossed it a few years ago. Where the Great Wall crosses the town
of Chan-kia-kow it is kept in good repair, and has a good solid arch
with a gate which is closed nominally at sunset. There is no traffic
from the town except through this port, and all Mongols and Chinese
dismount in passing.
One of our amusements in Chan-kia-kow was to attend the horse-fair
which is held every morning on an esplanade just outside the city
on the Mongol side of the Great Wall. It is a most exciting scene,
and attracts a great concourse of people. Several hundred ponies,
chiefly Mongol, are here exposed for sale every morning. They are
tied up in line on either side, leaving the middle space clear,
and are taken out in turns and ridden up and down the open space
by wild-looking jockeys, who show off their paces to the highest
advantage. The fast ones are galloped as hard as their legs can
carry them from end to end of the course, pulling up dead short,
about ship and back again, the riders all the while holding out
their whip hand at full length, and yelling like infuriated demons.
There are generally half a dozen on the course at a time, all going
full tilt, and brushing past each other most dexterously. They go
tearing through the crowd of spectators without checking their
pace, and yet it is rare for any one to get ridden over. Amongst
these ponies are many extraordinary trotters, and many trained
to artificial paces. These are generally more sought after by
purchasers than the gallopers.
A number of men hang about the horse-fair who act as brokers between
buyers and sellers. These men are invariably Chinese. They soon
attached themselves to us, offering their services, and descanting
on the merits of the various steeds that were constantly scouring
past us. Their mode of making and receiving offers is to pull their
long sleeves down and communicate with each other by the touch of
the fingers. This seems to be more of a traditional ceremony than
anything else, for when they have made a bid with so much show of
secrecy, they frequently continue the bargaining _vivâ voce_ in
the hearing of the whole multitude. The prices of the ponies sold
varied from five taels to twenty, or say from thirty shillings to
six guineas. We had occasion to make some purchases, and paid about
ten taels each for very good useful ponies. One of mine that I had
brought from Tientsin had got a very bad sore back from the last
day's ride with a badly fitting saddle. He was useless to me in that
condition, and I sold him to a horsedealer for five taels.
Large droves of cattle and sheep came in from Mongolia, but the sale
of these is not carried on with so much ostentation as that of the
horses.
We daily, almost hourly, observed long strings of ox-carts coming
down through the pass loaded with short square logs of soft wood.
The carts are of the roughest description, and have not, I think,
a bit of iron in their construction. This wood is brought from the
mountains near Urga, across the desert of Gobi, a distance of 600
miles, and is chiefly used in the manufacture of coffins by the
Chinese. These ox caravans travel very slowly, a journey of 600
miles occupying forty days or more; but it is a cheap and convenient
mode of conveyance. The animals feed themselves on the way, and cost
very little to start with. Camels could do the work, but a camel is
a wretched object in harness, and is quite unable to drag even a
light cart through a steep pass. Horses or oxen have to do this work
for them. The pass at Chan-kia-kow is very stony for some fifteen
miles, and the oxen have to be shod with thin iron plates. The
Chinese farriers at Chan-kia-kow are very expert at shoeing cattle
and horses. They don't attempt to make a shoe to fit any particular
hoof, but keep a stock on hand, and selecting the nearest size, they
hammer the shoe approximately to the shape of the hoof. They don't
trouble themselves to cut the hoof down much, and you can have your
beast shod on all four feet in a remarkably short time.
The head of the Russian establishment had been absent on a journey
to Peking. He returned while we were in his house, travelling, as
we had done, in a mule-litter. Amongst his travelling gear that
we saw turned out of the palanquin was a small sized "_samovar_,"
or tea-urn, which is the greatest institution in Russia, and as
we were first introduced to it in Chan-kia-kow I must give some
account of it here. _Samovar_ is composed of two Russian words,
meaning, I believe, "self-boiling." It is a very simple and
admirable contrivance for boiling water quickly, and keeping it
boiling, without which it is impossible to make tea fit to drink.
The samovar is an elegantly shaped vase, made of brass, with a
tube about two and a half inches in diameter going down the centre
from top to bottom. A charcoal fire burns in this tube, and, as
the water is all round it, a large "heating-surface" is obtained,
and the water is acted on very rapidly. Samovars are made of all
sizes, the capacity being estimated in tea cups. An average sized
one contains twenty to twenty-five cups, or rather glasses, for it
is customary among the Russians to drink tea out of tumblers. Those
who can afford it drink very good tea, and they are probably the
most accomplished tea-drinkers in the world; our countrywomen might
even learn a lesson from them in the art of tea-making. They use
small earthenware tea-pots, and their first principle seems to be to
supply the pot bountifully with the raw material. The infusion comes
off very strong, and they judge of its strength by the colour in
the glass. They put but a little tea in the glass, and then dilute
it with boiling water from the samovar, in about the proportions
of the whiskey and water in toddy. As a rule, they use sugar and
milk, or cream, when procurable. At Chan-kia-kow it was not to be
had, for the Chinese do not use milk, or any preparation from it;
and it probably never occurred to the Russians that they might keep
their own cow for a mere song. The Russian gets through an amazing
quantity of tea in the course of a day, and I verily believe they
consume more per head than the Chinese themselves. The samovar is
almost constantly blowing off steam--morning, noon, and night it is
to be seen on the table, and they never stop sipping tea while there
is any water left. It is as much a necessary of life with them as
their daily bread, or tobacco to an inveterate smoker, and their
attachment to their own way of making it, is strikingly exhibited
by the fact, that a Russian, travelling among the Chinese, where
every possible facility for tea-making is at hand, should consider
it essential to his comfort to carry his own samovar about with him.
During our stay at Chan-kia-kow, we experienced a considerable
change in the weather. The first two days it was hot, but with a
fresher and more elastic atmosphere than about Peking. This is
probably due to the elevation, and the vicinity of mountains. We
had ascended by successive passes and terraces from Peking about
2500 feet, which is approximately the elevation of Chan-kia-kow. A
thunder-squall on the 21st of August cooled the air so much that
we had to sleep under a blanket that night. Next morning was quite
chilly with the thermometer at 71°. At mid-day on the 23rd it stood
at 72°, and on the morning of the 24th it was 65°. It got warmer
again afterwards, but we began to think there was something in the
Russian warnings of great cold in Mongolia, and we did not regret
being well provided with blankets and furs.
As the time drew near for our departure we seriously set to work to
supply ourselves with necessaries for the journey across the desert.
Our Mongol friends had contracted to carry us to Kiachta in thirty
days, but to provide against accidents we allowed a good deal more.
Although we were well supplied for the desert journey with preserved
provisions, wine, and bottled porter, the opportunity of procuring
fresh vegetables was too tempting to be overlooked. At Chan-kia-kow
we found some of the finest cabbages[4] in the world, carrots, &c.
Potatoes are also to be had in the season, but we were too early.
These and some fresh beef equipped us fully in that department.
[4] These cabbages are said to have been originally introduced from
Russia.
Then we had to purchase two carts to travel in. The Russians and
Chinese always travel so, for it would be too fatiguing to ride on a
camel all the way, they go so long at a stretch--sixteen to eighteen
hours without stopping. The carts are built on the same principle as
those in use about Peking and Tientsin, but larger. They are drawn
by camels. We essayed to make these purchases, and soon found one
cart in good order, barring the wheels. We then asked a wheelwright
to make a pair of wheels for it, but he would have charged more for
the wheels than the cost of a new cart, completely furnished.
It was evident that we could not manage these matters without being
shamelessly imposed upon, and we therefore begged our good friends,
the Russians, to take our business in hand. Everything now went
smoothly. Two carts were quickly found, second-hand, and at moderate
prices. When we had got them we found they wanted harness, that
is, sundry strips of leather thongs, attached to the points of the
shafts, and which are secured in a very primitive, but effective,
way to the saddle gear of the camels. Then the covers of our carts
looked rather weather-beaten, and it would be cold in Mongolia. New
felt covers had therefore to be obtained, and for extra warmth,
nailed on over the old ones. Our wheels would want oiling. We must
therefore have five catties of oil, cost 500 cash. But how to carry
it? A pot was requisite--cost 150 cash more. There was really no end
to the small things that suggested themselves. We had ponies--extra
felt saddle cloths were wanted to protect their backs. And how were
we to catch them when turned out to graze during our halts? Hobbles
must be got for this. We also took some dry food for our ponies
to eat when the grass was very thin, but they would not look at
it, and we had eventually to throw it away to lighten our camels.
What with extra rope, a bag of charcoal, covers for our baggage in
case of rain, lanterns, and a variety of other things, we made up
a formidable list of odds and ends. The account rendered filled
a sheet of foolscap, but the whole amount of our purchases at
Chan-kia-kow, exclusive of the first cost of two carts, came to less
than six pounds, and this included several pairs of felt boots and a
couple of goat-skin jackets. No one travelling that way (unless it
be in the early summer), should omit to procure a couple of pairs of
these felt boots. There is nothing like them for warmth, and they
can be got large enough to pull over your other boots. I used mine
nearly all the way to Moscow, and rarely experienced the sensation
of cold feet, though exposed in all sorts of carriages, and in
severe weather.
On the 25th of August, the Mongol gave notice that the camels were
at hand, and on the 26th they came into the courtyard, uttering
that disagreeably plaintive cry that is peculiar to the camel, and
more particularly to the juveniles. The camels looked very large
and ungainly in the small enclosure, but the Mongols soon made room
by making them kneel down close together, when they immediately
commenced chewing the cud. The Mongols manage their camels by means
of a tweak passed through the nose, with a thin string attached.
They pull the string with a slight jerk, saying "Soh, Soh," and the
animal, screaming the while, falls on his knees, and with three
oscillating movements he is flat down with his belly on the ground.
The Mongols had already tackled our baggage and arranged it to their
own satisfaction, so as to suit not only the weight each camel was
to carry, but to balance one side equally with the other. Each
package is well lashed up with stout rope, leaving a short loop. In
loading, a package is lifted up on each side simultaneously, the
loops crossed over the camel's back between the humps, one loop
passed through the other, and secured by a wooden pin. The load is
then allowed to fall, the weight comes on the wooden pin, and so
keeps it in its place. The back of the camel is protected by a
series of pieces of thick felt, ingeniously laid round the humps, on
the sides, and very thickly over the hollow between the humps. This
mass of felt is kept in its place by means of a frame-work of wood
on each side, lashed together across the camel's back.
Some hours were occupied in adjusting the camel loads and getting
all ready for the start. We did not hurry, as we could not afford
to forget anything now, as we were about to plunge into the desert,
where we would be as entirely thrown on our own resources as if we
were in a ship at sea.
Horses had to be hired to take our carts through the pass, a
distance of fifteen miles, the camels being unequal to the task.
The camel has little strength in proportion to his size. His
formation peculiarly adapts him to carry weight, his whole strength
being concentrated in the arch of his back; and yet in proportion
he carries much less than a mule, that is, considerably less than
double. For draught purposes, as I have already mentioned, the camel
is ill adapted. His pace is remarkably slow, and in short he is
only fit to work in deserts where, comparatively speaking, no other
animal can live. His faculty of going for many days without food or
water, and of nourishing himself on any sort of vegetable growth
that comes in his way, is invaluable to his nomad masters.
CHAPTER VI.
MONGOLIA.
We left Chan-kia-kow on horseback, escorted by three of our
kind Russian friends, Messieurs Weretenikoff, Iguminoff, and
Beloselutsoff, who accompanied us a few miles up the pass, and bid
us God speed. It took a long time for our camel-drivers to form the
order of march, and we had got far ahead of them. So, coming to
a spot where there was a little grass, we dismounted to give our
beasts a feed, thus putting in practice a maxim which travellers in
strange countries learn by daily experience to adopt for themselves
and their beasts,--to eat when they can.
My pony, being rather sharp in the back, I had over-done him with
thick saddle-cloths in my anxiety to preserve him in ridable
condition; for though very old he was a rare good one, but viciously
inclined, having once before had his paws on my shoulders. As the
camels hove in sight, I essayed to mount, but had not got into my
seat when, what with the pony's capers and bad saddling, I came
to grief, and was left sprawling on my face on the stones, which
spoiled my physiognomy and my temper at the same time, and nearly
obliterated one optic. It was painful to contemplate my brave steed
careering about with my good saddle under his belly, and reins going
all to pieces amongst his legs. The vision of a month's riding
vanished away in a moment. A ray of hope dawned on me as I saw my
favourite settle down in a small enclosure, bearing a poor crop
of under-grown millet, but there was no one near to catch him.
After a little, the husband-man appeared, and stoutly remonstrated
with me for turning my cattle into his field. I was in no mood to
tolerate abuse, for my abraded skin was smarting considerably. I
offered the aggrieved agriculturist the alternative of catching my
pony, or leaving him where he was. The Mongols, and also the Chinese
borderers, are very expert in catching horses--their favourite
dodge is to crawl up to his head on all-fours. My friend tried
this, but he was unfortunately too fat, and when he got his hand
within an inch and a-half of the remnant of my poor bridle, the pony
started off and went straight back at full gallop in the direction
of Chan-kia-kow. My heart died within me at the sight. The camels
having now come up, one of the men went in pursuit, and with the
assistance of the country people brought back the renegade, with the
loss of my bridle and one stirrup--not so bad as I expected.
The pass is a narrow gorge between steep hills, with little
cultivated corners here and there. A small stream trickles down
the side, and the road is strewn with round pebbles, which gives
it the appearance of the bed of a river. The ascent is very steady
and regular, gaining considerably more than 2000 feet in fifteen
miles. The road is tolerable all the way, until about the top of the
ascent, which is very rough and rocky. Rather late in the evening we
got to our halting-place well on to the table land, which is at an
elevation of 5300 feet above the sea.
The Chinese are the most patient and persevering agriculturists
in the world. They have pushed their aggressions through the pass
at Chan-kia-kow--on the hill-sides, where-ever they can find soil
enough to hold together--and into the skirts of the desert itself.
They get but a poor return for their labour, however; their crops
seem to struggle for bare existence, and the farmers must depend
more on their live stock than their crops.
In other parts of Mongolia the Chinese have been more successful
in extending their civilising influence into the prairie. In the
kingdom of the Ouniots, further to the north, Huc tells us that
since the Chinese, following their invariable custom, began to
penetrate into the country of the Mongols, about the middle of the
seventeenth century, the forests have disappeared from the hills,
the prairies have been cleared by fire, and the new cultivators
have exhausted the fecundity of the soil. "It is probably to
_their system of devastation_ that we must attribute the extreme
irregularity of the seasons which now desolate this unhappy land." A
curse seems to have rested on the industrious invaders. The seasons
are out of joint. Droughts are frequent, then sand-storms and
hurricanes, then torrents of rain which wash away fields and crops
together in a general deluge, and the land is thenceforth incapable
of being ploughed. Famines follow, and the people torment themselves
with presentiments of calamity.
That all this is due to the Chinese agriculturists is hard to
comprehend. It is not their practice elsewhere to "exhaust the
fecundity of the soil." Huc propounds the new and strange doctrine
that cultivation of deserts is a system of devastation. The truth
seems to be that Huc, with the strong partiality he always evinces
to the Mongols, was over-credulous of their stories. The Mongols,
very naturally, consider themselves aggrieved by the Chinese. The
latter first bought the right of cultivating the prairie, and, as
their numbers increased, the weaker race necessarily gave way,
moving their tents and their sheep further and further into the
desert. The poor Mongols now see, with feelings of sorrow, the
plough desecrating the ground where their fathers fed their flocks;
they look with hopeless regret on the past as a kind of golden
age, which their fancy dresses in a halo of peace, happiness, and
prosperity. The hated Kitat at once suggests himself as the cause of
these changes, and the Mongols delight to feed their hatred out of
the copious store of their imagination.
A process exactly analogous has been going on in the country of
the Manchus, where the arable soil has been occupied by Chinese
colonists, almost to the entire exclusion of the natives. Hatred is
strongly developed there also; but I can answer for it that there,
at least, cultivation has not exhausted the fecundity of the soil,
nor devastated the country.
The Chinese also with whom Huc conversed would readily admit the
superiority of the past. They have a reverence for antiquity, and
whenever they could spare a thought from the stern realities of the
present, they would mourn their hard fate, and exalt the glories of
the past.
The sun had been very hot all day, but when we came to pitch our
tent at night we were shivering with cold, and could with difficulty
hold the hammer to drive the pins into the ground. It is always
chilly at night in Mongolia, even in the hot weather, but we were
not prepared for such a degree of cold on the 26th August, in
latitude 41°. All our blankets were brought into requisition, and we
passed a comfortable night. Next morning the thermometer, which was
under a blanket, showed 35° Fahrenheit.
The morning of the 27th of August was as bright and cheery as the
most lively fancy could paint. The air resounded with the notes of
hosts of skylarks, which one does not often hear in these far-off
regions. The sun warmed up fast, and in a few hours dried up the
heavy dew that lay on the grass in the early morning. The pasture
was exceedingly rich, and sprinkled with "gowans" and other wild
flowers, which imparted a delicious fragrance to the fresh morning
air. Many herds of cattle and horses were scattered over the
plain, the Mongol herdsmen incessantly galloping round their flocks
to keep them together, their shouts audible from great distances
in the still air, and the perpetual movement of vast numbers of
parti-coloured beasts gave an animation to the scene which was quite
exhilarating to the spirits. A small brook trickled tortuously
through the plain, where we managed to kill a few snipe, greatly
to the delight of the straggling Mongols, who rode up to us from
various quarters. The only building in sight was a temple which we
had passed in the night, and which was the last brick-and-mortar
structure we were to see for many days. We were now fairly among
the dwellers in tents, and began to realise what it was to be cut
off from civilised life; for, whatever may be the various opinions
of Chinese civilisation in its higher developments, you can at all
events obtain in China every necessary and many luxuries for money.
In the "Land of Grass" we had to depend on our own resources, but
with the comfortable assurance that these were amply sufficient for
us. Our introduction to nomad life was under happy auspices, and we
were at the outset favourably impressed with the Mongols and their
country, an impression which never entirely wore out, even under
very adverse circumstances. I never till that morning experienced
the consciousness of absolute _freedom_. Many Mongol visitors rode
up to our encampment, bringing plentiful supplies of new milk,
cheese, and other preparations from milk very like Devonshire cream.
About 8 o'clock the camels were got in, and we made a start,
halting again at noon near the "yourts" of some Lama friends of
our camel-drivers. This was a short stage, and we endeavoured to
remonstrate with our conductor, but as at that time we could not
understand a word of each other's language, the broad Saxon merely
provoking a volley of guttural Mongol, we made no progress towards
a mutual understanding. We were again favoured with numerous
visitors, and our conductor had evidently serious business to
negotiate, which occupied the whole afternoon. It ended in his
exchanging his pony for another, and getting a fresh camel. It was
close on sunset before the camels were loaded, and a fresh start
effected. During our halt we had time to make the acquaintance of
our camel-drivers. The chief was a Lama named Tup-tchun, a good,
easy man, with all the native simplicity of his race. He was the
responsible man to us, and I believe owned the camels. He had two
assistants; the first a clansman of his own, Tellig by name, a fine,
good-natured, bullet-headed, swarthy-complexioned, indefatigable
fellow, the equanimity of whose temper nothing could ever disturb.
The Lama placed his whole confidence in Tellig, and we naturally
did the same as we became better acquainted with the excellence of
his character. The other had a name I never could pronounce, so I
will not attempt to spell it. He had some taint of wickedness in his
eye, and showed more craft and cunning than the average Mongol. He
could likewise speak a few words of Chinese, hence we gave him the
nickname of _Kitat_, the Mongol name for Chinese, a word abominated
by all true Mongols. He stoutly rebelled for a long time against his
new name, but it greatly amused his companions, and, as he was never
called by any other appellative, he was compelled at last to answer
to Kitat.
The order of our march was this. One of the Mongols on a camel
rode ahead, leading the next camel by a string from his nose. Half
the caravan followed him in single file, each camel being slightly
attached to the preceding by his nose-string. The other driver, also
on a camel, brought up the rear-guard in the same way. The Lama
was more privileged, for he never took any active part in leading
the caravan, but rode about on a pony, talking now to Tellig, now
to the Kitat, and now to us, then suddenly breaking out into some
of his wild native chants. He had a fine sonorous voice, and his
singing was a pleasant relief from the monotony of the way, and when
Tellig joined in chorus they made the welkin ring. The Mongols sing
with their natural voice, and have far more music in their souls
than the squeaking Chinese. The Lama indulged himself in a gossip
with every traveller he met, and would often be left out of sight,
but with his active pony he could easily overtake the slow-moving
camels. When he descried a Mongol yourt in the distance he seldom
missed a chance of riding up to it, to bestow his benediction on the
inmates, and drink tea with them. Nor was the Lama entirely useless
on the march, for the rearward camels were frequently getting loose,
and dropping into the rear, as Tellig and the Kitat seldom thought
of looking behind them. The moment a camel feels himself at liberty
he stops to graze. I have never seen one voluntarily follow his
leader. Great delay occurred sometimes from this cause, and the
Lama saved us much time by riding after a stray camel, dexterously
catching up the nose-string with his whip-handle, and leading the
straggler up to the caravan. The leading-string of the camel is
fastened to the gear of his leader in such a loose manner that a
very slight resistance is enough to undo it. The reason for this is
that if the string were secured firmly, any check in the rear camel,
or the leading one advancing from a halt before the rear one was
ready, would tear the camel's nose. A nose once broken in this way,
it is difficult to find good holding ground for the tweak, and the
Mongols are therefore very economical of camels' noses.
As for ourselves, we each had two ponies to ride, and we varied
our manner of travelling by alternately sitting in our carts and
riding our ponies. We also walked a good deal with our guns, for
the pace of the camels was so slow that we could range at will over
the country, and still keep up with the caravan. The camel's pace is
slow and sure, the average of a day's march being two miles an hour.
The actual pace is of course quicker, but the frequent stoppages
to adjust loads, and from camels breaking loose, reduce it to two
miles per hour. Sitting in the cart is never very agreeable. The
track is not cut up with ruts like a road in China, and the jolting
is considerably less; but it is difficult to get a comfortable
posture without lying down, and sitting in the front of the vehicle
you are unpleasantly near the odour that exudes from the pores of
the camel's hide, to which it requires a long apprenticeship to get
accustomed. It is most uninteresting, besides, to sit for an hour or
two contemplating the ungainly form of the ugliest of all created
things, and to watch his soft spongy foot spreading itself out on
the sand, while you reckon that each of these four feet must move
700,000 times before your journey is accomplished.
Our ponies were tied behind the carts, and all went quietly except
my old one "Dolonor," who was sagacious enough to break his halter
regularly, and follow the caravan in his own way, which was to trot
a few hundred yards ahead and apply himself vigorously to the grass
until the caravan had passed some distance, when he would trot up
and repeat the operation. With all that he fell off in condition
more than any of the others.
Starting at sunset, as I have said, we proceeded all night without
stopping. It was a fine moonlight night, but an uncomfortable one
for us. Not knowing we were to travel all night, we were unprepared
for sleeping in our carts, and suffered a good deal from cold and
disturbed rest. With every precaution to close them in, the carts
are thoroughly well ventilated; but subsequent experience taught us
to roll up warmly, for most of our nights in the desert were spent
in our carts on the road.
At sunrise on the 28th my thermometer beside my bed stood at 43°.
At 8 o'clock we halted and pitched our tents. Our Mongols had a
tent for themselves, made of thin blue cotton stuff, and black
inside with the smoke of years. Their contract with us included
tent accommodation, as also fuel and water; but we congratulated
ourselves daily on being provided with our own commodious and
substantial bit of canvas. The Mongols make their fire in the tent
and lounge round it while the pot is boiling. Some of the smoke
manages to escape through the opening that answers the purpose of a
door, running from the apex of the tent to the ground in the shape
of a triangle. For the rest they don't seem to mind it, although it
is almost suffocating to those who are unaccustomed to it. I noticed
the eyes of the Mongols have mostly a bloodshot hard appearance,
often showing no white at all, attributable no doubt to the argol
smoke in which they pass so much of their time. The tents being
pitched, the next operation is to procure a supply of _argols_, or
more correctly _ar'ch'l_, which is dried cow or horse dung, and is
to be found all over the desert. So long as we were in a populous
part of the country, that is, if there were three Mongol yourts
within as many miles of us, we were saved the trouble of going
out to gather them, for our tents were seldom up for many minutes
before a woman would appear bearing a large basket of the precious
material. This seems to be the ordinary custom of the Mongols, and
is a part of the genuine hospitality they show to strangers. Our
halting-places were selected with a view to water. There is no
scarcity of water in the desert, but a stranger would be sorely
puzzled to find it, for there is nothing to mark the position of the
wells. The Mongols have an instinctive knowledge of the country, and
in order to encamp near good water they make their march an hour or
two longer or shorter as the case may be. When the caravan halts,
one of the Mongols is despatched on a camel with two water-buckets
to fetch water from the well, generally some distance from the line
of march. The buckets have a head to them with two holes in it
stopped with wooden plugs. The water is poured out of the larger
hole at the side, while the smaller one in the centre is opened to
admit the air, to enable the water to pass out freely. In selecting
a halting-place, the Mongols generally contrive to combine a good
bit of pasture with the vicinity of water, for this is naturally
of much importance to them, as the only feeding the animals get
is a few hours' grazing during the halt, and that only once in
twenty-four hours. Before the tent is set up the camels are unloaded
and set free to graze, the horses are taken to water, and then
hobbled and let loose. The camels are not supposed to want water,
and they very rarely get it. Their lips and mouth are peculiarly
adapted to quick feeding, the lips being long and very pliable,
and the incisor teeth projecting outwards. They gather up a good
mouthful of grass in a very short time, even where it is exceedingly
scant, and as their food requires little or no mastication, they are
enabled to take in a full daily supply of food in a few hours.
So far, Mongolia is a succession of plains and gentle undulations,
much resembling the long swell of the ocean, and here and there
the country is a little rough and hilly. The undulations stretch
across our track from east to west. The whole face of the country
looks like the sea. There is not a tree or any object to break the
monotony of the vast expanse, but occasionally the yourt or tent of
a Mongol family. The sunrise and sunset encourage the illusion, and
the camel has been aptly called the ship of the desert.
The sun was hot during the day, but the thermometer in the shade
only showed 73° at noon. Yesterday it was 71°. After dinner we went
out with our guns and bagged a few small birds of the curlew kind.
We also came across a flock of wild geese, but, as usual, they were
very wild. We had a chase after a herd of animals which have been
called wild goats. The Chinese call them _whang-yang_, or yellow
sheep: other tribes call them _dzeren_. The Mongols give them a name
of their own, _gurush_, and do not associate them with either sheep
or goats. They are really a kind of antelope (_Procapra gutturosa_),
the size of a fallow deer, and of a yellowish brown colour,
approaching to white about the legs. They are exceedingly swift and
very shy, and as the country is so flat it is almost impossible to
get within shot of them. They are usually found in large herds of
several hundreds. We subsequently tried to stalk them on horseback,
and did get some long random shots at them with a rifle, but to
manage this properly there ought to be three or four people well
mounted and with plenty of time. Our poor tired ponies were not fit
for such work, and we never stopped the caravan for the sake of
sport. Some of the Mongols do hunt the gurush, both on horseback and
on foot. I never witnessed any successes, but they must shoot them
sometimes, to pay for their powder and shot. They use a small-bored
rifle, which has a rest placed about six inches from the muzzle,
by which means they can lie on their face and take their aim, the
muzzle being raised well clear of the ground by means of the rest.
We had a long halt to-day, partly in consequence of a crack being
discovered in one of the camels' feet. This is an infirmity they are
subject to, and if sand and grit were allowed to get in, the animal
would become lame and useless. The remedy, which is always at hand,
is to sew a square patch of stout leather over the part affected,
which they do in the roughest cobbler fashion. With a flat needle
slightly curved they pierce the horny part of the sole, and fasten
the patch by means of leather thongs at each corner. This is only a
temporary measure, and when a camel is taken that way, he must soon
be turned out to grass. The Mongols have no trouble in getting at a
camel's feet. They first make him squat down, and then two of them
go at him with a sudden push and roll him over on his broadside, one
of them keeping his head down while the other operates on the foot.
The animal screams a good deal while he is being turned over, but
once down he resigns himself helplessly to his fate.
We did not get off till five o'clock in the afternoon. The night was
cloudy and no dew fell, and consequently it was not nearly so cold
as the night before. The difference in temperature between a cloudy
and a clear night is very marked in Mongolia.
We were now leaving the good pastures and the numerous herds of
cattle behind, and on the morning of the 29th August we found
ourselves getting into a very desert country with only a little
scrub grass, of which our poor ponies found it hard work to make a
meal. No horses or cattle were seen in this part, and the country
seemed only capable of supporting sheep and camels. About eleven
o'clock we halted, and encamped on almost bare sand. Not a single
"yourt" was in sight, and, for the first time, we had no visitors.
This must have been a relief to our Mongols, for they were compelled
by custom and their natural hospitality to receive and be civil to
all comers, and it was not easy for them to snatch even an hour's
sleep. This must have been a great privation, for their mode of
travelling all night precluded their getting any sleep at all,
except on the backs of their camels while on the march, and in their
tent during the six hours' halt in the day; and as that was broken
up by cooking and eating, pitching and striking tents, loading and
unloading camels, and other necessary matters, and the frequent and
protracted visits from neighbouring yourts, or travellers on the
road, our poor Tartars had often to go for days together with hardly
any sleep at all. But they never complained, and certainly were
never betrayed into any rudeness to their inconsiderate countrymen.
We started again at 4.30 in the afternoon, and continued through
gentle undulations, proceeding, as before, all through the night.
Before morning we passed some rocky places over low hills, which
sadly disturbed our sleep in the carts--in fact, our usual night's
rest, while on the move, was far from being uninterrupted or
comfortable, and it was only our fatigue and exposure to the air all
day that enabled us to sleep at all under such circumstances. The
rough hilly part was again succeeded by low undulations continually
unfolding before us, and which became painfully monotonous to the
eye. Distances are altogether deceptive, partly owing to the smooth,
unbroken surface of the country, and partly to the mirage which is
always dancing on the horizon, making small objects look large, and
sometimes lifting them up into the air and giving them a variety of
fantastic shapes.
About 11 o'clock on the 30th of August we halted, and went through
our usual process of cooking and eating. We began to find that one
meal a day did not suit our habits, and we soon learned to keep
out a certain quantity of bis
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/45167