AROUND PEKING
The translation of the word Peking is "capital of the North," and is
so called in contradistinction to Nanking[1] or "capital of the
South."
Peking is not a Chinese city at all, although generally supposed to be
so, but a Tartar city, which, instead of the jumble of narrow, paved
streets habitually found in all Chinese towns, was originally designed
and laid out on a plan probably excelling in grandeur that of any
other city in the world. That the result, as seen in the city of
to-day, is but a mockery of the magnificent idea which possessed the
master mind that conceived it, is due to that trait of the Mongolian
temperament which exhausts itself in the conception and completion of
some gigantic undertaking, leaving it thenceforth to moulder and
decay, until in succeeding ages it stands gaunt witness of human
wisdom, folly and neglect. Such are Peking, the Great Wall and the
Grand Canal.
Although adjoining the Tartar, there is a Chinese city, it is so
squalid and of such mean pretensions that with the exception of a
single street it is of but little interest to Europeans, so that when
speaking of Peking it is the Tartar city alone that one has in mind.
Surrounded by an immense rectangular wall, some sixty feet in height,
with a width of twenty feet at the top and forty feet at the base, and
pierced at regular intervals by picturesque and towering gateways,
between which wide boulevards traverse the city from end to end and
from side to side, but which, instead of being paved and lighted, are
but lanes of filth, ankle deep in dust during dry weather, to be
quickly changed by rain into rivers of black mud, continuously churned
up by the wheels of springless carts, and spattered far and wide by
the plunging feet of straining quadrupeds.
On either side of, and frequently several feet below, these highways
are mud paths, along which pedestrians wend a varied way, avoiding
cesspools, stepping over transverse timbers or circumventing
squatters' huts, showered on the while by splashings from the highroad
or blinded by clouds of refuse-laden dust.
The only attempt at lighting is by means of lanterns, which, with
heavy wooden frames covered with paper instead of glass and placed at
intervals of perhaps a quarter of a mile, throw out rays to the
extent of one candle-power each.
From the streets very few buildings of any pretensions can be
discerned, while from the dominating eminence of the city wall a sea
of roofs monotonous in equality of height and greyness of colour meets
the eye, which sameness is mostly due to the facts that but few upper
storeys exist, and that the residences of the wealthy, besides being
screened by high outer walls, are so blended with shops and hovels
that it is difficult to discriminate them.
In the heart of Peking, and surrounded by a twenty-foot wall coped
with tiles glazed yellow and green, is the forbidden city, where the
imperial palaces are grouped and from which Europeans were until
recently jealously excluded.
The city walls; a few temples in varying stages of magnificence,
tawdriness and decay; the remains of sewers which, built of solid
blocks of stone and large enough to admit a donkey, show that formerly
a scheme of drainage and sanitation existed although to-day there is
nothing of the kind; an insignificant canal and a hill rumoured to be
made of coal heaped there as a supply in case of siege; and one has
seen the architectural wonders of the capital.
"Legation Quarter" prior to the Boxer troubles was but an indefinite
area of the city in which the legations "happened" from time to time
amongst a squalid entourage of native buildings, and connected one
with another by means of impossible thoroughfares which passed for
streets.
A Russian diplomat once said to me that he considered Peking "dirty
but nice," and this description exactly coincides with my own idea.
This wasted body on a majestic frame carries one back with a single
step to civilisation of a thousand years ago. Not the remnants
displayed to tourists in Greece or Rome but the real thing, over which
the Western spirit of change has as yet worked but little alteration.
In this vast museum of antiquities one finds at every turn objects of
engrossing interest, and personally it seemed to me that many of the
scenes depicted in Prescott's enchanting book, _The Conquest of
Mexico_, might almost as well have been laid in this far-famed capital
of the North. Great antiquity, isolation from the Western world, pride
of race and empire, veneration for their own colossal literature,
arrested civilisation and profound contempt for all things foreign,
create a picture rich in detail, very mournful in subject and
marvellous in perspective.
The means of getting about are by cart, on horseback or afoot, the
sedan chair, which in other places furnishes the most comfortable
conveyance, being here reserved for members of the Imperial family
and for high officials both native and foreign.
The carts, which ply for hire like cabs, are massive, springless
tumbrils covered with a wain. In fine weather the passenger, with a
view to less discomfort, usually sits on the splashboard with his back
rubbing against the hind-quarters of the pony or mule and his feet
dangling in front of the wheel, which plays on to them a continuous
stream of dirt and dust. In windy weather one must crawl inside and
sit on the floor tailor fashion, there being no seat, and then let
down the curtain, thus effectually blocking all view but keeping out
most of the dust, which, flying in blinding clouds, would quickly
reduce one to a state of absolute filth, filling the clothes, hair,
ears and mouth and guttering down from the nose and eyes. To this foul
dust is due the terrible amount of ophthalmia and consequent blindness
so prevalent throughout the East.
In rainy weather carts sink up to the axle in black liquid mud, which
flies in all directions from the wheels, and at each footfall of horse
or mule, splattering pedestrians and shop-fronts on the sidewalks and
smothering other vehicles as they pass.
To such an indescribable state are the streets reduced by heavy rains
that I actually remember a mule being drowned in the shafts by the
side of one of the main thoroughfares in the very heart of the city.
Luckily for all concerned there is a large percentage of beautiful
weather, when mud and dust alike are absent and when one can canter
noiselessly along the soft, yielding roads, which are then in much the
same condition for riding as is Rotten Row.
On such mornings as these Peking is delightful, with its bright sun,
cool, bracing air and interesting sights, while through the cloudless
sky flocks of pigeons, having whistles of wood or clay fastened to
their feet and tails, make strange yet pleasing sounds varied with
every twist and turn of flight.
A noticeable trait of Chinese character, and one fostered, if not
generated, by Buddhistic teaching, is an undemonstrative fondness for
animals, or, I might rather say, a passive admission of their right to
considerate treatment, and strangely enough animals, both wild and
domesticated, appear to comprehend this sentiment, for while greatly
scared at the approach of a European they usually take but little heed
of the presence of Chinese.
It is a common thing to see a well-dressed Chinaman sauntering along
holding up a bent stick to which a bird is attached by a string some
four feet or so in length, so that the little prisoner can make short
flights to the limit of its tether and return again to its perch,
gaily chirping and singing the while.
Another stroller will be carrying a wicker bird-cage on the hand, bent
back and upraised to the shoulder, much as a waiter carries dishes,
containing generally a Tientsin lark or other celebrated songster, and
on arriving at some open spot will place the cage on the ground, and
retiring to a short distance whistle to the bird, which will shortly
burst into song, to the evident delight of both owner and bystanders.
Outside one of the gateways is a kind of bazaar, which we foreigners
generally called "Bird-cage walk," for there the bird-fanciers lived,
and birds of many different kinds were exposed for sale, not in cages,
but quite tame, and quietly sitting on perches--parrots, larks, Java
sparrows, etc., some of them tied by the leg, but not all.
Here, too, were to be seen wicker baskets, much resembling orange
crates, full of common sparrows, representing a regular supply for a
regular demand. Benevolent old Chinamen, _flaneurs_ and _literati_
would visit this bazaar of an afternoon with the sole object of buying
a few of these little birds for two or three cash each and then
letting them fly away, a beatific smile betraying the salve to inward
feelings generated by a knowledge of merit acquired, any miseries
inflicted on the sparrows by capture and confinement counting for
nothing in the balance against the good work accomplished by their
purchase and release.
The Chinese ideas of life and death are very dissimilar to our own.
With us, the responsibility of parents for the bringing up and
well-being of the children is paramount, the fulfilment of such
obligations being enforced both by legal and social pressure, while
the responsibility of children for the care of their aged parents is
almost _nil_.
Amongst the Chinese, children are considered to be the absolute
chattels of the parents, with whose treatment of their offspring
neither public opinion nor the country's laws have any right of
interference. Infanticide can be, and undoubtedly is to a certain
extent, practised, while the father is even said to be legally
entitled to punish his grown-up children with death.
Children, on the other hand, are bound by every tie to obey, respect,
support and even worship the authors of their being. Filial duty is
the greatest of all virtues, and the man who fails in this respect is
despised by everyone and takes rank with worthless characters and
outcasts.
Our view of life is very finite. We are born, we die, are relegated to
the unknown and quickly forgotten.
A Chinaman regards himself as a disseverable part of the stream of
life, by which he is borne into this world to live his life here, and
then is borne on again to the abode of departed spirits without
continuity of existence having been interrupted. At his death he is
mourned with a whole-hearted sincerity by his entire family, who
perform the obsequies with great respect and as much display as is
compatible with their station in life. An imposing grave is built in a
spot facing a pleasant prospect, while trees are planted, and
sometimes even artificial pieces of water made, so that the
disembodied spirit may be able to enjoy shady groves and cooling
breezes. Sacrifices are offered at this shrine not once, but year
after year, and by his children's children, with an absolute certainty
of the spirit's existence and approving knowledge. This is the
practice of ancestral worship, and greatly to be pitied is the man who
leaves no son to perform sacrifices at his grave.
In Peking funeral processions assume gigantic proportions.
I have seen them more than a mile in length, and of such barbaric
magnificence that they must have cost many thousands of ounces of
silver.
Life-sized horses, camels, ostriches and other animals made of
cardboard or cotton wool, houses of lath and paper, as well as strings
of imitation gold and silver money to be burnt at the grave and so
wafted to the next world for use of the departed spirit, tablets
embossed with golden Chinese characters, and lanterns of varied size
and shape are carried in advance by an army of riffraff. A band of
priests chanting, or playing weird dirges on instruments much
resembling bagpipes in sound, immediately precedes the catafalque, an
immense edifice from ten to fifteen feet in height, containing the
coffin and covered with beautiful hangings of embroidered silk, and
which is carried bodily on massive red poles some nine inches in
diameter, by as many as forty or fifty bearers. Mourners with
dishevelled hair and clothed in long white gowns follow on foot, in
carts or in chairs, according to the rank held by the deceased.
Winter in Northern China is extremely severe, and Tientsin, the port
of Peking, is yearly closed to navigation for six or eight weeks
through the sea and river being frozen. The thermometer frequently
falls below zero, but owing to a bright atmosphere the cold is not
felt so much as might be expected. At night the stars blink and blaze
with intense brilliancy, and the still, frosty air seems almost to
ring with a metallic voice. Beggars and homeless wanderers are nightly
frozen by the dozen, and the whole land lies powerless in the grip of
King Frost.
My bedroom I could keep fairly warm by means of a large American
stove heated up till it was white, but in the mornings, on passing
into my bathroom, which boasted a brick floor and paper windows, I
found the temperature almost coinciding with that of the open air,
albeit a small stove roared in the corner, while steam from the hot
water in a wooden bath was so thick as to make the daylight dim.
Ablutions were a hurried function, ending in precipitate retreat to
the warmth of the bedroom. The small stove would burn itself out, the
steam would congeal and disappear, and the bath water, unless removed,
would be quickly frozen.
As winter wore on the sides of my bath-tub became coated with ice,
which increased with every splash until there was a thickness of three
or four inches, for it would have injured the bath to keep breaking it
off, so that, ultimately, I took my morning tub in a nest of ice, only
the bottom of which was completely thawed by the daily supply of hot
water.
Along the streets, well-to-do Chinese appear swelled to double their
usual proportions by furs and successive layers of wadded clothes,
which are of such thickness as to hold the arms propped out at almost
right angles to the bodies, while their heads are enveloped in
bright-coloured hoods buttoning tight under the chin. Poor, half-naked
beggars, clasping their rice-bowls and bent double by the cold,
shamble along, muttering and moaning, while their starving, rolling
eyes scan the faces of passers-by in mute appeal for help or pity.
One evening, as I was riding along one of the principal streets, I saw
a Chinaman carrying home a hot, steaming cake, something like a
Yorkshire pudding with raisins in it, which he had just bought at a
wayside cook-shop, when a beggar suddenly seized him by both wrists,
and taking as large a mouthful as he could bite out of the pastry,
shuffled off, heedless of the blows rained on him by the irate
purchaser.
On the coldest days I have seen beggars collected in groups and
gambling for the few cash they possessed, the total sum probably not
exceeding a halfpenny. Naked, hungry and frozen, they watched with
tense features and straining eyes the fatal issue of their throw for
either a meal or death that night by cold and starvation.
Accustomed to want and misery, they appear pleased with any trifle
that may fall into their hands, and on a bitter, windy day I have seen
grown-up beggars on a waste patch flying a kite and enjoying the
pastime with a gusto denied to more _blase_ pursuers of this aerial
sport.
Ice in Northern China is seldom good, as owing to the frequent winds
it is generally covered with dust, although occasionally at the
beginning of winter it is possible to get some fair skating before
the first dust-storm.
At Peking an enormous mat shed is erected to keep out the dust, while
the ground inside is flooded daily so as to secure good ice. This rink
is a favourite afternoon resort of the European community, but the
space is too limited and the attendance too crowded to admit of any
really enjoyable skating by the light of a few oil lamps.
I have skated on the moat outside the city wall but it was not very
good, the chief attraction being to watch Chinese performers. As a
rule they wear only one skate, on which they propel themselves by
striking the ice with the other foot until a certain speed has been
attained, when they spread out their arms, bend forward until their
noses almost touch the ice and raise the skateless foot high over
their backs. This bird-like skim on one leg seems to be their ideal of
graceful skating.
At this season the stately, two-humped camels, with beautiful coats of
brown wool a foot in length, come down from Mongolia, bearing loads of
meat and furs, together with frozen game and fish from Manchuria and
the Amoor river, and coal from the mines north of Peking.
The Mongol teamster, clad in skins with the hair inside, trudges in
front, leading the first camel by a string attached to its nose, while
a cord tied to its tail links it with the nose of the second camel,
and so on, till the whole team of eight or ten are securely connected.
They move along with graceful, easy stride, the only sound being the
dull clanking of a heavy bell suspended from the leader's neck.
On one of the animals the Mongol's whole family is sometimes carried
in two immense panniers, and the round, yellow faces of tiny children
peer down from their lofty nursery on a strange and passing world.
I have also seen a calf camel, evidently cast by the way, being
carried in a litter strapped to the back of its dam.
It has been told me by reliable Chinese that in winter upwards of ten
thousand camels daily pass in and out of the gates of Peking. They are
beautiful animals, of great height, and appear to be very meek and
docile.
On one occasion, when returning at daylight from duck shooting near
Marco Polo's bridge, I was tightly wedged in by several hundreds which
were waiting to enter the western gateway. They looked down at me with
their patient eyes as I shouted and prodded them with my whip in order
to clear a way for my pony, but attempted neither to bite nor kick.
In spring their wool peels off in large flakes, giving them a ragged
appearance, and is collected and woven into the celebrated Tientsin
rugs.
In summer, like the wildfowl, they disappear and go north to seek cool
pastures in the Mongolian highlands.
Peking not being a seaport, and as yet but little influenced by
foreign trade, the European community settled there is solely composed
of the _corps diplomatique_ and the legation guards, of the
inspectorate of maritime customs, of professors of the various
colleges, of missionaries and a few storekeepers.
During winter, when communication with the outer world is a matter of
considerable difficulty, Peking society, which is naturally of a
highly cosmopolitan order, amuses itself by a constant round of
dinners, balls and receptions carried out with lavish hospitality, and
to which the novelty of Oriental surroundings supplies an additional
attraction.
In company with a French friend, who lived in Dry Flour Alley, I made
an expedition to the Great Wall, which is two days' journey from the
capital.
Mounted on ponies, with provisions and bedding packed into a cart
drawn by two mules, we started while it was yet dark on a cold
winter's morning.
Slowly making our way along frozen roads outside the walls of the
forbidden city, we arrived at one of the gateways by daylight and
passed out of Peking, following a wide and dusty road, where we
presently met streams of camels, mules, ponies, donkeys, carts and
coolies, each bearing a load of some kind of produce wherewith to
supply the markets of the great city.
It was early and bitterly cold, while everyone was too intent on his
own business to do more than bestow a cursory glance on passers-by, so
that our little caravan, freed from importuning curiosity, made good
progress.
At about eleven o'clock we were scourged by a blinding dust-storm
raised by a strong wind, to avoid which we were not sorry to take
refuge in a wayside inn and there discuss an early tiffin. It was now
discovered that the supply of bread necessary for our three days' trip
had been left behind, so that we were obliged to content ourselves
with native dough cakes, sticky and heavy as lead.
The room we occupied opened on to the courtyard of the inn, and being
doorless, a small crowd of interested spectators quickly assembled to
watch our every movement. This crowd continuing to grow until it
consisted of several tens, my friend went out to expostulate with the
innkeeper, but found that worthy busily engaged at the outer gate
granting admission at five cash per head to all and sundry desirous of
seeing the Europeans feed.
The wind having suddenly dropped and the sand-storm subsided we
continued our journey, arriving by nightfall at the village of Yang
Fang, where we had arranged to sleep.
It was here that I came very near to shuffling off my mortal coil.
Throughout the North of China brick beds called _kangs_ are universal.
They are built about two feet in height, are oblong in shape and
hollow inside, with a small aperture at one end, while the top is
covered with grass matting. During the day a charcoal fire is lighted
in this aperture, the hot air from which fills the interior of the
structure and gradually warms the brickwork, which retains its heat
throughout the night. The fire is then allowed to die down, when a
wadded quilt, a thick blanket and a pillow will be found sufficient to
make a most comfortable couch.
I had not seen one of these kangs before and the method of heating it
had not been explained to me, so, the cold being intense, I placed
fresh fuel on the smouldering embers the last thing before turning in.
How long I had been asleep I do not know before I became conscious of
a frightful nightmare. I was very hot and had lost all power to move.
My tongue felt swollen and heavy, and my throat so dry and sore that
when I tried to cry out it refused to utter a sound. My eyes were
smarting, and having once opened them they would not close again. My
senses were clear and I knew that I was being asphyxiated, but was
powerless to help myself. Horror-stricken, I watched the bright
moonlight shining on the paper window until I lost consciousness.
The next thing I remember was cold air beating on my face, water in my
mouth and trickling down my neck and chest, strong arms supporting me
and the voice of my friend's mafoo calling to his master for a light,
the moon having set.
I owed deliverance to the fortunate breaking of my pony's halter, as,
having been freshly clipped, he had become restive from the cold,
thereby causing the mafoo to enter my room for a spare one, which I
always carried with me. The following morning I felt very shaky and
had a splitting headache, but was able to continue the journey,
gradually recovering as the day wore on.
It is perhaps needless to add that putting fresh charcoal on the fire
was the cause of this _contretemps_, but I was then unaware of there
being no flue to carry off the fumes.
Leaving our ponies and the cart at Yang Fang, and mounted on mules as
being more surefooted, though the high wooden saddles and short
stirrups were most uncomfortable, we started betimes.
After crossing a plain about ten miles in width, strewn with rocks and
boulders, we reached Nan K'ow, or Southern Pass, where we entered the
mountains.
The road was fairly good for pack-animals, although crossed at
frequent intervals by the beds of partially-frozen streams, the
swift-flowing waters of which were sweet and clear as crystal.
Mountains shut us in on either side, while we met an unending
procession of men and beasts conveying loads of merchandise from
Mongolia to Peking.
The scenery was lovely, and all along the route were to be seen
crumbling forts and walls built many centuries ago to defend this, the
principal pass, against invading enemies.
We saw three or four pheasants and heard several more, so that there
probably is good sport to be had amongst these rugged hills. After
halting for tiffin under a fine archway of Indian architecture we
arrived at Pa-Ta-Ling (eight lofty peaks), where we obtained a good
view of the Great Wall.
Scrambling to the top at a place where it was partly in ruins, my
friend was soon busy with his camera, whilst I proceeded to
investigate this world-famed structure.
My feet are rather long and it was just fourteen of them across the
top, which is evenly paved with square bricks, while the height of the
wall I judged to be between twenty and thirty feet. At irregular
intervals there are towers, in one of which was a pile of antique
carronades about two feet long, of equal size all the way down and
bound round with iron hoops for additional strength. Much resembling
old rain-pipes, they had not a very formidable appearance, and were
probably more dangerous to those who fired them than to the enemy.
Built two hundred years before Christ, and upwards of thirteen hundred
miles in length, the wall is certainly a gigantic monument, well
constructed of large bricks, and here, at any rate, in good
preservation and by no means whatsoever a mass of stones and rubbish
as asserted by some describers.
Instead of winding along the line of least resistance it follows the
sinuosities of the country, surmounting crags and delving into
valleys, so that it can be seen topping height after height as it
climbs the mountain range until it becomes a mere thread and finally
is lost to view in the far distance. Walking along it for some little
way I found that it scaled almost perpendicular cliffs, up one of
which I passed, the top of the wall here taking the form of steps,
while down the opposite side the descent was so steep that for greater
security I made it backwards on hands and knees.
The wall was built with the object of protecting China from the
inroads of wild Tartars, who came down in hordes from Manchuria,
Mongolia and the steppes of Northern Asia to seek plunder in the
plains.
[Illustration: THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA.
_To face page 158._]
Chinawards there is a low parapet, while stone stairs built into the
middle of the wall lead from the top through doorless gateways to the
ground, giving means of ingress and exit to defenders, but on the side
facing towards Mongolia the wall is crowned with battlements some four
and a half feet in height, affording ample protection and pierced
about every five feet with loopholes and embrasures.
One of the wonders of the world, its construction lasted ten years,
and at the date of completion was probably as futile to bar the
advance of a resolute foe as it would be to-day _vis-a-vis_ modern
artillery.
Wishing to secure a suitable souvenir of my visit I selected a
well-preserved brick, which, by means of knotted handkerchiefs, I
slung over my shoulder and so commenced the return journey. For three
or four miles all went well, but after that the brick commenced to get
rapidly heavier, until it became almost insupportable, while its
constant tapping in the small of my back, caused by the jerky trot of
the mule, was well-nigh intolerable. I tried to fasten it to the
saddle, but, simple as it may seem, it would not hold, besides making
the mule altogether unmanageable, so that after a desperate struggle
for a few miles further I cast it from me with mingled feelings of
disgust and thankfulness, and in all probability it remains in the
same spot to this very day.
We reached Yang Fang before dark and much enjoyed a rest and some
dinner, but as it was full moon and we were anxious to be back in
Peking early next day, my friend proposed that we should press on for
a couple of hours that evening.
With fresh ponies in place of the jaded mules, and feeling much
happier on our doeskin saddles, we went along gaily for some distance,
but the extreme cold and our own weariness soon began to tell, and we
became so drowsy that we determined to off-saddle at the next inn. We
had reckoned, however, without our host, for the inn was crammed full
and we were obliged to take to the road once more, and that in no very
amiable frame of mind. The next inn was if anything more crowded
still, and the next, and the next. For five mortal hours we plodded
on, more asleep than awake, and I retain but a misty recollection of
the snow-covered ground, of my pony slipping while crossing a frozen
ford, and of my continual efforts to keep in the saddle. At one in the
morning we hammered at the doors of yet another inn, only to be again
repelled with the frightful words, "All full."
My friend, who spoke the vernacular fluently, was now doing his best,
and with such effect that the door was cautiously opened a few inches,
when with one bound I was inside, and seeing a kang with only one man
on it I tumbled him off and flung myself down, just conscious of acrid
opium smoke, a great uproar and streams of the most insulting
abuse.
[Illustration: AVENUE OF STONE FIGURES, MING TOMBS.
_To face page 161._]
On awaking I found my friend by my side still asleep and the morning
well aired. The squalid inn was almost deserted, for the overnight
lodgers had departed with their carts and pack-animals before dawn, so
that I had not to face the individual whom I had so unceremoniously
dispossessed of his bed, although I left a dollar for him with the
innkeeper, knowing full well it would never reach him, but choosing
thus to ease a somewhat guilty conscience.
We had not much further to go and were easily back in Peking before
tiffin.
Another expedition I made that winter was to a burial-place of
emperors of the late Ming dynasty, commonly known as the "Ming Tombs,"
consisting of several immense temples or pagodas possessing but little
architectural beauty and now considerably dilapidated.
One of these temples is approached by an avenue of gigantic figures
representing warriors, statesmen, horses, camels, elephants, etc.,
each figure apparently cut from a single block of stone.
As two hundred and sixty years ago the Chinese Mings were dispossessed
by the present ruling Manchu dynasty, no attempt is now made to
preserve these interesting monuments.
In summer the heat is often very great during the day, the
thermometer frequently registering between ninety and a hundred
degrees in the shade, and is rendered more trying by the unsanitary
and neglected condition of the thoroughfares.
At night, however, it is so pleasantly cool that one can sleep under a
blanket, while punkahs over the bed are never necessary as in the
central provinces. Riding outside the city walls in the cool of early
morning or late afternoon is then most enjoyable, many interesting
sights affording constant diversion.
Acrobats practising their _tours de force_, tragedians with tense
faces declaiming in a high falsetto to imaginary audiences,
rag-pickers sorting their fulsome wares with iron-pointed sticks,
herds of coarse, black swine being bought and sold, while in the
shelter of the enormous buttresses archers erect paper targets some
eight inches square and exercise their art with solemn dignity,
elaborate posturing and considerable dexterity.
A good deal of tennis is played at the club and on the various private
courts, though most of the diplomatic body as well as missionaries
migrate during the great heat to temples in the Western Hills, which
are about twelve miles from Peking, or, now that there is railway
communication, to the seaside resort of Pei-Tai-Ho.
One afternoon another European and I rode some ten miles out of Peking
to inspect the ruins of the celebrated Summer Palace, which, since
its destruction in 1860 by the English and French forces, had remained
a desolate and overgrown wilderness. Having put up the ponies at an
inn, where an inquisitive old native wished to know whether our bright
stirrups and bits were made of silver--the Chinese never dreaming of
polishing their own--we proceeded on foot to the chief entrance, but
as the work of restoration was then being commenced the gatekeeper
refused us admission. Nothing daunted we strolled round to another
side, and passing unobserved through a gap in the wall made careful
inspection of a partially-destroyed pavilion overlooking a lake,
interrupted only by a venerable guardian, who hobbled after us mildly
requesting that we should depart. This we were preparing to do for
another part of the extensive grounds, when suddenly we came into view
of some scores of workmen who were engaged on the repairs. They
stopped work and gazed at us but made no hostile move, and we could
still have withdrawn in peace had not my companion, overcome by a
desire to practise his Chinese, and in opposition to my urgent
warning, advanced towards them with a beaming smile. No sooner was he
within range than a shower of bricks and stones filled the air and we
were both constrained to turn tail and make for the gap at full speed,
closely followed by the howling mob. We did not pause before reaching
the inn, and then only to secure our ponies and continue our
undignified flight. I was uninjured, but my companion had received a
nasty blow on the head, at which I secretly rejoiced, as owing to his
action we had not only been exposed to considerable danger but had
been prevented from further investigating a historical spot since
strictly closed to all Europeans.
I left Peking at the close of 1889, and there being then no railway
the ninety miles' journey to Tientsin had to be performed either on
horseback, by cart along cross-country tracks or _via_ the River
Peiho, taking boat at Tungchow, which is fourteen miles from the
capital. I decided on going by boat as being far more comfortable than
the other alternatives.
Winter had begun early and there was already a certain amount of ice,
but from inquiries made the river was still open. My baggage was piled
on to a long, narrow cart drawn by two mules, while I and my boy each
bestrode a very small donkey, and so I passed out from the mighty city
by the stone road which leads to Tungchow, as owing to heavy rains and
subsequent frost the more comfortable country tracks were impassable.
This road, or rather causeway, is another witness to the Chinese
characteristic of constructing costly works and then leaving them
thenceforth to fall into disrepair and ruin.
From twelve to fourteen feet in width, it is built of massive granite
blocks a foot square by perhaps three to seven feet in length, and
originally must have been a magnificent highway of perfect evenness.
Time and the grinding wheels of heavy-laden carts, however, have worn
innumerable ruts seven or eight inches deep into the solid stone, so
that in passing over it a springless cart crashes from side to side
with great violence, almost throwing shaft animals to the ground and
rendering it quite impossible for any European to ride in the vehicle,
while crockery or any other fragile article, however carefully packed,
is doomed to certain destruction.
On arrival at Tungchow I saw a great deal of ice floating down with
the current, but the boatmen declared, and I believe truly, that the
river was still open to the sea, so having transferred the baggage to
one boat, and embarking with my boy and pointer on another, we cast
off at about three o'clock in the afternoon, expecting to reach
Tientsin the following evening.
Before dark the ice greatly increased in quantity, and from the cabin
where, enveloped in rugs, I was having tea, the boatmen's excited
voices could be heard making frequent inquiries of upward-bound junks
as to our prospects of getting through, for they were Tientsin men and
anxious to get their boats home before the river was frozen up. At
six o'clock, however, when we had covered about twelve miles and it
was quite dark, the boats suddenly crashed into a barrier of ice,
which had but just formed, effectually stopping our further progress.
By frantic efforts and with great shoutings both craft were warped to
within a few feet of the bank, and there we lay, each moment becoming
more firmly wedged in by fresh ice hurrying down with the stream, and
which, driven by pressure of the frozen impact, piled up against us
with a horrid grinding noise until large sheets an eighth of an inch
thick and as clear as crystal came gliding, as though alive, on to our
decks.
There being no likelihood of our release I presently sent one of the
crew back to Tungchow for carts with which to continue the journey,
but to my dismay he returned at two in the morning with the
intelligence that no carts could be hired.
The position was a disagreeable one, as it was imperative that I
should reach Tientsin in time to catch a steamer for Shanghai before
the close of navigation, so I started off the boy, accompanied by
another boatman, with instructions to get a conveyance of some sort
and at any cost. This attempt was more successful, for at ten o'clock
they returned with a farmer and his truly wonderful cart, drawn by a
pony, a cow and a donkey, but which they had only been able to hire
for the exorbitant sum of forty dollars.
My goods and chattels were again transferred, and after making a
present of five dollars to the disconsolate boatmen, we started off at
something less than two miles an hour.
If I rode on the piled-up baggage I was quickly numbed by the cold. If
I walked I soon left the cart far behind, yet dared not lose sight of
it for fear of its taking another route, so that my time was spent in
walking ahead and then retracing my steps to meet the cart.
Long after dark we halted at one of the usual wayside inns, a
collection of hovels built round a dirty, open yard, filled with carts
and animals, and the home of pigs and fowls, while I found
accommodation on a brick bed in a comfortless room, or rather shed,
with torn paper windows and uneven mud floor.
Swallowing some cold food by the light of a tallow candle guttering in
the draught, I was too tired and too disgusted not to sleep, and by
three o'clock next morning we were again crawling on our way beneath
the blazing stars and chilled by a piercing wind.
All things have an end, and so after four days of absolute misery I
arrived at noon, hungry, footsore and unwashed, at a friend's house in
Tientsin and in time to catch the last steamer, which was sailing
that night.
After a hot bath and a good tiffin I retired gratefully to bed, but,
such is the callousness of human nature, only to be routed out at
three o'clock to play in a football match, which, the Fates be
praised, our side lost.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Pe = North. Nan = South. King = Capital City.