There are various ways of getting about Peking, even though it lacks the principal one of most large cities in other lands; but of them all I like best riding “Hwei-Hwei.” He is the robust, shaggy-red little Chinese pony I brought back from one of my trips into the interior, and if he has not yet learned to look with equanimity upon a scrap of paper or a wheedling beggar that suddenly springs up at him, at least he can pass an automobile now without filling the timid hearts of all Chinese within gunshot with speechless panic. “Hwei-Hwei” and I have jogged together all over Peking and its surroundings, nosing our way through the hutungs and prancing down the broad streets of the Chinese as well as the Tartar City, exploring every sunken road and meandering path within reasonable distance outside the walls. I am under the impression that this is improper. Though the élite among the foreign residents play polo on the French drill-field and scamper over the broken landscape about the capital on Sunday afternoon paper-chases, even canter solemnly up and down the new cinder track at the edge of the Legation Quarter, each followed at a respectful distance by the mafu who will presently walk the blanketed and almost shaven native imitations of thoroughbreds slowly up and down before some improvised stable, I gather from the glances that are thrown sharply upon us that mere sight-seeing on horseback is not in accordance with the Peking social code. I am heartbroken, naturally, at the thought of infringing that vital document; but the opportunity of indulging in a luxury I have never before dared even to consider has outweighed even that consideration.
The truth of the matter is that keeping a riding-horse is a luxury even in Peking. “Hwei-Hwei’s” complete care and nourishment cost just twice what one human servant does; yet the reflection that this is, after all, only “Mex” and only relative has so far been sufficient to stifle the grumblings of a troublesome conscience. I suppose, too, there is a certain subconscious complacency in looking down, even from “Hwei-Hwei’s” height, upon the throngs with which we mingle in places where perhaps no other foreigner, and surely no Chinese, has ever before intruded on horseback. Certainly I must confess that I find pleasure in watching the continuous succession of acrobatic feats with which Pekingese of all ages and degrees remove themselves from the immediate vicinity the instant it is borne in upon them that they are mingling with an animal that I can guarantee not to hurt an infant thrown under his very hoofs.
Outdoor fairs, seasonal markets, temples without number, corners unknown even to our Chinese teacher, have “Hwei-Hwei” and I explored together. But there is a line beyond which his advantages over Peking’s more common means of transportation cease. Even if it is possible to park him outside those ugly buildings in which China’s Parliament flings ink-wells at itself and refuses to draft a constitution even after it has voted itself a daily bonus for attending the sessions, he can scarcely expect admittance to the Forbidden City, or ask an evening hostess to find accommodations for him. When “Hwei-Hwei” must remain at home there are various substitutes, but only one of them is really feasible. Sedan-chairs, in these modern days, are only for brides and mourners, or the emperor himself; there are jolting Peking-carts which it would be infantile yet exactly descriptive to dub “peek-out” carts; mule-litters like gaily decorated cupboards on shafts come in at least from the northeast; on the moats outside the walls there are boats in summer and sleds in winter—except when the men laying up ice in mat- and mud-covered mounds along them deprive their fellow-coolies of this simple source of income; bicycles are not unknown; curious little one-horse carriages with shutters, and an outrunner who clings on behind whenever a corner or a crowd does not bring him running ahead to lead the horse or to shout the road clear, are still the favorite equipage of old-fashioned families of means. But none of these things ply the streets for hire; if they did they would be beneath the dignity of foreigners, and probably of many Chinese unconsciously under their influence. Ordinary mortals cannot call an automobile every time they wish to go around the corner, even if their nerves are proof against the madness of Chinese chauffeurs. Promoted only yesterday from the abject position of coolies, these conceive that they always have the right of way over anything they could best in a collision—an impression in which they are abetted by the police who, with outstretched hand, gaze only at the machine, like men fascinated, as it dashes drunkenly past through the maelstrom of pedestrians and other helpless forms of traffic—and, evidently gaining “face” thereby, they delight to make life a constant misery to the passenger by the incessant use of those atrocious horns that seem especially to be exported to China. So it boils down to the omnipresent rickshaw.
We often wondered how many rickshaws there are in Peking, until at length the metropolitan police reported that they had registered 41,553 such vehicles, of which 4,788 are private. Even if this really includes all those within the gates, there are thousands more in the dozen villages clustered close outside them, whence men run to places many miles distant. We still wonder how Peking got about in the imperial days before an American missionary in Japan, wishing to give his invalid wife a daily airing, invented the rickshaw. As late as the beginning of the present century, old residents tell us, this vehicle was unknown in the capital. To-day it is the most numerous, or at least the most conspicuous, thing in Peking.
Who but a man gone mad on the matter of speed would not prefer the rickshaw to the automobile after all? Silent on its pneumatic tires and the soft-shod feet of the runner, it is the most nearly like sitting at home in an arm-chair of any form of transportation. There is no formality about it; even the man who does not keep one for his exclusive use scarcely needs to call one, for it is a strange corner of Peking where a rickshaw is not already waiting whenever he steps out. Once in a rickshaw one can leave it to the runner to arrive at the right place, and turn the mind to the streets and their doings. It is not merely “Ha-li” who is so fond of “widin’ man,” though he is the only one of us who shouts aloud at each donkey and big stone “pup dog” we pass, especially at the camels as they stride noiselessly by along the wall or through a city gate, whenever we ride hither and yon about busy yet good-natured Peking.
The police go on to say that from sixty to seventy thousand rickshaw coolies earn an average of a hundred coppers a day, of which about seventy are for themselves and their families after deducting the rent of the vehicle. That means a daily income of nearly twenty cents in real money, which is high in Peking. An official inquiry, by the way, reported during the winter that the minimum on which a Chinese adult could support life in the capital is $1.87 “Mex” a month! One particularly cold winter, foreigners, especially women, almost ceased to patronize rickshaws, not so much for their own sake as for that of the poor fellows who sat outside waiting for them, and sometimes froze to death. It devolved upon the police to call their attention to the fact that death by starvation is even more painful, and is likely to include the dependents also. I suppose that same omniscient body could say how many persons starve to death in Peking each winter; at any rate they once announced how many hundreds of free coffins they had been called upon to provide since cold weather set in.
Perhaps the constant sight of starvation more or less close upon their heels is the reason that Peking rickshaw-men are such excellent runners. They never slow down to a walk, as the much better paid ones of Japan, for instance, do on the slightest provocation. If the trot from our corner to Hsi-Chi-men station, diagonally across the Tartar City, is too much for one of them he turns his fare over to an unoccupied colleague when he is exhausted rather than disgrace himself by walking. Yet I have almost never seen a well built rickshaw-man in Peking. Their ribs show plainly through their leathery skins, and they are conspicuously flat-chested, in contrast to the men all about China who carry burdens over their shoulders. The belief that rickshaw-runners die young and often is wide-spread, especially in lands that have never seen one. The only personal testimony I can offer on the subject is that during this year in the Orient I have never seen, or heard of, a man dying in the shafts, and that there are many jobs in China that I would quickly refuse in favor of drawing a rickshaw. Certainly many runners, not to mention the vehicles themselves, reach a ripe old age in Peking; and there is evidence that they do not take up the profession late in life.
Some one once wrote asking us to send a copy of the child labor laws of China. When we had recovered from the resultant hysterics I went out to photograph some of the smallest specimens of rickshaw-runners along Great Hata-men Street for the benefit of the inquirer. Unfortunately a good example and photographic conditions never have coincided. I do not wish to be charged with exaggeration, and hence I will not assert that I have seen two boys of six or a single one of eight trotting about town with a big fat sample of the Chinese race lolling at his ease behind them; but I have no hesitancy in reporting that male children of eight and ten respectively may often be seen thus engaged. Perhaps these are house-servants or their offspring, or even members of the family itself, forced into service; more than once I have been sure of a facial resemblance between the perspiring youngsters and the unsoaped old lady who was urging them on. Often a small boy runs behind, pushing, who is hardly as tall as the hub of the wheel, but perhaps that is a form of apprenticeship. Recently there has been some agitation against employing rickshaw pullers under eighteen, though apparently only among foreigners. The Chinese of the rank and file bargain for their rides as they stump along, pretending they will walk rather than pay more than they are offering, and naturally they wish to be surrounded by as many clamoring competitors as possible. If the lowest bidder chances to be a child just heavy enough to keep the passenger from toppling over backward, or an old man who looks as if he had been unwisely rescued from the potter’s field, bu yao gin—it does not matter, for the average Chinese hardly distinguishes between real speed and a steady jogging up and down almost in the same spot.
In contrast to these sorry dregs of the profession are the haughty men in the prime of life who run on a monthly wage for foreigners, or for Chinese of wealth and official position, some of them in livery and with clanging bells and blazing lamps that attest their importance. The tall youth who runs with a physically light-weight young lady of our acquaintance always calls a rickshaw when he wishes to go out on a personal errand. Well fed and not overworked, these private human trotters are often marvels of speed and endurance. I would like nothing better than to enter our wrinkled old la-che-ti in an Olympic marathon—though foreigners who have tried that sort of test find that the men cannot run without their vehicle, which is so balanced as to help lift them off the ground. Like the runners, the rickshaws of Peking range all the way from filthy half-wrecks to rickshaw-limousines. The former are due both to the Chinese blindness to uncleanliness and to the fact that, human fares lacking, they are ready to accept any form of freight, be it even the bleeding carcass of a hog. The vehicle looking tolerable, however, most of us pick our rickshaw-men exactly as we would a horse, except that age is fairly apparent without examining the teeth.
Slavery is a dreadful institution, but if millions of the human draft-animals of China were slaves they would at least be sure of a place to sleep and something fit to eat. Yet they are a cheerful, good-hearted, likable lot of fellows, these swarming rickshaw-runners of Peking, amusing in their primitive ways. However much they may arouse sympathy, for instance, there is no surer means of being involved in a noisy dispute than by overpaying them. Find out the legal fare and pay it, and the chances are that your runner will accept it without a word and rate you a person of experience and understanding, for all your strange race. The louder and longer you wish him to dance and shout about you, the more you should overpay him. A soft-hearted old lady arriving in Peking almost directly from America and wishing to be just toward the man who drew her from Ch’ien-men Station to the principal hotel handed him a silver dollar. It took three men from the hotel to rescue her from the frenzied runner and kick him dollarless outside the grounds.