PEKING.
Nothing of the city of Peking is visible until you are close under
the walls, and then the effect is really imposing. The walls are
high, massive, and in good repair. The double gates, with their
lofty and large three-storied towers over them, and the general
solid appearance, inspire one with some of the admiration which
poor old Marco Polo used to evince when speaking of the glories of
Kambalic, or the city of the Grand Khan.
Once inside the walls you instinctively exclaim, What a hot,
dusty place this is! and you call to mind that that is exactly
what everybody told you long before its threshold was polluted by
barbarian footsteps. Peking is celebrated for its carts, its heat,
and its dust. If it rained much the streets would be a sea of mud.
We pursue our way along the sandy tracks between the city wall and
the buildings of the town for a mile or two, then plunge into the
labyrinth of streets, crowded, dirty and odoriferous. We are being
conducted to an inn which is to be better than any that foreigners
have been admitted to before.
[Illustration: WALLS OF PEKING
From a photograph.
(Page 32.)]
In our way we crossed the main street which leads from the imperial
city straight to the Temples of Heaven and Earth. This street is
very wide, and has been very fine, but now more than half its width
is occupied by fruit, toy, and fish stalls. The centre of the street
has been cut up by cart-wheels for many centuries, and is full of
holes and quagmires, so that the practicable portion of this wide
thoroughfare is narrowed down to nothing. So it is with all the wide
streets of Peking. They are never made. Filth accumulates incredibly
fast; and the wider the street the dirtier it is, because it can
hold the more.
At last we arrived at this paragon of inns, and passing through the
courtyard, where the horses and mules of travellers were tied up,
we threaded our way as far into the interior of the establishment
as we could get, and then called the landlord. He pretended to
make a great to-do about receiving us, and strongly urged that we
would find much better accommodation at the West-end. This was not
to be thought of, and we soon installed ourselves in a room--but
such a room! and such an inn! and such attendance! and such filth
everywhere! I have slept in a good many Chinese inns of all sorts,
but the meanest road-side hostelry I have ever seen is a degree
better than this swell inn in this fashionable city of Kanbalu.
Our room was at the far end of the labyrinthine passages, and was
evidently constructed to exclude light and air. It was almost
devoid of furniture. We certainly could make shift for sleeping
accommodation, for travellers can manage with wonderfully little in
that way; but we were miserably off for chairs, the only thing we
had to sit upon being small wooden stools on four legs, the seat
being about five inches wide.
There was no getting anything to eat in this establishment, so we
fell in with the Peking custom of dining at a restaurant, and we
found a very good one on the opposite side of the street. This
was a nice cheerful place, with good airy rooms, and comfortable
cushioned seats--much frequented by the Pekingese. Here we always
got a good dinner, and met good society. We could not stomach the
pure native messes, but as they had always abundance of good mutton
and fish (kept alive on the premises till wanted), also rice, clean
and white, with a little preliminary instruction in our manner of
living, the _cuisinière_ hit off our taste to a nicety. We had our
own knives and forks to eat with, and our own good liquor to season
the repast, so in Peking we may be said to have lived well.
We used to meet a strange mixture of people in this
restaurant--natives of Canton, Yunnan, Szechune, Shansi--in short,
of every part of China; men whose lawful occasions brought them to
the capital. Most of them were merchants, and I presume the students
who flock to Peking in such number form little cliques of their own.
These fellows lead a very jovial life. About seven o'clock, or a
little later, they assemble in parties already made up, and dinner
is laid, each party having a separate room. They eat heartily, and
seem thoroughly to enjoy each other's society. They don't hurry
over their dinner, and they have such an infinity of small dishes,
that their repast spreads itself over several hours. They are very
quiet at the first onset, but as they warm up with their wine, they
get very noisy, and make the whole place ring with the sounds of
merriment. They drink their wine hot, out of small porcelain cups,
and instead of a decanter, a tea-kettle is put on the table. We used
to amuse ourselves by going from one party to another, and joining
for a few minutes in their conviviality. They were always pleased to
see us, and made us sit down and drink with them. We reciprocated
their hospitality, and when we had administered a glass of wine to
one of them, he would sip it with an air of grave meditation, then
slap his paunch vigorously, and, holding up his right thumb, would
exclaim with emphasis "Haou!" "super-excellent."
They have a methodical manner of drinking, which is no less
entertaining to spectators, than agreeable to themselves. The
libations are regulated by a game of forfeits, engaged in by two at
a time. The challenger holds out one or more fingers, accompanying
the action by certain set phrases. The other has to reply promptly
to the word and the pantomime, the penalty for a mistake being to
drink a cup of wine. They begin this process quietly and soberly,
but when an obstinate antagonist is found, who replies to the
challenge five or six times running without a break-down, the
contest becomes exciting. They gradually rise from their seats,
and approach each other across the table, their faces grow red, as
their shouting gets louder, and the repartee more spirited, until
they reach a climax of passion which flesh and blood could not long
sustain, and then explode like a bomb-shell amid tremendous bursts
of unearthly yells from the full company. The loser sips his liquor
with resignation; and the victor generally joins him, by way of
showing himself a generous adversary. I have heard of drinking "by
rule of thumb," in our own country, but this has probably nowhere
been reduced to a science so much as in China.
About nine or ten, a long string of carts (the cabs of Peking),
would be collected at the door, the parties would begin to break
up, and go their several ways to the theatres, or other evening
amusements. They generally make a night of it, and that class of
the Chinese are everywhere late in their habits. I never met a more
robust-looking, or more jovial, hearty set of men, than these, our
boon companions of Peking.
On arriving in Peking, I lost no time in calling on Sir F. Bruce,
our minister there, to get passports put in train. I was fortunate
enough to meet Sir Frederick, as he had just come in for a day from
his retreat in the hills. He has occupied a temple situated on the
hills, some twenty miles from Peking, which forms an admirable
summer residence, free from the putrid smells of the city, and with
a temperature many degrees cooler,--no mean advantage when the
thermometer stands about 90°. The building set apart for the English
legation in Peking is, from an eastern point of view, magnificent.
It was a "foo," or ducal palace, has large space for garden ground
round the principal building, while the smaller buildings would
easily accommodate a full regiment of soldiers.
We found that it would take several days to get our papers in order;
for not only was my passport to be got, but my companion had to get
his through the French legation. There was nothing for it but to
make ourselves easy, having done all that we could do to accelerate
our business. Now, at another season of the year, I could have spent
a week in Peking with pleasure, but in the month of August one
cannot go out with any degree of comfort or safety, except in the
morning or evening, and then the streets are full either of blinding
dust, or black mire, in which your horse is always splashing up
to his hocks. However, we tried to make the best of it, and I was
fortunate enough to meet my old friend, Dr. Lockhart, who had lived
long enough in Peking to know the ropes, and who was good-natured
enough to show me round the principal objects of interest in the
city. Another difficulty besets the sight-seer in Peking, and that
is the "magnificent distances" between the various places one wants
to see. However, by sallying forth betimes, we did manage to visit a
few of the many interesting objects in this old city; for there is
nothing really worthy of note in China, except what bears the stamp
of antiquity.
The Confucian temple was the first object of our curiosity. Here the
great sage is worshipped by the Emperor once a year, without the
medium of paintings or images. In the central shrine there is merely
a small piece of wood, a few inches long, standing upright, with a
few characters inscribed on it, the name of the sage, I believe. On
the sides are a number of still smaller wooden labels, representing
the disciples and commentators who have elucidated the writings
of Confucius. The temple contains a number of stone tablets, on
which are engraved the record of honours conferred on literary men,
and to obtain a place here is the acme of the ambition of Chinese
scholars. In the courtyard there are a number of pine trees, said
to have been planted during the reign of the Mongol dynasty, more
than 500 years ago. These trees have been stunted in their growth,
however, from want of room, and considering their age, their size
is disappointing. The courtyard is adorned by a variety of stone
sculptures, the gifts of successive emperors and dynasties. The
present dynasty has been rather jealous of its predecessors in this
respect, especially of the Ming, and has replaced many fine relics
of their time by new ones of its own. There are, however, several
Mongol tablets to the fore in the Confucian temple. A connoisseur
can at once, from the style, fix the date of any of these works
of art, and when in doubt, the inscriptions are for the most part
sufficiently legible to tell their own tale. In another part of
the building there are some very curious old stones, drum-shaped,
dating from 800 years B.C. These have been carefully preserved,
but the iron tooth of time has obliterated most of the writing on
them. The curious old characters are still to some extent legible,
however. The building itself is, from a Chinese point of view, a
noble one, and singularly enough, it is kept in perfect order, in
strange contrast to Chinese temples and public buildings generally.
It has a magnificent ceiling, very high, and the top of the interior
walls are ornamented by wooden boards, richly painted, bearing the
names of the successive emperors in raised gilt characters. On the
accession of an emperor he at once adds his name to the long list.
[Illustration: PAVILION OF THE SUMMER PALACE OF YUEN-MIN-YUEN.
(Page 37.)]
The hall erected by the learned Emperor Kienloong, although modern
(he reigned from 1736 to 1796), is a magnificent pavilion, not very
large, but beautifully finished, and in perfect good taste. The
pavilion is roofed with the imperial yellow tiles. Round it is a
promenade paved with white marble, with balustrades of the same. At
a little distance from the pavilion stands a triumphal arch, massive
and elegant. The pavilion is intended to be viewed through the arch,
from a stand-point a few yards behind it, so that the arch forms a
frame for the main building. The effect produced is peculiar and
striking, and does infinite credit to the taste of old Kienloong,
who, by the bye, seems to have done everything that has been done
in modern times to beautify the capital. The pavilion stands in the
middle of a large open square, on two sides of which, under a shed,
stand double rows of stone tablets, six or seven feet high. On these
tablets are engraved, in clear and distinct characters, the whole
of the Chinese classics, in such a manner that they can be printed
from. Many copies have actually been struck off from these tablets,
and are held in very high esteem.
The great lamasery is outside the city, but the lama temple or
monastery inside is also well worthy of notice, whether from the
vast quantity of bricks and mortar that go to make the range of
buildings, the extent of the grounds attached to it, including a
fine wooded park, or from the internal economy of the establishment
itself. Two thousand Mongol lamas are maintained here by the
bounty of the Emperor.[1] The other lamaseries are in the same
manner liberally endowed by the government. The Chinese emperors
feel that they have but a slight hold on their Mongol subjects,
scattered as they are over a vast desert, where no Chinese troops
could penetrate, even were the Chinese a match for the Mongols in
a military point of view, which they never were. The independence
of the Mongols would be rather a gain than a loss to China in its
immediate results, but it would establish a warlike race on their
borders, which has been the terror of China from the earliest times.
No doubt, ages of peace have done much to subdue the warlike spirit
of the Mongols, but they retain their ancient habits and lead a life
of privation and hardship from the cradle to the grave. They are
susceptible of the greatest enthusiasm, and at a word from their
chiefs they would be ready to follow them to death or glory. A few
years of fighting would render the Mongol hordes as formidable to
a non-military nation like the Chinese, as they were in the days
of the terrible Genghis Khan. In the present enfeebled condition
of China an irruption of Mongols would be irresistible, and would
sweep everything before it like a flood. The Chinese government are
quite alive to such a possible contingency, and hence the care they
take to conciliate the Mongols. Their forty-eight kings (of whom
San-go-lin-sin is one), nominally tributary to China, are really
pensioned by the Emperor, and every inducement is held out to the
Mongol lamas to settle in the monasteries in Peking. Here they live
in comfort and luxury unknown in their deserts. Their friends have
every facility for visiting them, and carrying back to the "land
of grass" their reports of the goodness of the Chinese Emperor.
The lamas are taken from all parts of Mongolia--we conversed with
several from Dolonor and Kuren (Urga), and many others from the
north and south, the names of whose districts were not included
in my geographical vocabulary. These large Mongol communities,
under the eye and hand of the Emperor, answer the double purpose
of conciliators on the one hand, and of hostages for the loyalty
of distant tribes on the other. The Mongols are as little a match
for the Chinese in craft, as they are superior to them in martial
energy. It is supposed that the Chinese government have a deep
design in supporting and encouraging lamaism, an institution which
makes nearly one-third of the Mongol race celibats--for there are
female as well as male lamas--the object being to keep down the
population of the tribes.
[1] The first Emperor of the Manchu line originated the scheme, but
it has been greatly extended by his successors.
However, the simple-minded Mongols lead a comfortable, easy life
in Peking, free from care, and with no occupation except chanting
their prayers. I was fortunate enough to witness one of their
religious services in the great temple. The building is raised some
ten feet from the ground, a fine flight of steps running round the
four sides of it. The roof is very high, and the sides are open
all round. The lamas muster leisurely out of their cells, dressed
in dirty red cotton garments, and armed with an enormous yellow
cap, with something of a helmet shape, and crested with a long
fringe made, I think, of camel's hair. They carry the cap for the
most part under their arm, seldom wearing it on the head. About
200 of them assembled in the temple, and sung a chant which lasted
about half an hour. The effect was very striking and solemn, for
the music was good, and one or two of the lamas had the finest
bass voices I ever heard. The apparent earnestness with which the
whole congregation joined in the service, and the deep, devotional
character of the music, riveted our attention with an irresistible
power. So different was it from the ludicrous mockery of sacred
things perpetrated by the Chinese Bhuddists, during whose most
solemn services I have seen a dirty fellow push his way through the
devotees and coolly light his pipe at the candles burning on the
altar.
The analogies between the Bhuddist and Roman Catholic forms
of worship have been so hackneyed by writers that it may seem
impertinent in me to allude to them. But I cannot help drawing
attention to the manner in which M. Huc endeavours to explain them.
The analogies are most complete in the Yellow Cap Lama sect, the
origin of which is described at length by Huc. In the thirteenth
century, in the country of Amdo, bordering on Thibet, a child
miraculously conceived was born with a white beard, and from his
birth gave utterance to profound sayings concerning the destiny
of man. His name was Tsong-Kamba. This prodigy of a child became
an ascetic, devoting himself to meditation and prayer. A holy
stranger from the west visited him, and amazed him by his sanctity
and learning. The stranger was remarkable for his long nose. After
instructing Tsong-Kamba for a few years in the mysteries of religion
the holy man died; but Tsong-Kamba became a great reformer, and
originated the new sect of the Yellow Cap Lamas. Huc clutches at
this tradition, and thinks he sees in the mysterious visitor of
Tsong-Kamba a Christian missionary, many of whom had penetrated
about that period into Tartary. The premature death of the master
left incomplete the instruction of the disciple, who, failing to
attain Christianity, stopped short as a reformer of Bhuddism.
After the service we had some talk with the lamas, who were pleased
to see us, and treated us with every civility. They all speak, and
many of them write, Chinese; and in that language we communicated
with them. The ethnical difference between two races supposed to
be of the same origin could not be more apparent than in the case
of these Mongols and the Chinese by whom they were surrounded. The
Mongols have all an unintellectual cast of countenance, low narrow
foreheads, and a simple and open expression. Their features are not
very different from the Chinese. They have the high cheek-bones,
small eyes, and some other characteristics of their neighbours; but
their noses are on the whole not so short and flat, nor their faces
so rounded. It is not so easy to tell in what the difference between
them and the Chinese consists, but the distinction is so marked that
I hardly believe it possible for any one to mistake a Mongol for
a Chinese. The Mongols have unsuspecting honesty written on their
faces. The Chinese, from north to south, bear the stamp of craft
and cunning, and are much superior in intellect to the Mongols. It
is only necessary to remark the physiognomies of the two races to
understand how the Chinese outwit the Mongols in their dealings with
them, and how the Chinese name has in consequence become a bye-word
among the Mongols for everything that is detestable. It should
not be forgotten of course that it is probably the worst class of
Chinese with whom the Mongols come in contact. They are mostly
adventurers who seek their fortunes among the Tartars, for the hard
life they are compelled to live in these outlying countries is not
at all suitable to the Chinese taste. The better sort of merchants
are therefore not likely to wander so far; and those that do go
are in the first instance below the average moral standard of the
Chinese, and, when liberated from the restraint of public opinion
in their own country, they are likely to deteriorate still more. It
would also appear to be true that demoralisation naturally grows out
of the intercourse between two races, one of whom is in a marked
degree inferior to the other in intellectual capacity. In commercial
dealings the Chinese find it so easy to overreach the simple
Mongols, and the temptation to do so is so strong, that the habit is
engendered, which soon becomes part of the character of the Chinese
in Tartary. The Mongols, on their part, learn to form a low estimate
of the honour of human nature. They know they are victimised by the
Chinese, but they are powerless to escape from it; hence they, by a
very natural process, acquire a settled hatred to the whole race.
[Illustration: THIBETIAN MONUMENT IN LAMA TEMPLE. PEKING.
(Page 42.)]
But we have not yet seen the great gilt image of Bhudda, which
stands in a separate building erected for the purpose. We failed
in getting in on the first visit, but afterwards succeeded. The
image is seventy-two feet high, well formed, and symmetrically
proportioned. By a series of narrow and steep staircases we ascend
several stories, at each getting a view of a part of the image. At
the top of all we get out on a balcony, from which a good view of
the city and environs is obtained.
The Grand Lama of this monastery is a Chaberon or living Bhudda,
of whom there are several in Mongolia; and as such he is a sacred
person, and a man of great authority among Mongols, whether lamas or
laymen. We had business to transact with this incarnation of Bhudda,
but, on inquiring for him, we learned that he had left on some holy
mission to the great lamasery at Dolonor, a Mongol town a few days'
journey north-west of Peking. We had a letter from the head priest
of the Fang-wang temple at Tungchow, who, though not belonging to
the Lama sect, which so far as I am aware consists exclusively of
Tartars, was nevertheless on easy terms with the Grand Lama. The
purport of the letter was to recommend us to the attentions of
the Grand Lama, and to request him to give us another letter to
the lamas of a monastery in Mongolia, a short distance beyond the
Great Wall at Chan-kia-kow, to enlist their services in procuring
camels for our journey across the desert of Gobi. We anticipated
some difficulty about this, and wished to have as many strings to
our bow as possible. The letter was written in Mongol, and put in
an envelope addressed in Manchu, for the priest at Tung-chow was
a learned man. No one in the monastic brotherhood could be found
who could read the Manchu address, and they had great difficulty
in finding one who could master the Mongol characters in which the
letter itself was written. We were surprised that they should not
be able to read their own language, and on inquiry found that lamas
are not taught to read Mongol as a necessary branch of study. They
all learn the Lama writing, which they call "Tangut," but which
must be Thibetian, as all their books and prayers are written in
that character, and those lamas who live in Peking generally learn
to read a little Chinese for their own convenience. While the
letter was being deciphered we were introduced to the lay brother
of the monastery, the confidant of the Grand Lama, and factotum in
all secular affairs. A fine, hard-headed, swarthy complexioned,
rough-and-ready burly fellow he was, and he received us with his
rude native hospitality, showing us into the room, and making us sit
on the very _kang_ used by the absent Bhudda. Being naturally slow
of comprehension, and his secretary being equally slow and uncertain
in deciphering the missive, the old fellow had many questions and
cross-questions to ask, with many repetitions, which all being
carried on in a very loud tone of voice, as if he had been bawling
to a man on the main-top, began to get rather tiresome. Having
satisfied himself about the contents of the letter, he entered into
conversation with Noetzli, who, having been in Mongolia before,
and in the very monastery of Bain-tolochoi to which we sought to
be accredited, very adroitly led the conversation to that subject,
and soon showed our Mongol friend that he knew all about the
locality and the personal appearance of the head Lama there, whose
chief characteristic seemed to be that he was inordinately fat. No
sooner had our friend convinced himself that Noetzli had actually
been the guest of the fat Lama, than he took us yet closer into
his confidence, ordered the letter to be written, and at the same
time despatched a boy into the street with some money in his hand.
When the letter was finished, and we rose to leave, the old fellow,
on hospitable thoughts intent, protested, seized our hats, and by
main force pushed us back to the seat of the Grand Lama. To keep
us in play he put fruit before us, but we did not know what it was
all about until our breakfast was brought in in a large basin. It
consisted of about twenty pounds of plain boiled mutton, without
bread, rice, potatoes, or vegetables of any kind. All we had to
eat with it was a solution of salt, soy, vinegar, and sugar. Eat
we must, there was no help for it, and we honestly set ourselves
to do as full justice to the unsavoury meal as we were capable
of, although we had a good breakfast waiting us at home, that is,
at our restaurant, our host all the while standing over us like
a taskmaster to keep us up to our work. When no entreaties would
make us eat more, with looks and expressions of pitying regret, our
uncouth friend showed us how Mongols eat mutton by taking out a
good-sized piece with his fingers, and dropping it down his throat.
Then turning to the youngsters who crowded the room he pitched lumps
of mutton to each of them, who, in like manner, gobbled it like
hungry eagles. Our reception at the Lama temple gave us a fair idea
of Mongol hospitality and habits, and impressed us favourably with
the former. A long ride through the dirty streets of Peking, in a
hot sun, was the least agreeable part of our morning's work.
The old Observatory on the Wall is interesting as a monument of
the early astronomical tastes of the Chinese emperors, and of the
ingenuity of the Jesuits. It was first erected by the Ming before
the Jesuits came to China, or, at all events, before they began
to be influential, and afterwards greatly enlarged and improved
under the auspices of the Jesuits. There is even an old instrument
cast out and lying dishonoured in the grass--an orrery, if I
rightly remember, dating from the Mongol dynasty, 600 years old.
It is probable that the Chinese or Mongols were then in advance of
European nations in their knowledge of celestial phenomena. The
great celestial globe made under the direction of Verbiest, is a
superb casting in bronze, and although the instrument sent from
Paris is the finest in the Observatory, Father Verbiest's celestial
globe was the most interesting to me as a specimen of what a clever
man can do under almost insuperable difficulties. Since the fall of
the Jesuits little attention seems to have been paid to, or use made
of, the Observatory, and the teaching of those talented men is well
nigh lost.
The Temple of Heaven, or, as some people call it, the Altar of
Heaven, is situated near the south wall of the city. We had several
miles to go to it from our residence, in a direct line south,
along the main street from the centre gate between the Tartar and
Chinese cities. The street is wide and straight, but very dirty, and
blocked up with trumpery stalls of all sorts, and kept alive by the
incessant shouts of boys and old women. "Apples! fine apples, to be
sold cheap,--those who have no money can't have any," reminded us
of the pathetic story of "Simple Simon." Jugglers also disported
themselves in the street and attracted good audiences to witness
the swallowing and disgorging of huge stones, feats of strength,
and other miracles. The poor juggler does not seem to take much
by his motions, however, for, after swallowing an intolerable
quantity of stone, and throwing up large bricks, and allowing them
to break themselves on his head, thereby creating baldness on the
crown, and otherwise amusing a distinguished circle of spectators
for twenty minutes, he mildly solicits "cash," and has a wretched
pittance thrown into the ring, much as one would throw a bone to
a dog. I could not help wishing him some more useful outlet for
his talents. Another man would stand with a white painted board in
his hand, slightly covered with ink in a half-liquid state, and,
while conversing with the crowd, he would, by means of his thumb
and fingers, throw off such excellent representations of fishes,
birds, &c., with every fin, scale, and feather done to the life, as
one never sees in the most highly finished Chinese paintings. The
talent displayed by these peripatetic artists proves conclusively
that the Chinese do possess the skill to draw after nature. Then
why don't they do it? A question more easily asked than answered.
But we are supposed to be on the road to the Temple of Heaven.
After walking two miles or so down this great street, we suddenly
come to a break in the houses. There is no more street, but a large
open space before us, lying very low, the road being continued on a
raised causeway, on the same level as the street we have left. This
space was originally a parade-ground. It is now a mud-puddle, cut up
in all directions by innumerable cart-ruts, and most unsightly to
behold. But the Temple of Heaven itself is now in sight, the outer
wall stretching from a point abreast of us on the left to the south
gate of the city, which is dimly visible in the distance over the
miscalled parade-ground. The great centre pavilion, with its blue
roof and large gilt top, resplendent in the afternoon sun, shoots
up into the air, the most conspicuous object to be seen in all
Peking. The outer wall alluded to encloses a square mile of ground.
Opposite to the Temple of Heaven, and on our right, is the Temple
or Altar of the Earth, where the emperors of China repair according
to traditional custom on the first day of spring to inaugurate the
happy season by ploughing the first furrow. The little boy who now
wields the sceptres of the khans must be too young to hold a plough,
and I suppose he does it by commission, if indeed he is not too
degenerate to do it at all.
Entering the outer gate of the Temple of Heaven, we are ushered into
a large park, beautifully laid out with avenues of trees, and with
regular well-paved walks. The whole place is terribly overgrown with
long grass, and the neatly paved walks are all but obliterated by
the same. As we proceed we come to a number of rather fine buildings
for the accommodation of the priests. We saw none of these gentry,
however, and the outer gate is kept by a dirty coolie, who takes
a fee for opening it. The great pavilion stands on the top of a
high causeway, the best part of a mile long, with flights of steps
leading up to it at various parts. The causeway is beautifully paved
with square stones, so regular and well fitted that the joinings
can be traced in straight parallel lines along the whole length,
except where the line of sight is intercepted by rank grass shooting
up through them. The altar is in the great pavilion, which is a
circular building of three storys, each story having wide eaves
projecting over it, all covered with bright blue enamelled tiles.
The roof of the building is of the same material, and is rather a
sharply-pitched cone surmounted by a large round gilt ball. The
whole effect is bright and beautiful. The pavilion is ascended from
the causeway by flights of white marble steps, and a promenade of
the same material runs all round it. On the causeway, and at some
distance from the altar, are large massive arches with gates in
them, and beyond the arches, at a great distance, there is another
pavilion of similar construction to the principal one, but much
smaller, being only one story high, where the Emperor comes once
a-year to worship the true God, or, as some call it, the Dragon.
Be that as it may, however, this is doubtless the purest form of
worship known to the Chinese. When the Emperor takes his place in
the small pavilion the gates of the arches are thrown open, and
through them he can see afar off the altar of Heaven, or the Dragon
throne, as you may please to call it. Sacrifices are made on those
occasions; a large house or temple is set apart for the slaughter of
the animals, and another circular tower of green bricks stands near
it, where the remains of the sacrifices are buried. The whole plan
of this splendid monument is nobly conceived, and would do credit
to the most advanced nation in the world. Unhappily, it seems now
to be utterly uncared for. The pavements on which so much care,
labour, and money have been expended, are being rapidly covered up
with grass. The avenues are like a wilderness, and weeds are even
taking root in the beautiful blue-tiled roofs, which, if not soon
ruined by it, will at all events be twisted out of their symmetrical
proportions. It is melancholy to see that what men of large and
enlightened ideas have been at such pains to build, the present
degenerate race do not consider it worth while to hire half-a-dozen
coolies to keep in order. No further proof is necessary of the state
of imbecility into which the Chinese rulers have fallen than this,
that in their own city they should allow such a monument of the
active energy of their ancestors to go to wreck and ruin for want
of a little looking after. I do not see how good government can be
looked for in the distant provinces when the body politic is so
rotten at the core.
[Illustration: GREAT TEMPLE OF HEAVEN. PEKING.
P. JUSTYNE. DEL J. COOPER, S^c.
From a photograph by Beato.
(Page 48.)]
My opportunities did not allow of my seeing more of the great sights
of Peking, but we have not yet done the theatres. It was, of course,
necessary to patronise some of these establishments, and they afford
great facilities for admitting people whose time is not all their
own. Ours certainly was our own, but we had let it out for other
purposes, and could only steal an hour now and then to give up to
this enjoyment. The theatres are open all day long, and all night,
too, for anything I know. The acting goes on incessantly--one piece
following another without interruption. The favourite pieces with
the actors, and by a natural inference with the audience, are old
historical heroic pieces, which are performed in a wretched falsetto
sing-song voice, and accompanied by the most die-away pantomimic
gestures, even in the chief male characters, painfully monotonous to
European ears and eyes. They are heavy and slow, but afford great
scope for the display of _outré_ costumes, overlaid with fiery
dragons and hideous forms, which delight the eye of the Chinese.
The theatres at Peking are certainly superior, both in the get-up
and acting, to anything else of the kind I have seen in China, and
some comic pieces we saw were so admirably acted that we, knowing
scarcely a word, could follow the story throughout. The houses
were always crowded, and the audience seemed to take more interest
in the performance than is usual in the south of China, no doubt
owing to the language used being the Peking dialect, which is but
indifferently understood by provincial audiences. On our entrance
to a theatre we were always civilly greeted by the officers, and
shown up to the most eligible places in the galleries, where we met
people from all parts of the country, not excepting swell Cantonese,
all dressed in spotless white muslin, as light and airy as if
made from the gossamer's web. We were at once beset by half-naked
peripatetic vendors of fruits, cakes, and comfits, and even cups
of hot tea. The tea was very refreshing in such a hot place, but
our neighbours insisted on giving us little dumplings and other
Chinese delicacies, whose component parts we could not even guess.
It was useless refusing--that was regarded as mock-modesty. We could
only take a quiet opportunity of depositing the suspicious viands
in our pockets, and give them to the first dirty urchin we met in
the street. The Chinese themselves go on crunching ground nuts,
melon-seeds, and rubbish of that sort, the whole time.
Women do not act in China except under very exceptional
circumstances. The female part is acted by men, who, thanks to their
naturally effeminate appearance, make up very well as women, and
the squeaky voice which they practise helps them out. Actors are by
no means held in high repute in China, and they are in general very
ill paid. One of the best actors, who was also highly esteemed as a
singer, that is a squeaker, lodged at our hotel, and he informed us
that he earned on an average about half a dollar a day.
Our lodging being in the Chinese city, was far removed from the
European residents, who all live in the Tartar quarter, and the
gate between the two is closed at sunset. We therefore saw less
of our respective countrymen than we might otherwise have done.
The foreign community in Peking is but small, and foreign trade
being interdicted in the capital, is not likely to be very much
increased. There are the Russian, English, French, American, and I
suppose now the Prussian legations, all well quartered in commodious
official buildings. The Russian is the smallest, because the
oldest. At the time of its establishment it was a great thing to
have a place at all, without quarrelling about the size of it. The
head of the foreign custom-house lives in Peking, and there are a
few student interpreters attached to him, who are in training for
the custom-house service. Two Church missionaries also reside in
Peking, and last, not least, Dr. Lockhart, who has established a
medical mission under the auspices of the London Missionary Society,
on the plan of the one he for many years successfully conducted
in Shanghae. Whatever may have been the past success of medical
missions as an indirect means of introducing Christianity into
China, there can hardly be a doubt that they are of all methods
the best calculated to attain the objects for which they have
been organised. The Chinese are pre-eminently irreligious, I mean
with reference to their own nominal creed--Bhuddism. They are too
keenly intent on minding their worldly affairs to have any thought
to spare for higher considerations. They are entirely free from
the fanaticism which animates other pagan races. Their temples
and priesthood are universally despised and neglected. The only
semblance of religious observances practised by the bulk of the
people, is a very low kind of superstition, and that sits lightly
on them as a rule wherever dollars stand in the way. It is not
unfair to say that they are devoid of the religious faculty, and
are "sunk in material interests." Hence, the didactic inculcation
of strange doctrines is foolishness to them who are indifferent
to any doctrine whatever. Of course I only speak from a secular
point of view, without forgetting that the most impossible things
are easy to the Omnipotent; and he would be a bold man who would
venture to circumscribe the possible results that the future may
develop from the dissemination of the Bible among a reading, and
on the whole not an unthinking people. But the medical missionary
presents Christianity in its most attractive phase, that is,
associated with a noble philanthropy, after the example of the
Founder of our religion, who always accompanied his teaching with
healing the sick. And there is perhaps no form of mere philanthropy
so powerful to exact gratitude from the most unlikely objects, as
that of alleviating pain. The Chinese are probably more open to
this mode of reaching their hearts than to any other. In my rambles
in out-of-the-way places in China, I have frequently been appealed
to for medical aid by poor people who had heard of the repute of
foreign doctors, both for skill and benevolence. And although the
Chinese character is the most hopeless one to expect gratitude from,
still I affirm that if anything can touch them with the sense of an
obligation, it is the ministering to their fleshly infirmities; and
in the case of medical missions, they cannot escape the connection
between them and the religion that prompts them. But I fear I am
getting into too deep waters.
No difficulty was experienced in getting our passports, although
it was intimated to Sir F. Bruce that the passport for Mongolia
was not exactly a thing which could be demanded under the treaty,
and therefore that the issue of such a document might at any time
be refused by the Chinese authorities without infringing any of
the treaty stipulations, the argument being, that Mongolia, though
tributary to China, is not a part of the Chinese empire, in the
treaty interpretation of the word. This is fudge, of course, but
as long as they grant the passports, all right. When they refuse,
it will be time to argue about it. They are no doubt a little
jealous about foreigners poking about in Mongolia: their own hold
on it is so uncertain, and the encroachments of the Russians so
gigantic of late years in other quarters, that is, in Manchuria,
that the Chinese government, who now, if never before, feels its
own decrepitude, does not know which way to turn for security
against aggression. As usual with them, they, in their blindness
to their own best interests, do just the wrong thing. Two schemes
for telegraphic communication from Europe through Mongolia have
been proposed to them, both from English sources: both have
been rejected, from the general and ignorant dread they have of
foreigners establishing stations in Mongolia. Now were their eyes
opened they must see that it is not from England or France they have
anything to fear of aggression in that part of their dominions; but
from Russia alone. But were English or French subjects to settle,
for any purpose whatever, in the Mongolian steppes, under authority
from the Chinese government, no better guarantee could be secured
against Russian aggression. As it now stands, the Russians are
left alone in the field. When they really want to have telegraphic
stations in Mongolia, they will not be refused, and before many
years are over a large slice of Mongolia will be Russian. The
Russians have certain winning ways of their own, altogether foreign
to our system of diplomatic procedure, of getting what they want
from the Chinese. While we are spending millions in sending armies
to fight the Chinese, for questions which are as much or more for
their own interests as for ours, and then as conquerors astonishing
the Chinese by the moderation of our demands, the Russians are in
the most amicable manner possible pushing forward their frontiers,
and slicing off a thousand miles of Chinese coast, all the while
maintaining their position as friendly allies of the Chinese,
in contradistinction to the English barbarians, who are always
blustering and fighting, in utter defiance of the rules of courtesy.
After all it may be as well so. Our interest as a commercial
people is to develop the resources of the world. The Russians will
certainly do this better than the Chinese in those wild northern
regions; at all events, a desert on the one hand, and a wilderness
on the other, cannot be made much less productive than they are. But
the Chinese cannot be expected to view the matter in this light,
and yet they are so infatuated as to nurse the snake in their
bosom to the exclusion of others who would be likely to checkmate
his designs. The Russian government has shown a strange penchant
for annexing vast deserts to its dominions. Much may it make out
of them; but if half the enterprise and money had been expended
in improving the condition of the enormous territory it already
possesses, the Russian empire would have been too powerful for all
Europe. But that is their own affair.
The last thing to be done in Peking was to settle our bills at the
hotel (!) and restaurant, and exorbitant enough they were. On asking
the proprietor of the hotel for his account, he replied, "Oh! pay
what you like." "In that case," said we, "we like to pay nothing."
"All right, as you please," with the most lofty indifference,
answered our host. Driven almost wild by his coolness, we tendered
about six times what we should have paid for better entertainment
anywhere else. The wretch turned up his nose at it with a
supercilious air that nearly roused the British lion. The restaurant
was as unconscionable in its demands, but we had something
substantial for our money there, and did not so much object; but
to pay through the nose for a corner to sleep in, which no gentleman
would think fit for his hounds, did go sorely against the grain. I
cannot imagine what makes things so dear in Peking, nor do I believe
they are so dear to the initiated. One thing is cheap, and that is
ice, and the most refreshing sight we saw during our stay in the
capital, was the cartloads of the precious commodity being carried
about in large square blocks; and how did we pity our friends whom
we had left in Shanghae, sweltering through the worst part of the
summer without this luxury--I ought to say necessary--in such a
climate. No care is taken of ice in Peking. It is collected and
thrown into large pits, and may melt as much as it likes. If there
was any chance of its falling short, it would simply be a question
of a few thousand tons more to be thrown into the heap in the winter.
[Illustration: PART OF THE EMPEROR'S PALACE, YUEN-MIN-YUEN.
DESTROYED 1860.]
The local bank-notes in Peking are a great convenience. They are
issued in amounts from 1000 cash (about a dollar) and upwards, and
are in universal use in the city. The use of them saves the natives
from lugging about huge strings of copper cash, the only coinage
of China, 50 lbs. weight of which are worth about sixty shillings.
These notes are not current outside the city walls, however, and
here is an inconvenience; for whatever cash balance you may have
in that medium must be paid away for something or other before you
leave. It would be possible to change them for copper cash or Sycee
silver, but that would involve delay and perhaps trouble.