Russian influence, which even now predominates at Kuldja, was forcibly
indicated, the day after our arrival, during our investigations as to the
validity of our Chinese passports for the journey to Peking. The Russian
consul, whose favor we had secured in advance through letters from
Governor Ivanoff at Vernoye, had pronounced them not only good, but by far
the best that had been presented by any traveler entering China at this
point. After endeavoring to dissuade us from what he called a foolhardy
undertaking, even with the most valuable papers, he sent us, with his
interpreter, to the Kuldja Tootai for the proper visé.
That dignitary, although deeply interested, was almost amused at the
boldness of our enterprise. He said that no passport would insure success
by the method we proposed to pursue; that, before he could allow us to
make the venture, we must wait for an order from Peking. This, he said,
would subject us to considerable delay and expense, even if the telegraph
and post were utilized through Siberia and Kiakhta. This was discouraging
indeed. But when we discovered, a few minutes later, that his highness had
to call in the learned secretary to trace our proposed route for him on
the map of China, and even to locate the capital, Peking, we began to
question his knowledge of Chinese diplomacy. The matter was again referred
to the consul, who reported back the following day that his previous
assurances were reliable, that the Tootai would make the necessary visés,
and send away at once, by the regular relay post across the empire, an
open letter that could be read by the officials along the route, and be
delivered long before our arrival at Peking. Such easy success we had not
anticipated. The difficulty, as well as necessity, of obtaining the proper
credentials for traveling in China was impressed upon us by the arrest the
previous day of three Afghan visitors, and by the fact that a German
traveler had been refused, just a few weeks before, permission even to
cross the Mozart pass into Kashgar. So much, we thought, for Russian
friendship.
Upon this assurance of at least official consent to hazard the journey to
Peking, a telegram was sent to the chief of police at Tomsk, to whose care
we had directed our letters, photographic material, and bicycle supplies
to be sent from London in the expectation of being forced to take the
Siberian route. These last could not have been dispensed with much longer,
as our cushion-tires, ball-bearings, and axles were badly worn, while the
rim of one of the rear wheels was broken in eight places for the lack of
spokes. These supplies, however, did not reach us till six weeks after the
date of our telegram, to which a prepaid reply was received, after a
week’s delay, asking in advance for the extra postage. This, with that
prepaid from London, amounted to just fifty dollars. The warm weather,
after the extreme cold of a Siberian winter, had caused the tires to
stretch so much beyond their intended size that, on their arrival, they
were almost unfit for use. Some of our photographic material also had been
spoiled through the useless inspection of postal officials.
[Illustration: THE FORMER MILITARY COMMANDER OF KULDJA AND HIS
FAMILY.]
The delay thus caused was well utilized in familiarizing ourselves as much
as possible with the language and characteristics of the Chinese, for, as
we were without guides, interpreters, or servants, and in some places
lacked even official assistance, no travelers, perhaps, were ever more
dependent upon the people than ourselves. The Chinese language, the most
primitive in the world, is, for this very reason perhaps, the hardest to
learn. Its poverty of words reduces its grammar almost to a question of
syntax and intonation. Many a time our expressions, by a wrong inflection,
would convey a meaning different from the one intended. Even when told the
difference, our ears could not detect it.
Our work of preparation was principally a process of elimination. We now
had to prepare for a forced march in case of necessity. Handle-bars and
seat-posts were shortened to save weight, and even the leather
baggage-carriers, fitting in the frames of the machines, which we
ourselves had patented before leaving England, were replaced by a couple
of sleeping-bags made for us out of woolen shawls and Chinese
oiled-canvas. The cutting off of buttons and extra parts of our clothing,
as well as the shaving of our heads and faces, was also included by our
friends in the list of curtailments. For the same reason one of our
cameras, which we always carried on our backs, and refilled at night under
the bedclothes, we sold to a Chinese photographer at Suidun, to make room
for an extra provision-bag. The surplus film, with our extra baggage, was
shipped by post, via Siberia and Kiakhta, to meet us on our arrival in
Peking.
[Illustration: VIEW OF A STREET IN KULDJA FROM THE WESTERN GATE.]
And now the money problem was the most perplexing of all. “This alone,”
said the Russian consul, “if nothing else, will defeat your plans.” Those
Western bankers who advertise to furnish “letters of credit to any part of
the world” are, to say the least, rather sweeping in their assertions. At
any rate, our own London letter was of no use beyond the Bosporus, except
with the Persian imperial banks run by an English syndicate. At the
American Bible House at Constantinople we were allowed, as a personal
favor, to buy drafts on the various missionaries along the route through
Asiatic Turkey. But in central Asia we found that the Russian bankers and
merchants would not handle English paper, and we were therefore compelled
to send our letter of credit by mail to Moscow. Thither we had recently
sent it on leaving Tashkend, with instructions to remit in currency to
Irkutsk, Siberia. We now had to telegraph to that point to re-forward over
the Kiakhta post-route to Peking. With the cash on hand, and the proceeds
of the camera, sold for more than half its weight in silver, four and one
third pounds, we thought we had sufficient money to carry us, or, rather,
as much as we could carry, to that point; for the weight of the Chinese
money necessary for a journey of over three thousand miles was, as the
Russian consul thought, one of the greatest of our almost insurmountable
obstacles. In the interior of China there is no coin except the _chen_, or
_sapeks_, an alloy of copper and tin, in the form of a disk, having a hole
in the center by which the coins may be strung together. The very recently
coined _liang_, or _tael_, the Mexican piaster specially minted for the
Chinese market, and the other foreign coins, have not yet penetrated from
the coast. For six hundred miles over the border, however, we found both
the Russian money and language serviceable among the Tatar merchants,
while the _tenga_, or Kashgar silver-piece, was preferred by the natives
even beyond the Gobi, being much handier than the larger or smaller bits
of silver broken from the _yamba_ bricks. All, however, would have to be
weighed in the _tinza_, or small Chinese scales we carried with us, and on
which were marked the _fün_, _tchan_, and _liang_ of the monetary scale.
But the value of these terms is reckoned in _chen_, and changes with
almost every district. This necessity for vigilance, together with the
frequency of bad silver and loaded _yambas_, and the propensity of the
Chinese to “knock down” on even the smallest purchase, tends to convert a
traveler in China into a veritable Shylock. There being no banks or
exchanges in the interior, we were obliged to purchase at Kuldja all the
silver we would need for the entire journey of over three thousand miles.
“How much would it take?” was the question that our past experience in
Asiatic travel now aided us to answer. That our calculations were close is
proved by the fact that we reached Peking with silver in our pockets to
the value of half a dollar. Our money now constituted the principal part
of our luggage, which, with camera and film, weighed just twenty-five
pounds apiece. Most of the silver was chopped up into small bits, and
placed in the hollow tubing of the machines to conceal it from Chinese
inquisitiveness, if not something worse. We are glad to say, however, that
no attempt at robbery was ever discovered, although efforts at extortion
were frequent, and sometimes, as will appear, of a serious nature.
[Illustration: OUR RUSSIAN FRIEND AND MR. SACHTLEBEN LOADED WITH
ENOUGH CHINESE “CASH” TO PAY FOR A MEAL AT A KULDJA RESTAURANT.]
The blowing of the long horns and boom of the mortar cannon at the fort
awoke us at daylight on the morning of July 13. Farewells had been said
the night before. Only our good-hearted Russian host was up to put an
extra morsel in our provision-bag, for, as he said, we could get no food
until we reached the Kirghiz aouls on the high plateau of the Talki pass,
by which we were to cut across over unbeaten paths to the regular
so-called imperial highway, running from Suidun. From the Catholic
missionaries at Kuldja we had obtained very accurate information about
this route as far as the Gobi desert. The expression Tian Shan Pe-lu, or
northern Tian Shan route, in opposition to the Tian Shan Nan-lu, or
southern Tian Shan route, shows that the Chinese had fully appreciated the
importance of this historic highway, which continues the road running from
the extreme western gate of the Great Wall obliquely across Mongolian
Kan-su, through Hami and Barkul, to Urumtsi. From here the two natural
highways lead, one to the head-waters of the Black Irtish, the other to
the passes leading into the Ili valley, and other routes of the
Arolo-Caspian depression. The latter route, which is now commanded at
intervals by Chinese forts and military settlements, was recently
relinquished by Russia only when she had obtained a more permanent footing
on the former in the trading-posts of Chuguchak and Kobdo, for she very
early recognized the importance of this most natural entry to the only
feasible route across the Chinese empire. In a glowing sunset, at the end
of a hot day’s climb, we looked for the last time over the Ili valley, and
at dusk, an hour later, rolled into one of the Kirghiz aouls that are here
scattered among the rich pasturage of the plateau.
[Illustration: A STREET IN THE TARANTCHI QUARTER OF KULDJA.]
Even here we found that our reputation had extended from Kuldja. The chief
advanced with _amans_ of welcome, and the heavy-matted curtains in the
kibitka doorway were raised, as we passed, in token of honor. When the
refreshing kumiss was served around the evening camp-fire, the dangers of
the journey through China were discussed among our hosts with frequent
looks of misgiving. Thus, from first to last, every judgment was against
us, and every prediction was of failure, if not of something worse; and
now, as we stole out from the tent by the light of the rising moon, even
the specter-like mountain-peaks around us, like symbols of coming events,
were casting their shadows before. There was something so illusive in the
scene as to make it very impressive. In the morning, early, a score of
horsemen were ready to escort us on the road. At parting they all
dismounted and uttered a prayer to Allah for our safety; and then as we
rode away, drew their fingers across their throats in silence, and waved a
solemn good-by. Such was the almost superstitious fear of these western
nomads for the land which once sent forth a Yengiz Khan along this very
highway.
[Illustration: PRACTISING OUR CHINESE ON A KULDJA CULPRIT.]
Down the narrow valley of the Kuitun, which flows into the Ebi-nor,
startling the mountain deer from the brink of the tree-arched rivulet, we
reached a spot which once was the haunt of a band of those border-robbers
about whom we had heard so much from our apprehensive friends. At the base
of a volcano-shaped mountain lay the ruins of their former dens, from
which only a year ago they were wont to sally forth on the passing
caravans. When they were exterminated by the government, the head of their
chief, with its dangling queue, was mounted on a pole near-by, and
preserved in a cage from birds of prey, as a warning to all others who
might aspire to the same notoriety. In this lonely spot we were forced to
spend the night, as here occurred, through the carelessness of the Kuldja
Russian blacksmith, a very serious break in one of our gear wheels. It was
too late in the day to walk back the sixteen miles to the Kirghiz
encampment, and there obtain horses for the remaining fifty-eight miles to
Kuldja, for nowhere else, we concluded, could such a break be mended. Our
sleeping-bags were now put to a severe test between the damp ground and
the heavy mountain dew. The penetrating cold, and the occasional
panther-like cry of some prowling animal, kept us awake the greater part
of the night, awaiting with revolvers in hand some expected attack.
[Illustration: THE HEAD OF A BRIGAND EXPOSED ON THE HIGHWAY.]
Five days later we had repassed this spot and were toiling over the sand
and saline-covered depression of the great “Han-Hai,” or Dried-up Sea. The
mountain freshets, dissolving the salt from their sandy channels, carry it
down in solution and deposit it with evaporation in massive layers,
forming a comparatively hard roadway in the midst of the shifting
sand-dunes. Over these latter our progress was extremely slow. One stretch
of fifteen miles, which it took us six hours to cover, was as formidable
as any part of the Turkoman desert along the Transcaspian railway. At an
altitude of only six hundred feet above the sea, according to our aneroid
barometer, and beneath the rays of a July sun against which even our felt
caps were not much protection, we were half-dragging, half-pushing, our
wheels through a foot of sand, and slapping at the mosquitos swarming upon
our necks and faces. These pests, which throughout this low country are
the largest and most numerous we have ever met, are bred in the
intermediate swamps, which exist only through the negligence of the
neighboring villagers. At night smoldering fires, which half suffocate the
human inmates, are built before the doors and windows to keep out the
intruding insects. All travelers wear gloves, and a huge hood covering the
head and face up to the eyes, and in their hands carry a horse-tail switch
to lash back and forth over their shoulders. Being without such protection
we suffered both day and night.
[Illustration: A CHINESE GRAVEYARD ON THE EASTERN OUTSKIRTS OF
KULDJA.]
The mountain freshets all along the road to Urumtsi were more frequent and
dangerous than any we had yet encountered. Toward evening the melting
snows, and the condensing currents from the plain heated during the day,
fill and overflow the channels that in the morning are almost dry. One
stream, with its ten branches, swept the stones and boulders over a
shifting channel one mile in width. It was when wading through such
streams as this, where every effort was required to balance ourselves and
our luggage, that the mosquitos would make up for lost time with impunity.
The river, before reaching Manas, was so swift and deep as to necessitate
the use of regular government carts. A team of three horses, on making a
misstep, were shifted away from the ford into deep water and carried far
down the stream. A caravan of Chinese traveling-vans, loaded with goods
from India, were crossing at the time, on their way to the outlying
provinces and the Russian border. General Bauman at Vernoye had informed
us that in this way English goods were swung clear around the circle and
brought into Russia through the unguarded back door.
With constant wading and tramping, our Russian shoes and stockings, one of
which was almost torn off by the sly grab of a Chinese spaniel, were no
longer fit for use. In their place we were now obliged to purchase the
short, white cloth Chinese socks and string sandals, which for mere
cycling purposes and wading streams proved an excellent substitute, being
light and soft on the feet and very quickly dried. The calves of our legs,
however, being left bare, we were obliged, for state occasions at least,
to retain and utilize the upper portion of our old stockings. It was owing
to this scantiness of wardrobe that we were obliged when taking a bath by
the roadside streams to make a quick wash of our linen, and put it on wet
to dry, or allow it to flutter from the handle-bars as we rode along. It
was astonishing even to ourselves how little a man required when once
beyond the pale of Western conventionalities.
[Illustration: SPLITTING POPPY-HEADS TO START THE OPIUM JUICE.]
From Manas to Urumtsi we began to strike more tillage and fertility.
Maize, wheat, and rice were growing, but rather low and thin. The last is
by no means the staple food of China, as is commonly supposed, except in
the southern portion. In the northern, and especially the outlying,
provinces it is considered more a luxury for the wealthy. Millet and
coarse flour, from which the _mien_ or dough-strings are made, is the
foundation, at least, for more than half the subsistence of the common
classes. Nor is there much truth, we think, in the assertion that Chinamen
eat rats, although we sometimes regretted that they did not. After a month
or more without meat a dish of rats would have been relished, had we been
able to get it. On the other hand we have learned that there is a society
of Chinamen who are vegetarians from choice, and still another that will
eat the meat of no animal, such as the ass, horse, dog, etc., which can
serve man in a better way.
[Illustration: THE CHIEF OF THE CUSTOM-HOUSE GIVES A LESSON IN OPIUM
SMOKING.]
Urumtsi, or Hun-miao (red temple) of the Chinese, still retains its
ancient prestige in being the seat of government for the viceroyalty of
Sin-tsiang, which includes all that portion of western China lying without
the limit of Mongolia and Tibet. Thanks to its happy position, it has
always rapidly recovered after every fresh disaster. It now does
considerable trade with Russia through the town of Chuguchak, and with
China through the great gap which here occurs in the Tian Shan range. It
lies in a picturesque amphitheater behind the solitary “Holy Mount,” which
towers above a well-constructed bridge across its swiftly flowing river.
This city was one of our principal landmarks across the empire; a long
stage of the journey was here completed.
[Illustration: RIDING BEFORE THE GOVERNOR OF MANAS.]
On entering a Chinese city we always made it a rule to run rapidly through
until we came to an inn, and then lock up our wheels before the crowd
could collect. Urumtsi, however, was too large and intricate for such a
manœuver. We were obliged to dismount in the principal thoroughfare. The
excited throng pressed in upon us. Among them was a Chinaman who could
talk a little Russian, and who undertook to direct us to a comfortable inn
at the far end of the city. This street parade gathered to the inn yard an
overwhelming mob, and announced to the whole community that “the foreign
horses” had come. It had been posted, we were told, a month before, that
“two people of the new world” were coming through on “strange iron
horses,” and every one was requested not to molest them. By this, public
curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. When we returned from supper at
a neighboring restaurant, we were treated to a novel scene. The doors and
windows of our apartments had been blocked with boxes, bales of cotton,
and huge cart-wheels to keep out the irrepressible throng. Our host was
agitated to tears; he came out wringing his hands, and urging upon us that
any attempt on our part to enter would cause a rush that would break his
house down. We listened to his entreaties on the condition that we should
be allowed to mount to the roof with a ladder, to get away from the
annoying curiosity of the crowd. There we sat through the evening
twilight, while the crowd below, somewhat balked, but not discouraged,
stood taking in every move. Nightfall and a drizzling rain came at last to
our relief.
The next morning a squad of soldiers was despatched to raise the siege,
and at the same time presents began to arrive from the various officials,
from the Tsongtu, or viceroy, down to the superintendent of the local
prisons. The matter of how much to accept of a Chinese present, and how
much to pay for it, in the way of a tip to the bearer, is one of the
finest points of that finest of fine arts, Chinese etiquette; and yet in
the midst of such an abundance and variety we were hopelessly at sea.
Fruits and teas were brought, together with meats and chickens, and even a
live sheep. Our Chinese visiting-cards—with the Chinese the great insignia
of rank—were now returned for those sent with the presents, and the hour
appointed for the exhibition of our bicycles as requested.
[Illustration: MONUMENT TO A PRIEST AT URUMTSI.]
Long before the time, the streets and housetops leading from the inn to
the viceroy’s palace at the far end of the city began to fill with people,
and soldiers were detailed at our request to make an opening for us to
ride through abreast. This, however, did not prevent the crowd from
pushing us against each other, or sticking sticks in the wheels, or
throwing their hats and shoes in front of us, as we rode by. When in sight
of the viceroy’s palace, they closed in on us entirely. It was the worst
jam we had ever been in. By no possibility could we mount our machines,
although the mob was growing more and more impatient. They kept shouting
for us to ride, but would give us no room. Those on the outside pushed the
inner ones against us. With the greatest difficulty could we preserve our
equilibrium, and prevent the wheels from being crushed, as we surged along
toward the palace gate; while all the time our Russian interpreter, Mafoo,
on horseback in front, continued to shout and gesticulate in the wildest
manner above their heads. Twenty soldiers had been stationed at the palace
gate to keep back the mob with cudgels. When we reached them, they pulled
us and our wheels quickly through into the inclosure, and then tried to
stem the tide by belaboring the heads and shoulders in reach, including
those of our unfortunate interpreter, Mafoo. But it was no use. Everything
was swept away before this surging wave of humanity. The viceroy himself,
who now came out to receive us, was powerless. All he could do was to
request them to make room around the palace courtyard for the coming
exhibition. Thousands of thumbs were uplifted that afternoon, in praise of
the wonderful _twee-tah-cheh_, or two-wheeled carts, as they witnessed our
modest attempt at trick riding and special manœuvering. After refreshments
in the palace, to which we were invited by the viceroy, we were counseled
to leave by a rear door, and return by a roundabout way to the inn,
leaving the mob to wait till dark for our exit from the front.
[Illustration: A BANK IN URUMTSI.]
The restaurant or tea-house in China takes the place of the Western
club-room. All the current news and gossip is here circulated and
discussed over their eating or gambling. One of their games of chance,
which we have frequently noticed, seems to consist in throwing their
fingers at one another, and shouting at the top of their voices. It is
really a matching of numbers, for which the Chinamen make signs on their
fingers, up to the numeral ten. Our entry into a crowded _dungan_, or
native Mohammedan restaurant, the next morning, was the signal for
exciting accounts of the events of the previous day. We were immediately
invited to take tea with this one, a morning dish of _tung-posas_, or nut
and sugar dumplings, with another, while a third came over with his can of
_sojeu_, or Chinese gin, with an invitation “to join him.” The Chinese of
all nations seem to live in order to eat, and from this race of epicures
has developed a nation of excellent cooks. Our fare in China, outside the
Gobi district, was far better than in Turkey or Persia, and, for this
reason, we were better able to endure the increased hardships. A plate of
sliced meat stewed with vegetables, and served with a piquant sauce,
sliced radishes and onions with vinegar, two loaves of Chinese _mo-mo_, or
steamed bread, and a pot of tea, would usually cost us about three and one
quarter cents apiece. Everything in China is sliced so that it can be
eaten with the chop-sticks. These we at length learned to manipulate with
sufficient dexterity to pick up a dove’s egg—the highest attainment in the
chop-stick art. The Chinese have rather a sour than a sweet tooth. Sugar
is rarely used in anything, and never in tea. The steeped tea-flowers,
which the higher classes use, are really more tasty without it. In many of
the smaller towns, our visits to the restaurant would sometimes result in
considerable damage to its keepers, for the crowd would swarm in after us,
knocking over the table, stools, and crockery as they went, and collect in
a circle around us to watch the “foreigners” eat, and to add their opium
and tobacco smoke to the suffocating atmosphere.
A visit to the local mint in Urumtsi revealed to us the primitive method
of making the _chen_, or money-disks before mentioned. Each is molded
instead of cut and stamped as in the West. By its superintendent we were
invited to a special breakfast on the morning of our departure.
[Illustration: A MAID OF WESTERN CHINA.]
The Chinese are the only people in the Orient, and, so far as we know, in
the European and Asiatic continents, who resemble the Americans in their
love for a good, substantial morning meal. This was much better adapted to
our purpose than the Russian custom, which compelled us to do the greater
part of our day’s work on merely bread and weak tea.
[Illustration: STYLISH CART OF A CHINESE MANDARIN.]
From Urumtsi we had decided to take the northern route to Hami, via
Gutchen and Barkul, in order to avoid as much as possible the sands of the
Tarim basin on the southern slope of the Tian Shan mountains. Two guards
were commissioned by the viceroy to take us in charge, and hand us over to
the next relay station. Papers were given them to be signed by the
succeeding authorities on our safe arrival. This plan had been adopted by
every chief mandarin along the route, in order, not only to follow out the
request of the London minister as written on the passport, but principally
to do us honor in return for the favor of a bicycle exhibition; but many
times we would leave our discomfited guards to return with unsigned
papers. Had we been traveling in the ordinary way, not only these favors
might not have been shown us, but our project entirely defeated by local
obstructions, as was the case with many who attempted the same journey by
caravan. To the good-will of the mandarins, as well as the people, an
indispensable concomitant of a journey through China, our bicycles were
after all our best passports. They everywhere overcame the antipathy for
the foreigner, and made us cordially welcome.
The costumes of our soldiers were strikingly picturesque. Over the front
and back of the scarlet waistcoats were worked in black silk letters their
military credentials. Over their full baggy trousers were drawn their
riding overalls, which cover only the front and sides of the legs, the
back being cut out just above the cloth top of their Chinese boots.
Instead of a cap, they wear a piece of printed cloth wrapped tightly
around the head, like the American washerwomen. Their well-cushioned
saddles did not save them from the constant jolting to which our high
speed subjected them. At every stopping-place they would hold forth at
length to the curious crowd about their roadside experiences. It was
amusing to hear their graphic descriptions of the mysterious “ding,” by
which they referred to the ring of the cyclometer at every mile. But the
phrase _quai-ti-henn_ (very fast), which concluded almost every sentence,
showed what feature impressed them most. Then, too, they disliked very
much to travel in the heat of the day, for all summer traveling in China
is done at night. They would wake us up many hours before daylight to make
a start, despite our previous request to be left alone. Our week’s run to
Barkul was made, with a good natural road and favoring conditions, at the
rate of fifty-three miles per day, eight miles more than our general
average across the empire. From Kuldja to the Great Wall, where our
cyclometer broke, we took accurate measurements of the distances. In this
way, we soon discovered that the length of a Chinese _li_ was even more
changeable than the value of the _tael_. According to time and place, from
185 to 250 were variously reckoned to a degree, while even a difference in
direction would very often make a considerable difference in the distance.
It is needless to say that, at this rate, the guards did not stay with us.
Official courtesy was now confined to despatches sent in advance. Through
this exceptionally wild district were encountered several herds of
antelope and wild asses, which the natives were hunting with their long,
heavy, fork-resting rifles. Through the exceptional tameness of the
jack-rabbits along the road, we were sometimes enabled to procure with a
revolver the luxury of a meat supper.
[Illustration: A CHINESE PEDDLER FROM BARKUL.]
At Barkul (Tatar) the first evidence of English influence began to appear
in the place of the fading Russian, although the traces of Russian
manufacture were by no means wanting far beyond the Great Wall. English
pulverized sugar now began to take the place of Russian lump. India
rubber, instead of the Russianized French _elastique_, was the native name
for our rubber tires. English letters, too, could be recognized on the
second-hand paper and bagging appropriated to the natives’ use, and even
the gilded buttons worn by the soldiers bore the stamp of “treble gilt.”
From here the road to Hami turns abruptly south, and by a pass of over
nine thousand feet crosses the declining spurs of the Tian Shan mountains,
which stand like a barrier between the two great historic highways,
deflecting the westward waves of migration, some to Kashgaria and others
to Zungaria. On the southern slope of the pass we met with many large
caravans of donkeys, dragging down pine-logs to serve as poles in the
proposed extension of the telegraph-line from Su-Chou to Urumtsi. In June
of this year the following item appeared in the newspapers:
“Within a few months Peking will be united by wire with St. Petersburg;
and, in consequence, with the telegraph system of the entire civilized
world. According to the latest issue of the Turkestan ‘Gazette,’ the
telegraph-line from Peking has been brought as far west as the city of
Kashgar. The European end of the line is at Osh, and a small stretch of
about 140 miles now alone breaks the direct telegraph communication from
the Atlantic to the Pacific.”
[Illustration: CHINESE GRAVES ON THE ROAD TO HAMI.]
[Illustration: SCENE IN A TOWN OF WESTERN CHINA.]
Hami is one of those cities which may be regarded as indispensable. At the
edge of the Great Gobi and the converging point of the Nan-lu and
Pe-lu—that is, the southern and northern routes to the western world—this
oasis is a necessary resting-place. During our stop of two days, to make
necessary repairs and recuperate our strength for the hardships of the
desert, the usual calls were exchanged with the leading officials. In the
matter of social politeness the Chinese, especially the “literati,” have
reason to look down upon the barbarians of the West. Politeness has been
likened generally to an air-cushion. There is nothing in it, but it eases
the jolts wonderfully. As a mere ritual of technicalities it has perhaps
reached its highest point in China. The multitude of honorific titles, so
bewildering and even maddening to the Occidental, are here used simply to
keep in view the fixed relations of graduated superiority. When wishing to
be exceptionally courteous to “the foreigners,” the more experienced
mandarins would lay their doubled fists in the palms of our hands, instead
of raising them in front of their foreheads, with the usual salutation
_Homa_. In shaking hands with a Chinaman we thus very often had our hands
full. After the exchange of visiting-cards, as an indication that their
visits would be welcome, they would come on foot, in carts, or palanquins,
according to their rank, and always attended by a larger or smaller
retinue. Our return visits would always be made by request, on the wheels,
either alone or with our interpreter, if we could find one, for our
Chinese was as yet painfully defective. Russian had served us in good
stead, though not always directly. In a conversation with the Tootai of
Schicho, for instance, our Russian had to be translated into Turki and
thence interpreted in Chinese. The more intelligent of these conversations
were about our own and other countries of the world, especially England
and Russia, who, it was rumored, had gone to war on the Afghanistan
border. But the most of them generally consisted of a series of trivial
interrogations beginning usually with: “How old are you?” Owing to our
beards, which were now full grown, and which had gained for us the
frequent title of _yeh renn_, or wild men, the guesses were far above the
mark. One was even as high as sixty years, for the reason, as was stated,
that no Chinaman could raise such a beard before that age. We were
frequently surprised at their persistence in calling us brothers when
there was no apparent reason for it, and were finally told that we must be
“because we were both named _Mister_ on our passports.”
[Illustration: A LESSON IN CHINESE.]
[Illustration: A TRAIL IN THE GOBI DESERT.]
It was already dusk on the evening of August 10 when we drew up to the
hamlet of Shang-loo-shwee at the end of the Hami oasis. The Great Gobi, in
its awful loneliness, stretched out before us, like a vast ocean of
endless space. The growing darkness threw its mantle on the scene, and
left imagination to picture for us the nightmare of our boyhood days. We
seemed, as it were, to be standing at the end of the world, looking out
into the realm of nowhere. Foreboding thoughts disturbed our repose, as we
contemplated the four hundred miles of this barren stretch to the Great
Wall of China. With an early morning start, however, we struck out at once
over the eighty-five miles of the Takla Makan sands. This was the worst we
could have, for beyond the caravan station of Kooshee we would strike the
projecting limits of Mongolian Kan-su. This narrow tract, now lying to our
left between Hami and the Nan Shan mountains, is characterized by
considerable diversity in its surface, soil, and climate. Traversed by
several copious streams from the Nan Shan mountains, and the
moisture-laden currents from the Bay of Bengal and the Brahmaputra valley,
its “desert” stretches are not the dismal solitudes of the Tarim basin or
the “Black” and “Red” sands of central Asia. Water is found almost
everywhere near the surface, and springs bubble up in the hollows, often
encircled by exterior oases. Everywhere the ground is traversable by
horses and carts. This comparatively fertile tract, cutting the Gobi into
two great sections, has been, ever since its conquest two thousand years
ago, of vast importance to China, being the only feasible avenue of
communication with the western provinces, and the more important link in
the only great highway across the empire. A regular line of caravan
stations is maintained by the constant traffic both in winter and summer.
But we were now on a bit of the genuine Gobi—that is, “Sandy Desert”—of
the Mongolian, or “Shamo” of the Chinese. Everywhere was the same
interminable picture of vast undulating plains of shifting reddish sands,
interspersed with quartz pebbles, agates, and carnelians, and relieved
here and there by patches of wiry shrubs, used as fuel at the desert
stations, or lines of hillocks succeeding each other like waves on the
surface of the shoreless deep. The wind, even more than the natural
barrenness of the soil, prevents the growth of any vegetation except low,
pliant herbage. Withered plants are uprooted and scattered by the gale
like patches of foam on the stormy sea. These terrible winds, which of
course were against us, with the frequently heavy cart-tracks, would make
it quite impossible to ride. The monotony of many weary hours of plodding
was relieved only by the bones of some abandoned beast of burden, or the
occasional train of Chinese carts, or rather two-wheeled vans, loaded with
merchandise, and drawn by five to six horses or mules. For miles away they
would see us coming, and crane their necks in wondering gaze as we
approached. The mulish leaders, with distended ears, would view our
strange-looking vehicles with suspicion, and then lurch far out in their
twenty-foot traces, pulling the heavily loaded vehicles from the
deep-rutted track. But the drivers were too busy with their eyes to notice
any little divergence of this kind. Dumb with astonishment they continued
to watch us till we disappeared again toward the opposite horizon. Farther
on we would meet a party of Chinese emigrants or exiles, on their way to
the fertile regions that skirt the northern and southern slopes of the
Tian Shan mountains. By these people even the distant valley of the Ili is
being largely populated. Being on foot, with their extraordinary loads
balanced on flexible shoulder-poles, these poor fellows could make only
one station, or from twelve to twenty miles a day. In the presence of
their patience and endurance, we were ashamed to think of such a thing as
hardship.
[Illustration: IN THE GOBI DESERT.]
The station-houses on the desert were nothing more than a collection of
mud huts near a surface well of strongly brackish water. Here, most of the
caravans would put up during the day, and travel at night. There was no
such thing as a restaurant; each one by turn must do his own cooking in
the inn kitchen, open to all. We, of course, were expected to carry our
own provisions and do our own culinary work like any other respectable
travelers. This we had frequently done before where restaurants were not
to be found. Many a time we would enter an inn with our arms filled with
provisions, purchased at the neighboring bazaars, take possession of the
oven and cooking utensils, and proceed to get up an American meal, while
all the time a hundred eyes or more would be staring at us in blank
amazement. But here on the desert we could buy nothing but very coarse
flour. When asked if they had an egg or a piece of vegetable, they would
shout “_Ma-you_” (“There is none”) in a tone of rebuke, as much as to say:
“My conscience! man, what do you expect on the Gobi?” We would have to be
content with our own tea made in the iron pot, fitting in the top of the
mud oven, and a kind of sweetened bread made up with our supply of sugar
brought from Hami. This we nicknamed our “Gobi cake,” although it did
taste rather strongly of brackish water and the garlic of previous
contents of the one common cooking-pot. We would usually take a large
supply for road use on the following day, or, as sometimes proved, for the
midnight meal of the half-starved inn-dog. The interim between the evening
meal and bedtime was always employed in writing notes by the feeble,
flickering light of a primitive taper-lamp, which was the best we had
throughout the Chinese journey.
[Illustration: STATION OF SEB-BOO-TCHAN.]
A description of traveling in China would by no means be complete without
some mention of the vermin which infest, not only inns and houses, but the
persons of nearly all the lower classes. Lice and fleas seem to be the
_sine qua non_ of Chinese life, and in fact the itching with some seems to
furnish the only occasion for exercise. We have seen even shopkeepers
before their doors on a sunny afternoon, amusing themselves by picking
these insidious creatures from their inner garments. They are one of the
necessary evils it seems, and no secret is made of it. The sleeping
_kangs_ of the Chinese inns, which are made of beaten earth and heated in
winter like an oven, harbor these pests the year round, not to mention the
filthy coverlets and greasy pillows that were sometimes offered us. Had we
not had our own sleeping-bags, and used the camera, provision-bag, and
coats for pillows, our life would have been intolerable. As it was there
was but little rest for the weary.
The longest station on the desert was thirty-one miles. This was the only
time that we suffered at all with thirst. In addition to the high mean
elevation of the Gobi, about four thousand feet, we had cloudy weather for
a considerable portion of the journey, and, in the Kan-su district, even a
heavy thunder-shower. These occasional summer rains form, here and there,
temporary meres and lakes, which are soon evaporated, leaving nothing
behind except a saline efflorescence. Elsewhere the ground is furrowed by
sudden torrents tearing down the slopes of the occasional hills or
mountains. These dried up river-beds furnished the only continuously hard
surfaces we found on the Gobi; although even here we were sometimes
brought up with a round turn in a chuck hole, with the sand flying above
our heads.
Our aneroid barometer registered approximately six thousand five hundred
feet, when we reached at dusk the summit of the highest range of hills we
encountered on the desert journey. But instead of the station-hut we
expected to find, we were confronted by an old Mongolian monastery. These
institutions, we had found, were generally situated as this one, at the
top of some difficult mountain-pass or at the mouth of some cavernous
gorge, where the pious intercessors might, to the best advantage, strive
to appease the wrathful forces of nature. In this line of duty the lama
was no doubt engaged when we walked into his feebly-lighted room, but,
like all Orientals, he would let nothing interfere with the performance of
his religious duties. With his gaze centered upon one spot, his fingers
flew over the string of beads in his lap, and his tongue over the
stereotyped prayers, with a rapidity that made our head swim. We stood
unnoticed till the end, when we were at once invited to a cup of tea, and
directed to our destination, five _li_ beyond. Toward this we plodded
through the growing darkness and rapidly cooling atmosphere; for in its
extremes of temperature the Gobi is at once both Siberian and Indian, and
that, too, within the short period of a few hours. Some of the mornings of
what proved to be very hot days were cold enough to make our extremities
fairly tingle.
[Illustration: A ROCKY PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS OF THE GOBI.]
A constant diet of bread and tea, together with the hard physical exercise
and mental anxiety, caused our strength at length to fail.
[Illustration: A WASTE OF BLACK SAND IN THE GOBI.]
The constant drinking of brackish water made one of us so ill that he
could retain no food. A high fever set in on the evening of August 15, and
as we pulled into the station of Bay-doon-sah, he was forced to go to bed
at once. The other, with the aid of our small medicine supply, endeavored
to ward off the ominous symptoms. In his anxiety, however, to do all that
was possible he made a serious blunder. Instead of antipyrin he
administered the poison, sulphate of zinc, which we carried to relieve our
eyes when inflamed by the alkali dust. This was swallowed before the truth
was discovered. It was an anxious moment for us both when we picked up the
paper from the floor and read the inscription. We could do nothing but
look at each other in silence. Happily it was an overdose, and the
vomiting which immediately followed relieved both the patient and the
anxious doctor. What to do we did not know. The patient now suggested that
his companion should go on without him, and, if possible, send back
medical aid or proper food; but not to remain and get worse himself. He,
on the other hand, refused to leave without the other. Then too, the
outlying town of Ngan-si-chou, the first where proper food and water could
be obtained, was only one day’s journey away. Another effort was decided
upon. But when morning came, a violent hurricane from the southeast swept
the sand in our faces, and fairly blew the sick man over on his wheel.
Famishing with thirst, tired beyond expression, and burning with fever as
well as the withering heat, we reached at last the bank of the Su-la-ho.
Eagerly we plunged into its sluggish waters, and waded through under the
walls of Ngan-si-chou.
[Illustration: A ROAD MARK IN THE GOBI DESERT.]
Ngan-si-chou was almost completely destroyed during the late Dungan
rebellion. Little is now to be seen except heaps of rubbish, ruined
temples, and the scattered fragments of idols. The neglected gardens no
longer check the advancing sands, which in some places were drifting over
the ramparts. Through its abandoned gateway we almost staggered with
weakness, and directed our course to the miserable bazaar. The only meat
we could find was pork, that shibboleth between Mohammedanism and
Confucianism. The Dungan restaurant-keeper would not cook it, and only
after much persuasion consented to have it prepared outside and brought
back to be eaten beneath his roof. With better water and more substantial
food we began, from this time on, to recuperate. But before us still a
strong head wind was sweeping over the many desert stretches that lay
between the oases along the Su-la-ho, and with the constant walking our
sandals and socks were almost worn away. For this reason we were delayed
one evening in reaching the town of Dyou-min-shan. In the lonely stillness
of its twilight a horseman was approaching across the barren plain,
bearing a huge Chinese lantern in his hand, and singing aloud, as is a
Chinaman’s custom, to drive off the evil spirits of the night. He started
back, as we suddenly appeared, and then dismounted, hurriedly, to throw
his lantern’s glare upon us. “Are you the two Americans?” he asked in an
agitated manner. His question was surprising. Out in this desert country
we were not aware that our identity was known, or our visit expected. He
then explained that he had been instructed by the magistrate of
Dyou-min-shan to go out and look for us, and escort us into the town. He
also mentioned in this connection the name of Ling Darin—a name that we
had heard spoken of almost with veneration ever since leaving Urumtsi. Who
this personage was we were unable to find out beyond that he was an
influential mandarin in the city of Su-chou, now only a day’s journey
away.
[Illustration: WITHIN THE WESTERN GATE OF THE GREAT WALL.]
Near that same fortieth parallel of latitude on which our Asiatic journey
was begun and ended, we now struck, at its extreme western limit, the
Great Wall of China. The Kiayu-kuan, or “Jade Gate,” by which it is here
intersected, was originally so called from the fact that it led into the
Khotan country, whence the Chinese traders brought back the precious
mineral. This, with the Shanghai-kuan near the sea, and the Yuamin-kuan,
on the Nankow pass, are the principal gateways in this “wall of ten
thousand _li_,” which, until forced by Yengiz Khan, protected the empire
from the Mongolian nomads for a period of fourteen hundred years. In its
present condition the Great Wall belongs to various epochs. With the
sudden and violent transitions of temperature in the severe Mongolian
climate, it may be doubted whether any portion of Shi Hoangti’s original
work still survives. Nearly all the eastern section, from Ordos to the
Yellow Sea, was rebuilt in the fifth century, and the double rampart along
the northwest frontier of the plains of Peking was twice restored in the
fifteenth and sixteenth. North of Peking, where this prodigious structure
has a mean height of about twenty-six feet, and width of twenty feet, it
is still in a state of perfect repair, whereas in many western districts
along the Gobi frontier, as here before us, it is little more than an
earthen rampart about fifteen feet in height, while for considerable
distances, as along the road from Su-chou to Kan-chou, it has entirely
disappeared for miles at a stretch. Both the gate and the wall at this
point had been recently repaired. We could now see it rising and falling
in picturesque undulations as far as the Tibetan ranges. There it stops
altogether, after a westward course of over fifteen hundred miles. In view
of what was before us, we could not but smile as we thought of that French
abbé who undertook, in an elaborate volume, to prove that the “Great Wall
of China” was nothing more than a myth.
We were now past another long anticipated land-mark, and before us, far
down in the plain, lay the city of Su-chou, which, as the terminal point
of the Chinese telegraph-line, would bring us again into electric touch
with the civilized world. But between us and our goal lay the Edzina
river, now swollen by a recent freshet. We began to wade cautiously
through with luggage and wheels balanced on our shoulders. But just at
that moment we perceived, approaching from the distance, what we took to
be a mounted Chinese mandarin, and his servant leading behind him two
richly caparisoned and riderless horses. At sight of us they spurred
ahead, and reached the opposite bank just as we passed the middle of the
stream. The leader now rose in his stirrups, waved his hat in the air and
shouted, in clear though broken English, “Well, gentlemen, you have
arrived at last!” To hear our mother tongue so unexpectedly spoken in this
out-of-the-way part of the world, was startling. This strange individual,
although clad in the regular mandarin garb, was light-complexioned, and
had an auburn instead of a black queue dangling from his shaven head. He
grasped us warmly by the hand as we came dripping out of the water, while
all the time his benevolent countenance fairly beamed with joy. “I am glad
to see you, gentlemen,” he said. “I was afraid you would be taken sick on
the road ever since I heard you had started across China. I just got the
news five minutes ago that you were at Kiayu-kuan, and immediately came
out with these two horses to bring you across the river, which I feared
would be too deep and swift for you. Mount your ponies, and we will ride
into the city together.”
[Illustration: RIDING BY THE GREAT WALL ON THE ROAD TO SU-CHOU.]
It was some time before the idea flashed across our minds that this might
indeed be the mysterious Ling Darin about whom we had heard so much.
“Yes,” said he, “that is what I am called here, but my real name is
Splingard.” He then went on to tell us that he was a Belgian by birth;
that he had traveled extensively through China, as the companion of Baron
Richthofen, and had thus become so thoroughly acquainted with the country
and its people that on his return to the coast he had been offered by the
Chinese government the position of custom mandarin at Su-chou, a position
just then established for the levying of duty on the Russian goods passing
in through the northwest provinces; that he had adopted the Chinese dress
and mode of living, and had even married, many years ago, a Chinese girl
educated at the Catholic schools in Tientsin. We were so absorbed in this
romantic history that we scarcely noticed the crowds that lined the
streets leading to the Ling Darin’s palace, until the boom of a cannon
recalled us to our situation. From the smile on the jolly face beside us,
we knew at once whom we could hold responsible for this reception. The
palace gates were now thrown open by a host of servants, and in our rags
and tatters we rolled at once from the hardships of the inhospitable
desert into the lap of luxury.
A surplus is not always so easily disposed of as a deficit—at least we
were inclined to think so in the case of our Su-chou diet. The Ling
Darin’s table, which, for the exceptional occasion, was set in the foreign
fashion with knives and forks, fairly teemed with abundance and variety.
There was even butter, made from the milk of the Tibetan yak, and
condensed milk for our coffee, the first we had tasted since leaving
Turkey, more than a year before. The Ling Darin informed us that a can of
this milk, which he once presented to Chinese friends, had been mistaken
for a face cosmetic, and was so used by the ladies of the family. The lack
of butter has led many of the missionaries in China to substitute lard,
while the Chinese fry their fat cakes in various oils. The Ling Darin’s
wife we found an excellent and even artistic cook, while his buxom twin
daughters could read and write their own language—a rare accomplishment
for a Chinese woman. Being unaccustomed to foreign manners, they would
never eat at the same table with us, but would come in during the evening
with their mother, to join the family circle and read aloud to us some of
their father’s official despatches. This they would do with remarkable
fluency and intelligence.
As guests of our highly respected and even venerated host, we were visited
by nearly all the magistrates of the city. The Ling Darin was never before
compelled to answer so many questions. In self-defense he was at last
forced to get up a stereotyped speech to deliver on each social occasion.
The people, too, besieged the palace gates, and clamored for an
exhibition. Although our own clothes had been sent away to be boiled, we
could not plead this as an excuse. The flowing Chinese garments which had
been provided from the private wardrobe of the Ling Darin fluttered wildly
in the breeze, as we rode out through the city at the appointed hour. Our
Chinese shoes, also, were constantly slipping off, and as we raised the
foot to readjust them, a shout went up from the crowd for what they
thought was some fancy touch in the way of riding.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL RECEPTION IN A CHINESE TOWN.]
From the barrenness of the Gobi to the rank vegetation of the Edzina
valley, where the grass and grain were actually falling over from
excessive weight, was a most relieving change. Water was everywhere. Even
the roadway served in many places as a temporary irrigating-canal. On the
journey to Kan-chou we were sometimes compelled to ride on the narrow
mud-wall fences that separated the flooded fields of wheat, millet, and
sorghum, the prevailing cereals north of the Hoang-ho river. Fields of
rice and the opium poppy were sometimes met with, but of the silk-worm and
tea-plant, which furnish the great staples of the Chinese export trade, we
saw absolutely nothing on our route through the northern provinces. Apart
from the “Yellow Lands” of the Hoang-ho, which need no manure, the arable
regions of China seem to have maintained their fecundity for over four
thousand years, entirely through the thoughtful care of the peasantry in
restoring to the soil, under another form, all that the crops have taken
from it. The plowing of the Chinese is very poor. They scarcely do more
than scratch the surface of the ground with their bent-stick plows,
wooden-tooth drills, and wicker-work harrows; and instead of straight
lines, so dear to the eye of a Western farmer, the ridges and furrows are
as crooked as serpents. The real secret of their success seems to lie in
the care they take to replenish the soil. All the sewage of the towns is
carried out every morning at daybreak by special coolies, to be preserved
for manure; while the dried herbs, straw, roots, and other vegetable
refuse, are economized with the greatest care for fuel. The Chinese
peasant offsets the rudeness of his implements with manual skill. He weeds
the ground so carefully that there is scarcely a leaf above the ground
that does not appertain to the crop. All kinds of pumps and hydraulic
wheels are worked, either by the hand, animals, or the wind. The system of
tillage, therefore, resembles market-gardening rather than the broad
method of cultivation common in Europe and America. The land is too
valuable to be devoted to pasture, and the forests nearly everywhere have
been sacrificed to tillage to such an extent that the material for the
enormously thick native coffins has now to be imported from abroad.
Streams and irrigating-ditches were so frequent that we were continually
saturated with water or covered with mud. Our bare arms and legs were so
tanned and coated that we were once asked by a group of squalid villagers
if “foreigners” ever bathed like themselves. On dashing down into a
village, we would produce consternation or fright, especially among the
women and children, but after the first onset, giggling would generally
follow, for our appearance, especially from the rear, seemed to strike
them as extremely ridiculous. The wheel itself presented various aspects
to their ignorant fancies. It was called the “flying machine” and
“foot-going carriage,” while some even took it for the “fire-wheel cart,”
or locomotive, about which they had heard only the vaguest rumors. Their
ignorance of its source of motive power often prompted them to name it the
“self-moving cart,” just as the natives of Shanghai are wont to call the
electric-light “the self-coming moon.”
In one out-of-the-way village of northwestern China, we were evidently
taken for some species of centaurs; the people came up to examine us while
on the wheel to see whether or no rider and wheel were one. We became so
harassed with importunities to ride that we were compelled at last to seek
relief in subterfuge, for an absolute refusal, we found, was of no avail.
We would promise to ride for a certain sum of money, thinking thus to
throw the burden of refusal on themselves. But, nothing daunted, they
would pass round the hat. On several occasions, when told that eggs could
not be bought in the community, an offer of an exhibition would bring them
out by the dozen. In the same way we received presents of tea, and by this
means our cash expenses were considerably curtailed. The interest in the
“foreign horses” was sometimes so great as to stop business and even
amusements. A rather notable incident of this kind occurred on one of the
Chinese holidays. The flag-decked streets, as we rode through, were filled
with the neighboring peasantry, attracted by some traveling theatrical
troupe engaged for the occasion. In fact, a performance was just then in
progress at the open-air theater close at hand. Before we were aware of it
we had rolled into its crowded auditorium. The women were sitting on
improvised benches, fanning and gossiping, while the men stood about in
listless groups. But suddenly their attention was aroused by the counter
attraction, and a general rush followed, to the great detriment of the
temporary peddlers’ stands erected for the occasion. Although entirely
deserted, and no doubt consumed with curiosity, the actors could not lose
what the Chinese call “face.” They still continued their hideous noises,
pantomimes, and dialogues to the empty seats.
[Illustration: A CHINAMAN’S WHEELBARROW.]
The last fifty miles into Liang-chou, a city founded by a Catholic
Chinaman over two hundred years ago, we were compelled to make on foot,
owing to an accident that caused us serious trouble all through the
remainder of our Chinese journey. In a rapid descent by a narrow pathway,
the pedal of one of the machines struck upon a protuberance, concealed by
a tuft of grass, snapping off the axle, and scattering the ball-bearings
over the ground. For some miles we pushed along on the bare axle inverted
in the pedal-crank. But the wrenching the machine thus received soon began
to tell. With a sudden jolt on a steep descent, it collapsed entirely, and
precipitated the rider over the handle-bars. The lower part of the frame
had broken short off, where it was previously cracked, and had bent the
top bar almost double in the fall. In this sad plight, we were rejoiced to
find in the “City under the Shade” the Scotch missionary, Mr. Laughton,
who had founded here the most remote of the China Inland Missions. But
even with his assistance, and that of the best native mechanic, our
repairs were ineffective. At several points along the route we were
delayed on this account. At last the front and rear parts of the machine
became entirely separated. There was no such thing as steel to be found in
the country, no tools fit to work with, and no one who knew the first
principles of soldering. After endeavoring to convince the native
blacksmiths that a delicate bicycle would not stand pounding like a
Chinese cart-wheel, we took the matter into our own hands. An iron bar was
placed in the hollow tubing to hold it in shape, and a band of telegraph
wire passed round from front to rear, along the upper and lower rods, and
then twisted so as to bring the two parts as tightly together as possible.
With a waddling frame, and patched rear-wheel describing eccentric
revolutions, we must have presented a rather comical appearance over the
remaining thousand miles to the coast.
[Illustration: MONUMENT TO THE BUILDER OF A BRIDGE.]
Across the Yellow Hoang-ho, which is the largest river we encountered in
Asia, a pontoon bridge leads into the city of Lan-chou-foo. Its
strategical position at the point where the Hoang-ho makes its great bend
to the north, and where the gateway of the West begins, as well as its
picturesque location in one of the greatest fruit-bearing districts of
China, makes it one of the most important cities of the empire. On the
commanding heights across the river, we stopped to photograph the
picturesque scene. As usual, the crowd swarmed in front of the camera to
gaze into the mysterious lens. All the missionaries we had met cautioned
us against taking photographs in China, lest we should do violence to the
many popular superstitions, but the only trouble we ever experienced in
this respect was in arousing popular curiosity. We soon learned that in
order to get something besides Chinese heads in our pictures it was
necessary first to point the camera in the opposite direction, and then
wheel suddenly round to the scene we wished to take. As we crossed the
river, the bridge of boats so creaked and swayed beneath the rushing
rabble, that we were glad to stand once more upon the terra firma of the
city streets, which were here paved with granite and marble blocks. As we
rode down the principal thoroughfare, amid the usual din and uproar, a
well-dressed Chinaman rushed out from one of the stores and grabbed us by
the arm. “Do you speak English?” he shouted, with an accent so like an
American, that we leaped from our wheels at once, and grasped his hand as
that of a fellow countryman. This, in fact, he proved to be in everything
but birth. He was one of that party of mandarins’ sons which had been sent
over to our country some years ago, as an experiment by the Chinese
government, to receive a thorough American training. We cannot here give
the history of that experiment, as Mr. Woo related it—how they were
subsequently accused of cutting off their queues and becoming
denationalized; how, in consequence, they were recalled to their native
land, and degraded rather than elevated, both by the people and the
government, because they were foreign in their sentiments and habits; and
how, at last, they gradually began to force recognition through the power
of merit alone. He had now been sent out by the government to engineer the
extension of the telegraph-line from Su-chou to Urumtsi, for it was feared
by the government that the employment of a foreigner in this capacity
would only increase the power for evil which the natives already
attributed to this foreign innovation. The similarity in the phrases,
_telegraph pole_ and _dry heaven_, had inspired the common belief that the
line of poles then stretching across the country was responsible for the
long-existing drought. In one night several miles of poles were sawed
short off, by the secret order of a banded conspiracy. After several
decapitations, the poles were now being restored, and labeled with the
words, “Put up by order of the Emperor.”
[Illustration: TWO PAGODAS AT LAN-CHOU-FOO.]
In company with the English missionary, Mr. Redfern, while attempting to
get out of the city on the way to his mountain home, we were caught in
another jam. He counseled us to conceal the weapons we were carrying in
our belts, for fear the sight of them should incite the mob to some act of
violence. Our own experience, however, had taught us that a revolver in
China was worth nothing if not shown. For persistence, this mob surpassed
any we had ever seen. They followed us out of the city and over the three
miles’ stretch to the mission premises, and there announced their
intention of remaining indefinitely. Again Mr. Redfern feared some
outbreak, and counseled us to return to the city and apply to the viceroy
himself for protection. This proved a good move. A special exhibition on
the palace parade-grounds gained for us the valuable favor of one who was
only fourth in rank to the emperor himself. A body-guard of soldiers was
furnished, not only during our sojourn in the city, but for the journey to
Singan-foo, on which a good reception was everywhere insured by an
official despatch sent in advance. In order to secure for us future
respect, a small flag with the government stamp and of yellow color was
given us to fly by the side of our “stars and stripes.” On this was
inscribed the title of “The Traveling Students,” as well as answers to the
more frequent of the common questions—our nationality, destination, and
age. The best mechanic in the local cannon-foundry was then ordered to
make, at government expense, whatever repairs were possible on our
disabled machines. This, however, as it proved, was not much; most of his
time was spent in taking measurements and patterns for another purpose. If
his intentions have been carried out, Lan-chou-foo is to-day possessed of
a “foot-moving carriage” of home production.
Our sojourn in this city is especially associated with the three names of
Woo, Choo, and Moo—names by no means uncommon in Chinese nomenclature. We
heard of a boy named the abstract numeral, “sixty-five,” because his
grandfather happened to reach that age on the very day of his birth. Mr.
Moo was the local telegraph operator, with whom we, and our friends Woo
and Choo, of Shanghai, associated. All operators in the Chinese telegraph
system are required to read and write English. The school established for
this purpose at Lan-chou we occasionally visited, and assisted the Chinese
schoolmaster to hear the recitations from Routledge’s spelling-book. He,
in turn, was a frequent partaker of our “foreign chows,” which our
English-speaking friends served with knives and forks borrowed from the
missionaries. Lily and bamboo roots, sharks’ fins and swallows’ nests, and
many other Chinese delicacies, were now served in abundance, and with the
ever-accompanying bowl of rice. In the matter of eating and drinking,
Chinese formality is extreme. A round table is the only one that can be
used in an aristocratic household. The seat of honor is always the one
next to the wall. Not a mouthful can be taken until the host raises his
chop-sticks in the air, and gives the signal. Silence then prevails; for
Confucius says: “When a man eats he has no time for talk.” When a cup of
tea is served to any one in a social party, he must offer it to every one
in the room, no matter how many there are, before proceeding to drink
himself. The real basis of Chinese politeness seems to be this: They must
be polite enough to offer, and you must be polite enough to refuse. Our
ignorance of this great underlying principle during the early part of the
Chinese journey led us into errors both many and grievous. In order to
show a desire to be sociable, we accepted almost everything that was
offered us, to the great chagrin, we fear, of the courteous donors.
[Illustration: MISSIONARIES AT LAN-CHOU-FOO.]
[Illustration: LI-HUNG-CHANG.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH SENT TO THE AUTHORS BY THE PRIME MINISTER.]