There are nine gates in all in the outer wall, situated in various parts of the city, and called after the points of the compass at which they stand; viz., the North Gate, South Gate, North-west Gate, and so on. These are closed at seven in summer, and six in winter, and woe to the luckless wretch who is locked out, for the guard dare not open under pain of death till sunrise the following morning, be it in the height of summer or the thermometer below zero. The inhabitants cannot complain of due notice not being given. For full half an hour before closing time there is at every guard-house or gate a beating of gongs and clashing of cymbals that would awaken the dead. Then at the hour to a second the guard give one long unearthly yell, and the ponderous iron-bound gates are thrown together with a crash till six or seven the next morning.
All the walls are built facing the four points of the compass, and the principal thoroughfares and streets run parallel to them. Notwithstanding this apparent regularity and simplicity of construction, the Chinese capital is the easiest place in the world to lose yourself in, as we frequently found; so much so, that after the first time we always employed a guide when we took our walks abroad.
Our first impressions of Pekin were not favourable, for a dustier, noisier, dirtier place it has never been my lot to visit. Upon entering the Hat Ta Men Gate the city presents more the appearance of a huge fair than anything else, for the crowded streets are lined with canvas booths and tents as well as houses. The roads are very broad, some so much so as to dwarf the low rickety dwellings, gaudy with gold and crimson signs and waving banners, into insignificance. The streets are unpaved and raised in the centre to a height of three or four feet for carriage traffic, the space on either side being reserved for foot-passengers, though there did not seem to be any marked distinction, the carts using both ways as they liked.
In dry weather the streets of Pekin are over ankle-deep in dust, in wet weather are simply a morass. Being worn away in places into holes of two or three feet deep, the effects of the clouds of dust or showers of water that every cart-wheel throws up and around may be imagined. At intervals of about fifty yards along the footway are holes eight or nine feet deep. These are receptacles for every species of filth; in fact, serve the purpose of stationary sewers (for Pekin is not drained), and are only cleaned out when quite full (about once a week). In very dry weather, when water is scarce, the dust is laid with the liquid filth they contain, an operation hardly tending to cool or purify the atmosphere!
If we, in England, must eat, according to the proverb, a peck of dirt before we die, I feel convinced that the inhabitants of Pekin swallow at least a hundredweight before their last hour. The dust of Pekin is, next to its smells, undoubtedly its greatest curse. There is no escaping from the fine, brown powder that chokes up eyes, nose and mouth, and finds its way into everything——your food, your clothes, your very boots. There is a saying among the Chinese, that it will worm its way into a watch-glass. Not only is it productive of considerable physical discomfort and annoyance, but it gives a depressing, gloomy look to everything, which on a really dusty day makes it impossible to discern objects one hundred yards off. The sun may be shining brightly outside the city walls, when within all is dark and murky as a thick November fog in London could make it. Indeed it is far worse than the latter, which you can, at any rate, shut out to a certain extent with closely drawn curtains and brightly-lit rooms.
Pekin is by no means an unhealthy city, notwithstanding the disgusting and uncleanly habits of its population, and its low situation (only one hundred and twenty feet above sea level). Strange to say, the good health of its inhabitants is attributed in a great measure to the dust, which acts as a deodorizer and disinfectant to the heaps of filth and garbage one encounters at every turn bleaching and rotting in the sunshine. The climate is, on the whole, good, the only really unhealthy months being those of July, August and September, when the rainfall is excessive. The extremes of temperature, however, are somewhat trying to Europeans of weak constitution. For instance, in July the thermometer is often up to over 100° in the shade, while in winter it frequently falls to below zero. When an epidemic does occur, it is severe, for the Chinese are much prone to fright and panic during these visitations. Cholera broke out only four or five years since, and carried off an average of twelve hundred daily. The two greatest scourges are small-pox and diphtheria, and an enormous number of deaths occur annually from the latter disease in early spring. Typhoid fever and ophthalmia (from the dust) are also prevalent at times, but small-pox is the commonest disease among the Chinese themselves, who look upon it very much as we do upon measles, although it is none the less fatal for all that. As a prevention, the native doctors inoculate by blowing a quantity of the virus of the actual disease up the nostrils. I was made unpleasantly aware of this fact by one of the hotel servants, who spoke a few words of English. Noticing that one of his nostrils was stopped up with a dirty piece of cotton wool, I inquired if he had hurt his nose. “Oh, no,” was the reply, “smol-pok!” This habit has, no doubt, a great deal to do with the spread of the disease, which is always more or less prevalent in Pekin; and I was not sorry we had taken the precaution of being vaccinated in Shanghai.
All susceptibility and refinement must be cast aside when walking in the streets of Pekin. I could not attempt to describe one quarter of the disgusting sights and outrages on decency that continually met the eye in this unfragrant city, even in broad daylight. I was not surprised to hear that no European resident ever dreams of walking about the streets of the capital if he can possibly avoid it. No lady could possibly do so. As any one who has ever visited it must know, there exists no dirtier city in the world than Pekin, no filthier individual, both morally and physically, than the Pekinite. Cleanliness and decency are words unknown in his vocabulary. As for washing, he never dreams of it. In winter he puts on five or six layers of clothes, taking them off by degrees as the weather gets warmer, until he is reduced to the white linen shirt and trousers that he wore the preceding summer. With the approach of the cold weather he gradually resumes his winter garb.
Being provided with letters of introduction to the British and Russian ministers, we made our way to the former legation the morning after our arrival. With the exception of Belgium, whose minister had been recalled about two months before we arrived, nearly every nation in the world has its representative at Pekin. The English Embassy is a perfect palace and stands apart from the other legations on the banks of the Grand Imperial Canal, a stream once fringed by handsome stone banks or quays, which, like everything else in Pekin, have long fallen into ruin and decay. The half-dry canal now presents more the appearance of a dirty ditch of stagnant water than what it once was, an important waterway.
It was quite a relief to get out of the dusty, ill-smelling street, as passing a smart, white-clad English sentry, we entered the cool, shady grounds of the Embassy. The building was formerly the palace of the Duke Liang (a relation of the former Emperor), but was ceded to the British after the campaign of 1860. Probably in no other part of the world does the English Government possess a representative building so thoroughly typical of the country it is in. The pavilions of Chinese architecture, intricate carvings of roof and cornice, vermilion and gold pillars that form the entrance contrasted strangely with the interior where the cool, dimly-lit rooms, fresh with the scent of flowers and replete with every European luxury and comfort, bore witness to the good taste and refinement of the charming “Ambassadrice,” who, fresh from Paris, and clad in one of Worth’s chefs-d’œuvre, looked strangely out of place in dirty, dusty, semi-savage Pekin!
“You will never,” said Sir John W————, “get through to Kiakhta without an interpreter. I could not allow you to attempt it, so I fear you must make up your minds to remain in Pekin for at least a week. By that time I shall have got you your Chinese passports, and I hope an interpreter to accompany you as far as the Russian frontier. I must tell you that it is not easy, for the Chinese have an unaccountable aversion to crossing the desert of Gobi.”