Three Years in Western China / A Narrative of Three Journeys in Ssu-ch'uan, Kuei-chow, and Yün-nan

by Sir Alexander Hosie

The history of this great industry is lost in antiquity; but salt is said to have been worked at Tzŭ-liu-ching as early as the Minor Han Dynasty, which was established in Ssŭ-ch’uan, A.D. 221-263.

We had found the inns on the main road comparatively comfortable; on the branch road to Tzŭ-liu-ching we were confronted with wretched dens specially intended for the accommodation of salt carriers. A bed-room is easily described. A trestle framework, two feet high, ran the length of the narrow cell; on the top was spread a straw mattress, an inch and a half thick, covered with a rush mat. During the day the bedding, which consisted of a long bag padded with cotton, was stowed in the office, and was not issued till payment of the few cash necessary to ensure a night’s lodging.

Daylight of the 19th of February found us marching northwards to regain the high-road to the provincial capital. On leaving the salt area the road winds round low hills terraced and cultivated, each terrace rising above the other and faced by a wall of dark, bare sandstone. So much did they resemble circular forts, that one felt inclined to look for the embrasures and guns. These rocks were, however, fast crumbling into soil, their colour being easily distinguishable in the adjacent fields amid the beans and peas springing up from the old cane-brakes, and the rape and wheat which occupied the rest of the arable land. Farther north the yellow soil showed that hills had been entirely disintegrated by the weather, assisted by the hoe. In other places the hills were partly clad with stunted pines, while clumps of bamboo and an occasional pumelo and banyan were to be seen. The poppy was not at all prominent—it prefers a heavier soil than sandstone. The 20th of February broke dull, and by noon, when we struck the right bank of the T’o River, opposite the city of Tzŭ Chou, the day had fairly broken down; and on a vote being taken whether we should proceed or spend the afternoon and night within the walls, my followers to a man—just as I expected—preferred the latter course. The river was of no great depth: a bamboo proved sufficient to guide the movements of the small boats in which we were ferried across.

SUGAR AND SAFFLOWER.

Tzŭ Chou is an inviting city; it possesses broad streets of large, prosperous-looking shops, and its numerous blue-brick houses give it an air of substantiality. The district in which it is situated is a great producer of sugar; while the soil, being light and sandy, is likewise favourable to the growth of the ground-nut, Arachis hypogæa L., whence a sweet cooking-oil is extracted. Coal is also found in the immediate hills. The distance from this city to the provincial capital is reckoned as four stages; but, although we succeeded in accomplishing the first without mishap, rain and snow compelled us to distribute the remainder over four days. Beyond the weather, no other difficulty presented itself. The sandstone country extends a little to the north of the district city of Tz’ŭ-yang Hsien, which, like Tzŭ Chou, stands on the right bank of the T’o River, whose course the high-road follows in the main. Bare, red hills then put in an appearance, and cultivation, except at their bases, stops. This belt of hills extends for twenty-five miles, when it gives place to a long, wide plain—the plain of Chien Chou—famous for its opium. It is interesting to watch the effect which one foreign industry has had on this remote spot. Previous to the introduction of aniline dyes into China, the department of Chien Chou was widely famed for its safflower, Carthamus tinctorius L., which, with that grown within the Shun-ching prefecture, not only sufficed to meet the wants of the province, but was annually sent eastward in large quantities. All is now changed. Safflower has been supplanted by “Pure Soluble Scarlet” in bottle, and the plain of Chien Chou has been converted into a poppy garden. The plant is still cultivated, but in very small quantities and almost entirely for local use. The plain, which was dotted with farm-houses and homesteads peeping out from bamboos and cypresses, runs due north and south. In the north lies the city of Chien Chou, the approach to which is marked by three pagodas, one of them thirteen storeys high. It occupies the right bank of the river, which is joined to the immediate north of the city by a tributary from the west. Crossing the latter by a five-arched stone bridge, we followed the main river through orange groves and copses of bamboo and cypress, which would have met with admiration but for a low thermometer, a piercing north wind, and a drenching rain. A few salt wells to the north of the city were being worked, charcoal being the fuel used in evaporation.

A STARTLING CONTRAST.

Leaving the river we struck west by north through the belt of low hills which separates the Chien Chou and Ch’êng-tu plains. These hills are rocky and little cultivated, the thin poor soil not holding out that inducement which even a Chinese expects for his labour. Snow was falling thickly when we reached the rim of the immense plain—the plain par excellence of the province of Ssŭ-ch’uan—and the imperfect glimpses which we caught through the snow-flakes revealed flooded paddy-fields and the ordinary winter crops, the most prominent of which was the poppy. Over fifteen miles still separated us from the eastern wall of the city, but we were fated, before reaching this centre of wealth and luxury, to be reminded that riches and poverty always go hand in hand. Under a memorial archway near the entrance of one of the market-towns in the plain, lay a beggar stark and stiff. The yard of matting, which was the only clothing he possessed and which covered his loins, had proved insufficient to ward off the chill hand of death. A few yards off sat some companions, listless shivering wretches, with faces pinched and worn, outcasts from their kind. Hundreds of beggars crowded the eastern suburb of the city, and it was with difficulty that we pushed our way through the mass of rags and dirt that held the bridge, which spans the stream flowing southwards under the eastern wall. They seemed to have just returned from the public soup-kitchens, which open in the large towns of China during winter, and dole out to the most necessitous enough to keep them from actual starvation. We had no sooner settled down in a comfortless inn than the underlings of the various officials came to prey upon us. They came laden with offers of assistance; they departed, each with a handful of cash, satisfied that they had done their duty. We saw none of them again—the key to peace and quietude was cheap at the price.

Ch’êng-tu, the capital of the largest and probably the richest province in the Empire, is a splendid city, fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, enclosed by an excellent wall about twelve miles in circumference. It is the seat of a Viceroy, or Governor-General, whose jurisdiction extends over the one province only. With the exception of Chihli, it is the only province in China which is thus honoured. Of the other sixteen, each is entrusted to the care of a Governor; but with the exception of Shantung, which has no superintending Viceroy, and of the three Provinces of Kiangsu, Kiangsé, and Anhui, which are under one Viceroy, they are divided into groups of two, with a Viceroy over each group. The city is divided into two parts, the quarter occupied by the Tartar garrison and their families, and the Chinese or commercial quarter. It is without exception the finest city I have seen in China; Peking and Canton will not bear comparison with it. The streets in the Chinese quarter are fairly broad, paved with stone, and slope gently to either side. They were clean and in excellent repair. During my two days’ sojourn I traversed many of the streets, and, notwithstanding the fact that it rained heavily the whole time, they were crowded with moving masses of bustling, gaily-dressed, well-to-do people. Chairs with their passengers and ponies with their riders were everywhere on the move. But the prettiest sight of all was the signboards. The reader must bear in mind that these are not placed horizontally over the shop doors as in Europe; they hang vertically from iron bars projecting from the walls. In Ch’êng-tu they are one mass of gold and colour, decorating the streets and proclaiming, at the same time, the names of the shops—not the names of the owners—and the wares on sale. It may be that the unfortunate weather prevented me from seeing anything prepossessing or attractive in the Tartar quarter. Here the streets were broad, unpaved, and muddy; the people, especially the women, were badly, even slovenly, dressed; everything announced the presence of parasites battening on Government pay, without affording any adequate return. Much of the land in this quarter, which is thickly wooded, is devoted to gardens; but I should question whether these slip-shod, down-at-heel, lazy-looking Tartars possessed the energy to grow sufficient vegetables to supplement their government rice.

Ch’êng-tu derives considerable importance from being the meeting point of the great high-roads from the Eastern and Northern provinces, from Yün-nan and Tibet, and it is undoubtedly the place whence the latter may most easily be entered from the Chinese side.