PEKING TO CHAN-KIA-KOW.
On the 14th of August, having arranged all our affairs in Peking, we
set out for Tung-chow, where we had left the priests to provide us
transport to Chan-kia-kow. Disappointment awaited us--nothing was
done. We were very angry, and a hot discussion ensued between us and
the head priest, but we could make neither rhyme nor reason out of
him. Here was a dilemma. Ought we to wait till the morrow, and try
ourselves to hire beasts of burden at Tung-chow, with this shaven
head probably plotting against us? Or ought we to start by break of
day with our whole baggage to Peking, and trust to arranging matters
there? To do that even, we were helpless, unless the priests were
on our side. We resolved, therefore, to conciliate the monk. At
this juncture M. Noetzli, who had kindly volunteered to accompany
us so far, being acquainted with the ways of the road, addressed
the priest in Russian. The effect was marked and instantaneous--the
priest's countenance changed--he opened himself out--explained the
true causes why he had not been able to get the mules, and suggested
that we should get carts to take our baggage to Peking the next
day. He would accompany us himself, and help us to negotiate for
transport in Peking. That settled, we felt relieved, and ate our
frugal dinner in peace and comfort.
I must explain the wonderful effect produced by the use of the
Russian language. I have already intimated that this Fang-wang
temple has been constantly used by the Russians as a dépôt. Intimate
relations have grown up between the Russians and the priests, and
mutual confidence and kindliness has been the result. Several of
the priests have learnt the Russian language in their frequent
intercourse with the Russians. The priests know no other foreigners.
On our own merits we could do nothing with them; but the moment a
connecting link seemed to be shown between us and the Russians, we
were regarded as belonging to a privileged class.
Next morning, we were again on the road to Peking, bag and baggage.
We rode, Noetzli on a mule, which was quiet and tractable enough
till a straw touched his tail, when he bounded off, kicking and
jumping, floundered in a rut, pitched Noetzli over his head, then
tenderly kicked him. _Mem._--Never ride a mule if you can help it,
they are uncouth, unmanageable brutes.
Our late landlord in Peking greeted us obsequiously on our return,
and our old friends at the restaurant were no less delighted that
their newly acquired art of cooking mutton chops was again in
requisition.
Our clerical friend soon appeared with a large, old-fashioned, blue
cotton umbrella. We at once went with him to a shop where mules and
litters were to be hired, and after the preliminary salutations
and cups of tea, we asked for mules, and were told off-hand that
they had none. This we knew to be untrue, because we had seen them.
We tried several others, but met with the same reply. This looked
hopeful, indeed, and it seemed there was nothing left for us that
day, but to go to the theatre, where we saw some good acting and an
audience thoroughly enjoying it; and so we drowned our own troubles
for a time. The next expedient was to order as good a dinner as our
ingenuity could devise, out of the materials at hand. A good dinner
is a wonderful soother, and has been, perhaps, too much overlooked
by philosophers.
The next day, 16th of August, our priest, worn out in our service,
came and reported himself sick. He had feverish symptoms, for which
we administered quinine.
This break-down of our mainstay was unfortunate, for as we could
not get on with his assistance, how could we manage without it?
The mule-proprietors still maintained in the morning that there
were no mules to be had; but at mid-day they sent to say we could
have as many as we liked, at slightly exorbitant prices. We
thereupon engaged eight pack-mules at four taels[2] each, and three
mule-litters at eight taels each, to convey us and our belongings
to Chan-kia-kow, distant about 400 li, or a four days' journey.
It is difficult to divine why it was that these crafty dealers so
obstinately maintained the non-existence of the mules. They refused
even to listen to an offer on the first day. They were prepared to
demand an extortionate price, and we were equally prepared to pay
it, but they determined to play with us a little, in order to work
our feelings up to the requisite pitch. And when they had reduced
us to despair, they thought we would be in a proper frame of mind
to accede to their demands, however extravagant they might be. But
now everything was satisfactorily arranged, and the mules were to be
sent to us early in the morning. The fare amounted to sixty taels
in all, of which we paid one-third on the signing of the contract,
one-third when the mules were loaded, and the balance on arrival at
Chan-kia-kow.
[2] 1 tael equal to 6s. 6d.
My ma-foo now made himself very busy. Up to this time he had done
little but entertain me with cock-and-bull stories about his
late master, and his reasons for leaving his service, at every
favourable opportunity appealing to me for my opinion, as to
whether he was a "good man." I always answered in the negative, but
he solaced himself with the reflection that I would find him out
and do him justice when we got to Chan-kia-kow. Now that we were
about starting, we thought of many little things we wanted for our
comfort on the journey, and who so eligible to make the purchases
as "ma-foo." His eagle eye discerned in this a fine scope for his
energies, for nothing tickles a Chinaman so much as to have money
passing through his hands. "Ma-foo" set to work manfully, and was
proceeding very satisfactorily to all parties, bringing the articles
we wanted, and rendering an account of the prices paid, until he
brought me a coarse cotton bag, which he put in at two dollars.
"No," I said, "I won't have it at that price. Take it back to the
shop." By and by, he re-appeared with the bag, and offered it for
a dollar and a-half. I refused it; and sent him back to the shop.
After a while, he returned to the charge with the wretched bag:
told me he could not take it back, but reduced his demand to one
dollar. I asked him how he could afford to sell it for one dollar,
seeing he had paid two for it. "Maskee--you take it." I saw he was
"stuck" with it, and that if he failed to realise, he would be
under the necessity of stealing something from me to make up for
his loss. I therefore accepted it--not without making him confess
that he had paid only one dollar for the bag. It was now my turn to
ask him where his vaunted goodness was, seeing he tried to cheat me
of a dollar. He only grinned, and said, in this instance he was a
"little" bad. He was but an inexperienced knave. A clever Chinaman,
that is, an ordinary average Chinaman, would have managed an affair
of that kind so adroitly as to defy suspicion, except the general
feeling one always experiences that all Chinamen are rogues. But
small peculations are considered by the Chinese as their legitimate
game. When they are intrusted with commissions, they look on it
as a sacred duty to scrape as much as they can out of the affair
for themselves. This runs through the whole race, and every grade
of society, from the highest official in the empire to the meanest
beggar.
In case these remarks should be taken to contain a general
sweeping charge of dishonesty against the whole Chinese race, I
must explain myself a little more fully. The system of peculation
is recognised in China, as a legitimate source of emolument; and
within certain limits, arbitrarily fixed by custom, it is not held
to be inconsistent with honesty. The government connive at it to
an alarming extent, by paying responsible officers mere nominal
salaries, leaving it to their own ingenuity to improve their
fortunes. But with all that, it is a rare thing for a Chinaman to
betray a trust; the best proof of which is that they are trusted,
under the slenderest of guarantees, with large sums of money.
Among the respectable class of merchants, their word is as good as
their bond. A bargain once concluded is unflinchingly adhered to.
Their slipperiness is exhausted in the preliminary negotiations.
Their "cheating" is conducted on certain broad and well understood
principles. But for practical honesty, the Chinese may well excite
the admiration of many who think themselves vastly superior. When
we were at war with the Viceroy of Canton, the European factories
were burnt, and foreigners compelled to abandon the place, leaving
a great deal of property in the hands of Chinese merchants.
Repudiation never occurred to these Chinamen's minds. On the
contrary, they found their way to Hong-kong, during the blockade
of the Canton river, for the purpose of settling accounts with the
foreigners. China contains good and bad in about the same proportion
as other countries. Old John Bell says of them:--"They are honest,
and observe the strictest honour and justice in their dealings. It
must, however, be acknowledged, that not a few of them are much
addicted to knavery, and well skilled in the art of cheating. They
have, indeed, found many Europeans as great proficients in that art
as themselves." A very fair summary of Chinese character.
Bright and early in the morning the mules and litters came, and
we were three hours at work, loading and arranging everything. It
required a good deal of management, as the loads are not lashed on
the mules' backs, but balanced, so that they must be pretty equally
divided on each side of the pack-saddle.
We had somehow nine mules instead of eight. We had under 3000 lbs.
weight of baggage to carry. That did not give a full load to each
mule, for they are reputed to carry 300 catties, or 400 lbs. each.
The loads of our team averaged 325 lbs.
The mule litter, used in the north of China, is a large palanquin
suspended on the backs of two mules, length-wise. Strong leather
bands connect the points of the shafts, resting on the saddles of
the respective mules. An iron pin, fixed in the top of the saddle,
passes through a hole in the leather, and so keeps it in its place.
The shafts are, of course, a good length, to reach from one mule to
the other, and to leave the animals plenty of room to walk. There
is, consequently, a good deal of spring in the machine. The motion
is not at all disagreeable; compared with a cart, it is luxurious.
There is hardly room in the palanquin to stretch out full length,
but in other respects it is very commodious, having room in the
bottom for a good quantity of baggage.
About 10 o'clock on the 17th August our caravan moved slowly out
of the courtyard of the inn, which we left with no regret, and we
slowly felt our way through the dusty, crowded streets of Peking
towards the North Gate, which was our exit from the city. I was on
horseback, intending to get into my litter should the sun prove too
powerful, which it did when we got to the sandy plain a little way
outside the city. The slow pace of the mules was most disheartening,
but I had yet to learn much patience in travelling.
Our first resting-place was at Sha-ho, a village sixty li or twenty
miles from Peking. Here we made ourselves a dinner, and fed the
cattle. There are two very fine old stone bridges at Sha-ho, but the
river that runs under them is only a ditch now. It was drawing late
in the afternoon before we were on the road again, and we had not
gone many miles before darkness came. The country is well cultivated
with cereals, the chief crop being Barbadoes millet, standing from
ten to fifteen feet high. Strips of cotton plants appear here and
there. It is a delicate-looking plant in this part of the country.
The last five miles of the road to Nankow is very rough and stony,
and as the night was dark when we passed it, our animals had great
difficulty in keeping their legs. About 11 p.m. we arrived at the
inn at Nankow, and created a scene of no small confusion by our
entry into the courtyard. It was already filled with travellers'
gear of all sorts, and it was long before we could pick out a clear
space to unload our mules. The fitful glimmer of the dimmest of all
lanterns helped to make the darkness visible, but did not assist
us in clearing the heels of horses, mules, and donkeys that were
straggling all over the place. In the midst of the Babel of tongues,
and the senseless yells of our fellow-travellers, as they one
after another awoke in a nightmare, we were fain to retreat to our
dormitory, and with a scant supper, lay down to rest hoping to find
everything in its place in the morning.
The village of Nankow is at the entrance of the mountain pass of
that name. It is for this pass alone that the mule-litters are
necessary, for it would be impossible to take any wheeled carriage
through. In a Russian sketch of the route from Peking to Kiachta,
it is stated that the road is passable for carriages throughout.
There are several very difficult rocky passes on the road, but this
one at Nankow is, I am certain, impracticable for carriages.
[Illustration: THE NANKOW PASS.
(Page 63.)]
On the 18th August, early in the morning, we entered the defile. It
is indeed a terrible road, over huge boulders of rock. The pass is
about thirteen miles in length, and for the greater part of that
distance nothing breaks the monotony of the precipitous mountain
wall on either side. The remains of several old forts are seen in
the pass, showing the importance that has been attached to it in
former times. It certainly is the key of the position, and the last
step of an invader towards Peking. But it is so well defended by
nature, that a handful of men could keep an army at bay, if any were
so bold as to attempt to force this thirteen miles of defile. The
care bestowed on the defences hereabouts shows the terror inspired
by the Mongols and other outer tribes in the hearts of the rulers of
China.
Our mules struggled gallantly with their loads, slipping and
tripping at every step, and landed us at the outside of the pass,
without accident of any kind, but not without a good deal of wear
and tear of hoof. They even kept up almost their full travelling
pace of three miles an hour. At the northern exit from the pass
a branch of one of the inner "Great Walls" crosses. It is out of
repair, but still the archway over the port is good, and it would
puzzle anyone to get in or out of the pass without going through the
gate.
At a small walled town, called Cha-tow, just clear of the pass, we
halted for our mid-day meal, at a very good inn. The inns hereabouts
are nearly all kept by Mahommedans, called in Chinese "Hwuy-Hwuy."
The modicum of extraneous civilisation they have acquired, through
the religion of the Prophet, is sufficient to mark them as more
intelligent and enterprising than their fellows. It is not likely
that their tenets are very strictly kept, but they are sufficiently
so to enable the Mohammedans to keep together, and form communities
and associations of their own. Mine host at Cha-tow asked me for
some wine, on which I read him a lecture on the duty of abstinence
inculcated by the Prophet. He admitted this was so, but said they
were not over strait-laced in those parts. The Mohammedans have
their mosques at Tientsin, Peking, and in most large cities in the
north and west of China. They are evidently left unmolested in
the exercise of their religion, and enjoy every social privilege.
The Chinese government is really very tolerant of all religious
opinions, and the Chinese as a race are so supremely indifferent to
religious matters, that they are the last people in the world who
would be likely to work themselves up to fanatical persecution. They
are all too busy to attend to such matters. The Chinese government
has, no doubt, shown itself jealous of the propagation of the
Christian religion, but it is its political tendencies only that
frighten them. They have a wholesome recollection of the ambitious
projects of the Jesuits in their day of influence,[3] and they have
been constantly kept in hot water by the Propaganda. They have to
meet ever-recurrent demands by the self-constituted champion of
religion in the East, for the murder of some French or Italian
priest in some unheard-of part of the country, where he had no right
to be, except at his own proper peril. They see in every native
convert a contingent _casus belli_ with some powerful state, and
very naturally seek to check the spread of such dangerous doctrines
by all indirect means. This unfortunate mixing-up of politics
with religion has been a deadly blow to the real advancement of
Christianity in China. And the abuse of the Christian vocabulary
by the Taeping rebels is not calculated to prepossess the Chinese
authorities in favour of the Western faith. Japan is another
country where the government, and I may say also the people, are
utterly indifferent to religion, but where the Christian religion
has been, and is, tabooed with a vigour unsurpassed in the history
of the world. And who that has read the story of the introduction
of Christianity into that country by the Jesuits, can blame the
government of Japan for its arbitrary exercise of power?
[3] Father Gerbillon, a Jesuit, was the Chinese plenipotentiary who
concluded the treaty of Nerchinsk with the Russians, in 1689.
Huc laments the low status of the Chinese Christians, as compared
with the Mussulmen, and attributes it to the want of self-assertion.
When a Christian gets into trouble his brethren hide themselves. Huc
would have driven them to the other extreme. He advocated strong
associations by which the Christians might "awe" the Mandarins,
as if there must necessarily be antagonism between the two. The
inference from which must be either that the Christians are
systematically persecuted, as such, or that they are in the habit
of committing offences against society. The Chinese government
and people have a horror of secret societies and of any political
associations whatever. But if Huc's converts had been content
to live like ordinary good citizens, neither shrinking from nor
courting publicity, they would probably have disarmed suspicion and
escaped molestation. Above all, if Huc and his clerical brethren
could have divested themselves of the character of spies who had
crept into China in defiance of the law of the land, for purposes
which the government could not understand, and therefore assumed
to be pernicious, they might have saved their disciples from some
annoyance, or, as they love to call it, persecution.
In the inn at Chatow, and in all the other inns north of Peking,
we found a large cauldron of boiling mutton in a central position
in the kitchen. This is kept boiling from morning till night;
and the broth, which, by itself, is by no means unpalatable, is
always handy as a stock for any messes the wayfarers may fancy. A
youth spends his time in kneading chow-patties, which he does very
skilfully and rapidly. These are torn and thrown in pieces into the
boiling mass, and, when sufficiently done, are served out with a
due proportion of broth, as a savoury dish for a hungry man. The
"steward of the cauldron," as Huc would probably have called him,
has acquired great expertness in serving out his stuff. With a
variety of ladles, all sieves, more or less fine, he will serve up
either the plain broth, or nimbly seize any of the morsels that are
tumbling about in confusion in the pot.
Mutton is cheap and abundant here, and is the staple article of
food. The sheep are pastured on many hill-sides that are not fit for
anything else, and the constant droves of sheep that come in from
Mongolia, for the supply of Peking, pass along this road, and are no
doubt to be had cheap.
We now enter a plain about ten miles broad, bounded on either side
by bold mountain ranges running east and west. We cross the plain
obliquely towards the northern mountain chain. This plain must be
elevated more than 1000 feet. The air was fresher than about Peking,
and a very marked difference was apparent in the fertility of the
soil. The millet and other crops were stunted, the soil was arid and
rather stony. The hills are quite bare, but a few trees are dotted
over the plain.
At Hwai-lai-hien, a good-sized walled town, we halted for the
night. Outside the city is a very large stone bridge, evidently
of the same period as those at Sha-ho. Five gothic-shaped arches
are still standing, and another is detached at a distance of some
200 feet, the intermediate part of the bridge having no doubt been
destroyed. There is no water now in the river, but the bed is still
well marked, and the old embankments remain, about 500 or 600 yards
apart. The old bed of the river is in a high state of cultivation
now.
I find the following notice of this bridge and this river in Bell's
Travels. He does not, indeed, give the name of the town, but,
tracing up his march from stage to stage, between the Great Wall
and Peking, it is evident that Hwai-lai is the station referred to.
He says: "About noon, next day, we came to a large, populous, and
well-built city, with broad streets, as straight as a line. Near
this place runs a fine river, which appears navigable, having across
it a noble stone bridge, of several arches, and paved with large
square stones."
Bell also makes frequent allusion to an earthquake, which did great
damage to this part of the country in July, 1719. Many towns and
villages were half destroyed, and some were wholly laid in ruins,
and "vast numbers of people" were engulfed. "I must confess,"
says Bell, "it was a dismal scene to see everywhere such heaps
of rubbish." The district being subject to earthquakes, makes it
probable that the fine bridge has been destroyed by that agency. But
what has become of the fine navigable river that existed in 1720,
and has now disappeared? Has it also been upset by an earthquake?
The river was probably the Kwei-ho, which now runs in another
direction, but some of the gentlemen of Peking or Tientsin, who
have explored the country, will no doubt elucidate this interesting
question.
On the 19th we made an early start, and went at a very steady pace
towards the northern chain of mountains. On approaching them we
turned slightly to the left, and skirted the base of the hills. We
met a good deal of traffic on the road here, all goods being carried
on the backs of mules and donkeys. Coal formed a conspicuous object,
on its way to Peking, where it is used to a considerable extent.
Immense flocks of sheep are continually passing in the direction of
Peking, and we also met a good many herds of horses bound the same
way. Our mid-day halt was at Shacheng, a walled town.
All over this country are the ruins of old forts; and a line of
square towers, with a good many blanks, runs nearly in the direction
of the road. If these forts could speak they could tell a tale of
many a hard-fought battle before and after the Mongol conquest of
China.
This part of the country was hotly contested by Genghis Khan; and,
in the years 1212 and 1213, the town of Suen-wha-foo, and other
places in the neighbourhood, were several times taken and re-taken.
"A bloody battle" was fought near Hway-lai, wherein Genghis defeated
the Kin, a Manchu dynasty who then ruled Kitay or Northern China.
The pass at Nankow, and its fortresses, were taken by Chepe, one of
Genghis's generals.
A story is somewhere told that, in olden times, when intelligence
was transmitted through the country by beacon fires lighted on
these towers, an emperor was cajoled by one of his ladies to give
the signal of alarm and summon his generals and officers from all
quarters. The word was given, and the signal flashed through the
Chinese dominions. The Mandarins assembled in the capital to repel
the invader, but, finding they had merely been used as playthings to
amuse a woman, they returned in wrath to the provinces. By and by
the Tartars did come; the alarm was again given; but this time no
one responded to the emperor's call for aid.
At Chi-ming-i, another walled town, we had done our day's work, but
it was too early to halt, so we pushed on to a small village called
Shan-shui-pu. At Chi-ming-i we met the Yang-ho, a small river that
seems to lose itself in the sand. Turning northwards we followed
the course of the Yang-ho, and entered another defile. The scenery
at the entrance of the pass, where the opening is wide, with a
number of valleys running into the hills, and snug-looking villages
nestling in cosy nooks, is a relief from the dull monotony of the
plain on the one side, and from the wild rocky barriers on the
other. It is a romantic little spot, full of verdure, and completely
sheltered from the north winds. It has therefore been a favourite
resort for ecclesiastics; for, with all their dullness, the Chinese
priests have everywhere displayed excellent taste in the selection
of sites for their temples and monasteries.
The following pretty legend of the place is given by Bell, and, as
he says, it is a fair specimen of the numerous fabulous stories
which the Chinese imagination delights to feed upon:--"Near this
place is a steep rock, standing on a plain, inaccessible on all
sides, except to the west, where a narrow winding path is cut in the
rock, which leads to a Pagan temple and nunnery built upon the top
of it. These edifices make a pretty appearance from the plain, and,
as the story goes, were built from the foundation, in one night, by
a lady, on the following occasion. This lady was very beautiful,
virtuous, and rich, and had many powerful princes for her suitors.
She told them she intended to build a temple and a monastery of
certain dimensions, with her own hands, in one night, on the top
of this rock; and whoever would undertake to build a stone bridge
over a river in the neighbourhood, in the same space of time, him
she promised to accept for a husband. All the lovers having heard
the difficult task imposed on them, returned to their respective
dominions, except one stranger, who undertook to perform the hard
condition. The lover and the lady began their labour at the same
time, and the lady completed her part before the light appeared; but
as soon as the sun was risen, she saw, from the top of the rock,
that her lover had not half finished his bridge, having raised only
the pillars for the arches. Failing, therefore, in his part of the
performance, he also was obliged to depart to his own country, and
the lady (poor lady!) passed the remainder of her days in her own
monastery."
The Yang-ho had been flooded a few weeks before. It had now
subsided, but still it came down from the hills roaring like a
cataract. It runs through the pass, and falls not less than 200 feet
in a distance of five miles. We followed its course through the
mountains, sometimes close to the river. The noise of it at times
was deafening, and one of my ponies could with difficulty be kept on
the path from fright at the noise. The road became very difficult as
we ascended the pass, and it grew dark long before we reached our
halting-place, Shan-shui-pu. When we got there we found but poor
accommodation. We managed to eat some rice and eggs, and surveyed
the premises to find a decent place to sleep, but without success.
Six Mongol travellers were lying on the ground in the outer yard,
side by side, their sleep undisturbed by the noise our party made in
coming into the hostelry. We slept in our litters.
Coal is worked in this neighbourhood, but in a very imperfect way.
As far as I could detect, it is merely scooped out of the hill-sides
where the seam happens to crop out.
At half-past five next morning we left Shan-shui-pu. The road
continued very rocky for a mile or two, and led through an
undulating country. We then got on to another terrace very much like
the one we crossed yesterday, and bounded by two parallel ranges of
hills.
At Suen-wha-fu, a large walled city, we halted to breakfast in a
very comfortable inn, much frequented by Russian travellers, who had
inscribed their names on the walls as far back as 1858.
Mr. Noetzli and I rode ahead of the caravan in order to reach
Chan-kia-kow early, and see how the land lay. Chan-kia-kow was the
critical point in our journey, and we were naturally anxious to
manage matters there with proper address. If we could but get camels
to carry us across the desert to Kiachta, we were safe from all
annoyance and delay for the rest of our journey. So we innocently
thought; but the sequel will show how short-sighted we were.