Our departure from Lan-chou was not, we thought, regretted by the
officials themselves, for we heard that apprehension was expressed lest
the crowds continuing to collect around the telegraph-office should
indulge in a riot. However, we were loath to leave our genial friends for
the society of opium-smokers, for we were now in that province of China
which, next to Sechuen, is most addicted to this habit. From dusk till
bed-time, the streets of the villages were almost deserted for the squalid
opium dens. Even our soldier attendant, as soon as the wooden saddle was
taken from his sore-backed government steed, would produce his portable
lamp, and proceed to melt on his needle the wax-like contents of a small,
black box. When of the proper consistency, the paste was rolled on a metal
plate to point it for the aperture in the flute-shaped pipe. Half the
night would be given to this process, and a considerable portion of the
remaining half would be devoted to smoking small pinches of tobacco in the
peculiar Chinese water-pipe. According to an official note, issued early
in 1882, by Mr. Hart, Inspector-General of Chinese Customs, considerably
less than one per cent. of the population is addicted to opium-smoking,
while those who smoke it to excess are few. More to be feared is the use
of opium as a poison, especially among Chinese women. The government
raises large sums from the import duty on opium, and tacitly connives at
its cultivation in most of the provinces, where the traders and mandarins
share between them the profits of this officially prohibited drug.
This part of the great historic highway on which we were now traveling,
between the two bends of the Hoang-ho, was found more extensively
patronized than heretofore. Besides the usual caravans of horses, donkeys,
and two-wheeled vans, we occasionally met with a party of shaven-headed
Tibetans traveling either as emissaries, or as traders in the famous
Tibetan sheep-skins and furs, and the strongly-scented bags of the
musk-deer. A funeral cortège was also a very frequent sight. Chinese
custom requires that the remains of the dead be brought back to their
native place, no matter how far they may have wandered during life, and as
the carriage of a single body would often be expensive, they are generally
interred in temporary cemeteries or mortuary villages, until a sufficient
number can be got together to form a large convoy. Mandarins, however, in
death as in life, travel alone and with retinue. One coffin we met which
rested upon poles supported on the shoulders of thirty-two men. Above on
the coffin was perched the usual white rooster, which is supposed to
incorporate, during transportation, the spirit of the departed. In funeral
ceremonies, especially of the father, custom also requires the children to
give public expression to their grief. Besides many other filial
observances, the eldest son is in duty bound to render the journey easy
for the departed by scattering fictitious paper-money, as spirit toll, at
the various roadside temples.
[Illustration: OPIUM-SMOKERS IN A STREET OF TAI-YUEN-FOO.]
[Illustration: MISSIONARIES AT TAI-YUEN-FOO.]
Singan-foo, the capital of the Middle Kingdom, under the Tsin dynasty, and
a city of the first importance more than two thousand years ago, is still
one of the largest places in the empire, being exceeded in population
probably by Canton alone. Each of its four walls, facing the cardinal
points, is over six miles long and is pierced in the center by a
monumental gate with lofty pavilions. It was here, among the ruins of an
old Nestorian church, built several centuries before, that was found the
famous tablet now sought at a high price by the British Museum. The
harassing mobs gathered from its teeming population, as well as the
lateness of the season, prompted us to make our sojourn as short as
possible. Only a day sufficed to reach Tong-quan, which is the central
stronghold of the Hoang-ho basin, and one of the best defended points in
China. Here, between precipitous cliffs, this giant stream rushes madly
by, as if in protest against its sudden deflection. Our ferry this time
was not the back of a Chinese coolie nor a jolting ox-cart, but a spacious
flat-boat made to accommodate one or two vehicles at a time. This was
rowed at the stern, like the gondolas of Venice. The mob of hundreds that
had been dogging our foot-steps and making life miserable, during our
brief stop for food, watched our embarkation. We reached the opposite
shore, a mile below the starting-point, and began to ascend from the
river-basin to the highlands by an excavated fissure in the famous “yellow
earth.” This gives its name, not only to the river it discolors, but, from
the extensive region comprised, even to the emperor himself, who takes the
title of “Yellow Lord,” as equivalent to “Master of the World.” The
thickness of this the richest soil in China, which according to Baron
Richthofen is nothing more than so much dust accumulated during the course
of ages by the winds from the northern deserts, is in some places at least
two thousand feet. Much ingenuity has been displayed in overcoming the
difficulties offered to free communication by the perpendicular walls of
these yellow lands. Some of the most frequented roads have been excavated
to depths of from forty to one hundred feet. Being seldom more than eight
or ten feet wide, the wheeled traffic is conducted by means of sidings,
like the “stations” in the Suez Canal. Being undrained or unswept by the
winds, these walled-up tracks are either dust-beds or quagmires, according
to the season; for us, the autumn rains had converted them into the
latter. Although on one of the imperial highways which once excited the
admiration of Marco Polo, we were now treated to some of the worst
stretches we have ever seen. The mountain ascents, especially those
stair-like approaches to the “Heavenly Gates” before reaching the Pe-chili
plains, were steep, gradeless inclines, strewn with huge upturned blocks
of stone, over which the heavy carts were fairly lifted by the sheer force
of additional horse-flesh. The bridges, too, whose Roman-like masonry
attests the high degree of Chinese civilization during the middle ages,
have long since been abandoned to the ravages of time; while over the
whole country the late Dungan rebellion has left its countless ruins.
[Illustration: ENTERING TONG-QUAN BY THE WEST GATE.]
[Illustration: MONUMENTS NEAR ONE-SHE-CHIEN.]
The people of Shan-si province are noted for their special thrift, but
this quality we observed was sometimes exhibited at the expense of the
higher virtue of honesty. One of the most serious of the many cases of
attempted extortion occurred at a remote country town, where we arrived
late one evening, after learning to our dismay that one of our remarkably
few mistakes in the road had brought us just fifty miles out of the way.
Unusually wearied as we were by the cross-country cuts, we desired to
retire early. In fact, on this account, we were not so observant of
Chinese formality as we might have been. We did not heed the hinted
requests of the visiting officials for a moon-light exhibition, nor go to
the inn-door to bow them respectfully out. We were glad to take them at
their word when they said, with the usual hypocritical smirk, “Now, don’t
come out any farther.” This indiscretion on our part caused them, as well
as ourselves, to suffer in the respect of the assembled rabble. With
official connivance, the latter were now free, they thought, to take
unusual liberties. So far, in our dealings with the Chinese, we had never
objected to anything that was reasonable even from the native point of
view. We had long since learned the force of the Chinese proverb that, “in
order to avoid suspicion you must not live behind closed doors”; and in
consequence had always recognized the common prerogative to ransack our
private quarters and our luggage, so long as nothing was seriously
disturbed. We never objected, either, to their wetting our paper windows
with their tongues, so that they might noiselessly slit a hole in them
with their exceptionally long finger nails, although we did wake up some
mornings to find the panes entirely gone. It was only at the request of
the innkeeper that we sometimes undertook the job of cleaning out the
inn-yard; but this, with the prevalent superstition about the “withering
touch of the foreigner,” was very easily accomplished. Nor had we ever
shown the slightest resentment at being called “foreign devils”; for this,
we learned, was, with the younger generation at least, the only title by
which foreigners were known. But on this particular night, our forbearance
being quite exhausted, we ejected the intruders bodily. Mid mutterings and
threats we turned out the lights, and the crowd as well as ourselves
retired. The next morning the usual exorbitant bill was presented by the
innkeeper, and, as usual, one half or one third was offered and finally
accepted, with the customary protestations about being under-paid. The
innkeeper’s grumblings incited the crowd which early assembled, and from
their whispers and glances we could see that trouble of some kind was
brewing. We now hastened to get the wheels into the road. Just then the
innkeeper, at the instigation of the crowd, rushed out and grabbed the
handle-bars, demanding at the same time a sum that was even in advance of
his original price. Extortion was now self-evident, and, remonstrance
being of no avail, we were obliged to protect ourselves with our fists.
The crowd began to close in upon us, until, with our backs against the
adjoining wall, we drew our weapons, at which the onward movement changed
suddenly to a retreat. Then we assumed the aggressive, and regained the
wheels which had been left in the middle of the road. The innkeeper and
his friend now caught hold of the rear wheels. Only by seizing their
queues could we drag them away at all, but even then before we could mount
they would renew their grasp. It was only after another direct attack upon
them that we were able to mount, and dash away.
[Illustration: MONUMENT NEAR CHANG-SHIN-DIEN.]
A week’s journeying after this unpleasant episode brought us among the
peanuts, pigs, and pig-tails of the famous Pe-chili plains. Vast fields of
peanuts were now being plowed, ready to be passed through a huge coarse
sieve to separate the nuts from the sandy loam. Sweet potatoes, too, were
plentiful. These, as well as rice balls, boiled with a peculiar dry date
in a triangular corn-leaf wrapper, we purchased every morning at daybreak
from the pots of the early street-venders, and then proceeded to the local
bake-shops, where the rattling of the rolling-pins prophesied of stringy
fat cakes cooked in boiling linseed oil, and heavy dough biscuits cleaving
to the urn-like oven.
It was well that we were now approaching the end of our journey, for our
wheels and clothing were nearly in pieces. Our bare calves were pinched by
the frost, for on some of the coldest mornings we would find a quarter of
an inch of ice. Our rest at night was broken for the want of sufficient
covering. The straw-heated _kangs_ would soon cool off, and leave us half
the night with only our thin sleeping-bags to ward off rheumatism.
But over the beaten paths made by countless wheelbarrows we were now fast
nearing the end. It was on the evening of November 3, that the giant walls
of the great “Residence,” as the people call their imperial capital, broke
suddenly into view through a vista in the surrounding foliage. The goal of
our three-thousand-one-hundred-and-sixteen-mile journey was now before us,
and the work of the seventy-first riding day almost ended. With the dusk
of evening we entered the western gate of the “Manchu City,” and began to
thread its crowded thoroughfares. By the time we reached Legation street
or, as the natives egotistically call it, “The Street of the Foreign
Dependencies,” night had veiled our haggard features and ragged garments.
In a dimly lighted courtyard we came face to face with the English
proprietor of the Hotel de Peking. At our request for lodging, he said,
“Pardon me, but may I first ask who you are and where you come from?” Our
unprepossessing appearance was no doubt a sufficient excuse for this
precaution. But just then his features changed, and he greeted us
effusively. Explanations were now superfluous. The “North China Herald”
correspondent at Pao-ting-foo had already published our story to the
coast.
That evening the son of the United States minister visited us, and offered
a selection from his own wardrobe until a Chinese tailor could renew our
clothing. With borrowed plumes we were able to accept invitations from
foreign and Chinese officials. Polite cross-examinations were not
infrequent, and we fear that entire faith in our alleged journey was not
general until, by riding through the dust and mud of Legation street, we
proved that Chinese roads were not altogether impracticable for bicycle
traveling.
[Illustration: ON THE PEI-HO.]
The autumn rains had so flooded the low-lying country between the capital
and its seaport, Tientsin, that we were obliged to abandon the idea of
continuing to the coast on the wheels, which by this time were in no
condition to stand unusual strain. On the other hand the house-boat
journey of thirty-six hours down the Pei-ho river was a rather pleasant
diversion.
Our first evening on the river was made memorable by an unusual event.
Suddenly the rattling of tin pans, the tooting of horns, and the shouting
of men, women, and children, aroused us to the realization that something
extraordinary was occurring. Then we noticed that the full moon in a
cloudless sky had already passed the half-way mark in a total eclipse. Our
boatmen now joined in the general uproar, which reached its height when
the moon was entirely obscured. In explanation we were told that the
“Great Dragon” was endeavoring to swallow up the moon, and that the
loudest possible noise must be made to frighten him away. Shouts hailed
the reappearance of the moon. Although our boatmen had a smattering of
pidjin, or business, English, we were unable to get a very clear idea of
Chinese astronomy. In journeying across the empire we found sufficient
analogy in the various provincial dialects to enable us to acquire a
smattering of one from another as we proceeded, but we were now unable to
see any similarity whatever between “You makee walkee look see,” and “You
go and see,” or between “That belong number one pidjin,” and “That is a
first-class business.” This jargon has become a distinct dialect on the
Chinese coast.
[Illustration: A CHINAMAN SCULLING ON THE PEI-HO.]
On our arrival in Tientsin we called upon the United States Consul,
Colonel Bowman, to whom we had brought several letters from friends in
Peking. During a supper at his hospitable home, he suggested that the
viceroy might be pleased to receive us, and that if we had no objection,
he would send a communication to the _yamen_, or official residence.
Colonel Bowman’s secretary, Mr. Tenney, who had been some time the
instructor of the viceroy’s sons, and who was on rather intimate terms
with the viceroy himself, kindly offered to act as interpreter. A
favorable answer was received the next morning, and the time for our visit
fixed for the afternoon of the day following. But two hours before the
appointed time a message was received from the viceroy, stating that he
was about to receive an unexpected official visit from the _phantai_, or
treasurer, of the Pe-chili province (over which Li-Hung-Chang himself is
viceroy), and asking for a postponement of our visit to the following
morning at 11 o’clock. Even before we had finished reading this unexpected
message, the booming of cannon along the Pei-ho river announced the
arrival of the _phantai’s_ boats before the city. The postponement of our
engagement at this late hour threatened to prove rather awkward, inasmuch
as we had already purchased our steamship tickets for Shanghai, to sail on
the _Fei-ching_ at five o’clock the next morning. But through the kindness
of the steamship company it was arranged that we should take a tug-boat at
Tong-ku, on the line of the Kai-ping railroad, and overtake the steamer
outside the Taku bar. This we could do by taking the train at Tientsin,
even as late as seven hours after the departure of the steamer. Steam
navigation in the Pei-ho river, over the forty or fifty miles’ stretch
from Tientsin to the gulf, is rendered very slow by the sharp turns in the
narrow stream—the adjoining banks being frequently struck and plowed away
by the bow or stern of the large ocean steamers.
When we entered the consulate the next morning, we found three palanquins
and a dozen coolies in waiting to convey our party to the viceroy’s
residence. Under other circumstances we would have patronized our “steeds
of steel,” but a visit to the “biggest” man in China had to be conducted
in state. We were even in some doubt as to the propriety of appearing
before his excellency in bicycle costume; but we determined to plead our
inability to carry luggage as an excuse for this breach of etiquette.
[Illustration: SALT HEAPS AT THE GOVERNMENT WORKS AT TONG-KU.]
The first peculiarity the Chinese notice in a foreigner is his dress. It
is a requisite with them that the clothes must be loose, and so draped as
to conceal the contour of the body. The short sack-coat and tight trousers
of the foreigner are looked upon as certainly inelegant, if not actually
indecent.
[Illustration: WINDMILLS AT TONG-KU FOR RAISING SALT WATER.]
It was not long before we were out of the foreign settlement, and wending
our way through the narrow, winding streets, or lanes, of the densely
populated Chinese city. The palanquins we met were always occupied by some
high dignitary or official, who went sweeping by with his usual vanguard
of servants, and his usual frown of excessive dignity. The fact that we,
plain “foreign devils,” were using this mode of locomotion, made us the
objects of considerable curiosity from the loiterers and passers-by, and
in fact had this not been the case, we should have felt rather
uncomfortable. The unsympathetic observation of mobs, and the hideous
Chinese noises, had become features of our daily life.
The _yamen_ courtyard, as we entered, was filled with empty palanquins and
coolie servants waiting for the different mandarins who had come on
official visits. The _yamen_ itself consisted of low one-story structures,
built in the usual Chinese style, of wood and adobe brick, in a
quadrangular form around an inner courtyard. The common Chinese paper
which serves for window-glass had long since vanished from the ravages of
time, and the finger-punches of vandals. Even here, at the _yamen_ of the
prime minister of China, dirt and dilapidation were evident on every hand.
The anteroom into which we were ushered was in keeping with its exterior.
The paper that covered the low walls and squatty ceiling, as well as the
calico covering on the divans, was soiled and torn. The room itself was
filled with mandarins from various parts of the country, waiting for an
audience with his excellency. Each wore the official robe and dish-pan
hat, with its particular button or insignia of rank. Each had a portly,
well-fed appearance, with a pompous, dignified mien overspreading his
features. The servant by whom we had sent in our Chinese visiting-cards
returned and asked us to follow him. Passing through several rooms, and
then along a narrow, darkened hallway, we emerged into an inner courtyard.
Here there were several servants standing like sentinels in waiting for
orders; others were hurrying hither and thither with different messages
intrusted to their care. This was all there was to give to the place the
air of busy headquarters. On one side of the courtyard the doors of the
“foreign reception” room opened. Through these we were ushered by the
liveried servant, who bore a message from the viceroy, asking us to wait a
few moments until he should finish some important business.
The foreign reception-room in which we were now sitting was the only one
in any official residence in the empire, and this single instance of
compliance with foreign customs was significant as bearing upon the
attitude toward Western ideas of the man who stands at the head of the
Chinese government. Everything about us was foreign except a Chinese divan
in one corner of the room. In the middle of the floor stood a circular
sofa of the latest pattern, with chairs and settees to match, and at one
end a foreign stove, in which a fire had been recently lighted for our
coming. Against the wall were placed a full-length mirror, several
brackets, and some fancy work. The most interesting of the ornaments in
the room were portraits of Li-Hung-Chang himself, Krupp the gun-maker,
Armstrong the ship-builder, and the immortal “Chinese Gordon,” the only
foreigner, it is said, who has ever won a spark of admiration from the
Chinese people.
While we were waiting for the viceroy, his second son, the pupil of Mr.
Tenney, came in and was introduced in the foreign fashion. His English was
fluent and correct. He was a bright, intelligent lad of nineteen years,
then about to take his first trial examinations for the Chinese degree of
scholarship, which, if attained, would make him eligible for official
position. Although a son of the viceroy he will have to rise by his own
merit.
Our conversation with the viceroy’s son extended over ten or fifteen
minutes. He asked many questions about the details of our journey. “How,”
said he, “could you get along without interpreter, guide, or servant, when
every foreigner who goes even from here to Peking has to have them?” He
questioned us as to whether or not the Chinese had ever called us names.
We replied that we usually traveled in China under the _nom de Chinois_,
_yang queedza_ (the foreign devils), alias _yeh renn_ (the wild men). A
blush overspread his cheeks as he said: “I must apologize for my
countrymen; I hope you will excuse them, for they know no better.” The
young man expressed deep interest in America and American institutions,
and said if he could obtain his father’s consent he would certainly make a
visit to our country. This was the only son then at home with the viceroy,
his eldest son being minister to Japan. The youngest, the viceroy’s
favorite, was, it was said, the brightest and most promising. His death
occurred only a few months before our arrival in Tientsin.
We were holding an animated conversation when the viceroy himself was
announced. We all stood to show our respect for the prime minister whom
General Grant included among the three greatest statesmen of his day. The
viceroy was preceded by two body-servants. We stood before a man who
appeared to be over six feet in height, although his head and shoulders
were considerably bent with age. His flowing dress was made of rich
colored silk, but very plain indeed. Any ornamentation would have been a
profanation of the natural dignity and stateliness of Li-Hung-Chang. With
slow pace he walked into the room, stopped a moment to look at us, then
advanced with outstretched hand, while a faint smile played about his
features and softened the piercing glance of his eyes. He shook our hands
heartily in the foreign fashion, and without any show of ceremony led the
way into an adjoining room, where a long council-table extended over half
the length. The viceroy took the arm-chair at the head, and motioned us to
take the two seats on his left, while Mr. Tenney and the viceroy’s son sat
on his right. For almost a minute not a word was said on either side. The
viceroy had fixed his gaze intently upon us, and, like a good general
perhaps, was taking a thorough survey of the field before he opened up the
cannonade of questions that was to follow. We in turn were just as busily
engaged in taking a mental sketch of his most prominent physical
characteristics. His face was distinctly oval, tapering from a very broad
forehead to a sharp pointed chin, half-obscured by his thin, gray
“goatee.” The crown of his head was shaven in the usual Tsing fashion,
leaving a tuft of hair for a queue, which in the viceroy’s case was short
and very thin. His dry, sallow skin showed signs of wrinkling; a thick
fold lay under each eye, and at each end of his upper lip. There were no
prominent cheek-bones or almond-shaped eyes, which are so distinctively
seen in most of the Mongolian race. Under the scraggy mustache we could
distinguish a rather benevolent though determined mouth; while his small,
keen eyes, which were somewhat sunken, gave forth a flash that was perhaps
but a flickering ember of the fire they once contained. The left eye,
which was partly closed by a paralytic stroke several years ago, gave him
a rather artful, waggish appearance. The whole physiognomy was that of a
man of strong intuition, with the ability to force his point when
necessary, and the shrewd common sense to yield when desiring to be
politic.
[Illustration: FURNACE FOR BURNING WASTE PAPER BEARING WRITTEN
CHARACTERS.]
“Well, gentlemen,” he said at last, through Mr. Tenney as interpreter,
“you don’t look any the worse for your long journey.”
“We are glad to hear your excellency say so,” we replied; “it is
gratifying to know that our appearance speaks well for the treatment we
have received in China.”
We hope our readers will consider the requirements of Chinese etiquette as
sufficient excuse for our failure to say candidly that, if we looked
healthy, it was not the fault of his countrymen.
“Of all the countries through which you have passed, which do you consider
the best?” the viceroy then asked.
In our answer to this question the reader would no doubt expect us to
follow etiquette, and say that we thought China was the best; and,
perhaps, the viceroy himself had a similar expectation. But between
telling a positive lie, and not telling the truth, there is perhaps
sufficient difference to shield us from the charge of gross inconsistency.
We answered, therefore, that in many respects, we considered America the
greatest country we had seen. We ought of course to have said that no
reasonable person in the world would ever think of putting any other
country above the Celestial Empire; our bluntness elicited some surprise,
for the viceroy said:
“If then you thought that America was the best why did you come to see
other countries?”
“Because until we had seen other countries,” we replied, “we did not know
that America was the best.” But this answer the viceroy evidently
considered a mere subterfuge. He was by no means satisfied.
“What was your real object in undertaking such a peculiar journey?” he
asked rather impatiently.
“To see and study the world and its peoples,” we answered; “to get a
practical training as a finish to a theoretical education. The bicycle was
adopted only because we considered it the most convenient means of
accomplishing that purpose.”
The viceroy, however, could not understand how a man should wish to use
his own strength when he could travel on the physical force of some one
else; nor why it was that we should adopt a course through central Asia
and northwestern China when the southern route through India would have
been far easier and less dangerous. He evidently gave it up as a
conundrum, and started out on another line.
“Do you consider the Shah of Persia a powerful monarch?” was his next
question.
“Powerful, perhaps, in the Oriental sense,” we replied, “but very weak in
comparison with the Western nations. Then, too, he seems to be losing the
power that he does have—he is compelled to play more and more into the
hands of the Russians.”
“Do you think that Russia will eventually try to take possession of
Persia?” the viceroy interrupted.
“That, of course, is problematical,” we answered, with the embarrassment
men of our age might feel at being instigated to talk politics with a
prime minister. “What we do know, for certain, is that Russia is now, with
her Transcaspian railroad, within about forty miles of Meshed, the capital
of Persia’s richest province of Khorasan; that she now has a
well-engineered and, for a great portion of the way, a macadamized road to
that city across the Kopet Dagh mountains from Askabad, the capital of
Russian Transcaspia; and that half that road the Persians were rather
forcibly invited to construct.”
[Illustration: MR. LIANG, EDUCATED IN THE UNITED STATES, NOW IN THE
SHIPPING BUSINESS.]
“Do you think,” again interrupted the viceroy, whose interest in the
Russians now began to take a more domestic turn, “that the Russians would
like to have the Chinese province of Ili?”
To this question we might very appropriately have said, “No”; for the
reason that we thought Russia had it already. She is only waiting to draw
it in, when she feels certain that her Siberian flank is better protected.
The completion of the Transsiberian railroad, by which troops can be
readily transported to that portion of her dominion, may change Russia’s
attitude toward the province of Ili. We did not, however, say this to his
excellency. We merely replied that we believed Russia was seldom known to
hold aloof from anything of value, which she thought she could get with
impunity. As she was now sending cart-load after cart-load of goods over
the border, through Ili, into northern and western China, without paying a
cent of customs duty, while on the other hand not even a leaf of tea or
thread of cotton passed over the Russian line from China without the
payment of an exorbitant tariff; and as she had already established in
Kuldja a postal, telegraph, and Cossack station, it would seem that she
does not even now view the province of Ili as wholly foreign to the
Russian empire.
At this the viceroy cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes in thoughtful
mood, as much as to say: “Ah, I know the Russians; but there is no help
for it.”
At this point we ventured to ask the viceroy if it were true, as we had
been informed, that Russia had arranged a treaty with China, by which she
was entitled to establish consuls in several of the interior provinces of
the Chinese empire, but he evaded the question with adroitness, and asked:
“Didn’t you find the roads very bad in China?”
This question was creditable to the viceroy’s knowledge of his own
country, but to this subject we brought the very best Chinese politeness
we could muster. We said that inasmuch as China had not yet adopted the
bicycle, her roads, of course, were not adapted to that mode of
locomotion.
The viceroy then asked us to describe the bicycle, and inquired if such a
vehicle did not create considerable consternation among the people.
[Illustration: A CHINESE SEEDING-DRILL.]
We told him that the bicycle from a Chinese point of view was capable of
various descriptions. On the passports given us by the Chinese minister in
London the bicycle was called “a seat-sitting, foot-moving machine.” The
natives in the interior had applied to it various epithets, among which
were _yang ma_ (foreign horse), _fei-chay_ (flying-machine), _szüdzun
chay_ (self-moving cart), and others. The most graphic description,
perhaps, was given by a Chinaman whom we overheard relating to his
neighbors the first appearance of the bicycle in his quiet little village.
“It is a little mule,” said he, “that you drive by the ears, and kick in
the sides to make him go.” A dignified smile overspread the viceroy’s
features.
“Didn’t the people try to steal your money?” he next inquired.
“No,” we replied. “From our impoverished appearance, they evidently
thought we had nothing. Our wardrobe being necessarily limited by our mode
of travel, we were sometimes reduced to the appearance of traveling
mendicants, and were often the objects of pity or contempt. Either this,
or our peculiar mode of travel, seemed to dispel all thought of highway
robbery; we never lost even so much as a button on our journey of over
three thousand miles across the Chinese empire.”
“Did the governors you met treat you well?” he asked; and then immediately
added: “Being scholars, were you not subjected to some indignity by being
urged to perform for every mandarin you met?”
“By nearly all the governors,” we said, “we were treated very kindly
indeed; but we were not so certain that the same favors would have been
extended to us had we not cheerfully consented to give exhibitions of
bicycle riding.”
There was now a lull in the conversation. The viceroy shifted his position
in his chair, and took another whiff from the long, slender Chinese pipe
held to his mouth by one of his body-servants. One whiff, and the pipe was
taken away to be emptied and refilled. After a short respite he again
resumed the conversation, but the questions he now asked were of a
personal nature. We enumerate a few of them, without comment, only for the
purpose of throwing some additional light on the character of our
questioner.
“About how much did the trip cost you? Do you expect to get back all or
more than you spent? Will you write a book?
“Did you find on your route any gold or silver deposits?
“Do you like the Chinese diet; and how much did one meal cost you?
“How old are you? [One of the first questions a Chinese host usually asks
his guest.] Are you married? What is the trade or profession of your
parents? Are they wealthy? Do they own much land?” (A Chinaman’s idea of
wealth is limited somewhat by the amount of land owned.)
“Will you telegraph to your parents from Shanghai your safe arrival there?
“Were you not rash in attempting such a journey? Suppose you had been
killed out in the interior of Asia, no one would ever have heard of you
again.
“Are you Democrats or Republicans?” (The viceroy showed considerable
knowledge of our government and institutions.)
“Will you run for any political office in America? Do you ever expect to
get into Congress?
“Do you have to buy offices in America?” was the last inquiry.
There was considerable hesitancy on the part of us both to answer this
question. Finally we were obliged to admit that sometimes such was the
case. “Ah,” said the viceroy, “that is a very bad thing about American
politics.” But in this censure he was even more severe on his own country
than America. Referring to ourselves in this connection, the viceroy
ventured to predict that we might become so well-known as the result of
our journey that we could get into office without paying for it. “You are
both young,” he added, “and can hope for anything.”
During the conversation the viceroy frequently smiled, and sometimes came
so near overstepping the bounds of Chinese propriety as to chuckle. At
first his reception was more formal, but his interest soon led him to
dispense with all formality, and before the close of the interview the
questions were rapidly asked and discussed. We have had some experience
with examining attorneys, and an extended acquaintance with the American
reporter; but we are convinced that for genuine inquisitiveness
Li-Hung-Chang stands peerless. We made several attempts to take leave, but
were interrupted each time by a question from the viceroy. Mr. Tenney, in
fact, became fatigued with the task of interpreting, so that many of the
long answers were translated by the viceroy’s son.
[Illustration: A CHINESE BRIDE.]
The interview was conducted as nearly as possible in the foreign fashion.
We smoked cigarettes, and a bottle of champagne was served. Finally the
interview was brought to a close by a health from the viceroy to
“Ta-mā-quo” (the great American country).
In conclusion we thanked the viceroy for the honor he had done us. He
replied that we must not thank him at all; that he was only doing his
duty. “Scholars,” said he, “must receive scholars.”
The viceroy rose from his chair with difficulty; the servant took him by
the elbows and half lifted him to his feet. He then walked slowly out of
the room with us, and across the courtyard to the main exit. Here he shook
us heartily by the hand, and bowed us out in the Chinese manner.
Li-Hung-Chang is virtually the emperor of the Celestial Empire; the
present “Son of Heaven” (the young emperor) has only recently reached his
majority. Li-Hung-Chang is China’s intellectual height, from whom emanate
nearly all her progressive ideas. He stands to-day in the light of a
mediator between foreign progressiveness and native prejudice and
conservatism. It has been said that Li-Hung-Chang is really anti-foreign
at heart; that he employs the Occidentals only long enough for them to
teach his own countrymen how to get along without them. Whether this be so
or not, it is certain that the viceroy recognizes the advantages to be
derived from foreign methods and inventions, and employs them for the
advancement of his country. Upon him rests the decision in nearly all the
great questions of the empire. Scarcely an edict or document of any kind
is issued that does not go over his signature or under his direct
supervision. To busy himself with the smallest details is a distinctive
characteristic of the man. Systematic methods, combined with an
extraordinary mind, enable him to accomplish his herculean task. In the
eastern horizon Li-Hung-Chang shines as the brilliant star of morning that
tells of the coming of a brighter dawn.