Newfoundland to Cochin China

In the afternoon we go into the Chinese town, passing through the great Chien-men or Front Gate. Inside this there is a large blank square, formed by the meeting walls of the Chinese and Tartar cities, which are pierced by four archways. The centre entrance is only opened and used by the Emperor on the occasion of his yearly visit to the Temple of Heaven. But through the others that connect the towns, there is a constant moving, hurrying crush of people, the two streams meeting and blocking in the arch.

We lift up and pass under some black draperies and find ourselves in the Chinese bazaar—in a passage one yard wide and completely covered in. The shops are a succession of rooms, raised on a step from the earth passage and all open in front, where you can buy fancy articles and artificial flowers. There are the pretty jade pins, which form the centre for the shiny coil of hair worn by the Chinese women, long earrings and bracelets of the same, mandarin buttons in coloured stones, clocks, porcelain, shoes, and silk embroideries. It is the quaintest and prettiest of Eastern arcades, with the afternoon sun penetrating the bamboo blinds in shafts of light, lighting the picturesque groups of buyers and sellers squatted on the floors. The three-foot passage is blocked by a curious crowd, assisting in our purchases.

We penetrate yet further into the Chinese city, across a stone bridge and through a dangerous open square—a meeting of ways—where crates of merchandise, carts drawn by tandem bullocks and mules, palanquins, wheelbarrows with baskets of liquid manure running over, horses and donkeys, are all mingled together, going and coming in different directions. Yes! Sir Edwin Arnold, you speak truly of

"The painted streets alive with hum of words,The traders cross-legged, mid their spice and grain,The buyers with their money in the cloth,The war of words to cheapen this or that,The shout to clear the road, the huge stone wheels,The strong slow oxen and their rustling loads,The singing bearers with their palanquins,The broad-necked hâmals sweating in the sun."

Then we go up a narrow street, tortuous and dirty, to another bazaar where there are nothing but lantern, fan, and picture shops.

Half an hour in these streets gives you more idea of Chinese life than all the books of travel you may read in a life-time.

Peking beggars description, still let me try to give some idea of what we see.

Here we are in a narrow lane. This is the aristocratic quarter where the mandarins and officials live. There are a succession of mud-plastered walls, roofed at the top and presenting an absolutely blind appearance to the road, which, when combined with the always dilapidated condition of the latter, gives the most deserted and squalid impression. Opposite the entrance are hung tablets, indicating the offices and titles of the householder. They are on a blank wall, for you must observe that the entrance into a Chinese house is never straight. It always winds, and this is supposed to be a defence against the incursion of evil spirits, for the latter can happily only go straight. For the same reason we see the little children wearing their pig-tails plaited at the side of the head, so that the evil spirit, not finding anything to grip at the back, is unable to catch hold of them. In the houses of poor people, who cannot afford such elaborate precautions, there is always a mud screen erected in front of the door. Let us go inside. We find ourselves in a succession of courts, surrounded by low buildings, where a family and its branches reside, to the number sometimes of 200 persons. There are separate buildings for the cooking, eating, sleeping, and living, but the family all live together. As our "boy" said, when we inquired about these houses, "Family man live there." Truly one, indeed. Yet there is something to be admired about this family life, this care of aged parents and luckless relations.

The streets with shops, present the most wonderful vista of untidy ends of tattered rags flying from poles, of dingy decorations of strips of paper or cloth hanging over the doorways. The houses have a mean appearance, being only of one story, and their walls, unless they are of mud, consist of carved wood openwork, covered in with tattered yellow paper. I think I may truly say that I never saw one, where the paper was not torn and discoloured. Occasionally you come upon a shop, bright with the names of the goods written in gold and scarlet or green. They were originally all like this, and this one is only recently finished, yet in a few months will become as dull and dirty as the rest. Everything is allowed to run to decay. The Chinese never seem to think it necessary to repair or re-decorate, and the climate powerfully aids in this destruction.

In many of the streets, the road is raised on an embankment of loose dust, and then bordered by an empty space, where the garbage of the dwelling-house is increased by the refuse from the various trades pursued in it, and which is thrown out indiscriminately to fester and decay in the hot sun, or it is occupied by cheap-jacks who lay their goods in the dust, hawking and crying their wares. Here are rows of lanterns with a primitive wooden receptacle for the lamp, filled in with opaque paper, and frequent watch-houses, whence the watchmen patrol the city at night with the muffled beat of a gong.

The life in these streets, straggling, ill-compacted, and grimy as they are, is yet full of vivid interest. Not that these open shop fronts, or grimy pig-tailed men, can compare with the fascinating life of a dear little Japanese street. Here is a tea-house, with the distinguishing sign of ornamental green and gold wooden drums outside, and inside a crowd sitting cross-legged on benches, each with a bowl and chopsticks held within an inch of his nose, shovelling his food rapidly into his mouth. There a man with rows of little black balls spread out before his shop; he is a coal and these balls are made of clay mixed with coal dust—a most economical method of firing. That house in the middle with glazed windows is a bank, and whenever we see a particularly bright exterior, we may be sure that it belongs to a pawnbroker, for he does a large business, the Chinese being ever ready to pawn their all for a good gamble or perhaps a whiff of opium, as some unfortunates at home will do for a last drink. There is a man squatted on the ground, shaking some sticks in a bamboo-holder. He is largely patronized, men coming and going and choosing out a stick and putting it back with either a pleasing or dissatisfied look. He is a fortune-teller. Or there is a group intent on a game of hazard, when the stakes in question are a few cash. Yes! these Chinese are certainly inveterate gamblers, and would gamble their food, their clothing, anything away. Or it is a juggler with a simple apparatus giving a street performance, and many of our best tricks are, as we see, borrowed from the Chinese conjuror.

Then the coffin shops, piled high with those ponderous sarcophagi hewn out of a single tree-trunk, so thick, so substantial, warranted to last for generations, and there is no sending for one in a hurry, for generally the coffin has been waiting in the house for years for its occupant. The funeral furnishers also do a thriving business, for we see many of them, hung inside with the green paraphernalia, the lanterns, carrying pagodas and poles that make up such an imposing procession. So do the wedding contractors, which we distinguish from the undertakers by their red decorations.

Then there are the carpenters and ironmongers, the blacksmiths and the book-shops, the laundries and the barbers, and those of other trades, all of which are easily distinguished at a glance, in the open shops, where the work is carried on within view of the world, adding tenfold to the interest of the streets. The travelling cobbler is frequently seated at the corner of a thoroughfare, repairing the soft felt soles of the Chinese shoes. The itinerant musician is seen under an awning with his book and drum, singing to an attentive audience seated round a table. In all these shops, there is a whirligig round which an incense-burning tube is smouldering, and which marks the flight of time. Watch this shopman give change. He produces often from up his sleeve, or from round his neck, heavy strings of copper "cash." Now as 1200 of these go to make up a dollar, the counting of the change is a matter of patience. It is a cumbrous monetary system, but well in keeping with all that is Chinese.

We are in the midst of a moving scene of life. Here the descendant of the Tartar soldiery carrying a cage of performing birds, or a stick with a chaffinch tied to it. It is the thing perhaps that he values most of all his possessions, and you will often see the Manchu kneeling on the grass, collecting grasshoppers on which to feed his favourite. Very cruel to them also they often are, sewing up their eyes so that they cannot see to escape. There is a soldier in uniform of bright Imperial yellow bordered with crimson, carrying an antique matchlock with long stock, and a flint in his belt. Soon after another passes on a pony with arquebus and arrows slung across his back, for all Chinese soldiers must, as in the days of Agincourt, be expert archers.

Here is a caravan of camels bearing loads of tea (and connoisseurs always prefer that which has thus travelled overland, to the tea transported by sea), with their slow, stealthy, deliberate walk, and contemptuous turned-up noses, tied together by the rope passed through the ring in the nose, attached to the tail of the preceding one. The last of the string has a bell which keeps slow and solemn time with his dignified walk, and the driver does not trouble about the end of the file, unless the stopping of the bell tells him there is something amiss. A flock of sheep are being driven down that walled lane. They are white with black spots, and have the great lumps of fat on their haunches peculiar to the breed of Eastern sheep. If we follow to where they are going, to the butcher's shop, we shall see the disgusting scene presented by a slaughter-house open to the street. The animals will be torn asunder, joint by joint, whilst still warm, with the blood streaming, and entrails laid bare.

A blue palanquin, with many bearers, is being carried along. There is a great mandarin squatted inside on the floor, and we can just see the handsome magnate with his embroidered robes lined with sable, his turned-up velvet hat with the peacock's feather stuck out straight behind, the red, blue, or white button on which indicates his rank. He wears the red, and is going to the Yâmen or Ministry. He is preceded by a retinue of mounted servants, who summarily clear the way, with the whip if necessary, and their number announces to the world the rank and importance of their master. Now there gallop past us a party of wild-looking Tartars, veritable barbarians they look, with their yellow faces, short lank hair and fur caps. Comes along next, a wheelbarrow, with the excruciating squeak of the single front wheel, while the merchandise is neatly balanced in baskets on either side. It is a perpetual wonder how they maintain their equilibrium, especially when, as at Shanghai, they are used for passengers, and there is only one seated on the side.

Now we must make way for this long cart, crowded with passengers, which corresponds to our omnibus; also for that uncouth-looking waggon, with its piebald team of a single pony in the shafts, with a troika of two donkeys and a mule roped in front. Again and again these curiously mixed teams excite our mirth, the wheeler being often the smaller animal of the whole. Then there is the never-ceasing stream of those blue and black covered carts, of which we retain such a lively horror since our journey from Tungchau, and out of many, jeer the Chinese ladies, looking with scorn at the "Barbarian's wife" riding a donkey, whilst they are boxed up safely inside, with a curtain in front, and guarded by an armah (or maid) seated on the shafts.

Add to all these sights, crowds of donkeys, small and wiry, with their padded saddles on a wooden frame, with a bulging Chinaman with swinging pigtail seated far back, and with his legs tucked up, trotting along—of horsemen on rough Tartar ponies, generally white in colour, and which run along at a great pace, so that there is no rising in the saddle, and lastly the mules, a beautiful breed, large and strong, with glossy coats, cruelly bitted, with a double bit and wire over the upper gums.

We have grown so accustomed to John Chinaman, with his innocent yellow face, so smooth and hairless,—except when as a grandfather he wears a moustache,—his obliquely-slit eyes, and his flowing pigtail, with plaited ends of cord and tassels, that we have ceased to observe him. We are now quite familiar with his baggy pantaloons, which sometimes he binds tightly to the ankle—with his turned-up hat with velvet brim, or eight-sided cap, always with coloured button atop—with his loose blue coat fastened by two buttons on one shoulder, with the sleeves hanging long over the hands, and that serve him as pockets. It is beginning to get cold, so that the wadded coats worn in winter are coming into general use. Whilst there is a level monotony of colour in the lower classes, the upper have the most gorgeous brocaded coats of crimson, blue, and purple, with pantaloons of other colours, that combine in pleasing effect. Some of the men have the long claw nail, but only on the little finger, in token that they do no manual labour, and a disgusting sight it is to see this transparent substance of several inches in length, bending backwards and forwards, as they use their hands.

The pigtail! What is it for? What is its origin? It is simple. The Tartars were few, the Chinese many. Let not the latter see this and be tempted to say: "Arise, drive out the conqueror." Let them shave three-fourths of the head; let the back hair grow long and braid it into a bridle as is the Tartar custom. The pigtail was intended as a mark of subjection to signify to the Chinese that, even as it resembled a horse's tail, so might they be driven like one, whilst the cuff of the official sleeve to this day is cut into the shape of a horseshoe.

Such, says tradition, was the Manchu order, and off came at a stroke the heads of the disobedient. Two generations pass, and the Chinese love the pigtail, as they do to-day, and dread the agents of the Secret Society snipping it here and there, as an insult to the Tartar.

The Chinese ladies are plain. They wear their black hair plastered from a flat parting on either side of the face, and with bunches of artificial flowers and tinsel stuck in, behind the ear, from which depend long green jade earrings. Others have their hair drawn up over a comb, to form a top knot, rising about four inches above the head. There is yet a still more curious fashion of dressing the hair into a plait wired, so as to stand out from the nape of the neck in a stiff curve, just like the tail of a cat. It has a most peculiar appearance. Has it ever struck you, when travelling, as it has me, how very nearly all the nations of the world have black hair, the English, Germans and Swedes being nearly the only exceptions? The Chinese women smear their faces with rouge, beginning by placing one brilliant vermilion spot under the lower lip. They wear the same dress as the men, loose trousers and coats, and their clothes are of the brightest colours—violent greens, blues and purples, richly embroidered in gold or silver tissue, and rainbow tints. They wear many bangles and rings of jade or crystal, and a silver circle round the neck. They too have the long nails, but on all their fingers. We bought some of the pretty silver claws of immense curving length, which they use as shields.

Oh! to see these poor women totter along, just balancing, ready to fall at every step, with their poor little crippled feet. The weight of a fair-sized woman is supported on a pair of green or blue pointed boots, measuring not more than four inches in length. If we could look inside, we should find the toes laid flat under the sole of the foot, the great toe meeting the heel. From the moment the bandages are put on the children, which is at the age of three or four, they are never removed, however painful the swelling, but drawn tighter and tighter until the deformity is complete. In the upper classes many of the ladies have to be carried or supported on either side by an armah when they walk. And yet they are so proud of their feet, they are such a marriageable commodity, for big feet are sufficient ground, even to-day, for a refusal to proceed with a contract of matrimony, that many are solely deterred from adopting Christianity by the obligations, imposed by the missionaries, of ordinary feet. A Chinese mandarin who had studied "England: as she was, and as she is," said to a friend: "You English seem very fond of your Queen—but is it possible that you allow yourselves to be governed by a woman, however good, with big feet?"

It is a comfort here, to meet with the larger and handsomer Manchu women, who come from Manchuria in Northern China, and are not thus deformed. We always distinguish these latter by their wonderful headdress, which consists of a piece of jade, one foot long, and exactly resembling a paper cutter placed across the head to project from ear to ear, and round which the hair is twisted.

CHAPTER X.

THE FORBIDDEN CITY

Now for some of the sights of Peking.

A long hour and a half's ride on donkeys from the British Legation, brings us to the vicinity of the great temple of Confucius.

We find ourselves on a straight, dusty road, with a gateway at the end. It was through that gateway, and down this same road, that the British troops passed, when in 1860 they marched into Peking.

We are frequently seeing painted wooden archways, called Peilaus. These memorial arches are found all over China. They are only erected by express permission of the Emperor, to good and public-spirited persons—to a great man who has given a large sum of money (often solely for this object), or to a widow who has been sufficiently virtuous to remain faithful to her husband's memory. Like everything else, they are generally crumbling or falling crooked.

The approach to the Temple is through a road with a succession of blank walls, the temple itself being equally well surrounded. Here we see a man doing penance, shut up in a yellow box, and striking a bell with a wooden lever at intervals. His punishment will last a month, and if we could see inside, very likely the box is lined with spikes or nails, so arranged that they prick the sinner if he changes his position. Sometimes it is a means resorted to to obtain money to build a temple. "Give, oh! give. 1000l. I must collect before I am released from this cell."

Foreigners are often refused entrance to the Confucian Temple. We parley, too, through a crack in the door, and are told "No, big man is coming." But as usual, greed, in the shape of the golden key that accomplishes most things, conquers, and amid a rush of dirty on-lookers, who find entrance with us as the gate is opened, we pass inside the court of the temple of the Great Teacher. This court is solemn and silent, neglected and deserted, with its dusky groves of cryptomerias and cooing grey doves. The paved pathway leads up to some steps, that pass on either side of a raised stone slab, covered with ancient hieroglyphics, and embossed dragons with wonderfully twisted tails. In the inner court is the temple itself, with a roof of brilliant yellow tiles, and surrounded by pagodas and smaller halls similarly tiled.

We ascend to a marble terrace with balustrades. The door of the temple is thrown open, and forth rushes a smell of damp air, and as the gloom dissipates we cross some matting, raising clouds of dust. By degrees the lofty proportions of the massive hall, with its roof of blue and green, supported on colossal teak pillars of wood, painted a dull red, begin to dawn upon us. We see in the centre the shrine to Confucius, a humble red wooden tablet, set on a table, bearing this inscription: "The Tablet of the Soul of the Most Holy Ancestral Teacher, Confucius." On either side are tablets to the four most distinguished sages, whilst the others, in a lower position, are for the next best celebrated men of the Confucianist school. And this is the Literary Temple in which the Example and Teacher of all Ages, and ten of his great disciples, worshipped. "All is simple, quiet, and cheerless, fit place for contemplation, and suitable for the Great Thought-giver."

The Emperor comes here twice a year to worship the venerated sage, and every sovereign, in token of veneration, presents a "Tablet of Praise." Each inscription is different, and presents some aspect of his influence; he is called, "Of all men the Unrivalled," "Equal to Heaven and Earth," and "Example and Teacher of all Ages." In another court are seen the celebrated stone drums. They are ten in number, of grey granite or stone, and are believed to date from the eighth century B.C., or to be about 2700 years old. The writing on them is in the old Seal character, and consists of stanzas relating to King Süen's hunting expeditions. They are the oldest things in a country where everything is of such antiquity.

On the opposite side of the court is the Hall of the Triennial Examinations for the highest Literary Degree, the Chinese Doctor of Literature. "In commemoration of each examination, a stone is erected with the names of all the doctors. The oldest are three of the Mongol dynasty, and the Peking University has therefore a complete list for 500 years of its graduates."

Then we cross over to the Classic Hall, where the Emperor meets the literati and graduates to hear, and sometimes theoretically to pronounce a literary address. In the centre of the court there is a pagoda, crowned with a wonderful gold knob (like a mandarin's button at the top of his hat), and surrounded by an extremely gracefully-wrought marble trellis-work, enclosing a moat of sluggish green water. Opposite to it is a beautiful yellow porcelain arch, in three divisions, interwoven with green tiles, forming a vivid contrast, yet blending into a harmonious whole. There are other pagodas, containing those curious memorials, of a pyramidal stone resting on the back of a tortoise. These are, of course, also to the memory of distinguished literati. Open sheds surround the court, and inside the black palings, are the benches where the students sit, when the Emperor comes to hear the address delivered, and behind, against the wall, the 300 precious tablets, on which are engraved the authorized texts of the classics, the oldest remains of ancient Chinese literature. Plenty of other temples for ordinary worshippers we see, and always know them by the two poles outside, with gold knobs on the top.

We return to the city down a road which leads past the Drum and Bell towers, great pagoda-like structures, pierced by solid archways on each side, standing near together, both 100 feet high. The drum is sounded at every hour through the long night watches, and can be heard all over the city. A clepsidra is still kept to mark the time, a good instance of Chinese conservatism. Near here is the temple where Sir Harry Parkes and Sir Henry Loch were confined for the latter part of the time they were prisoners in Peking. Until recently their names could still be seen written on the wall, which, however, has lately been white-washed, perhaps purposely. Just before turning into the Meishan we catch a glimpse, in the far distance, of the beautiful Marble Bridge, spanning a lake filled with lotus. "Standing on this bridge, one overlooks a great part of the Imperial palace. The banks of the lake are studded with castles, temples, and gardens," but this, alas! like so much else in Peking, is closed to foreigners.

We now pass into the Imperial City, which is guarded within a wall seven miles in length, and go down a straight road raised in the centre, the sandy waste between it and the shops being in possession of cheap-Jacks and old-clothes' men. This road is in wonderful repair. The Emperor has recently passed over it, and the lanterns are freshly papered and water-butts are set ready at intervals. Thus the sovereign remains ignorant of the usual state of the roads, and knows nothing of the misapplication of public funds. The governor of the city or of the provinces is responsible for the condition of the roads, but were His Majesty to elect to make frequent journeys, the "squeezes" of the mandarins would be ruinous.