Chapter IX: Introduction (4)

Having been entertained at luncheon by the Chinese Governor, to make the day complete I was the guest of the Russian Resident at dinner. We may criticize the Muscovite system of government, we may censure the ways and means employed by the Russian administration, but there is only one opinion as regards Russian hospitality. No matter what quarter of the globe one comes from, whether one be a political ally or a traditional foe, a Russian never fails in the duties of hospitality. As long as the guest is under his roof he is looked upon as a member of the family. Host and hostess, in fact all the household, go out of their way to show kindness to him. And it is all done on such a lavish scale! His room is overheated, rugs and furs are wrapped round him whether he desires them or not, and above all a special point is made of loading him with food and drink at all hours of the day and of the night.

The Russian Residence, or Consulate, as it is still sometimes called before the world, is a yamen like all other public buildings in China, only perhaps a little more ruinous than those I saw in the morning. The interior is greatly lacking in comfort and luxury. It gives rather the impression of a camp than of a home; there is no furniture beyond what is strictly necessary, and nothing has been done to make it pretty or attractive. The only redeeming feature is the table, which appears to be permanently set for meals. It is covered with quite as many little dishes as the table of the Mandarin, but instead of fruit and sweetmeats, they contain hors-d'oeuvres, such as caviare, herrings, smoked salmon, cucumber, and all the innumerable varieties which compose the famous national _Zakouska_. There was a perfect array of bottles on the table; I do not remember ever seeing so many crowded on to one table. There were wines from the Crimea, various liqueurs, and vodka. During dinner the guests smoked perfumed cigarettes, and talked of their family affairs and distant homes. It was difficult to realize that the boundless plains of Siberia separated us from the banks of the Neva, for the picture before me was so typically Russian, in all its variety of shades and colours. I almost felt as if I were "in company with the gentlemen" of Tourguenieff.

My visit to Mukden had certainly been full of interest. Not only the town itself, its famous monuments, and its strangely superannuated people, but the whole situation as it is at present, offers endless scope for speculation. Chinese mandarins and Russian generals, Cossacks and coolies, how oddly they are amalgamated in incoherent groups! What developments may not the future have in store? Truly this is a fascinating problem. Will Manchuria be more prosperous under the new regime? Will the people be able to rise to a higher level? As I took leave of the spot, now so desolate, where the mission settlement once stood, I asked myself whether it would ever be rebuilt and whether men would come forward to take the place of those martyrs who had sacrificed their life in the cause of the orphans and forsaken children of China. Casting one last lingering look upon the place, which I should probably never see again, the dismal outline of the ruined bell-tower seemed to rise up in pathetic protest against human intolerance and blind persecution.

THE RETURN JOURNEY

The city of Mukden contained so much that was of interest to me, that my stay there was prolonged beyond my original intentions. The Governor, to whom I had related all the difficulties and discomforts of my journey, very kindly placed a carriage at my disposal and gave me an escort to see me safely back to the station. But perilous as the outward journey had been, the return was no less full of various emotions.

It was a beautiful autumn day when I left the town. Nature seemed to be making one last effort to assert the power of her charms before falling into her winter sleep. As we passed through the precincts of the city, the gardens literally glittered with colour. All imaginable shades, from copper-tinted saffron to bronzed purple, were there displayed. These gardens are certainly most beautifully cultivated. Presently we emerged into the open plain, and now I had the opportunity, which I had missed before, of forming some idea of the fertility of this privileged land. Manchuria is undoubtedly one of the richest countries in the world. The soil is excellent, the hills are thickly wooded, the mountains abound in minerals. Along the route we passed farms where maize and beans seemed to be chiefly cultivated, and all the people, men, women, and children, were at work in the field.

The landscape is rather monotonous. We traversed a wide plain enclosed by mountains which touch the horizon; but although the scenery cannot be called picturesque, it is not devoid of a certain grandeur. It has a charm peculiar to itself, an atmosphere of vague melancholy. All vast plains, those of Egypt for instance, or of Rajputana, have this same undefinable, intangible characteristic, of which one is faintly conscious without being able to describe it. The people who live in such a free atmosphere are naturally affected by it, and the Manchus possess all the characteristics of a race inhabiting an exposed country.

The Manchu is attached to his native land; he loves to live in the open, and is never so happy as when galloping across the endless plain or hunting in the virgin forests. As we laboriously proceeded on the uneven road, my fancy had full play, and I received new ideas and impressions from these novel surroundings. Since I had explored the interior of the country more carefully, my ideas about Manchuria had certainly undergone a great change. Every now and then, however, my cogitations were rudely interrupted as we jumped over ditches, crawled up or ran down the inclines, and it was a wonder that my poor _tarantass_ was not smashed in the attempt. It may be as well, perhaps, to give some idea of what a _tarantass_ is like. Four small wheels, very far apart, and joined by wooden axles, were fixed in the centre to a long pole, on which the basket, in shape something between a boat and a bath, was fastened. The vibration of this pole takes the place of springs, although it would be incorrect to say that it performed the office of such civilized improvements. But the pole kept the wheels and the basket together, and this, after all, is an accomplishment to be proud of on the highroads of Asia. My carriage was not drawn by mules this time, but I had three horses harnessed abreast, in the Muscovite style. They were small Cossack horses, with long manes and tails, slightly larger than Shetland ponies, strong and lively. The middle one was somewhat bigger than the two others; it could trot, while the ponies to the right and left of it had to gallop all the time, their heads gracefully arched and held a little to one side. The harness was most eccentric, and consisted of straps without number, the use of which it was difficult to see, but the silver-nailed mountings, studded in Eastern fashion, looked decidedly picturesque.

My coachman was a Cossack, and evidently very much impressed with the importance of his mission. About fifteen men formed the escort, their white blouses and flat white caps forming a striking feature in the landscape. They are good-natured, simple-minded folk, these mujiks, with bright blue eyes, clear complexion, and a childlike expression. They are evidently quite at home in this far-away country, for the ways of life in their native land are primitive and patriarchal, and differ but little from those in this foreign land. It is difficult to believe that these men can ever be cruel, and in time of war commit the greatest atrocities in cold blood and almost unconsciously. When the war is over they at once make friends with the conquered people, and freely mix with the yellow tribes. A little two-wheeled cart, containing provisions, and with a young Cossack as driver, completed my escort.

If I were asked what were the most striking objects I passed on the road, I should mention two pagodas, one of which is particularly beautiful, seven storeys high, and richly carved. Monsters of Chinese mythology and all the embellishments which the sickly imagination of that ancient race could devise, have been lavishly represented upon it. We also passed some remarkable commemorative stones--massive blocks, resting on enormous tortoises--on which are inscribed the exploits of the defunct heroes of the country. The many farms on our route testified to the agricultural resources of the land, and the villages are not without interest from a sociological point of view. The houses are very shabby and dilapidated, but what amused me was the number of children there were playing about. There did not seem to be room enough to contain them all, and there were hardly any doors to be seen; the population appears to jump out of the ground like mushrooms. We met carts of various descriptions, pedestrians, strange equipages, and stranger horsemen, and to finish up with, a mandarin travelling in state. This personage was carried in a litter covered with embroidered silk, and the luggage packed, in cases of wonderful lacquer-work, was carried by his men on their backs. Suite and servants followed him in single file, and all the emblems of his dignity, flags, Chinese lanterns, umbrellas, and banners, with various inscriptions, were carried before him. His Excellency was guarded by a detachment of native soldiers, in crimson mantles with lozenge-shaped pieces of velvet let in at the front and back, and elaborately embroidered with Chinese characters. Of course, many of the details of this show were very shabby. The canopy of the litter was torn and faded, the velvet of the uniforms was caked with mud, the banners were in rags, and yet as a whole it was one of the most artistic displays I have ever seen. Asiatics certainly have the knack of making their pageants effective. A mandarin of secondary order, visiting a functionary about equal in rank to a tax-collector, has an escort of followers and soldiers amounting to several dozen men, while the highest Western officials are content with two footmen behind their carriage on grand occasions.

I have already said that the journey back to Mukden station was no improvement on the journey thence, and yet, as I write these lines, seated in my comfortable railway carriage, my adventure, now that it is a thing of the past, seems like a dream to me. To make the story more interesting I must begin at the end, namely, with the dramatic incident of the journey, and tell how we only just escaped being kidnapped or possibly killed by a band of brigands. Thanks to Providence, however, no more serious harm was done to us than the fall of the _tarantass_ into the swollen river, a compulsory bath in full uniform for some of the Cossacks, various bruises and scratches, and a broken litter. The intended attack was changed into flight, and the tragedy turned into a comedy, to the satisfaction of all. I will briefly relate the facts.

When we arrived at the first village, the Cossacks declared that the horses were thirsty, and that a halt was therefore necessary. They all dismounted and hurried into the wayside inn, leaving me alone with the horses. But as I could see neither well nor bucket, I could do nothing for the poor beasts. After a while the men returned, and there was no mistaking the state of affairs. If the horses had had no water, the men had found plenty to drink. Presently we came to another village, and the same thing occurred there, only this time they did not trouble to invent any excuse, and never mentioned the thirsty horses. I need hardly say that after each halt the conversation waxed more animated, and the horses were pushed on more furiously. After the third stoppage the situation became alarming. They no longer talked, but all shouted at once, the clatter of their voices being intermixed with snatches of popular songs, while the trot of the horses changed to a gallop.

I felt desperate, for I knew that I was quite powerless against the inveterate national custom of these children of nature. They continued, however, to behave well towards me, and treated me with the greatest respect. They were only very hilarious, that was all. They shouted and sang and waved their red kerchiefs as we sped along.

The last hamlet passed, and there being no further chance of obtaining refreshment until Mukden station was reached, a steeplechase was proposed across country, to the station. I cannot tell what distance we thus covered, for the speed at which we went exceeded all my previous experiences. The race over the uneven ground caused me many different sensations. Across the plain it was rapid and exciting, and I fully participated in the exhilaration of these wild children. Across the cultivated ground it was pleasant enough for those on horseback, but to me, in my _tarantass_, it was like being on the rack. But it was in crossing the maize-fields that I suffered most.

The race increased in speed. Horses and men completely lost their heads, and it was no longer a question of restraining them. The horses took the bits between their teeth and simply went like the wind. We seemed to fly over the ditches and tore through the reed hedges. Some of the animals slipped and the men fell head over heels in the mud, while guns and swords described glittering circles in the air. Finally, in trying to clear a deep creek, one of the wheels of the provision-cart came off, and all the contents were scattered. Then, to my joy, I saw looming in the distance, like a haven of refuge, the miserable shed which is called Mukden station.

I lay down at the bottom of the _tarantass_, with a feeling of deliverance near at hand. I must explain that my straw seat had fallen to pieces at an early stage of our mad race, so that the only way to remain in the _tarantass_ was by lying down at the bottom and holding on to the sides. But even this comparative degree of comfort was extended to me for only a short time, for suddenly I received a terrible shock; there was a grinding noise produced by the carriage, followed by an exclamation from the driver, unintelligible to me; the sound of horses struggling in the water; and finally I felt an icy wave dashing over me. I thought I was drowning, and instinctively raised myself in my basket. We were in the middle of a river which had overflowed its banks! My little horses were half submerged. Some of the Cossacks were still in the saddle; others were wading through the muddy stream up to their waists in water. They were all in a state of great excitement, talking and shouting, but all quite cheerful. Some were washing their scratches, others struggling desperately to rescue their belongings, which were floating away on the stream, and the horses, at last, with supreme contentment, were able to drink their fill of the water so long withheld and so fully deserved.

The steeplechase under ordinary conditions may be a noble sport and may have its charm and many dangers, but it cannot be compared with such a cross-country race in a _tarantass_, escorted by a detachment of Cossacks. And yet, in spite of all, I am indebted to these hardy companions, for their mad escapade and their wild merriment saved our lives. Whilst in full career, with horses neighing, Cossacks shouting, and swords flashing, we became aware of a body of men, who had presumably been hiding in the bushes, escaping towards the distant woods. Evidently they thought we were pursuing them, and they fled in disorder. I learnt afterwards that it was a band of those Chunchuses who have been the terror of the district for many years, and very likely the same I met on my previous journey. Not long ago they kidnapped Mr. Wetzel, the director of the East China Railway, whose adventures have been described at length in the newspapers. He was carried into the interior, underwent the most terrible tortures, and was on the verge of losing his mind when his ransom arrived.

If my Cossacks had not indulged in that steeplechase my journey might have had a tragic ending. Thanks to our furious riding, we startled the band lying in wait for a prey; but if they had seen us quietly proceeding like ordinary travellers along the highroad, they would undoubtedly have attacked us; and I will therefore conclude with the well-known proverb: "All's well that ends well."

V

PORT ARTHUR, DALNY, NIU-CHWANG, TIEN-TSIN

The country between Mukden and Port Arthur is the granary of Manchuria. Rice, corn, and maize grow in great profusion, and there are from thirty-five to forty different kinds of peas and beans. Chinese agriculture is based on excellent principles. The system of irrigation and the methods of working fully deserve our attention; but the plentiful harvests are chiefly due to the remarkable mode of manuring. The same piece of ground can yield several crops in rotation in one year. It would seem that the land never requires to lie fallow.

As I watched the Chinese farmers and labourers, I was vividly struck by the contrast between this peace-loving, agricultural population, and the armed Cossacks who lined the route. The nearer we came to the coast the more numerous they seemed to become, and there were more and larger barracks also. Yet the Russian military and the Chinese farmers appear to live on friendly terms with one another. I frequently saw Russian soldiers and Chinamen sitting at the same table, merrily talking together, and I even noticed signs of Russification among the natives, for many pigtails were twisted up and hidden under a Russian _schapka_. They eat the same food with an equally good appetite, and appear to have many tastes in common. If, during the Boxer agitation, the Russian troops behaved with exceptional cruelty towards the natives, it is certain that at present there is a perfect understanding between them. And after all they belong more or less to the same stock; their historic past is very similar, and they both live the same primitive life.

* * * * *

I was now nearing the end of my journey, and although the progress had been slow it had been full of incidents. The last obstacle on the route we encountered at Liaoyang, where a bridge had been swept away. I was prepared for this delay, for some weeks before, the station-master at Harbin had given me a thrilling account of the accident. I remember wondering at the time whether he was exaggerating and trying to dissuade me from penetrating further into the interior of Manchuria; but when I saw the state of affairs at Liaoyang I realized that his story had been perfectly true. The scene before me was one of general confusion. Thousands of Russian soldiers and Chinese coolies were engaged in carting sand, cutting poles, and fixing rails; all talking and shouting at once in different tongues and dialects.

It was a veritable babel. About a thousand men were occupied in constructing a bridge of stone and iron. A few thousand others were throwing up sandbanks to check the water, while another gang of workmen was making a pontoon. We stopped several hours and no one seemed to know how or when we should get across. But the scene was so exciting, and gave me such an excellent opportunity of watching the Chinese at work, that I did not grudge the delay. At last some engineering officers suggested dividing the train and trying to take it across by the pontoon in portions.

How it was exactly managed I am unable to describe, for what with the jerking and bumping of my carriage, and the whistling, creaking, and groaning of the engine over the swaying pontoon, I had no chance of making observations. And when the temporary rails over the pontoon became submerged and the waves dashed up to my carriage door, I followed the example of the stoker and the guard and stood on the step, barefooted, ready to jump and attempt to swim to land if the whole tottering structure should collapse and disappear under the waves.

Thus ended my journey across Manchuria. Many delays and excursions into the interior had retarded my progress, but at last I arrived safe and sound at Port Arthur, where I remained two days, including a visit to Dalny. Port Arthur, as I saw it, was merely a military station on the extremity of the peninsula of Liaotung. At one time it was the chief naval arsenal of China, but after the war with Japan its defences and military works were destroyed. When, in 1898, the Russians leased the two places, Port Arthur and Dalny, they made the former into a great military and naval fortress. It was placed under the control of an admiral who had chief command over the troops and the maritime forces. He had under him a double staff of naval and military officers, comprising the commander of the port, the chiefs of the naval staff, the riflemen, the artillery, the engineering service, and the intelligence department, the harbour master, the chief of the torpedo division, the first assistant to the commander of the port, the second assistant, the commander of the commercial port, the ordnance officers of the Governor-General, the civil governor, the diplomatic agent, the secretary of finances, and the chief of the police.

Port Arthur undoubtedly has a very complicated form of administration, and at first it was suggested that it should be made into an eastern Kronstadt, or the Asiatic citadel of the great empire. The place itself and the surrounding hills are full of fortifications, and I have been assured over and over again that it would be perfectly impossible to take it by sea. It is one long line of arsenals, torpedo depots, barracks, and encampments. The fact that Port Arthur is essentially a military port is not disguised; there are only a few buildings, including those of the East China Railway Company and the Russo-Chinese Bank, which do not openly serve military purposes.

A new town has grown up on the opposite side to satisfy the demands of trade. This is called Dalny, and is situated on the bay of Talienwan, to the north-west of Port Arthur. The territory, like that of Port Arthur, was given in lease by China, and it is intended to make this into a free port connected by the Manchurian Railway with Vladivostok, Moscow, the Black Sea, and the Baltic. It might in time become the great commercial centre of the extreme East. The port is about six miles long and very deep, and offers exceptional facilities for navigation.

Dalny in its present condition has a somewhat paradoxical aspect. Palaces emerge from the sands, public monuments fill the deserted squares, avenues and boulevards are traced out on the shore. Dalny is the hope of the partisans of Russian commerce and progress, while Port Arthur is the pride of the military party. The development of the former is encouraged by the energetic efforts of Mr. White; the latter finds a powerful protector in General Kuropatkin.

Port Arthur impressed me greatly on account of its strategic importance, but what I saw of Dalny did not inspire me with much confidence as to its commercial future. During my visit I saw all that has been accomplished since 1898, and certainly, although many things are still far from perfect, and the mistakes made are very palpable even to the uninitiated, one cannot fail to recognize that much has been done in so short a time. But if we knew at what cost all this has been accomplished, our admiration would probably be considerably reduced.

No boat for Taku was likely to start for some time, so I decided to continue my journey to Pekin by rail. As far as Ying-tse we travelled over the main Manchurian line, whence a branch line runs to Niu-chwang. This is the most northerly port of the Yellow Empire open to foreign trade. It is situated at a distance of thirteen miles from the mouth of the river Liao, which discharges into the gulf of Liaotung, a continuation of the gulf of Pechili. The railway line, which brings Niu-chwang into direct communication with Siberia and Pekin, was just finished. Branch lines in the direction of Tien-tsin had existed before this, but they were destroyed in the late Boxer troubles. To give my readers a somewhat accurate idea of the importance of this town I will try to quote from the Official journals:--

The town of Niu-chwang is rapidly growing in importance since the construction of the railway. The East China Railway between Port Arthur, Dalny, and the junction of Ta-shik-chia, whence a branch line runs to Port Arthur, was finished as far as Mukden towards the close of 1899. The Chinese Imperial line was also completed then. It was subsequently decided to deal systematically with the mineral resources of Manchuria, owing to the East China line having laid open the coal-mines at Mochi-Shan and Z'mershan near the Liaoyang, and at Wafungtien in the south of the Liaotung peninsula. The railway line runs right along these rich exploitations. An unprecedented commercial activity has accompanied these developments, resulting in an increase of 49 per cent. for 1898.

The chief articles of trade for this port are beans and oil-cake, with an export of 2,241,053 piculs of the former and 2,289,544 piculs of the latter in 1899. The net quantity of opium imported in 1898 was 92 piculs as against 2453 in 1879. The importation of opium has been steadily declining in the course of the last few years, the poppy seed being largely and successfully cultivated in Manchuria. The total figure of the trade of this port for 1899 has risen to 48,357,623 taels as against 32,441,315 in 1898. The port figured conspicuously in the disturbances of 1900; the Chinese troops which attacked the town being defeated by the Russians, who took possession of the port. Trade was necessarily at a standstill in 1900.

Niu-chwang was a revelation to me. I saw for the first time a real Chinese town in all its immensity. It appeared an inextricable labyrinth of streets and alleys overflowing with people. All our Western ideas are reversed here; indeed, buildings and people alike seemed to belong not only to another hemisphere, but to another planet. The lines are so strange, the colours so brilliant, the sounds so sharp, that one is at once deafened, blinded, and astonished. Beyond the city, on the solid earth, is the floating town on the river. The Liao at this point, little more than half a mile wide, is literally covered with vessels of every description.

It is a thronged mass of large merchant ships, smaller boats, and wooden junks. Each boat is a home, in which always one, and often several, families are housed with all their belongings: children, pigs, and poultry filling the decks. Those of the better classes who can afford it have regular summer-houses on the river, built like pagodas, elaborately furnished and surrounded by artificial gardens with dwarf trees in costly pots. In between this confusion of boats, narrow passages and regular canals are left free on the water, in which graceful canoes are seen gliding and winding about like gondolas. Both on land and water, the crowds of human beings, and exuberance of life, are overwhelming.

One feels ill at ease and lost among this surging mass of humanity. The narrowest streets and the largest squares, the courts and the floating houses, all teem with life; and, in contrast with the sleepy, passive multitudes of India, all are active here, from the youngest to the oldest. All seem intent on their business, all appear to have some strenuous end in view. The capacity for work which this race possesses manifests itself everywhere from morning till night. Chinese strength and vitality are here seen in all their original energy and force.

Niu-chwang is an important place even now, but it has every possibility and likelihood of becoming one of the great commercial centres of the future. Its international trade has been hitherto hindered by the fact that the river is frozen for three months in the year, but since the completion of the Tien-tsin line the town has become easy of access by land. A railway bridge over the Liao is projected, and when this is built the train will run directly from Pekin to St. Petersburg. At present travellers have to cross the river in wooden junks, and continue their journey by the Chinese trains.

In the centre of the commercial town is the settlement of the Catholic Mission. Buried in a maze of tortuous streets, it is almost lost sight of in the bustle and noise of the adjacent fair, giving the impression of some Oriental bazaar. The little church, and the few small houses belonging to the Mission, are enclosed as far as possible by a whitewashed garden wall, which is but a poor protection in case of siege or serious disorders. If the populace were to show signs of hostility that ruinous wall would not hold out long against the mob; but they who join the Mission, who devote their lives to deeds of charity, who feed the starving, and care for the destitute, put their trust in a defence stronger than the strongest towers of this world. From the time that the missionary leaves his native land and offers his life to the Almighty, he spends his days in a constant state of uncertainty. From the moment that he sets foot on the shores of the Yellow Empire dangers of all kinds crowd around him. These martyrs to duty are continuously exposed to open and secret persecution, terrible epidemics, privations, and hardships of all kinds. Yet in spite of manifold trials and dangers, young priests and nuns who have only just taken the vow, go over to the Far East, happy and full of zeal, ready to devote their lives to the noble spiritual work.

On the day of my departure from Niu-chwang I had the good fortune to witness an historical event, the official transfer of the railway to the Chinese Governor-General of Manchuria. Since the last war the route between Niu-chwang and Hankau-chwang had been under the military control of Russia, while the other route between the latter town and Tien-tsin was held by British troops. There were great festivities in honour of the day. The station buildings were decorated with all the pomp of Asiatic taste; everywhere Venetian masts, floating banners, Chinese inscriptions, and Russian trophies, announced the great event, with laurel garlands symbolizing victory, and olive branches speaking of eternal peace. Ambitious mandarins and gold-bedizened Russian generals exchanged salutes and bows in sign of mutual respect. No doubt it was a case of "live and let live," for all appeared quite satisfied.

An interminable programme marked the order of the festivities, and if I had had an aptitude for journalism I could have written columns upon "The Official Transfer of the East China Railway Line by Russia to China." I could have indulged in lengthy descriptions of the receptions, presentations, floral offerings, banquets, with streams of champagne, and endless flow of toasts. But the best correspondent could not have said more than I have done here upon the principal event, the actual transfer of the railway. He could not have pierced, any more than I could, that thick veil which hides from us the knowledge as to whether that railway has actually become Chinese property or not.

The country between Niu-chwang and Hankau-chwang is at first flat and uninteresting, although rich in vegetation. Nearer to the sea it becomes more varied, and in parts it is quite picturesque. Some of the bays of the Yellow Sea--which, by the by, is intensely blue just there--resemble the fjords and are dominated by craggy rocks. We advanced slowly and stopped at many stations, the Russian soldiers still always predominating over the native contingent.

It was late in the evening, when our train, with much noise, passed through the breach in the famous wall, by which I was greatly impressed. That enormous mass of masonry, one of the most colossal structures ever made by human hands, is here seen to the best advantage, skirting the steep inclines of the mountains, ascending to the tops of the highest peaks, or descending into the plains to lose itself finally in the unfathomable depths of the sea.

It is indeed a wonderful sight, and, like that other gigantic human undertaking, the Pyramids of Egypt, this wall is interesting, not only for its own sake, but also as marking a stage in the history of the civilization of the world. I gazed at it, and looked at our powerful engine, with its long train of American-built carriages, as it passed through the breach, and in that one glance there was much to comprehend both from the past and for the future of Asia.

At Hankau-chwang a surprise awaited me. The English troops had finished their mission, and on this momentous occasion the commander gave a dinner. The guests were assembled in the little yamen near the station. The dining-room was tastefully draped and hung with pretty watercolours. Books and knick-knacks lay about, and the table was covered with an immaculately white cloth and set out with a dinner-service of severe simplicity, but scrupulously clean. A simple abode it was, but every detail of it would bring to temporary inmates the pleasant recollections of the comforts and the charm of their English homes.

Another interesting stage of my journey was from Hankau-chwang to Tien-tsin, through one of the richest districts of China. Our train stopped frequently, for we touched many important towns. Trade is brisk in this part. In places the ground was cultivated like a vegetable garden, but the real wealth of the district lies in its coal-mines. In the way of structural curiosities the two chief sites on the road were the country house of Li Hung-Chang and Fort Taku.

The late Viceroy and great politician had also been a clever financier. His weakness for speculation and commercial enterprise was well-known throughout the country. The coal-mines of this neighbourhood were partly his property. He not only looked well after his personal affairs, but also took care to inquire into the financial position of those with whom he dealt. Whenever he entertained a foreign diplomatist, or granted an interview to the director of some international company, or even the head of some ordinary business house desirous of gaining information about special concessions or privileges, the first question the Viceroy asked invariably was: "What is he worth? How rich is he?" The success of a petition depended, so I was told, to a great extent upon the sum of money poured into the coffers of the statesman as a preliminary investment.

Fort Taku does not need to be described at length. It has played a conspicuous part in the history of the last five-and-twenty years--in the struggles between the West and the East, the White and the Yellow races. It has been several times bombarded, destroyed, and rebuilt. At present it is again in ruins.

There is now a new commercial town in course of erection. In the place of the old-world style, modern colonists have introduced a somewhat vulgar and insipid form of architecture, which possesses neither the picturesqueness of the old Chinese towns nor the advantages of our European cities. The colony is as yet in its infancy, and only counts a few rows of small houses and some miserable shops.

The last stopping-place on my journey was Tien-tsin. Situated on the crossing of the Peiho and the Grand Canal, this is one of the most important towns of China. It has a population of over a million, and is divided into the city proper, the foreign confines, and the suburbs. The old part is a perfect specimen of a Chinese town, overpopulated, brilliant, noisy, and dirty; a hustling, bustling crowd of humanity living like bees in a hive. It contains many interesting monuments, although the chief attraction of the city no longer exists, I mean its enclosure, the wall which surrounded a square of four thousand feet. It was pulled down to make room for trade traffic.

The European quarter is very different in character; it has large squares, shady avenues, and beautiful buildings. Each nation represented there has a little colony of its own, with barracks, commercial offices, and consular residences. The English colony, which is close to the French, boasts of the best buildings, has large, well-kept streets, and is guarded by some very fine-looking Sikhs. The large dwelling-houses, the homely bungalows, and the turbaned figures of the tall soldiers, remind one of some Indian cantonment. The Italian and Austrian quarters are on the other side of the canal, and almost lost among the native town. Since the occupation of the Allied Troops the importance of Tien-tsin has grown considerably, and in time it is likely to become a powerful rival to Shanghai as far as international commercial interests are concerned. In fact, it has all the commercial advantages of Shanghai. When we consider that at the time of the Ming dynasty it occupied only a secondary position, its development is the more remarkable. Tien-tsin is about eighty miles distant from Pekin, and lies near the sea; its commercial advantages as the market for export and import trade are therefore evident.

The railway has added another considerable advantage to the many already possessed by Tien-tsin, namely that of bringing it into direct communication with the mainland. Li Hung-Chang, who, in his capacity of Viceroy, resided there for many years, was a strong supporter of the place. Under him it became, not only a large commercial centre, but with the normal schools for the organization of army and navy, other elements were attracted towards the place, and different occupations introduced.

Tien-tsin, in fact, has become the home of the progressive party. Pamphlets, daily papers, literary and political clubs, have propagated the views and ideas of the great Viceroy. It was Li Hung-Chang who started the first coal-pit in the neighbourhood of Tong-shan, about thirty years ago, and the export of coal is making rapid progress. The output amounts at present to nearly three hundred thousand tons. Another local industry of great importance is the production of salt. This is a Government monopoly, and is obtained through the evaporation of sea-water. The salt lies piled up in heaps along the banks of the river. Spirituous liquors are distilled in large quantities and sent into the interior. The exports include wines, furs, skins, bristles, and wood. Export trade, which did not exist five-and-twenty years ago, now reaches a total of about fifteen million taels per annum.

From the time of the first European expedition in 1858, Tien-tsin has been the scene of much fighting and many desperate battles. During the last rebellion the disturbances were greater there than anywhere else, and it was there also that the Boxers, in the beginning of June, 1900, set fire to the Foreign Mission settlements. At first no one seemed to realize the imminence of the danger, and it was not until the second half of the same month, after the bombardment of Taku, that hostilities, attended with all the horrors of war, were seriously commenced. The attack on the European colony, the blockade of the barracks, the destruction of the railway station, and the massacre of the missionaries and Christians, followed each other rapidly. Eye-witnesses have given us graphic descriptions of the atrocities committed during the insurrection. The bravery of the troops, the missionaries, the Christian women, and the children, has excited the admiration of the world. Many ruins still testify to this prolonged siege.

The chief event of my stay in this place was my visit to the Viceregal Palace. If Li Hung-Chang had been a great statesman, his successor was not unworthy of him. Yuan-tsi-Khai and Chan-chi-Tung are the two most prominent men of modern China. Nature has endowed them very differently, but they are alike zealous in their endeavours to rouse China from its apathy. Although the ways and means by which they hope to effect their object are different, the end in view is the same. Chan-chi-Tung is a peace-loving man, an ardent follower of the doctrine of Confucius, and strongly attached to the national principles of morality. He favours reform in undertakings of a purely commercial and industrial nature, in financial transactions; but in intellectual and spiritual questions he is very conservative. In his own province he has made successful attempts at improvement. He has established factories, cotton mills and looms, forges, local railways, and an important arsenal on the Yangtse-kiang.

His adversaries--and he has many, like every one who rises above the common level--accuse him of being an idealist. But in most cases his ideas, practically carried out, have proved to be of very real benefit to his country. He is a deep thinker and a most pleasant and interesting companion. His writings on various political and social questions are fine specimens of human philosophy.

Yuan-tsi-Khai is, on the contrary, before all a man of action, a soldier at heart. He loves to fight his enemies and to press forward without considering the difficulties in the way.

My sojourn at Tien-tsin was of special service to me in obtaining clearer ideas as to the actual conditions of China. I made the acquaintance of many interesting persons, some of whom are the makers of the history of our time. They were not all of the same nationality, nor did they all pursue the same vocation, nor were they all of the same mind; their opinions also were widely different. But it is to a certain extent owing to the antagonism of their views that I was enabled to form some provisional conclusions.

It was on a bright afternoon of the short St. Martin's summer that I accomplished the last twenty-four miles of my long railway journey across the two continents. As I neared my final destination, Pekin, and passed through the flat and barren country I could hardly realize that I had traversed such an enormous distance during the last few months. I tried to recall to mind the different countries I had passed through and their inhabitants, the prosperous towns and the miserable villages I had visited; the centres of civilization and the primitive solitudes.

Then I began to comprehend all I had seen. Much of my previous conceptions of this part of the world had been vague, for the difference between what one imagines and what actually is, is great! One may gather the most reliable information, listen to the most explicit descriptions, or study the best books, but how far all this falls short of personal experience! The best references, the most accurate figures, the most lucid writings, will never produce the same effect as reality, and it is not upon those somewhat abstract notions that our faculties are exercised with the greatest profit. What one feels has even more weight than what one sees, and psychological studies are of greater value than statistics. To know a country, it is the life, the everyday existence, of its inhabitants that we have to study. Life in all its varied expressions, in labour and in rest, in its fundamental principles and its manifold manifestations, this it is which reveals to us the deep source from which the energizing elements flow in diverse directions.

It was growing dark as we neared the end of our journey. On the platforms of the small stations we passed, I saw foreign soldiers belonging to the Allied Forces; here fair Teuton giants, there short, brown _bersaglieri_. And at each succeeding station there was more movement, more confusion, till we reached the metropolis. The sun was setting as we skirted the imperial deer park. Every moment the light effects increased in beauty. The sombre masses of foliage, framed by the blue lines of the eastern hills, formed an enchanting picture.

Outlines and colours were so unexpected, so strangely blended, that it looked like a painting from the magic brush of some great Chinese master. The forests stood out dark and menacing, as if still sheltering the monsters and dragons of ancient folk-lore, and the hills were like so many pointed sugar-loaves, heaped up by some awful giants.

It was as perfect a Chinese landscape as I could have wished to see, and to crown all, the sun went down in a blaze of light; it was as if fiery darts were being shot across the flaming sky. I have seen many sunsets in the tropics, and in the East, but never anything to equal this. The brightness of it flooded with saffron the clouds of dust always hanging over the capital, and illumined all the million atoms which rise from the Mongolian desert....

At an unexpected turn in the road it seemed as if the golden veil was torn aside to give me a glimpse of the mysterious city. The stage effect was perfect; the curtain might have been drawn by a clever manager's hand to reveal the great Hatamen Gate in all its magnificence. The famous crenellated walls; the lofty towers and proud pagodas, first described by Marco Polo; the heavy bastions, and the marble bridges, were but indistinctly visible, and therefore all the more suggestive and beautiful. In fact, my first impression of Pekin was of a fancy or dream. What the city really looked like was as yet mercifully hidden from me; my imagination could have full play, untrammelled by the disillusions of knowledge and experience. Afterwards I saw things differently, but that first day the great city of the mighty Khan seemed as a mirage to me.

The crumbling citadel of a great nation, nay, of the whole glory of a mighty race, the monument of its art, the Walhalla of its history, shone in the dazzling splendour of the afterglow, like a golden city floating on golden clouds.

VI

PEKIN

I

THE ARRIVAL

It is evening when I arrive in Pekin. The train stops outside the Tartar Wall. Darkness shrouds everything, and the place seems to be deserted. Not even a guard or porter is to be seen. Alongside the embankment a few coolies with gigantic lanterns are waiting for the passengers, and, in quaint procession, with innumerable balloons hanging from long bamboo sticks, are searching for their masters. They all shout, but no one seems to understand them. There is no trace of any vehicles or carriages, and I don't see even a platform. I am standing in the midst of a desert; behind me, some sandhills and a pool are all I can distinguish, and in front, among the crowd of coolies, a tall figure is conspicuous, which approaches, and, by the yellow rays of a pumpkin-like lantern, I recognize an old acquaintance. Here he occupies the position of First Secretary of Legation, and brings me an invitation from his chief. My trunks are taken in charge by an attendant, and we walk towards my new abode, which my friend tells me is close by.

It is explained to me that the present railway station is only a temporary one; only since the occupation by the Allied Forces have trains been able to penetrate as far as the inner wall. They used to have to stop miles away, as no engine was allowed to desecrate the holy city of Pekin. At a short distance from the temporary station is a tunnel-like opening in the wall, and I am informed that it was made for the use of members of the legations and foreign settlement, and has ex-territorial rights granted to it. I pass through the so-called Gate of the Nations full of expectation, for I am most anxious for surprises, which certainly are not wanting.

I hope to see before me a fairy city and scenes like those on the stage; but instead of splendour and glitter I see mist. By the flickering light of a few paraffin lamps I begin to distinguish the famous international quarter, but I feel it would be better if they were not lit, for they only disclose ruins and debris. Among heaps of bricks and mortar we reach the edge of a ditch of stagnant water, which, as my companion informs me, not without some pride, is the so-called Canal of Jade. It is a magnificent name, which I have known for a long time. If I have pictured it to myself as different from what it is in reality, it is not the fault of an exaggerated fancy; and as we stumble along in the lane skirting the ditch--I beg its pardon; on the banks of the waters of Jasper--I still cannot perceive anything else but garden walls. I don't even see the famous Jade Stream, for though long ago there may have been water in the ditch, there are now only puddles here and there. But if I can't see, I smell all the more; smell all kinds of unimaginable and imaginable odours.

At last we approach a gate with a martial sentry in front of it. The password is given, and we are at last at home. In the courtyard, on the edge of the grass, are a number of lanterns. Large and yellow, they look like melons. The effect is charming, but as they give but very indifferent light, I can only distinctly discern some pillars and arches. Now we pass through some open halls and reach a garden-like square. To the right and left from the windows of small summer-houses the light of candles filters through. In front is another building in the same style, a few columns supporting a heavy roof; the columns are of red lacquered wood, and the tiles of emerald-green. Beyond this is another garden, and lastly the legation proper. The door is open and the hall ablaze with light. On the broad staircase are servants in red--pigtailed Chinese, dressed after the fashion of their country. They salute us, bowing low, with their hands folded.

The scene is interesting, the setting fine. By the light of the lanterns the roof of the old yamen appears even more gabled than it is, and its eaves the more bizarre than in reality. At last I have before me a truly Chinese picture, thousands of years old, artistic and brilliant. But the scene quickly changes as we go inside, and from the past we come to the present, from Oriental surroundings we step into a Western interior.

* * * * *

The rays of the rising sun wake me as they burst brightly into the courtyard of the yamen, filtering, rosy-coloured, through the embrasures of the crenellated walls.

My quarters have a verandah looking upon a small courtyard, the pillars of which are of ruby lacquer, its roof of emerald glaze. In the yard are many flowers planted in old china vases. Four cedars, ages old, stand in the corners, and their branches form a lovely shady tent under the canopy of a morning sky. The branches of the old trees and the eaves are swarming with birds which awake with me, and merry with their songs.

On opening my eyes I scarcely know whether I am awake or still dreaming. It takes me some time to realize my surroundings. In the little garden some one is noiselessly crossing the grass in paper shoes. He wears a light blue kaftan over a white tunic, and the colours harmonize well, for this slate-blue suits his yellow complexion, and a long pigtail hangs down his back.

This is reality. I am indeed in the Flowery Land. I am actually awaking in Pekin.

II

THE FIRST DRIVE THROUGH THE TOWN

It is eight o'clock in the evening. I have just returned from Pei-tang; it takes nearly an hour to come from there. And what a road! Imagine a brilliant stereoscope with living figures rushing forward upon you as you gaze--a gigantic kaleidoscope in which, among multitudinous and dazzling fragments a heap of ants are busy. And if we look at these through a magnifying glass, the effect will be somewhat similar to one's first impression of Pekin. Bedlam, uproar, chaos; and all this half concealed by a veil of whirling dust. It would be difficult to recount what I have seen, and even more difficult to explain what my sensations were. I was amazed by the brilliant spectacle.

It is early in the morning when I set out on my exploring expedition. From the street in which the legation stands we suddenly turn into the grand Imperial Square. The yellow-roofed palace in front of us may be called the focus of Pekin, nay, the centre of the whole Yellow Empire, for every road leads thither.