LETTER XXVII
Ta-chio-Ssŭ,
The Temple of Great Repose,
23rd July 1866.
The last mail took you no letter from me because I was far away in Mongolia. My first intention had been merely to go as far as Chang Chia Ko̔u, to accompany Brenchley and make the arrangements for his journey across Siberia to Russia. Ultimately, however, the party increased to four, of whom one was a lady, and our programme grew in proportion. We started on June the 21st. We were detained four or five days at Chang Chia Ko̔u, owing to the chicanery of a faithless Mongol camel-owner who did not keep faith with us. However, it is a bright, cheerful little town, so I did not much mind. It was gayer than ever too, for on account of the great drought, morning, noon, and night, the town was being paraded by processions of distressed agriculturists praying for rain. Preceded by squeaky clarionets, drums, and gongs, a crowd of men and boys with wreaths of willow round their heads and middles, above which their sunburnt bodies were naked, some wearing fillets of red paper, others doing penance with their necks enclosed in the heavy board used as a punishment for prisoners, escorted a sedan chair with a tiny god in it to the Lung Wang Miao, the Temple of the Dragon Prince, whom, being a water-god, it is well to propitiate in cases of drought.[16] Some of the votaries were armed with spears and rude guns, which from time to time they fired off, and altogether there was din and clatter enough even to please a Chinese crowd. “Ah! these agriculturists!” said a Chinese gentleman who was looking on with the most supreme contempt, and whom I asked for an explanation of the affair; “they are never content! It’s always too much rain or too little, or something the matter. Unsurpassable!” The prayers of the worthy people were heard, however, and the Dragon Prince took a favourable view of their case, for the first day of my stay at Chang Chia Ko̔u there came a thunderstorm, with a downfall of rain, such as one seldom sees out of the tropics, and there was more or less rain all the time we were there. The coincidence will not improve the chances of an American missionary who has been physicking the natives of Chang Chia Ko̔u for rather more than a year, but in spite of the drastic arguments of blue pill and black dose, has not yet made a convert.
There are three main passes leading from China into Mongolia, Chang Chia Ko̔u, Ku Pei Ko̔u, and between them Tu Shih Ko̔u, which is smaller and less important, but which I had not seen. The plan which I proposed, and which my companions accepted, was to make a tour of the three, following a line outside, but in some parts parallel with the Great Wall.
We left Chang Chia Ko̔u on the 30th of June. It was frightfully hot, but I had provided a refuge against the scorching sun, which at mid-day would have been unbearable. We each had with us a mule litter, a sort of long carriage in which a single person can almost lie at full length, with shafts behind and before which are borne on mules’ backs. This sounds rather a comfortable and luxurious way of travelling, seeing that one’s bed and pillows are placed inside. As a fact it is horridly jolty and sea-sicky; then no sooner has one established one’s self in a tolerably easy position and dozed off (which is inevitable, and makes one very hot and uncomfortable), than one is called upon by the muleteer to trim the boat: “Your Excellency! please sit a little more to the south. Your Excellency’s weight is all to the north! The north side of that mule’s back is becoming terribly galled.” My muleteer was a very original character. He had a prodigious talent for screaming out Chinese anacreontics at the top of his voice, and for dramatic recitations and imitations of popular actors. He was always the last of the muleteers to get up in the morning, and when at last I took to waking him with the crack of a hunting-whip, he only grumbled good-humouredly and said the “old lord,” meaning me, was very hard upon him, but none the more did he get up to feed his mules. He had been to Mongolia once with Sir Frederic Bruce, to whom he applied the most glowing eulogy that a Chinaman can bestow, holding up his thumb; words could go no further. Altogether Cha Mai Chu—that is his name—was the merriest, grinningest, and most laughable devil that I have ever come across here. When we arrived at the inn, and the six muleteers, having acquiesced in the landlord’s civil proposal, “You six gentlemen” (if you could but see the six gentlemen!) “will dine together, I suppose,” had sat down to the coarse fare, a sort of macaroni with garlic and pickles, which they allow themselves, Cha Mai Chu used to keep the other five in a roar of laughter, and I rather think that by that means he contrived to suck up the lion’s share of the white strings.
As the first part of our road, as far as Chang-Ma-Tzŭ-Chin, was but a repetition of the same journey which I wrote about in my last long letter describing my expedition to Llama Miao, I spare you the repetition. Farther on we followed a route new to me, and in some places not visited before by foreigners. This may interest you. After leaving Chang-Ma-Tzŭ-Chin on the 3rd July, instead of pushing on northwards across Mongolia, which at this season is far more worthy of its Chinese name, “The Land of Grass,” than it was two months ago, we steered south-east back towards China, across a sandy plain, richly cultivated with potatoes and other crops. In the midst of this sandy tract stands a little tumble-down Chinese village called Lien Hwa Tan, “the lotus-flower fountain,” from an old tradition that there once stood there a temple in which was a fountain flourishing with lotus-flowers. Now it is a case of lucus a non, for temple, fountain, and flowers have all faded away together, and as for anything flourishing, there was barely a roof for us to eat our breakfasts under. We were making for a ridge of green hills, from the top of which I expected to come in sight of the Great Wall, which, however, did not appear until we had reached the bottom of an emerald-green valley, with luxuriant vegetation, lying between rugged and bare rocks. Hard by Tu Shih Ko̔u the great brick monster showed itself again, but in ruins, undermined and sapped by continual watercourses. The rocks here are very fine, picturesque and astonishing in their shapes. Tu Shih Ko̔u itself is a queer little old town. The fortifications and walls are falling into decay, uncared for and unrepaired. In a few years, I should think, its quaint gables and towers and useless fortifications will have crumbled away; but on the other hand, inside the walls there are shops, neat and tidy, and houses showing signs of some prosperity. Perhaps, after all, there is some method in the apparent madness of letting the old remains of protection against border warfare go to the dogs. I have often told you how bothered travellers are here on arriving at an inn by gapers and starers. The nuisance was multiplied a hundred-fold on this excursion by the fact of our having a lady with us. I was armed with special letters of recommendation from the Ministers of Foreign Affairs to the high mandarins along the road, and as soon as these last heard that we were annoyed, they hastened to send us “po-po” (sweetmeats) and protection, but before this arrived I had been obliged to take the law into my own hands, for three dirty, old, gray blackguards had actually, using their wet thumbs as centre-bits, made holes in one of our paper windows, at which they were playing peeping Tom, and so interested by what they saw that they did not hear Retribution stealing up on tiptoe armed with a hunting-whip. Retribution, that is myself, tied their three nasty old tails together and packed them off howling, to the great delight of their friends and relations, who quite recognised the breach of Tao Li of which they had been guilty. An appeal to Tao Li, good manners, or propriety, is always a trump card to play when in difficulties with a Chinese crowd.
We only stayed one night at Tu Shih Ko̔u, and then rode back through another pass to the fresh air of the steppe. We passed the night at a little hamlet called Chang Leang. There was but one inn, and that was full, and we should have had to pass the night al fresco if a good-natured Bachelor of Arts returning from Llama Miao to Tu Shih Ko̔u had not consented to push on and give us up his room for the lady of our party. The rest of us managed to huddle up somehow. Never in all my wanderings here have I had to sleep in such queer places as I did on this journey. The villages were poor, the inns worse; and instead of having the high place, we males were bound to put up with holes such as the very beggars in England would back out of. However, the game was worth the candle so far as scenery was concerned, and then the air of Mongolia makes up for everything. Even the Alpine Club do not know what fresh air is; they must come to the steppes.
The next day we breakfasted at a felt manufactory, at a village called Ta Tan. The way the Chinese make their felt is very rude and primitive, but the result beats Manchester and cogwheels. A quantity of wool is carded and weighed and scattered evenly over a rush mat. When a sufficient quantity has been laid, the wool is carefully flattened down with a sort of wickerwork fan and sprinkled with boiling water; the mat and wool are then rolled up and tied, and the roll being laid on the ground is kicked backwards and forwards by six men from foot to foot for five minutes. A second layer completes the felt, which is excellent. I wish I could give you an idea of the extreme beauty of our afternoon’s ride. After we had left our felt manufactory, the road lay through low hills, along a valley that was perfectly enamelled with wild-flowers, principally yellow ones, a real blaze of gold—wild roses, ranunculus, amaryllis, peony, daphne, potentilla, pinks, purple iris, gorgeous tiger and Turk’s cap lilies, and poppies which pay the Emperor of China the compliment of wearing his colours, besides a host of others—a mass of beauties. A violent contrast to the richness of the pasture are the herds of camels, who at this time of year, coatless, mangy, emaciated, and so weak as hardly to be able to move along, are turned out to get rid of the sores on their backs and recruit for their hard work in autumn, winter, and spring. Poor brutes! pitiable as they look, this must be the happiest season of their year; they well earn their rest. Along this wild garden we gradually ascended—so gradually that it was not until we had reached the top of the pass that opens out between two rocks on a panorama of high hills, range upon range lying at our feet, that we had any idea how high we were. I think this view as I saw it, with the sun setting in the distance and the remains of a storm rolling away over the mountains, is one of the finest I have ever seen. The mountains themselves are savage and barren, and in the valleys clusters of trees mark where Chinese homesteads stand, so poor that not even eggs are to be bought there. In one of these, at a place called Pa Ti, half farmhouse, half inn, we slept, I in a sort of barn, my bed on the ground, my dressing-table a nether millstone, and my washhand-stand the carcase of an old cart. The sun was rising when we started down the valley, which really is the grandest thing I have seen in China, and barring the attractions of snow and ice, it seems to me the Alps have nothing finer to show. Rocks more grim and uncouth there cannot be. They take every conceivable shape—men’s heads, tigers, lions, citadels with turrets and battlements of living rock, are easily conjured up. Then there are huge boulders that look as if a breath would blow them down, so delicately are they poised upon points apparently quite unfit to bear their weight. It is a valley which makes one think of old fairy tales about giants and dwarfs and ogres’ castles. The poor commonplace Chinese drudges who inhabit it are ill-suited to their home. The best part of the scenery ends some fifteen miles down the valley, at a hill called Llama Shan (“The Llama’s Hills”)—two enormous pyramidical rocks, at the foot of which is a village to which they give their name. On one rock, high upon a flat surface hard to climb to, is painted a rude picture of Buddha, with a glory round his head and his finger and thumb held up in orthodox form. The painting is of old date, but pious hands have recently restored it. In the other rock is a cave in which a rather hazy tradition says that in old times a llama or llamas used to retire from the world, and pass their time in the pious contemplation of their own navels. Their reverences showed their taste in the choice of their abode, for it is a lovely spot. We were spoilt for the lower half of the valley by the beauty of the upper half, but we had still before us a fine jagged hill, at the foot of which is Ta Kao, our halting-place, a largish town, rich in gardens. And what would Exeter Hall say if it heard that there are places in these parts which actually cultivate their own poppies? We found a famous inn at Ta Kao, with large rooms freshly papered; but strange to say, on the 6th of July, the stove-beds or kangs were all heated. We, coming from the cool mountain breezes, found the atmosphere of itself close and stuffy, though in comparison with Peking it was freshness itself; the heated kangs were perfectly insupportable. We wound up a long day with the usual exhibition to a rather tiresome crowd.
We travelled next day along a poverty-stricken but picturesque valley, through which flows a mountain torrent swelled almost to a river by the recent rains. We had to ford it twenty-two times in the course of the day. At one ford one of the mule litters broke down and was smashed to pieces. No great damage was done, and the mule litter was patched together with bits of string and an old nail or two. The way in which the muleteer abused his beasts for the mishap was very funny. Treating the mule as if it had been a human creature, he proceeded in his wrath to take away its younger sister’s character. Be it man or mule, horse or pig, or what not, that sins against a Chinese, he immediately tramples on the fair fame of the younger sister of the offender, heaping upon her every foul abuse that he can lay his tongue to. Mingled with his revilings, the muleteer addressed the most humble petitions to me not to dock his pay, passing from prayer to abuse with wondrous facility. If that mule’s younger sister was guilty of one-half the enormities ascribed to her, the punishment has not yet been devised which would be equal to the occasion. The list of her crimes is not fit for publication. When we arrived at Chai Ling the only room that I could have was perfectly untenable from stuffiness and a hot kang which took up a good half of it, so I slept in my litter in the inn-yard, sub Jove, which was very cool and pleasant.
The following morning, 8th July, we were awakened by a most glorious sunrise; it was so fresh and nice that I walked the greater part of the day’s journey, to the undisguised wonder of the muleteers, who could not in the least understand it. They hold up their thumbs in admiration, and loudly express their high respect for such prowess. “See the old lord! how he walks!” “He has obtained to walk unsurpassably.” “This body! Our lords here have not such bodies!” It was but a ten-mile walk; but no Chinese gentleman would dream of attempting such a feat. We all went beetle-mad this day, one of our party being an entomologist. Under one jujube-tree we found so many varieties of insects of different kinds that it became perfectly exciting; even the muleteers caught the fever and began to take a certain interest in the hunt, but were rather afraid of the quarry. At the end of a very pretty mountain walk we found the “Inn of Flourishing Righteousness,” with a large yard full of picturesque groups of half-naked drovers and muleteers. We were well lodged and very comfortable.
The next morning we came down the pass on to Ku Pei Ko̔u, which I found as attractive as ever. I put up at my old quarters outside the town. Of course we rested a day to let the travellers have a ramble on the Great Wall. While they were busy picking up bricks and ferns and other souvenirs of the Great Wall, I fell in with a curious character. He was an old Chinaman, by name Li, by trade a herbalist and naturalist, by adoption a poultry-fancier, and by inspiration a professor of palmistry. He began by telling me a lot of curious facts and properties about different plants and roots, but as their English names were unknown to me I cannot repeat them. Certain of them were to cure the hot, others to repel the cold influence. Lizards he pointed to as a deadly poison (internal) to horses and cattle. After he had discoursed to me some time, he asked to look at my hand; and then he really surprised me. He told me things about myself and family which are certainly known to few people but ourselves; that they should have become known to a poor cottager living on a hillside near a little out-of-the-way town at the farther extremity of Asia is impossible. We shall see if what he said about the future is equally correct. The lines in the hand from which he gathered his auguries were different from those which used to be read in Europe; he explained his science to me, but as he did so in verse, and in the jargon of the trade, I could not make much of it. He invited me afterwards to his cottage—such a pretty little spot, with a glorious vine trained so as to make a covered Pergola in front of it. He passes his life here contentedly, seldom going to the town but when he needs to sell his herbs or his chickens. As soon as he made his appearance with me a whole pack of dirty little brats, all stark naked, came trooping out to welcome him and salute their father’s guest according to manners.
I had hoped to have pushed so far as Jo Hol, the imperial palace and hunting forest, but one of my companions struck work, and I was obliged to return to Peking, having been within two days of my goal, which I hope, however, to reach another time.