TIENTSIN TO PEKING.
There are several modes of going from Tientsin to Peking. The most
common is in a mule cart, which is not exactly a box, but a board
laid on wheels with a blue cotton covering arched over it. The cart
is not long enough to enable one to lie down full length, nor is it
high enough to enable him to sit upright in the European fashion.
It has no springs; the roads are generally as rough as negligence
can leave them; it is utterly impossible to keep out the dust;
and the covering gives but slight protection from the sun. A ride
in a Chinese cart is exquisite torture to a European. It is true
that experience teaches those who are so unfortunate as to need
it several "dodges" by which to mitigate their sufferings, such
as filling the cart entirely with straw, and then squeezing into
the middle of it. But then the traveller must have some means of
securing the feet to prevent being pitched out bodily, and he must
hold on to the frame-work of the side by both hands to break the
shock of sudden jerks. With all that he will come off his journey
feeling in every bone of his body as if he had been passed through
a mangle. That the Chinese do not suffer from such treatment I can
only attribute to a deficiency in their nervous system. If they
suffered in anything like the same degree that a European does,
they would have invented a more comfortable conveyance before the
Christian era. But the only improvement in comfort I ever heard of
is in the carts made for the great mandarins, which have the wheels
placed far back, so that between the axle-tree and the saddle the
shafts may have an infinitesimal amount of spring in them.
The next mode of travelling is on horseback, which, if you happen
to have your own saddle and bridle, is very pleasant, provided the
weather is not too hot or too cold. There are plenty of inns on the
road-side where you can rest and refresh yourself; but woe betide
the luckless traveller who, like myself, nauseates the Chinese
_cuisine_, should he have neglected to provide himself with a few
creature comforts to his own liking.
The weather was excessively hot, and judging that there would be
many calls on our stamina before our long journey was done, we
prudently husbanded our strength at the outset. We therefore chose
the slower but more luxurious (!) means of conveyance by boat up the
Peiho river to Tungchow, a walled city twelve miles from Peking.
Boat travelling in the north has not been brought to such a state
of perfection as in the creek and canal country in Chekiang and
Keangsoo. In the latter provinces it is practically the only means
of travelling, and though slow, is most comfortable. In the north
the boats are a smaller edition of those used for transporting
merchandise, the only convenience they have being a moveable roof.
In two such craft our party embarked on the night of 5th August,
1861, and at 11 p.m., by moonlight, we languidly shoved off from
the filthy banks of the Peiho river, the few friends who were kind
enough to see us off, with a refinement of politeness worthy of a
Chinaman, refusing a parting glass, knowing that we had none to
spare. Our sails were of little assistance, so after threading our
way through the fleet of boats that lay anyhow in the first two
reaches, our stout crews landed with their towing line, by which
means we slowly and painfully ascended the stream. Tientsin, as I
have said, is the filthiest of all filthy cities; and the essence
of its filth is accumulated on the banks of the river, forming an
excellent breakwater, which grows faster than the water can wash
it away. The putrid mass is enough, one would think, to breed a
plague, and yet the water used by the inhabitants is drawn from this
river! It was pleasant, indeed, to escape from this pestilential
atmosphere, and to inhale the cool fresh air of the country for
an hour or two before turning in, as we reflected on the long and
tedious journey we had before us, embracing the whole breadth of the
continents of Asia and Europe.
The voyage to Tungchow was monotonous in the extreme. Nothing of
the country could be seen; for though the water was high enough at
the time to have enabled us to look over the low flat banks, the
standing crops effectually shut in our view. Four days were occupied
in travelling 400 li. We had engaged double crews, in order that
we might proceed night and day without stopping, but it was really
hard work for them, and we did not like to press them too much.
There is no regular towing path on the banks of the Peiho, and at
night the men floundered in the wet mud amongst reeds. A youngster
of the crew gave us a great deal of trouble--always shirking his
work and complaining of hunger. He was a wag, however, and kept both
us and the crew in amusement. I have noticed in nearly all Chinese
boat-crews there is a character of this sort, whose business seems
to be to work as little as possible himself, and keep up a running
fire of wit to beguile the toil of the others. A good story-teller
is much valued among them. We had also an old man, whose chief
business was to boil rice and vegetables for the others, and to
steer the boat. His kitchen duties were no sinecure, for the men did
get through an incredible quantity of rice in the course of the day.
Rice is a poor thing to work on; it is a fuel quickly consumed, and
requires constant renewal.
It is the nature of Chinese boatmen to be constantly asking for
money. The custom is to pay about half the fare in advance before
starting, and the other half when the journey is completed. But no
sooner are you fairly under way, than a polite request is made for
money to buy rice. It is in vain you remind them of the dollars you
have just paid as a first instalment. That has gone to the owner
of the boat, of course, but as for them, the boatmen, they have
nothing to eat, and cannot go on. Defeated in your arguments you
nevertheless remain firm in your purpose; the morning, noon, and
evening meals succeed each other in due course. Every one is to
be the last, and is followed by the most touching appeals to your
benevolence--they will go down on their knees, they will whine and
cry, they will beat frantically on their empty stomachs, and tell
you "they are starving" in tones and gestures that ought properly
to melt the heart of a stone. It is in vain that you deride their
importunity; it is in vain that you reproach them with their
improvidence. You sternly order them to their work, but are met by
the unanswerable question, how can they work without food? You--if
you have gone through the ordeal before--know well that you will
have no trouble on this score on the second day out.
Has any one ever tried to arrive at the exact value of a Chinese
measure of distance? Their li has no doubt been reduced to so many
yards, feet, and inches, equal to about one-third of an English
mile, on paper; but on the road it is the vaguest term possible. Ask
a countryman how far it is to Chung-dsz, and he will answer after
a great deal of prevarication ten li. Walk about that distance and
inquire again, and you are told it is fifteen li. This will puzzle
you if you are a stranger, but go on another half mile, and you find
you are at your destination. In the common acceptation of the word,
I am convinced it is more a measure of time than distance, and
100 li is an average day's journey. Our Tientsin boatmen put this
very prominently when questioned, as they were nearly every hour
of the day, as to how far we still were from Tungchow, one of them
answered, "If you travel quick it is about 100 li, but if slow it is
well on to 200!"
[Illustration: TUNG CHOW PAGODA.
(Page 27.)]
In the first part of our journey we met with no traffic on the
river, but towards Tungchow we passed large fleets of junks bound
upwards and a few bound down. John Bell says of this river, "I saw
many vessels sailing down the stream towards the south-east. And I
was informed there are nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine
vessels constantly employed on this river; but why confined to such
an odd number I could neither learn nor comprehend." I should say
that during the 140 years that have elapsed since that was written
the fleet is more likely to have been shorn of a few odd thousands
than increased by the odd unit.
On the fourth day, as we were panting for breath, with the
thermometer standing at 97° Fahr., and with anxious eyes
contemplating our almost empty ice-box, the pagoda of Tungchow was
descried over the tall reeds on the river bank, and we soon were
made fast in front of a temple called Fang-wang-meaou.
At this point the Peiho dwindles away into a very small and shallow
stream, and practically Tungchow is the head of the navigation, the
shipping port of Peking, and the beginning of the land carriage to
the north-west provinces of China.
The Fang-wang-meaou is much used by Russians as a dépôt for their
goods in transit from Tientsin and Shanghae to Siberia. We found
a considerable quantity of tea stored in the temple waiting for
transport. In this temple, therefore, by the favour of the reverend
personages who preside over it, we bestowed our _impedimenta_, and
took up our quarters for the night in a wing of the building.
The Bhuddist priests are in the habit of transacting business for
strangers, and we therefore entered into negotiation with them to
provide us carriage either by mules or camels, from Tungchow to
Chan-kia-kow, the frontier town between China and Mongolia. We
thought by this arrangement we could ride to Peking, do what we
wanted there in the way of getting passports, &c., and return to
Tungchow and take our departure thence. This proved a delusion, and
lost us some valuable time.
There is nothing remarkable about the city of Tungchow. It is
situated on a dead level. From a tower on the wall a view of the
country is obtained, including the mountains north of Peking. There
is a tall pagoda in the city, but as it has no windows in it, it is
useless as a look-out.
I found here two ponies that I had sent from Tientsin, in charge of
a Chinese "ma-foo" or groom, who agreed to accompany me as far as
Chan-kia-kow. My object was to be independent of the Chinese carts
at Peking and on the road, and I looked forward to taking one, if
not both, of my ponies a considerable distance into the desert of
Mongolia. I strongly recommend this plan to any one travelling in
that quarter.
On the 10th of August I rode to Peking, the rest of the party
following in carts. This would no doubt be a very pretty ride at
another season of the year, but in the month of August the millet
crops stand as high as twelve and fifteen feet, completely shutting
in the road for nearly the whole distance. At eight li from Tungchow
we passed the village and handsome stone bridge of _Pa-li-keaou_
or "eight-mile-bridge," which euphonious name gives a title to a
distinguished French general. There are no "high" roads, but many
bye-roads, and it is not difficult to lose one's way amongst the
standing millet. Many parts of the country are very prettily wooded,
and there is a half-way house at a well-shaded part of the road,
where you naturally dismount to rest yourself under a mat shed, and
indulge yourself with hot tea, than which nothing is more refreshing
on a hot day, provided the decoction be not too strong, and is
unadulterated by the civilised addition of sugar or milk. You may
eat fruit here also if you are not afraid of the consequences (but
take care that it is ripe), and some naked urchins will cut fresh
grass for your beasts. This little place, like many others of its
kind, is a "howf" for many loafers, who seek the cool shade, and sit
sipping their boiling tea, and languidly fanning themselves while
they listen abstractedly to the conversation of the wayfarers.
As we near Peking we come to some slight undulations, and notice
some very pretty places with clumps of old trees about them. These
are principally graves of great men, and it is remarkable to
observe how much attention is paid by the Chinese to the abodes
of their dead. Wealthy people will pass their lives in a dismal
hovel, something between a pig-stye and a rabbit-warren, into which
the light of day can scarcely penetrate; the floors of earth or
brick-paved, or if the party is luxurious, he may have a floor of
wood, encrusted with the dirt of a generation. But these same people
look forward to being buried under a pretty grove of trees, in a
nicely kept enclosure, with carefully cultivated shrubs and flowers
growing round. Some of the loveliest spots I have seen in China are
tombs, the finest I remember being at the foot of the hill behind
the city of Chung-zu, near Foo-shan, on the Yang-tsze-kiang. These
tombs, adorned with so much taste and care, were in strange contrast
with the general rottenness around. But armies have since been
there, and it is probable that the angel of destruction has swept it
all away.
I am unable to say from what feeling springs this tender regard for
tombs among the Chinese. It may be that they consider the length of
time they have to lie in the last resting-place, reasonably demands
that more care be bestowed on it than on the earthly tenement of
which they have so short a lease. Or it may arise simply out of that
strong principle of filial piety so deeply engraven in the Chinese
mind, and which leads them to make great sacrifices when required
to do honour to the names of their ancestors. From whatever motive
it comes, however, this filial piety, which even death does not
destroy, is an admirable trait in the Chinese character; and I have
even heard divines point to the Chinese nation--the most long-lived
community the world has seen--as an illustration of the promise
attached to the keeping of the fifth commandment. The greatest
consolation a Chinaman can have in the "hour of death" is that he
will be buried in a coffin of his own selection, and that he has
children or grandchildren to take care of his bones. It is to this
end that parents betroth their children when young, and hasten the
marriages as soon as the parties are marriageable. To this end
also I believe polygamy is allowed by law, or at all events not
interdicted. If a Chinaman could have the promise made to him, "Thou
shalt never want a man to stand before me," he would live at ease
for the rest of his days.
There are no cemeteries in China, that I know of, except where
strangers congregate--when they of a family, a district, or even a
province, combine to buy a piece of ground to bury their dead in.
In hilly countries pretty sites are always selected for tombs. In
the thickly settled parts of the country every family buries its
own dead in its own bit of ground. Thus, when they sell land for
building purposes, negotiations have to be entered into for removing
the coffins of many forgotten generations. The bones are carefully
gathered up and put into earthenware jars, and labelled. This
operation is profanely called "potting ancestors." These jars are
then buried somewhere else--of course with great economy of space. A
house built on the site of an old grave that is suspected of having
been only partially emptied, would remain tenantless for ever, and
if the ghosts of the departed did not destroy the house, the owner
would be compelled to do so.
But I am getting away from the Peking road. Amongst the tombs
of great families, outside the walls of the city, are many old
marble colossal sculptures of men and animals. The same figures,
in limestone, are common in other parts of the country. These
sculptures are all more or less dilapidated; some of the figures are
still erect; many have fallen down and got broken; and many have
been ploughed in. There is nothing remarkable about the workmanship
of these, although the colossal size of some of them is striking.
They are interesting as memorials of departed greatness, and record
their silent protest against the corruption, decay, and degeneracy
that has brought the Chinese empire so low.
Water communicating with the Peiho river goes up to the walls of
Peking, but is not navigable. It forms a quiet lagoon, the delight
of great flocks of the most beautiful ducks and geese. The streams
that run through the city can also be connected with the water
outside through the arches in the wall; and I am told the intention
of those truly great men, who conceived and executed the grand
canal, was to bring the water through the city and into the imperial
quarters by navigable canals, so that the grain-junks from Keangsoo,
which were to supply the capital with food, might be brought in to
the gate of the Emperor's palace. It is not to be wondered at that
this scheme should have broken down, considering the engineering
difficulties attending it.