A TRIP THROUGH THE COUNTRY
Preparations for the journey--Headman of sedan--chair shop--Fares
settled--Morning scene--Chinese disregard of time--Start on
journey--Scenery--Rice-fields--Great roads and small
roads--Refreshment places by roadside--Villages on line of
travel--Crops--Arrive at river--Description of a famous bridge--River
boat--Gorges--Sugar canes--Sugar factory--Anchor boat.
Two of us had for some time been planning a trip into the interior. We
were anxious to see the tea growing on the mountain sides and to travel up
some of the rivers that for ages have been pouring their waters to the
plain, and up and down which the tides of life have for long centuries
flowed incessantly. The day had at length arrived when we could carry this
purpose into effect, and we were looking forward with pleasure to the
varied scenes and experiences through which we should have to pass.
The preparation for a journey differs essentially in this land from the
same thing in England. Here we have to provide plates and cups and saucers
as well as knives and forks, for such things are never used by the
Chinese, as a few bowls and chopsticks are all that are ever seen in any
home in China. We must also take our own bedding and blankets, as the
Chinese ideas of cleanliness are such as to make us chary of using any of
theirs. It is also necessary to lay in a moderate stock of tinned meats,
so as to provide for certain contingencies when anything beyond potatoes
and rice may not be procurable in some of the districts through which we
shall have to pass.
[Illustration: CHINESE LOCOMOTION.]
Having stocked our provision basket with the various articles that were
absolutely necessary for our comfort by the way, and having seen to our
bedding and inserted amongst the blankets a few choice books to enable
us to while away some of the dull hours that we were sure to have on the
journey, we had to arrange for the chairs that were to carry us for the
next few days.
We accordingly sent for the headman of the nearest chair establishment to
settle with him the rates we were to pay for the chair-bearers. This is a
question of no small difficulty, for these men have an evil reputation for
being dishonest, and unless they are carefully watched, one is certain of
being cheated by them. The man who shortly appeared in obedience to our
summons well sustained the character that his class have everywhere
obtained. He had a frowsy look about him as though he had been sleeping
all night in his clothes and had not washed for many a long day. That of
itself would not be a very serious indictment against him, for the
disregard of soap and water is no test whatever of a person's character in
China. There was something about the man's face that led us to form no
very high opinion of him. In the first place he was an opium smoker. That
could be seen from the leaden hue that had driven out nature's colours
from his face, and also from something nameless in the eyes that the opium
with its subtle alchemy had put into them. In the next there was a low and
cunning look about him that made you feel that you were in the presence of
a man whose ideas of morality had never been fashioned on the high
principles of Confucius and Mencius, or indeed of any of the other sages
who have been models to the people of this Empire.
After a considerable discussion and beating down of prices, it was finally
settled that we were to pay for one chair with its two bearers at the rate
of about five pence a league,[8] with a specified sum for the days when we
rested by the way, either because it was Sunday or for any other special
reason that might induce us to loiter on the journey. As we were anxious
to start early in order to reach a certain stopping-place where there was
a well-known Chinese inn, we stipulated that the bearers with their chairs
should appear next morning at daylight, when we would have everything
ready to make an immediate start.
True to this arrangement we had packed up and had breakfasted before any
sign of the coming sun could be seen in the eastern sky, and we kept
looking out to see when the dawn would disperse the darkness that lay on
the earth, and we could start on our journey. By and by the great
banyan-tree near by that looked like a weird and uncanny mass of shadow,
denser and blacker than those that concealed everything from view,
suddenly and as if with the touch of an enchanter's hand began to assume a
tangible shape, and great boughs swung into view, and countless branches
with their evergreen leaves came out of the night as if to greet the day
with their smiles. Soon the light had flashed across the fields and on to
the tops of houses, and had touched the summits of the hills with its
glory and had driven away the last lingering shadows from the landscape,
and another day had broken on the world.
Impatiently we waited for the coming of the chairs, but the minutes passed
by, and the sun rose higher and higher, and his rays flashed amongst the
forest of leaves that sprung from boughs and branches of the venerable
banyan, but still no sign of them or the bearers. We had been long enough
in China to realize that time to a Chinaman is of no importance whatever,
and that the difference of an hour or two in any engagement that is made
is a matter so trifling as not to be considered worthy of mention. Still
with true Occidental pertinacity and training we clung to the idea that
because the daylight had been mentioned and had been agreed to as the time
when the men should put in an appearance, the men, of course with the same
exact ideas of time that we had, would promptly appear as soon as the
first flush tinged the sky in the east.
The foreigner in dealing with the Chinese always forgets that they are
usually accustomed to look at things from a different standpoint from
ourselves, and that their minds are more turbid and less keen than ours.
Daylight, for example, with us has a definite meaning, but with a Chinaman
represents a time that begins with the dawn and with the indolence of the
East may extend to seven or eight o'clock.
By and by, and just as the clock was striking eight, the men came
sauntering up the street smoking their bamboo pipes and chatting and
joking with each other. They seemed to be perfectly unconscious that they
were fully two hours late, and they tossed the chairs on the ground with
an air as though they were in advance of their time and were anxious to be
on the road.
They seemed to be mightily taken aback when we asked them, with a good
deal of indignation in our tones, why they had not kept to the agreement
of coming to us at daylight. "But we have come at daylight," they replied,
with amazement in their looks; "what is it now but daylight?" We speedily
showed them from the current use of the word daylight, that that event
happened more than two hours ago, and that by this time we ought to have
been at least five miles on our journey.
They all seemed really surprised that the present moment could not be
fairly called daylight, but with the readiness of the Chinese in repartee
one of them said, "We really had to rise before daylight to be here now,
for we had to cook our rice and have breakfast, for the work before us is
no light one, and we dare not undertake it on an empty stomach. Then we
had to smoke our usual quantity of opium. Until we had done that we dare
not attempt the long journey that we have before us to-day. You blame us
for being late, but just think of what we have had to do before we could
come here. We had to cook our own breakfast and eat it, and that took up
some time. Then we had to get our opium pipes in working order, and slowly
manipulate the opium, and that you know is not like tobacco that you can
take a few whiffs of and the thing is finished. We had then to lie on the
opium-bench for some time till the drowsiness passed away and we had
recovered our senses. How could we come earlier with all these things to
do? You decided that we should come at daylight, and here we are. Did you
expect us to come without having had our breakfast? You are no slight
weight to carry, you know, and if we had done so, we should have had to
drop you on the road before we had been an hour on our journey."
The Chinaman has a wonderful facility for putting the best face upon a bad
argument. He has the most ingenious ways of presenting his view of the
matter, so that by and by he will have turned the tables, and he will make
it appear that he has been altogether right whilst you have been
absolutely in the wrong. His favourite method is to confuse the issues,
and the Chinese, with their turbid way of looking at things, continually
fall into the snare, and having accepted his premises they must perforce
accept also his conclusions. Here were these rough, noisy chair-bearers
insisting that they had acted upon our agreement to come at daylight,
though the sun was high in the heavens and it was getting close upon nine
o'clock. They ignored all our attempts to prove that the hour of daylight
had passed some hours ago by simply insisting that we were wrong. The
hypnotic influence of assertions made confidently and persistently began
to have its effect on our mind. Were we really labouring under a mistake,
and were the broad daylight and the great sun that glared down upon us
simply visions of the imagination? We felt that if we did not stop the
discussion we should soon be consenting to all they said, so we got into
our chairs and with a peremptory wave of the hand ordered them to go on.
With smiling faces and with an air of victory in their voices, they lifted
the poles on to their shoulders and commenced the long journey of twenty
miles that lay before us. When the bearers are strong and know their work,
and when they have got into step with each other, the motion of the chair
is a very pleasant one and the time passes by very quickly.
This latter is in a great measure due to the constantly changing scenes
that meet one by the way. After leaving the city we emerged into the open
country, where we had ample evidence of the skill with which the farmer
cultivates his fields. He seems, indeed, to have penetrated into the
secrets of nature and to have learned how to manipulate his fields, and
how to coax and win the various kinds of seeds that he plants that they
shall all respond to the efforts he puts forth and gladden his heart with
their fruitful harvests.
The Chinese farmer is a most unaesthetic, most uninteresting looking
character, and strikes one as far inferior to the rosy-cheeked,
jolly-looking specimens that till our lands in England. He has altogether
a mean appearance and does not at first sight induce us to have any high
respect for him. His dress is against him. It is made of sombre-looking
blue cotton cloth, slouchily made, and usually anything but clean. He
absolutely neglects his toilette, and his face and hands show an ingrained
dislike to water. Whether as the result of hard work or of exposure to the
sun, which burns like X Rays into his skin, his countenance in a
comparatively early stage becomes furrowed with wrinkles, and in time he
gets prematurely old looking.
It is when you become acquainted with him, and chat with him, that these
external disadvantages seem to vanish from your thoughts, and you realize
that here you have a man who has held deep communion with nature, and who
knows her so well that she responds to his touch, and pours with no
unwilling hand out of the abundance of her treasury the riches that are to
fill the homes with gladness and content.
The fields that we are now passing through are an evidence of the skill
and ingenuity of the farmers. They are all covered with luxuriant crops of
rice, and as the sun shines down upon the heads that have just issued from
their leafy enclosures, and his rays flash upon the water at their feet,
making it to sparkle and glisten as so many diamond points that reflect
his glory, the sight is one that the eye never gets tired of looking upon.
One is led to reflect in gazing upon these fields with what exquisite
beauty and with what marvellous detail God fashions the growing grain so
that it shall come with as perfect and divine a form as His great Master
Mind can devise it.
As far as the eye can reach there is little else to be seen but rice. One
sees it down in the hollows where the little rivulets flow, and where they
have left their trace in the deeper green and the ranker growth of the
crops near by. On the rising ground one's eye is caught with the lifelike,
graceful motions that the passing breeze with the art of a master makes
the stalks that stand so thickly side by side perform. Like the waves
breaking on the shore, one never wearies looking at them, for they vary
with every gust of wind, so that they never become monotonous.
The only exception to this universal growth of the rice are fields of
sweet potatoes that occupy grounds where the water cannot reach. As this
is an essential for the cultivation of rice, which must stand in it during
the whole time of its growth, until within a few days of its being
harvested, other kinds of crops have to be planted in what are called "the
dry fields." These are mainly sweet potatoes, though various others are
also cultivated in them.
Here, for example, is a small plot of land that we are passing by, which
illustrates not only the ingenuity of the Chinese farmer, but also shows
the varied purposes to which "the dry fields" may be put. There are no
fewer than three distinct crops growing harmoniously side by side on it.
There are peanuts with their short, insignificant growth and their tiny
yellow flowers that seem the very embodiment of retiring modesty. Out of
their very midst there spring up the sturdy millet-stalks, with their
lofty ambitions that would make them stretch far beyond the humble leaves
and flowers at their feet; and last, but not the least important, there is
a crop of sweet potatoes that will quietly survive when the other two have
been gathered, and will gladden the hearts of the farmers after the others
have been garnered.
As we travel on, we notice how very bad the roads are. We are on what is
called the "Great Road," for it is a great thoroughfare, and for more than
two thousand miles it runs over great plains, and winds up and down hills
and mountains, and crosses great rivers and countless streams, and
penetrates great and populous cities, and yet, excepting at occasional
places, it never averages more than ten feet wide. It seems, too, to be in
a chronic state of disrepair. The rains fall, and the storms and the
typhoons spend their fury on it, and try their very utmost to obliterate
it. The countless feet, too, of weary travellers, and of coolies with
burdened shoulders, and chair-bearers with their weighty fares tread it
down and fill it with ruts, and wear away the stones, and disfigure its
surface with heights and hollows that make travelling in the rainy season
a serious trial to those who have to journey along it.
If this be the case with the "Great Roads" it may easily be imagined what
the character of the "Small Roads" must be. These latter are practically
but footpaths that exist like a huge network throughout the Empire, and
are reserved for the local traffic that goes on between village and
village, and between market town and market town, and whilst on the whole
they aim at being as straight and as direct as possible, they are from the
very nature of the case generally very winding and roundabout. Fields have
to be crossed and private property has to be invaded, and so the traveller
has to accommodate himself to the necessities of the case, and follow the
windings and the turnings by which the least damage may be done to those
whose farms or homesteads have been invaded by those who never dream of
paying any compensation for the liberty they have taken.
In travelling on these "Great Roads," one finds that about every two miles
or so apart there are recognized stages or resting-places where
refreshments of a very primitive kind may be obtained, and where men
wearied with the strain of walking, or oppressed with the great flaring,
scorching sun may find some respite from the strain that has been put upon
them.
But here is one of these stages, and as the rule of the road demands that
the chair-bearers shall stop at it, we shall be able to see for ourselves
exactly what they are like. At first sight it has a very tempting,
picturesque appearance. Several magnificent banyan-trees send out huge
spreading boughs, which, with their great forest of leaves, cast a most
refreshing shade over the road and over the eating-houses that stand by
the wayside. These latter are of the simplest and most elementary kind,
and consist of one large room that is practically a kitchen, where the
rice and the sweet potatoes are cooked and where the owner and his wife
carry out the orders that their customers may give them.
In front of this are small tables and rough wooden benches for the
accommodation of those who wish to have refreshment. No sooner do our men
drop their chairs on the road, than they stagger to one of these tables,
and, at a kind of masonic sign that is easily read, a bowl of smoking-hot
rice is put into the hands of each, a pair of chop-sticks are grasped from
a hollow bamboo receptacle on the table, and without a word it is quickly
being shovelled down their throats. It is not until at least half the
basin has been emptied that signs of contentment escape from them, and the
innate humour, which has been crushed by the pain and weariness on the
road, finds expression in laughter and in humorous conversation that fills
the air with merry sounds that linger among the branches and wander down
along the road into the great glare beyond where the shadows of the banyan
lie.
In order to ease ourselves from the cramped position we have had to
maintain in the chair, we get out and stretch our legs, and finally sit
down on one of the benches and watch the moving life that passes and
repasses in front of us.
Here is a young fellow that has just staggered out of the sunlight into
the shadow, and he lets down his burden from his shoulder as though he
were tearing off the skin and places it carefully within a few feet of us.
He must be about twenty-five, and is as good a specimen of a man as one
would find in a day's journey. His face is flushed and excited, and he has
a strained look upon it as though he had been bearing a pressure that had
become simply unendurable.
"How far have you travelled with your load?" we asked him.
"One hundred and fifty miles," he replied, "and I have thirty more before
I reach the end of my journey."
"What is its weight?" I inquire of him.
"It is a hundred and fifty pounds at the very least," he said, and he cast
a wistful, anxious look upon the huge burden that he had carried so far.
"But why engage to bear so heavy a load? A hundred pounds ought to have
been your limit, for so long a journey," I continued.
"I could not afford to carry less," he quickly replied; "I am paid so much
a pound, and I have to pay my own expenses. I have to eat often," he
explained, "or I should break down. I have to pay for my bed at night, and
I must have a certain amount over to take home to my wife and family. If I
were to reduce the weight I could not do that, and so I am compelled to
put every pound into my load that I can possibly carry in order that my
family may not suffer."
But here comes a sedan chair that has come in with a rush whilst we have
been talking. The bearers are both young strapping fellows, and we can
tell from the hot flush on their faces that the strain upon them is a
severe one. They are too proud, however, to acknowledge that, and instead
of letting the chair down gently, they give it a toss in the air as though
it were a plaything, and with a jaunty air they drop it on to the ground.
They then begin to chaff some of the other bearers that are seated on the
tables, and in a leisurely, easy way saunter to a seat as though it were a
matter of perfect indifference whether they had any refreshment or not.
The keeper of the eating-house, however, knows exactly the requirements of
these two brave young fellows, and so he quietly slips a bowl into the
hand of each, and, in spite of their feigned unconcern, they are soon
shovelling down great mouthfuls of the hot savoury rice.
As we sit looking at the shifting scene that passes like a moving panorama
before us, we are impressed with the pathetic side that seems to us to be
the prominent one. The passers-by are nearly all representatives of the
working classes, and even they come from the poorer stratum. Some of them
are men from a distance, as may be seen by their dust-soiled garments and
their air of weariness. Others are farmers who have been to the
neighbouring city to dispose of their farm produce, whilst not a few are
nondescripts, the waifs and strays that heathen society tosses up, whose
hold upon life is always a precarious one, and who may any day be landed
amongst the beggar class to fight and struggle for existence as best they
may.
Now and again a man in easier circumstances may be detected by the
independent swing of his walk, and by the jolly look that illumines his
broad, but unaesthetic features. There are young fellows, too, who, full of
exuberant spirits, lark and joke with each other, and make the air ring
with their laughter, but there are only too many with a shadow on their
faces that tells of an inner life where the heart throbs with a hidden
pain. For one thing, at least, the Chinaman is a man to be greatly admired
for the patience and the heroism with which he bears the ills and the
disappointments of life. It is not because he is of a callous nature, or
that he is insensible to the human touches that sweep over the spirit of
other races, and make the heart break down in tears. It is simply because
he has a wonderful power of self-restraint; and because pain and distress
are inevitable as he considers, he hides within his bosom, under a face
that absolutely refuses to let out his secret, the sorrow that amongst us
we could not disguise.
The chair-bearers have had their bowl of rice. They have seized a handful
of peanuts which lie in little mounds on the table, and are hastily
cracking their shells, and as they pick their kernels out they propel them
with a jerk into their mouths. Finally they fill their diminutive bamboo
pipes with tobacco, and after three or four good long whiffs, they call
out in a cheery voice, "Now let us go." The chair is swung up on to their
shoulders, they shuffle their feet until they get into step, and then,
with a steady trot, they start for the next stage that lies two or three
miles ahead.
Our way lies across a plain that is thickly dotted with villages. These at
a distance have a very charming appearance, and remind one very much of
similar places in the homeland. They are nearly always embowered amongst
great stately trees, that the forefathers planted when the foundations of
the new home were laid. They have grown since then, and now beneath their
spreading branches only a pointed roof or a whitewashed gable can be
caught sight of through the rifts in the foliage of the trees.
The plain is a populous one, and the road on which we are travelling being
a great thoroughfare, little market towns have sprung up on it. If there
is one thing more than another that these impress upon a stranger from the
West it is the absolute want of taste that the Chinese show in the
building of their houses and in the laying out of their streets.
Broken-down shanties, badly kept houses, streets that reek with smells,
people dressed in an untidy and slovenly manner, and with hands and faces
that very rarely become acquainted with soap and water; these are the
common sights that meet one wherever he travels in this great land of
China. The country has an old and worn-out look about it, and seems as
though it needed whitewashing and renovating; whilst the people as a whole
require washing and scrubbing and a liberal use of "Sunlight Soap," to
remove the grimy, dusty accumulations that rest upon them wherever you
meet them.
Our journey so far has taken us through a very fertile district, and
luxuriant crops of rice testify not only to the excellence of the land,
but also to the skill of the farmers in the wise methods they have learned
to employ in the cultivation of the land. That they succeed so well is no
doubt due to the long and assiduous care that the nation has given to
agriculture. From time immemorial the farmer has held a high position in
the estimation of the nation. One of the most honoured amongst their
ancient kings was a man that was taken from the plough, and was made a
co-ruler with a man that, for the probity of his reign, has always been
spoken of in the annals of the empire as a sage.
The Chinese, therefore, have had long experience in the art of cultivating
the soil, and out of this has been developed the touch in their fingers
that nature recognizes and responds to so readily. They seem to have no
trouble in making things grow. Apparently without any effort they plough
their land and scatter their seed with careless hand, and granting that
the rain falls with tolerable regularity, everything springs up just as
they have planned.
After passing through a number of villages and hamlets, and small market
towns, all frowsy and slattern-looking, and pervaded with the Oriental bad
smells wherever a human habitation exists, we came late in the afternoon
to the mouth of a wide river, where our land journey was to end, and where
we were to continue it by boat until we should reach our destination.
In order to get to our boat, which we had arranged should meet us at this
place, we had to cross the bridge that spanned the river here to get to
the other side where it lay awaiting us. This bridge is a famous one, and
is a very fine specimen of what the Chinese builders can do in the
construction of such. It consists of about twenty-five spans, the widest
of which is sixty-five feet, whilst the others vary somewhat in their
measurements.
As the river flows here with a very rapid current, and moreover is liable
to sudden rises after heavy rains in the interior, it was essential, in
the erecting of this bridge, that it should be built so strongly that it
would be able to stand not only the wear and tear of the ever-flowing
river, but also the mighty strain of the deluge of waters that comes
roaring down the gorges that lie above it either after some tempest, or in
consequence of an unusual downpour during the rainy season in the spring.
The great width between each pier was not a matter of choice but of
necessity. To have placed them any nearer to each other might have risked
their being swept away by the river tide, which when swollen by the storms
of summer rolls down with prodigious volume and force over the very spot
where the bridge had to be built. It was also equally necessary that the
slabs of stone that composed the roadway of the bridge should be
enormously heavy, so that they might be able to resist the impetus of the
flood that would at times roll over them and yet not be strong enough to
lift them from their positions and hurl them down the river.
It was a bold design and one seemingly impossible of achievement, and yet
it has been done. Many of the slabs are seventy feet long, six feet in
thickness and about four feet in width. As you slowly tread your way over
them and try and pace out their length, they appear Titanic in their
dimensions, and the question that is most often in the mouths of the
visitors who have come to witness this great engineering feat is how ever
did the builders manage two hundred years ago not simply to cut such huge
blocks of granite from the mountain side, but also to place them in the
position they have occupied for two centuries at least.
This question is one that was easily answered by the untaught architects,
who, without any other guidance than their own common-sense and their
general knowledge of building, had undertaken to throw a bridge over a
stream that depended for its moods on the changeful, fitful temper of
the elements. They first of all built their piers in the river when the
water was at its lowest. They waited till the winter months, when the
north-east monsoon had driven the winds in wild confusion far down into
the South, and the mountain streams were dry, and the current flowed in a
sluggish, indolent stream.
[Illustration: A FAMOUS BRIDGE.
_To face p. 361._]
They then began to quarry out the mighty slabs that were to make the
roadway of the bridge, and that should be so weighty as to be able to
resist the fierce onrush of waters when the river, maddened by the storms,
flung itself down the gorges and, flecked with foam, careered in wild
confusion towards the sea.
The hills near by that ran down to the very edge of the water abounded
with stone exactly suited for the purpose, and as the proper lengths were
chiselled out of the hillsides, they were deftly slid down on rollers and
placed on rafts that were moored by the edge of the shore. Here they were
allowed to rest in peace and quietness until some great downpour filled
the rivulets and the mountain streams and the thousand and one tributaries
that sent their gurgling, gathering forces to swell the waters of the main
river.
Men with keen and eager watch marked the rise of the tide, and when it was
found that the flood had risen higher than the tops of the piers, the huge
rafts with their mighty cargoes were skilfully guided down the flowing
river, and the slabs having been moored in the position they were to
occupy as parts of the roadway of the bridge, the workmen waited for the
fall of the waters, when they each subsided into the exact place they were
intended to fill. The river itself was thus made the engineering force by
which at a comparative little cost and at no very great expense of labour,
those huge masses of stone, that no hydraulic power in the world could
have lifted into position, were placed in the very simplest manner where
they have remained for more than two hundred years.
We found the boat we had ordered waiting for us by the river side, nestled
under a great clump of bamboos, that stretched their feathery, graceful
branches right over it as though they would cast their protecting shadow
over the place where it lay.
At this point our land journey ends, but before going on board we have to
settle with our chair-bearers, and, as is universally the case in China,
to part with these usually demands a little diplomacy. In spite of the
fact that we had agreed upon the sum we were to pay them at the end of the
journey, they were very insistent that we should make them a present in
addition. This is one of the traditions of the profession, that "wine
money," as the tax is called, should be demanded from every fare they
carry. If the day is stormy and the roads bad, amidst the loudly expressed
complaints of the bearers at their sorrows and miseries, there will be
continually heard the comforting assurances uttered by themselves, that at
the end of the journey the present of the "wine money" will be a very
liberal one. They repeat this so often that they finally come to consider
that they are entitled to the sum they have mentioned, and when the
stipulated fare has been handed over to them, they will assume an injured
air as though they were being defrauded, and they will demand the "wine
money" as a right which may not be denied them.
As they had been very nice during the journey, we made them a present of
one hundred cash, equal to about twopence halfpenny, with which they
expressed themselves highly pleased, and declared that we had hearts that
knew the sorrows that chair-bearers had to endure, and that we were
tender-heated enough to sympathize with them in a way they could
understand.
It would have seemed from this that our parting from these men was going
to be a very pleasant and a very amicable one, but those who are
acquainted with the wiles of this class of men will easily understand
that this outward expression of good-will did not mean that they were not
going to try and squeeze some more money out of us. The usual way in which
payment is made is in copper cash. These are made up in hundreds, and ten
of these are so strung together that they form a string of a thousand. In
ordinary transactions these are accepted at their full value of nine
hundred and ninety eight, two being deducted to pay for the string on
which the whole are strung.
The chair-bearers for private reasons of their own refuse to accept these
strings of cash until they have all been counted over and the five per
cent. of bad ones that custom allows have all been eliminated. They
insist, too, that the counting of these unwieldy coins shall be done on
the ground and by themselves. Each string of one hundred was accordingly
unloosed and cast upon the ground, and with the deft fingers of these
unscrupulous bearers not only were the spurious cash spotted and laid
aside in a heap by themselves, but a few of the really good ones were also
abstracted in such a clever fashion that no one could catch the motion of
their nimble fingers. In the dispute about the disappearance of the cash,
one of the men was observed putting his bare toes on two or three that lay
together and grasping them with them. He then quietly and naturally drew
up his leg behind his back, and in an easy, unsuspicious way removed them
and concealed them in his hand.
We felt that there would be no credit in disputing about the stolen cash,
for the whole amount did not come to more than a little over a penny, so
the men departed highly pleased with the cumshaw (present) that had been
given them and with the few cash that they had been able to abstract under
our very noses.
We had no sooner got on board than the large sail was hoisted, and the men
taking to their oars we were soon speeding away at a tolerably quick rate
on our journey up the river. Our boat was a very comfortable one, and it
was quite a relief after being cramped up in the chair to be able to
stretch one's legs and to indulge in a lounge or sometimes to take a walk
along the bank of the river.
The boat was about twenty feet in length and five or six in width at the
centre. It was divided into four sections. There was the bow, where the
men stood when they rowed or hoisted the sail. Next to this was a room
that was used as sitting-room, bedroom and dining-room. Further aft was a
diminutive space where the servants could lie, and in the stern was the
section where the steersman stood and guided the boat. It served also as a
kitchen, for all the meals were prepared here, and at night, after the
boat was anchored, the crew of four men lay upon the planks of the deck,
and covering themselves with their wadded quilts, slept soundly till the
dawn called them again to their work.
As the wind freshened our boat rushed through a narrow gorge, where the
hills, beautifully wooded down to the very water's edge, presented a most
charming and picturesque view. It was not an extensive one, and so we soon
emerged from it into an extensive plain which was in the highest state of
cultivation. This was rendered possible by this noble river that flowed
through the very centre of it. The farmers had taken advantage of this,
and with great ingenuity had managed to train the waters so that they
should flow into the fields far beyond the banks on either side of the
river, and flood the fields of rice.
The effect of all this was seen in the luxuriant crops of rice that could
be seen stretching far into the distance. It would seem indeed as though
they were conscious of the boundless supply of water that ran on in an
endless stream close within sight. There was a deeper colour in the
dark-green hue with which they were tinged, and a sturdier and more
independent growth, than where the grain was dependent on the rainfall or
on the ponds that had been filled during the rainy season and that were
intended to be the supplies from which they were to draw when there was a
dearth of rain.
There is one feature in the cultivation of this plain that is but rarely
seen in any other district. You might travel for fifty miles in any
direction you please, and you would never be able to catch a trace of it.
I refer to the numerous clumps of sugar cane that occupy every little bit
of rising ground, where the water would not lie so as to bear a crop of
rice. Scattered over the great area of this extensive valley, they seem
like sentinels placed to guard the growing grain that looks so beautiful
in the great sheets of water that gleam and glisten in the sun's rays at
its feet.
There is something special in the soil of this region that is favourable
to the cultivation of this plant, for the sugar that is produced in this
district is famous, and it finds a ready market not only in far-off
distant places in China, but also in countries beyond the limits of the
Empire. The amount of sugar actually raised is large enough to form an
industry that is of sufficient importance to give employment to
considerable numbers of the people in the towns and villages on the plain.
But here is a village, right on the water's edge, that is evidently a
centre of the trade, where we shall be able to get a good idea of the
processes through which the sugar has to go before it is ready for the
market. We stop our boat, and climbing the grassy bank and crossing the
path that runs close along the river side, we come at once into a scene of
the greatest activity. Men and women and young lads are gathered round the
sugar-crusher, which is being turned by a huge water buffalo, which with
slow and ponderous tread and with a look of oppression in its large liquid
eyes travels round and round in a perpetual circle, causing the pair of
huge stones to revolve in the same direction and to crush the canes that
are thrust in between them by the feeders.
Underneath the crushers is a drain into which the juice from the canes
drops and which conveys it into a large vat that stands ready to receive
it. The liquid in this is of a very dark colour, very sticky, and has a
strong resemblance to treacle. So intense has been the pressure of the
crushers upon the canes, that after they have come out from between the
revolving stones, not a particle of moisture is left in any of them, and
they are no longer of any use except for firewood.
This treacly substance is then put into earthenware jars of the shape of a
pyramid with a slight perforation at the apex and turned upside down and
allowed to drain. The sugar at the broader end is covered with a layer of
damp mud from the river, and the moisture from it is allowed to soak
through the mass. The result is the whole becomes refined, and there
remains, after a certain time has been allowed for the process to work, a
light-coloured specimen of soft brown sugar.
A further stage is reached by boiling the brown sugar in huge iron pans
and pouring the liquid into coarse jars, the whole of whose interiors have
been threaded backward and forward with coarse string. By the wonderful
alchemy of nature these have the power of crystallizing the boiling
liquid, and the result is a brown sugar candy, that whilst it is wanting
in the golden hue and the delicate fascinations of the English article, it
is just as toothsome and a great deal less expensive; for a catty (1-1/3
lb.) of the very best can be purchased in any of the shops that deal in
such articles for about three pence halfpenny.
We leave the sugar factory, and proceed up the river, but as the sun has
gone down beyond the mountains, and the shadows fall thickly upon the
darkening waters, the captain chooses a place where he will anchor for the
night. Just ahead of us there are a number of junks that have already
lowered their sails and let down their anchors, and towards them our boat
is steered. In a few minutes we too have joined company with them, and
form part of the little fleet that will safely defy any attempt of river
thieves to molest us.
The scene on the river is just now a very pleasing one. Boats of various
sizes and descriptions are making vigorous efforts to reach their
destination at villages on the river. The glory of the setting sun that
tipped the mountains in the near distance is gradually dying out, and the
deep shadows settle on their sides, making them look grand and gloomy. The
crows that have wandered far during the day in search of food, warned by
the waning light, are hurrying in flocks up the river and from across the
plain in the direction of the great tree upon which they are accustomed to
roost during the night. The sounds of human voices from the boats anchored
near us come to us with a pleasant sense of companionship as the night
deepens on the river. The laughter at some side-splitting joke, the noisy
discussion of some disputed point--for the Chinese never can talk in a low
voice--the voice of some mother hushing her little one to sleep, all fill
the air with a music of its own, and seem to be a pleasant ending to the
events of the day. A spice of mystery, too, is added, for some of the
crows that have been abroad, heedless of time, have delayed their return
till darkness has almost settled on the land. Attracted by the lights of
the boats they fly close over our heads so that we can hear the whirr of
their wings, and then with a rush like an arrow from a bow they dash with
the speed of lightning into the night and are gone, leaving an uncanny
feeling in our minds, as though we had been visited by spirits from the
vasty deep.
Supper ended, the Chinese sit for a short time smoking their pipes and
chatting indifferently upon any subject that may turn up, but before long
the captain takes a look at the sky to see what weather may be expected.
He then examines his cable to see whether the anchor is holding or not,
and having satisfied himself that there is no danger of his boat drifting
during the night, he utters the welcome order, "Now let us sleep," and in
a few minutes the crew are in the land of dreams, from which they will not
return until the dawn with its silent touch brings them back once more to
a busy working world.
We do not feel inclined to retire so soon as these boatmen, who have been
trained to early hours. The evening is too young, and besides the beauty
of the night scenery has an attraction for us that banishes the thought of
sleep from us. We sit out on the bow of the boat and become absorbed in
the beauty of the scene, which is lost to the sleeping world. The clouds
that had been flying across the sky during the day have all vanished, and
now the heavens are bright with stars that seem to shine with unwonted
brilliance. The mountains on which we have gazed all the day long look now
like sleeping giants hiding themselves in the gloom of night and invested
with an air of mystery as we try in vain to catch an outline of them. The
people on the boats are all asleep, and only an occasional sound from a
restless child can be heard coming from them. Everything is silent but the
flowing river, and this ebbs on with ceaseless motion, and as if to remind
us of its presence swishes up against us, and with inarticulate language
gives us a cheery hail and then passes on. We go on dreaming, for the
stars and the land lying in the vague mystery of night, and the undefined
forms of the mountains and the ceaseless voices that nature utters all
night long lay their spell upon us. By and by a dreamy, drowsy feeling
creeps over us, and we retire to our cabin, and soon with the lullaby of
the river that murmurs its music alongside our boat, we lose all sense of
the world outside.
THE END
_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Macgowan's _Imperial History of China_, where T'a Ki is discussed,
in the chapter on the Chow Dynasty.
[2] For an account of these see Macgowan's _Imperial History of China_.
[3] See Macgowan's _Imperial History of China_ for fuller information on
this book.
[4] See Macgowan's _Imperial History of China_, passim.
[5] The cangue is a huge wooden collar which is fastened about the neck.
It is so broad that the man cannot feed himself, neither can he frighten
away a mosquito that may settle on his nose, nor can he sleep comfortably
whilst he wears it. He is usually made to parade near the place where his
offence was committed, as an object lesson to others.
[6] See Chapter on "Servants" for a disquisition on this point.
[7] See Macgowan's _Imperial History of China_, passim.
[8] A league in China is equal to ten Chinese miles. With the want of
precision, however, of the Chinese in their weights and measures, a league
is a very variable denomination. On what are called the "Great Roads,"
that is on a great thoroughfare, the length is as stated above, but on
cross-country roads, where the farmers are great walkers, a league may
sometimes extend to as much as ten English miles. The fact is, as we have
often found by experience, the length of a league depends very much upon
the measuring capacity of a man's mind, for it is a rare thing to get a
number of people to agree as to the exact distance between one place and
another.