The Legation is at present giving hospitality to a certain gentleman who is accredited by a small state to make a treaty with the Chinese, as he pompously announces “dans l’intérêt de la Chine même”; if he does not talk less big at the Tsung-Li Yamên, or Foreign Office, he will find the Chinese far less tractable than he seems to think it their duty to be; for they are much too sharp to suppose that anybody comes out here to negotiate treaties in their interest without having a still keener eye upon his own; and as for themselves, of course the mandarins, at any rate, would rather return to the old state of things, have nothing to do with us and our treaties, and sacrifice the revenue that accrues to them from their customs. The pressure put upon them from abroad, and the counsels of Mr. Hart, the Chinese Inspector-General of Customs, and a very able man, alone keep them straight, and compel the central Government to assume responsibilities which they would rather leave to the provincial authorities. Fancy the difficulty of stirring up into action men whose highest idea of celestial happiness is an eternity passed in the contemplation of their own paunches, in the society of Buddha and his Lo-hans.
It is very hard upon our interpreters that they should have to do the work of other missions besides our own. These ministers of other states come up here without any staff whatever, and the whole of their business falls upon the Legation to whose good offices they may be intrusted.
LETTER XII
Peking, 22nd August 1865.
Since I last wrote to you we have been leading the most monotonous of lives, and no news from home has come to cheer us. We have had staying with us one of the few stray visitors that chance drives up here—a Mr. R——, an officer in the commissariat, and a very pleasant companion he was; he came fresh from Japan, and full of stories about Yokohama and Yedo, but out here we should prefer to hear about London. There really is little temptation to travellers to come here now, for, thanks to the misbehaviour of certain of our countrymen, the Chinese have shut up the principal lions of the town, and the temples of Heaven, and of Confucius, are not shown, even to members of the Legations. I for one have not been able to visit them. The great Lama Temple is still to be seen, and to any one who has not seen a Chinese temple, is a great show; but they are all very like one another, the main difference being merely a question of size. It is very provoking to be kept out of really interesting sights by the brutality of travelling bullies who will force their way into places where they have no right to go.
All we can do now for our visitors is to show them the panorama of the two cities from the walls, the top of which forms a ride or walk right round Peking, and where the wonderful observatory of the old Jesuit fathers, with its beautiful bronze instruments, still stands, and to take them through the streets and over the curio shops—braving offence given to eyes and nostrils. The curio shops especially make up an amusing day, and I am always glad of an excuse to go there. There is a bazaar, too, just inside the Chinese city, a sort of Lowther Arcade on a small scale, where toys, scents, sham jewellery, cheap embroidery, and other rubbish are sold, and which is quite worth seeing. This is greatly patronised by the Mongols, who never weary of admiring the showy trash exposed for sale. The Mongols are to the Pekingese what the Auvergnats are to the gamins de Paris, or a bumpkin come up to London for the cattle-show to the cabbies and ’busmen. They are the perpetual butts of jokes, sells, and cheatery, and are done at every opportunity. The bazaar leads on to the Beggar’s Bridge, with its mass of rotting humanity, a place that it makes one shudder to think of, and once past that we are well in the Chinese city. The amount of traffic is always very great, and it is no easy matter to thread one’s way through the crowd of mules, carts, horses, and footpads, and the worst of it is that one is continually hustled up against some unhappy leper, whose only clothing is dirt and sores. The neatness and nicety of the shops are a great contrast to the filth and squalor of the streets themselves. Inside everything is as clean as water can make it; outside is a dunghill, where the beggars are disputing with the dogs and pigs the right to water-melon rinds, rotten vegetables, and dead carrion. The street hawkers are a great feature; of course they all have their peculiar cries as in Europe; but in addition to this each trade has its own announcement in the shape of some instrument—one trade carries a thing like a huge Jew’s harp, another has a tiny gong, a third a drum, a fourth beats two pieces of bamboo together, and so forth. All these make a terrible clatter, and the noise is increased by the beggars, who take up a position opposite some shop—a cook-house for choice—and there make themselves odious to eyes, ears, and nostrils until its owner can stand it no longer and buys them off with a copper cash or piece of refuse food. Among Chinese street characters the improvisatore is one of the foremost. He is as loud and fluent as his Italian compeer, and infinitely more energetic. He generally accompanies himself on the bones, but often has a little boy to beat a drum for him. He works himself into a regular frenzy, and jumps about like one possessed of a devil; he dances and gesticulates and raves until the sweat runs down his face; but nothing tires him, and he never halts nor pauses in his chant. These men are too nimble of speech and too slang for most foreigners to catch a word; but I suppose they are generally witty and entertaining, for they command immense audiences of gaping Chinamen, and their sallies are received with great delight. Like the Italians, when they have worked up their audience to a proper pitch of interest they stop, and refuse to go on with the story without more coppers. At the approach of the foreign barbarian some little witticism is launched à notre adresse. You may judge whether it is very complimentary; however, as “it amuses them and don’t hurt us,” that don’t much signify. Perhaps the hawkers whose wares are the most curious to Europeans are the men who carry about live crickets and cicadas for sale, either in tiny wooden cages or tied to bamboo rods. The Chinese buy them to any amount as pets, and some make the crickets fight like quails and game-cocks.
We are very often accosted by the more respectable class. The first salutation is always, “Have you had your dinner, sir?” which is the Chinese, “How d’ye do?” and then the conversation runs as follows:—
“Your honourable name?”
“My name is Mi. What is your honourable name?”
“My shabby name is Hwang. What are the years of your age?”