business, was anxious to buy a little Pekingese slave-girl, and I was
present at the negotiations. The child, a bright little creature eight
years of age, was brought by her parents to Ma’s lodging, and as she
gave satisfaction, the question resolved itself into one of price, and
here the fun began, for the little thing was so keen to go that she
eagerly took part with the purchaser in beating down the vendors; and,
finally, a bargain was struck at 28 dollars. At that price she was
handed over to her new owner, together with a bill of sale, of which
here is a translation:—
“This is a deed of sale. Wan Chêng, of the village of Wan Ping, has
a child the offspring of his body, being his second daughter and his
seventh child, aged eight years. Because his house is poor, cold, and
hungry, relying on what has passed between a third person and his wife,
he has determined to sell his daughter to one named Ma. He sells her
for twenty-eight dollars, every dollar to be worth seven tiaos and a
half. The money has been paid over in full under the pen” (_i.e._ at
this time of writing). “The girl is to obey her master and to depend
upon him for her maintenance. In the event of any difficulties or
doubts arising on the part of the girl’s family, the seller alone is
responsible, it does not regard the buyer. It is to be apprehended that
calamities may occur to the child, but that is according as Heaven
shall decree; her master is not responsible. None henceforward may
cross the door to meddle in her affairs. This agreement has been made
openly face to face. In case of any inquiries being made this document
is to serve as proof.” (Here follow the signatures or rather marks
of the vendor, the middleman, and a third person as witness, and the
date.) “The child’s birthday is the 11th day of the 6th month, she was
born between the seventh and eighth hours.”
Ma declares that as soon as the girl is grown up he shall let her
marry. He says, “My no wanchee do that black heart pidgin.” I believe
he will keep his word—it is a matter of business, and in business the
southern Chinese trader is scrupulously honest.
As for the child, she was simply in a fever of delight at leaving her
parents. I dare say her poor little life had been none too rosy; for
what says the proverb? “Better one son, though deformed, than eighteen
daughters as wise as the apostles of Buddha.”
I wonder whether any European ever witnessed such a transaction before.
I have been spending the last few days chiefly in Paternoster Row,
the Liu Li Chang, sitting at the feet of a very learned little Chinese
Gamaliel, who tells me wonderful stories about the arts and the old
craftsmen of China. He is a bookseller by trade, but being a great
connoisseur, he always has a few rare specimens of cloisonné enamel,
jade, rock crystal, cornelian, or porcelain in his shop. He is never
weary of telling how the Emperor Ching Ta̔i (A.D. 1450) used to work
at cloisonné enamel (like Louis XVI. at locks, and Peter the Great
at boat-building); how some even say that he even invented the art,
to which the Chinese still give his name, calling it Ching Ta̔i Lan,
Ching Ta̔i’s blue; how the great family of potters, the Langs, died out
in the beginning of the seventeenth century, carrying their secrets
with them to the grave, and how ever since that time the Chinese have
been trying to discover their methods—but all in vain—only producing,
instead of a wonderful _sang de bœuf_ of so soft a paste that it looks
as if you might scoop it out with a spoon, the, as he calls them,
inferior imitations, to which the French gave the name of Céladon
Jaspé, and which the great metal workers, such as Caffieri, used to
delight in mounting. Cloisonné enamel, by the bye, went out of fashion
at the end of the last century, and the Chinese ceased to make it; but
when, after the sacking of the Summer Palace, the specimens looted
there and sent home fetched such wonderful prices in London and Paris,
they routed out the drawers in which their forbears had carefully
locked their recipes—for a Chinaman never destroys anything—and soon
the market will be flooded with new work. The first specimen was
brought to me at the Legation the other day, and very good it was.
The rose-backed plates and cups dear to the keen-eyed loungers at
Christie’s can never have been the fashion at Peking, where men chiefly
love the brave colours and bold designs of the artists of the Ming
dynasty, and where purses are opened wide for ever so small a piece
of the thickly glazed ware of the days of the Yuan and the Sung. From
Ka̔ng Hsi’s reign to the end of Chien Lung’s, A.D. 1796, one seems
to feel the Jesuit, or European, influence in the substitution of
arabesques for the old barbaric designs. The great age for art in China
and Japan, as in Europe, was the cinque cento; the meanest, the dawn of
the nineteenth century.
LETTER XXVI
PEKING, _23rd May 1866_.
I returned from my Mongolian expedition last Friday, the 18th,
half-starved and burnt to a cinder, but very jolly. I copy my journal
for you.
We left Peking, the doctor and I, on the 23rd April. We took with
us my servant Chang Hsi, groom, and fat cook. We of course rode our
own horses, while five mules carried the servants and baggage. The
doctor’s dog Drujok, a half-bred Russian setter, and my Prince, a heavy
shambling puppy whom I call a Newfoundland, but whose _seize quartiers_
it would be difficult to prove, made up the party. Our cavalcade made
a great sensation in the streets of Peking. “Here’s a game,” shouted
the street—arabs, piggish in many respects besides their tails; “look
at the devils and the devil dogs!” We went out at the Tê Shêng Mên
(Victory Gate). So soon as we had passed the dusty streets and suburbs
obstructed by carts and camels, whose bells and dull tramp irritate
one’s ears, while the dust they shuffle up blinds and chokes one, the
ride became delightful. The fresh green of the budding trees and young
spring crops and the tints of the distant hills were new life to eyes
tired with the monotonous grays of a Peking winter. It was a lovely day
too, bright, sunny, and cooled by a fresh breeze from the mountains.
Former experience of carts had decided me to take mules; but it was out
of the frying-pan into the fire. Carts are slow, mules are slower. If
one takes carts the servants are sure to stow away one ragamuffin at
least to help them with their work and add to the expense. If one takes
mules the muleteer is sure to add a number of mules carrying wares for
trade at the different towns, which creates endless delays. Besides,
the pack-mules cannot keep up with the horses, and it is no joke to
arrive at an inn, tired and hungry, with the choice of ordering a bad
Chinese dinner, or waiting three hours for the cook to come up and
prepare a better one. Being in advance, we always had to find our own
way from place to place; easy enough if one could even get a direct
answer, but you might as well expect that from a Reading Quaker.
_Englishman_—“I borrow a light from your intelligence.”
_Native_—“Hao shwo! You are very polite.”
_E._—“How far is it from here to Sha-Ho?”
_N._—“How far is it from here to Sha-Ho? Oh! you’re going to Sha-Ho,
are you?”
_E._—“Yes! How far is it?”
_N._—“How far from here, eh? What are you going to do at Sha-Ho?”
_E._—“Just going for an excursion. But how far is it?”
_N._—“Just going for an excursion, eh?”
This sort of thing goes on until you thoroughly lose your temper,
seeing which an old man in the crowd holds up his forefinger and
thumb in an oracular manner. This to the initiated signifies that
Sha-Ho is eight (not two) li distant (the li is about one-third of a
mile). The Chinese have a way of counting with their fingers, which
is as necessary to learn as the numerals of the spoken language. They
constantly answer a question of figures by holding up one hand without
speaking. Up to five it is all plain sailing, but beyond that it is not
so easy. The thumb and little finger mean _six_; thumb and two first
fingers, _seven_; thumb and forefinger, _eight_, forefinger crooked,
_nine_; second finger doubled over forefinger, or whole hand shown,
first palm and then back, _ten_.
We passed our first night at Chang-ping-chou, which was a slight
roundabout, but my companion wanted to see the Ming tombs about which
I wrote to you last autumn. We found all the inns full, but a small
beggar boy, who, possibly with an eye to copper cash, took a great
interest in our proceedings, led us to a neat little inn outside the
walls where we were quiet and cleanly lodged.
_24th April._
We had all the trouble in life this morning to get the mules to start.
Threats of stoppages of pay were the only means of acting on the
muleteers. Even so we only got off by eight o’clock. The doctor and
I, accompanied by my man Chang Hsi, were to visit the tombs, while
the mules, not being supposed capable of deriving either profit or
amusement from the sight, were to precede us to Nan-Ko̔u, and there
wait our arrival. The valley of the tombs was not so bright and rich as
when I saw it with the autumn crops in all their luxuriance, but there
were plenty of wild-flowers, dog-violets, wild iris, convolvulus, and
others, and the persimmon trees were a mass of bloom. The avenue of
monstrous statues appeared tame to me in the glare of day after having
seen their weird and ghostly appearance by moonlight, but the site and
buildings must always be striking. There are plenty of temples and
palaces in and near Peking as large and as magnificent, but none in
such good proportion; they all look like “imitation” by the side of the
Thirteen Tombs.
We had to ride back to within a few hundred yards of Chang-ping-chou
before we could reach the sandy and stony road which leads to Nan-Ko̔u.
It was burning hot, but as the Russians say, “Heat breaks no bones,”
and with fresh, pure air to breathe it does not much signify how hot
it is. In Peking it is another matter. We reached Nan-Ko̔u at 2 P.M.
The little town is prettily situated at the bottom of the famous pass
to which it gives its name. Steep cliffs enclose it on either side; a
stream of clear water—rare sight in these parts—passes through it; and
the cottages in the valley are surrounded by trees and corn-fields.
The hills are wild and bold, with here and there bits of wall, towers,
and perhaps a temple or shrine on the ridges. The constant tinkling of
camel and mule bells testifies to the amount of traffic. Every other
house is an inn, and all seem bustling and prosperous. There was plenty
of movement and plenty of noise in our inn-yard; muleteers, carters,
footpads, poultry, and asses kept up a perpetual wrangling, crowing,
and braying, while an improvisatore in the kitchen opposite was earning
his night’s board and lodging by reciting tales of an unedifying
character for the benefit of the host and his guests of lower degree.
Although we had arrived so early, we thought it better to stop the
night at Nan-Ko̔u and go on in the morning, so we had time for a stroll
among the hills after dinner.
_25th April._
We started at six, riding donkeys in order to spare the ponies the
rough work of the pass. The Nan-Ko̔u pass is certainly in its way
very fine. The valley, which is a gradual ascent, is bounded on either
side by steep, abrupt hills, as barren and wild as a Scotch glen; a
few trees stud it at intervals, and a narrow thread of water runs
through it. There are plenty of shrines about, and always perched upon
cliffs so steep that one is lost in wonder how they ever got there.
Amongst these I noticed a form of sacred monument that was new to me,
but constantly repeated along this road—five white-washed earthen
cones like sugar-loaves, with bats[14] or other emblems rudely painted
on them; I guess that they represent the five offerings exposed on
Buddhist altars. As an instance of the difficulty of obtaining reliable
information, and to show how cautiously travellers’ statements about
China must be accepted, I asked three respectable Chinese by the road
what was the meaning of these five cones. One said that they were to
keep off foxes and wolves, another that they marked every five li along
the road, and the third that they were Buddhist emblems, but he did
not know what they represented. The pass itself, considering that it
is the highway between Mongolia and China, is a very miracle of bad
roads. It is as if nature had in some stupendous convulsion burst a
passage through the mountains, leaving all the débris in the most
glorious confusion, which man has been too idle to reduce to order.
Huge boulders of rock at every step obstruct a way which is difficult
enough already, and the overhanging cliffs seem as if they were on the
point of throwing down more masses to block up the road. Asses are
far the best mounts for this work. Ours carried us capitally, urged
by constant revilings from their rascally drivers. “Egg of a turtle!
what are you stopping for!” is the mildest of their adjurations, the
turtle not being used as significative of slowness, but as an euphemism
for cuckold. There are plenty of villages in the pass; the inhabitants
do a small trade in tea, hard-boiled eggs, and laopings (a sort of
girdle-cake), which they sell to wayfarers. There is one very pretty
little town, Chu-Yung-Kwan, with a curious old gateway richly carved
with quaint figures and inscriptions in Chinese, Manchu, Mongolian,
and Thibetan, said to be a relic of the Yuan or Mongol dynasty. At
the top of the pass, just before the slight descent which leads to
the plateau on the west, is an old ruined fortified enclosure called
Pa Ta Ling, “the eight great peaks.” It is a curious place, for the
inside is literally a heap of ruins and rubbish, while the walls and
fortifications are almost perfect.
We breakfasted at Cha Tao at the end of the pass, some 15 miles, and
very tiring miles too, from Nan-Ko̔u. After Cha Tao the road lies along
a sandy plain, probably once a lake, to Hwai Lai Hsien, a pretty model
of a Chinese town, with crenelated walls and quaint towers. East of
the town is a small river, spanned by what once has been a handsome
five-arched bridge, now of course falling into ruin and decay. Hard by,
on a low hill, stands a temple like an Italian monastery. We put up for
the night at Hwai Lai Hsien, having ridden some 35 miles from Nan-Ko̔u.
We had some difficulty in finding an inn. The people of the east side
of the town sent us to the west, and the people of the west incited us
to go back to the east. The mules and servants were behind us, and we
were left entirely to our own resources. At last my horse decided the
question by bolting down a courtyard, which turned out to be that of
the best inn in the place, but which, it having no signboard, I had
missed.
_26th April._
We had a dullish ride to-day to Hsin Pao An, passing a few small towns,
all fortified, probably against Mongol invasions; at one of these, Tu
Mu, we made our mid-day halt. Hsin Pao An is a very pretty little town.
One Chinese town is generally so like another that if you have seen
one you have seen all. Here, however, there is a very curious building
in the middle of the place; it is a sort of compromise between an
English town-hall, a mediæval fortress, and a Chinese temple; it gives
a distinction to the town. It is so very rare to see a drunken man in
China that it is almost worth recording that one rushed into our rooms
here, and was proceeding to lay hands on the doctor, who shook him off
in great astonishment, when the people of the inn came in and turned
him out, with many apologies for the annoyance.
_27th April._
The main feature in the plain on leaving Hsin Pao An is a steep
mountain, or rather precipitous and jagged rock, perhaps 800 or 1000
feet high, called Nei Nei Shan. It stands at the western end of
the plain, immediately to the east of the Yang Ho, “sheep river,”
which winds beneath it. On the very summit of this rock is a temple,
about which there is a legend which reminds one of Rolandseck and
Nonnenwerth. A prince of these parts had engaged to throw a bridge over
the river in a single night, or forfeit his life. He set about his
task, but when the sun rose in the morning the work was unfinished, so
in despair and in fulfilment of his vow he threw himself into the river
and was drowned. His widow erected this temple that she might pass
her life in mourning in constant sight of the spot where her husband
had disappeared. I have the very worst authority for this legend, of
which, by the bye, Bell gives another version quoted by Michie. The
Chinese about the place have never heard of it; however, I dare say it
is as true as most other legends; at any rate there stand the hill and
the temple, and there live (heaven knows how) five priests, exposed
to the full glare of the sun, and to every cold wind that blows, and
obliged to fetch even the water they drink up an almost inaccessible
height from the plain below. This day’s journey, following the Yang Ho
in a north-westerly direction, was very picturesque and varied, but
often rocky to a degree. However, our little Mongol horses behaved
like goats; they never stumble except on a flat road, where they get
careless and lazy. There is plenty of coal in these hills, which is
worked in the meanest manner and sent to Peking on camels. A geologist
who has examined this part of China, and especially the mountains to
the west, affirms it to be the richest coalfield in the world, but
the Chinese do not take advantage of it. We met plenty of travellers
of all degrees, the richer ones travelling in mule litters, a mode of
conveyance which looks to me as if it might bring on sea-sickness; and
numberless caravans laden with tea for Russia.
We rested at a poor little town called Hsiang Shui Pu, and put up
for the night at Hsuan Hua Fu, a large district city. Here in the
suburbs we found an inn which was a palace compared with those we had
put up in hitherto, though an English labourer’s cottage would not
suffer by contrast with the room I slept in. A certain amount of new
paper in the windows gave a promise of cleanliness and decency within
that was not fulfilled by the broken brick floor and musty tables and
benches; however, there were plenty of shabby, tawdry lanterns, and if
characters of good omen could give appetite and a good night’s rest,
we ought to have eaten like ogres and slept like the Seven Sleepers.
We were a good deal lionised here; indeed, the inquisitiveness of
the people was very troublesome. As I was lathering my face before
dinner, trying to get rid of the deposit of two or three sandstorms,
the curse of travellers in North China, a carter walked coolly into
my bedroom smoking his pipe, and went into fits of laughter at the
sight. I, irritated by the intrusion, flung the contents of my soapy
sponge into his face—which must have very much astonished it, for it
was much in the same state as the fists of the Irish boatman two years
after he had shaken hands with the Lord Lieutenant; and my enemy
fled howling. Presently another gentleman appeared who addressed me
as “Venerable Teacher”—a high compliment—and informed me that his
name was Ma, and that he was a merchant of caps travelling from west
to east; after which he retired, but shortly put his head in again to
ask my honourable name and nation, and I heard him afterwards in the
yard explaining to a knot of carters, muleteers, and loungers, that
I was the English teacher Mi, that I understood good manners, that
my body was all over pockets, and that my years were not few; which
statements the auditors received with many grunts and eructations and
repeated several times, afterwards one by one sauntering up to judge
for themselves. I happened to be emptying my pockets at the time of
Ma’s visit. Pockets are not used by the Chinese; they have, it is true,
purses or pouches at their girdle, but they are very small. The chief
receptacle for miscellaneous articles is the boot. My first teacher
used to pull writing materials and sugar-plums indiscriminately from
his boot, and always politely offered me the latter before tasting
them himself. Old Hêng-Chi, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, who is
_malade imaginaire_ and always dosing himself, constantly pulls pills
or other pet remedies out of his boot. European pockets are always
provocative of wonder. The noises of the inn-yard made sleep out of
the question till long past midnight. The worst of all was an old
carter wrapped up in his sheepskin, sitting on the shaft of his cart
and beating a sort of death-watch with a stick on a piece of hollow
bamboo, like a ghoulish old woodpecker. I went out and tried to chaff
him out of his performance, but he took my irony for high praise, which
so delighted him that he every now and then burst into snatches of song
in a high squeaky falsetto, never stopping his eternal devil’s tattoo.
Mules, asses, horses, and quarrelling Chinamen made up a fitting chorus.
_Saturday, 28th April._
Rode through the town of Hsuên Hwa Fu, which, for China, is in
tolerable repair. Though small as “Fu’s” go, it is pretty enough.
There are plenty of trees, chiefly huge willows and poplars, and a
great variety of quaint towers, pagodas, and other buildings. The
plain below is busily tilled, and, I should think, must be fertile;
but the crops are far behind those of the Peking plain, and the first
sowings have not yet put out shoots. Here amongst the numerous by-roads
and water-courses we lost our way, being, as usual, far ahead of our
mules. Seeing a group of boys working a few fields off I rode across
to ask the way; their backs were turned to me, and it was only when I
jumped over a low mud wall into the midst of them that they perceived
me. A shark appearing in Cuckoo weir while the Eton boys are bathing,
could not have produced a greater panic. With one consent the urchins
shouted out, “The Devil! The Devil!” and bolted for dear life. At last
I succeeded in capturing and calming one of them, sufficiently to
discover that we were about an hour and a half’s ride out of the right
road (no joke to men fasting and under such a sun). The deviation from
the regular route accounted for the terror caused by my appearance; the
boys had probably never seen a foreigner before.