GROUNDS OF THE BRITISH LEGATION, PEKIN
Strolling along the street we reached a market‐place filled with open booths, in which food of all kinds was exposed for sale. Dried ducks, split open and skewered, hung beside sucking‐pigs. Buckets of water filled with wriggling eels stood on the ground. Salt fish, meat, and vegetables lay on the stalls, which were surrounded by a chaffering crowd. Sellers and buyers argued vehemently, and the din of the bargaining so dear to the Oriental heart filled the street. Women, with oiled hair twisted into curious shapes and wound round long, flat combs that stood out six inches on either side of the back of their heads, toddled up on tiny, maimed feet, and plunged into heated discussions with the dealers. Beggars exhibited their hideous deformities to excite the pity of the crowd, and clutched insolently at the dresses of the passers‐by to demand charity.
Close by, a group of urchins drew water from a well. It was in the middle of the side‐walk, and was covered with a large stone slab, pierced with four holes only just large enough to permit of the passage of the buckets.
On our way back to Chong Wong Foo that afternoon we passed close to the Legation quarter, and stopped to watch the progress of the wall which was being built around it as a protection against future attacks. It is simply a high wall constructed of the enormous Pekin bricks, easily defensible against infantry attack, but I should doubt if it would long resist artillery fire.
The most famous place of Buddhist worship in Pekin is the Great Lama Temple, which was, perhaps, the wealthiest monastery in China until Buddhism fell out of fashion. As it is still well worthy of a visit, I made an excursion to it one day in company with a small party. The monks had the reputation of being extremely hostile to foreigners; and although Europeans could now go in safety to most places in the capital, I was warned not to venture on a visit to this temple alone.
Outside the principal entrance stands a fine specimen of those curious Chinese structures, half gateway, half triumphal arch. The lower portion was of stone, the superstructure of wood. It was crowned with three small towers, roofed with yellow tiles, and painted with gaudy designs in glaring colours. On either side, on stone pedestals, were enormous lions that looked like the nightmare creations of a demon‐possessed artist. On passing through the front gate, we found ourselves in a paved courtyard surrounded by low, one‐storied temples standing on raised verandahs. In the centre was a double‐roofed square belfry with a small gate in each side. On entering the court we were at once surrounded by a clamorous crowd of shaven‐headed, yellow‐robed men of a villainous type of countenance. These were the famous—or infamous—Buddhist monks. Their dress consisted of a long, yellow linen gown, confined at the waist by a sash, trousers, white socks, and felt‐soled shoes. A more repulsive set of scoundrels I have never seen. Their former truculence was now replaced by a cringing servility. They crowded round us, demanding alms, or, holding out handfuls of small coins, offered to change our good silver dollars into bad five‐and ten‐cent pieces. Since Buddhism has ceased to be the fashionable religion in China, its ministers have fallen upon evil times, and subsist on charity and the offerings of the comparatively few followers of their creed. So visitors are vociferously assailed for alms; and the wily monks, with a keen eye to business, had hit upon the idea of making a little money by tendering small coins of a debased currency in change for good silver pieces. Shouldering the clamorous crowd aside, our interpreter seized on one ancient priest to act as our guide. This worthy cleric aided us to drive off his importunate fellows, and led us through several courts to the principal temple. Like all the other buildings around, it was covered with a quaint, yellow‐tiled roof, and on the corners of the gables and the projecting eaves were weird porcelain monsters; while below hung small bells, which clanked dismally when moved by the wind. The temple was high and the interior particularly large and lofty; for it contained a colossal image of Buddha, seated in the traditional posture, with crossed legs and hands holding the lotus flower and other sacred emblems. On its face was the abstracted expression of weary calm that is supposed to represent the attainment of Nirvana—content. Stairs led up to galleries passing round the interior of the building to the level of the head of the deity, so that one could gaze into his countenance at close range. The statue is not so large or artistically so meritorious as the similar images of Daibutsu at Kamakura or Hiogo in Japan, each of which is hollow and contains a temple in its interior. On the walls of the staircase, ranged on shelves, were thousands of little clay gods, crudely fashioned and painted. Our priestly guide refused to sell us any of these figures, though evidently sorely tempted by the sight of the almighty dollar. He evidently refrained from doing so only through fear of being found out, not through any respect for his sacred images. Having gazed into Buddha’s face and vainly endeavoured to experience the feeling of rapture that it is supposed to produce, we passed out to a balcony that ran round the exterior of the building. We were high up above the ground, and we looked down upon the jumble of quaint, yellow gables, the courtyards with their lounging groups of bullet‐headed priests, and away over the panorama of Pekin to where the tall buildings of the Imperial city rose above a sea of low roofs.
On descending again into the temple, we looked at the altars with tawdry ornaments, artificial flowers, faded hangings, and fantastic gods, and then passed out to the court. Our guide, having extracted alms from us, led us to another but smaller temple, and handed us over to its custodian priest, who unlocked the door and led us within. Round the walls were life‐sized gilt images—all of one design, and an exceedingly indecent design it was; and we had little respect for the morals of the ancient Chinese deified hero it represented. After visiting several other buildings containing little of interest, we induced some of the monks to let us photograph them. They were pleased and flattered at the idea, and posed readily; indeed, one who had been standing at the other side of the courtyard, seeing what was going on, rushed across and insisted on joining the group, anxious that his features, too, should be handed down to posterity. Throwing them a handful of small coins, which caused a very undignified scramble, we passed out of the gate. Seating ourselves in our rickshas, we drove to the Temple of Confucius, close by. It is devoted to the present Chinese faith, which is a mixture of ancestor‐worship and Confucianism, and consists of several buildings standing in pretty, tree‐shaded courts. The main temple contains long altars, on which are nothing but tablets with Chinese inscriptions—maxims of the worthy sage. Larger tablets hang on the walls. Confucian chapels are not interesting; and we were disappointed at the bareness of the interior. Similar but smaller buildings stood at the end of avenues in the grounds, but none repaid a visit.
The cloisonné of Pekin is famous, and specimens of it command a good price throughout China. It is, however, decidedly inferior to Japanese work, which is much better finished and of far greater artistic merit. As I had never seen how the cloisonné is made, I paid a visit to the principal factory in the capital. I was received by the proprietor, a very amiable old gentleman, who took our party round his establishment and showed us the process through all the stages from the raw material to the finished article. The place consisted of a number of small Chinese houses, some of which served as workshops, some were fitted up with furnaces for firing, others occupied as residences by the employees and their families. In the first courtyard two men were seated before a small table, making European cigarette cases. In front of them lay the design to be reproduced, flanked by small saucers containing liquid enamel of various colours and tiny brushes. One man held a square plate of copper, and with a sharp scissors cut very thin strips from its edges. These he seized with a pair of pincers and deftly bent and twisted them into patterns to correspond with the lines of the design before him. They were then fixed on to the side of the case with some adhesive mixture. As soon as they were firm, the other man filled in the spaces between these raised lines with the coloured enamels by means of a fine brush. The work was then left to dry before being fired in the furnaces to fix the colours. With their rude instruments these artists—for such they were—fashioned the most complicated designs of foliage, flowers, or dragons with a marvellous dexterity, judging altogether by eye, and never deviating by a hair’s breadth from the pattern given them. We entered a room, in which others sat round long tables, fastening designs on copper vases, plates, or bowls. Ornaments of all kinds, napkin‐rings, and crucifixes—these, needless to say, for foreigners—were being made. Show‐cases with specimens of the finished work stood round the walls, and the proprietor exhibited with pardonable pride the triumphs of his art. With rude appliances in dimly‐lit rooms, these ignorant Chinese workmen had achieved gems that the European artist could not excel.
He then showed us the large blocks of the raw stone which had to be ground up to form the enamel, and explained the processes it had to undergo before it became the brightly coloured paste that filled the saucers on the tables. We were then shown articles being placed in the furnaces or withdrawn when the firing was complete. Before leaving we purchased some specimens of the work as souvenirs of an interesting visit, and bade good‐bye to the grateful proprietor.
Such were our rambles through the vastness of that wonderful city so long a mystery to the outside world. Even in these days of universal knowledge its inmost recesses were a secret till fire and sword burst all barriers and the victorious foreigner ranged where he listed. The gates of palace and temple flew open to the touch of his rifle‐butt. The abodes of monarch, prince, and priest sheltered the soldiers of the conquerors, and the proudest mandarin drew humbly aside to let the meanest camp‐follower pass.