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.
The Chinese legal and moral code is of the highest—on paper—but in practice there is a system of "squeeze," which rules through the length and breadth of the land; which pervades all business dealings, and every department of the government, undermining the integrity of the country. Everybody must have his "squeeze" out of every transaction. The Viceroy "squeezes"; the Governor "squeezes"; the judge, the taotaï, the smaller mandarins "squeeze"; for so they live. The pay is little or nothing. The office is valuable in proportion to its power to "squeeze." Our "boy" squeezes us, and back again there is a "squeezissima" within the Royal City itself.
And now we stand under the walls of the Forbidden City. They are covered with Imperial yellow tiles, a deep moat surrounds them, and they are guarded by bannermen. There are but two entrances. There, straight before us is the Coal Hill, surmounted by a pavilion, within which the last of the Ming dynasty terminated the life of himself and his Imperial house, when the victories of the Tartar invader, the capture of the capital, the submission of the provinces, were completed. It is an artificial mound, 150 feet high, and as we proceed round the square of the walls, we see behind, amid the woods, the five summits, crowned with the five gleaming roofs of peacock blue, green and yellow of the pavilions and temples of the Prohibited City. Within its walls are a park and lake.
Little else is to be seen beyond the upper walls and the yellow roofs of the palaces. There are many of them, none apparently of great size. But in the centre hall is seated Kwang-Su, "The Son of Heaven," "The Lord of ten thousand years." The youth of twenty-two, who in his sixth year, upon "His Majesty the Emperor Tung-che suddenly ascending upon the Dragon to be a guest on high," was called unexpectedly, like our own Queen Victoria, from his bed in a distant part of the city to be saluted, in default of a direct heir, as Emperor of China. Is he the happier? The Imperial life must be dull and monotonous beyond bearing for one so young. In the Forbidden City his Majesty must find all his distractions. To go into the provinces would thrice beggar the exchequer.
There is the Hall of Highest Peace, where his Majesty gave rare audience to the representatives of foreign powers. Once only! and what negotiations it took to bring about! At length, yes! the Son of Heaven would let the envoys of the outer world look on him. But they must "kotow" thrice on their knees, touch the ground with their foreheads, and let the Chinese people take it as the bearing of tribute. No, the British Lion, and the eagles of Monarchs and Republics, cannot bend the knee. The point is carried at length. "But," says the Council of State, "it is only in that outer pavilion that our Lord Buddha will greet you."
The trained consuls report that this again is a mark of contempt, and must not be allowed. A more fitting place is decided upon. Then shall the Prince Ching present the letters of credit of the foreign envoys on his knees? No, that cannot be suffered either. Hand to hand must be the communication of monarch with monarch.
At length all was arranged. Their Excellencies in stars and orders, repair to the palace with their staffs. A long wait, with sweetmeats served, and then the audience.
The German minister, as the senior, reads a short address, and the envoys are named. Prince Ching takes their several letters of credit, and places them before the Son of Heaven. He kneels, and the Imperial youth speaks low a few words.
The president of the Tsung Li Yâmen goes to the ministers, and repeats them. The audience is over—the spell is broken. But even now our old friend the Austrian minister, Baron Biegeleben, is finding great difficulty in arranging for the fitting reception of his Imperial and Apostolic Majesty's Commission.
It is time this nonsense ceased. If China is within the pale of nations, she must do as other nations do. If she is not within the roll of civilized States, she must be dealt with differently. Of two things, one!
Here is the Hall of Central Peace, where the Emperor examines and sanctions the prayers for state worship; the Hall of Secure Peace, where the highest literary degrees are conferred; and the palace of Heavenly Purity, where the Emperor in the still morning hour of three, transacts business with his ministers, and which no one enters or leaves without his express permission.
Here at sunrise, the petitions from the six Boards controlling Imperial affairs are submitted to the Vermilion Pencil of the Throne; the prayers also for present and posthumous honours.
Beyond stands the palace of Earth's Repose, where "Heaven's Consort" rules over her miniature court. Adjoining this is a flower garden. Then the Hall of Intense Thought; where sacrifices are made to Confucius, the teacher and thinker. There are other palaces and offices, amongst them a printing office, for the city is self-contained and need have no communication with the outer world. No one knows the population inside this Prohibited City, whether it is great or small. It is wrapped in mystery, and the imagination is free to float round the holy of holies, this Unknown Capital of the Flowery Land.
There are said to be beautiful gardens, with fountains and cascades. But what can make up for the want of variety? Occasionally "the Son of Heaven" goes forth to worship the ashes of his ancestors, or the earth and the moon, at this or that temple.
Then the way is cleared of all persons—and matting is put up on either side of the roadway to prevent the Celestial eyes falling on the people, or the people from seeing their sovereign. The foreign ministers are required to warn their nationals to keep away from the neighbourhood.
Unfortunate Majesty! How the young Emperor must yearn for some knowledge and experience of the outer world, something more than the views of the aged mandarins around him, to guide him in his decisions. Small wonder that he should reject the suggestion recently made of the censor (who is permitted even to rebuke the throne), that for some hours in each day he should, in addition, have the ancient classics read to him. They say that his youthful Majesty is not wanting in intelligence and ability, and it is even whispered that some of the rescripts of the Imperial Gazette of Peking issue from his own hand. Perhaps too he may look wistfully towards the mausolea being prepared for the Empresses-Dowager, and wonder if they will prove true to their names: "Happy Homes for a myriad years."
We meet a wedding procession as we proceed; indeed, we are constantly getting mixed up in these straggling processions, for both yesterday and to-day the horoscope has cast as lucky, and they have perhaps been long waited for. The one is the Fête of the God of Wealth and the Golden Dragon King; the other of the God of Fire and the Inventor of Writing. Everything is scarlet. First come the bannermen, bearing aloft on poles red boards, on which are inscribed the titles of the father of the bride. They are generally a string of dirty men and boys, the scum of the city, dressed in scarlet, with black hats and feathers sticking up like a Red Indian. More men follow, carrying lanterns and draped pagodas, and a cage with white ducks, an emblem of conjugal fidelity. Next comes the band, with enormous drums, draped in red and yellow silk, and ludicrous gilt trombones, which the musician puffs valiantly into, only to produce a sound like the wheeze of a bagpipe. Lastly comes the closed palanquin, richly gilt and embroidered, followed by another containing the parents. It is the day of triumph for the almond-eyed one with the little feet, within the closely-curtained vermilion palanquin. With blare of trumpets and songs of joy she is borne through the streets, securely locked, to the bridegroom's house, where the mother delivers her up with the key of the chair, to the husband, to whom in childhood's innocent hours she was affianced.
All day we are passing houses, outside which are lanterns on red poles, arranged in a square, with archways and decorations, and waiting palanquins and carts, whilst the feast is proceeding inside. In the afternoon we see several whence the guests are streaming away from the festivity, the ladies of small feet being carried by their attendants to their palanquins. It is the prerogative of every poor relation and connection to attend this feast, and often the parents can ill afford such an expense; still, it must be done, or "face" will be lost. Like the "squeeze," this "face," or prestige, is another prominent feature of Chinese life. It is as pronounced as the caste difficulty in India, and pervades every detail of life. The most roundabout methods and transparent deceits are resorted to, to save a man's "face," viz. his credit, or renown.
A funeral is an equally elaborate ceremony. We saw preparations for one in a village, coming up the Peiho. Outside the deceased's house were erected straw archways, whilst a catafalque of enormous dimensions was waiting at the door. As we watched, a life-sized wooden horse, with a sham rider, arrived, drawn on a board, to figure in the procession. The mourners will all wear white, and as many as sixty-four men will aid in carrying the coffin to its resting-place. Food and money will be offered to the evil spirits to propitiate them, and every care taken that the spirit of the deceased shall rest in peace.
Then the tablet will be placed in the family memorial chamber, and sons and grandsons, and great granddaughters and their children, will come in the ages of the future, to tell the spirit of the departed, of the marriage, of the illness, of the promotion, or the fall of a descendant. It may be, too, that a future scion of the house may render service to the State—be made a Viceroy, a President of a Board, a Member of the Grand Council. Will his Imperial Master reward him with title to descend in a few months to an unworthy son? No, the peerage, the honour, will be posthumously rendered by decree of the emperor to the ancestor, be so notified in the Peking Gazette, and, amid a gathering of all kindred, be heralded unto the great Unknown in the Memorial Hall. "Great is the son who bringeth his father honour."
For this ancestor-worship seems to be the only religion which the people practise. Some are Confucians, some Buddhists, some Taoists, but they are held as only moral and perfunctory faiths, whereas this worship of the dead is very real to them, and faithfully performed. They do right, because they fear to disturb the spirits of their forefathers, who will haunt their homes and cause evil to fall on their families, if they do wrong.
We return home by an even dirtier and more slovenly road, past the various Yâmens of the Board of Works, the Board of War, and the Navy, and the Board of Punishments, which obtained such a bad notoriety for the cruelties perpetrated in 1860. There is nothing, however, to see from outside, but an archway leading to several courts.
We spent the afternoon in visiting the various Missionary Establishments of the different nationalities, which have their headquarters at Peking. First to the spacious compound of the American Methodist Episcopal Church, where we saw the boys' and girls' school, the sleeping apartments and dining halls, for they feed and house, but do not clothe them. Their method is to admit the scholars and give them a Christian education, with good influences, without, however, obliging them to become Christians. But whether the writing of essays in English, and the teaching of the piano to girls, is conducive to or comes under the head of missionary work, I am not competent to judge. I should think it better if the teachers were to learn Chinese, and teach the children in their own language, a knowledge of English not being essential to their becoming Christians.
Next we visited a branch of the French Roman Catholic Mission, which, under the able leadership of Père Favier, has done much good work. The school with its day scholar's enclosure, lies under the beautiful Roman Catholic Church, with its twin pinnacles and splendid interior, the altar being inlaid with cloisonné. The organ was bought with the proceeds of the sale of a valuable carpet that came into the hands of the Fathers. The cathedral and bishop are at Peitang on the other side of the city. Since the early days of the Jesuit Fathers, the Roman Catholics have always been active in China. They claim to have 700,000 converts. Their success, in comparison with other sects, may perhaps be attributed to the fact, that their ritual and gaily decorated churches are more attractive, and in accordance with the Buddhist religion and temples; but it must also be said, that the priests go amongst the people, adopt their life, and wear Chinese clothes, including the pigtail. Aided by the nuns, they minister to the temporal wants of the population, as well as the spiritual. Also these priests, when they leave France, come out for life and receive only 100 taels, or 20l. a year, whilst the American missionaries are reputed to receive 100 taels a month, and 200 taels a year for every child. Perhaps this may account for their numerous families. The S.P.G. Branch of mission work under Bishop Scott boasts, alas! few converts in their schools, but as they are thorough, and refuse to have any suspicion of "rice Christians," as the doubtful converts are called, this can be accounted for. The London Mission does good work, but perhaps the most successful of all is the China Inland Mission, owing its existence to its north-country founder—Hudson Taylor—a man unknown to great fame, but who has done, and is doing a great work in this far-distant corner of the world.
We expected to hear a great deal about these late riots at Wuhu, or Wusueh, when we came to Peking. We had read the alarming articles in the North China Daily News of the excited state of the country, the imminent dangers hanging over the European population at the Treaty Ports, and of the arming of the British Legation here. We are almost disappointed to find a serene atmosphere of safety.
There are some who are found to attribute the pretext for the commencement of these riots to the Roman Catholic nuns, who by succouring the foundlings, especially the despised females, to educate in their convent schools, arouse the suspicion of kidnapping them for the purposes of witchcraft. The mortality being high, they are even accused of taking out the eyes of children to make an elixir of life, and of other atrocities. The same charge brought about the dreadful massacre of Tientsin in 1870. More probably, however, this is only an excuse for a rising, which is really fomented by one of those secret societies, like the Kalao Hui, which honeycomb China.
Peking is celebrated for its furs, particularly for sables. London is the great market of the world, receiving the supplies of the Hudson Bay Company and Canada, but whenever an emperor or prince or great noble in Russia requires a fur, it is to Peking that they send. The sables are wonderfully cheap, only costing from 6 to 8 dollars each, but, owing to a difference of treatment in smoking, they are not so dark as those we call Russian sables. They have also a good many white hairs. There are squirrel skins of soft, brown fur, thousands being sewn together to form a single coat. Then there are black and white astrakans, beaver, and otter, and that lovely, silky white fur, the wool of the Tibet sheep. We were offered a mandarin's sable robe, perhaps a booty from the looting of the Summer Palace, for 300 dollars, and I think we shall always regret that we did not invest in it as an heirloom.
We came out of the Legation Hall one morning, to find a picturesque sight of curio dealers squatted beside their blue bundles, or spreading their bright-coloured embroideries, under the open pagoda porches of this princely palace.
Peking is known for the antiquity and splendour of its embroideries,—the best in China; but I cannot fancy golden dragons on cerise satin grounds, or pink flowers on an ultramarine blue, nor yet all the flaming purples, crimsons and oranges (the Imperial yellow alone being beautiful), after the delicate half-tones, and pale tints of the Japanese embroideries. It is always the same in China. Everything is ugly, the colouring and designs hideous. They are grotesque and not quaint, gaudy and not brilliant. And we have visited many curio shops, only to leave them in despair. The single beautiful things are the objets de vertu in jade and crystal, tiny cups and vases, snuff bottles, carved images, all so delicately wrought, but charged for as if worth their weight in gold.
Then tiffen with Sir Robert Hart, the chief of the Imperial Maritime Customs. He has been out here for 30 years, and knows as much as any man, probably a thousand-fold more, about China. His conversation was most interesting. His position is unique, for Sir Robert collects and has absolute control over all the levies on foreign goods; and a large part of the finances of China pass through his hands.
We proceed to see the Examination Hall of the second and third degrees, that for the first being held under the Emperor's eyes.
This Examination is a remarkable feature in Chinese life. It is the ambition of every man, whatever his position or calling, to become a student, for it is the avenue to all greatness, and the means whereby all posts of honour or emolument are to be obtained.
Strange it is that in this stronghold of conservatism, there should be found such a radical feature, whereby the humblest-born may raise himself by his own efforts to the rank of "big" mandarin. Very honourable it is, too, that the greatest attainment, the highest ambition and reward which the country offers, is the possession of this much coveted "First Degree." Year after year, the same men come up, and it must be a noble and touching sight, when, as is sometimes the case, an old man of ninety will offer himself. Though after a certain age, three trials entitle aged candidates to a degree honoris causa. These examinations are held in each province, and consist entirely in the writing of essays on classical subjects. The successful ones are afterwards published, and the victorious candidates accorded public and local honours.
We pass through some empty courts, under several peilaus, erected in honour of great scholars, once gay with rainbow paint, but now, of course, dusty and decaying. We can go no further—for across the great doors is placed an official seal, consisting of two strips of red paper placed crossways. We presume that the examination is still proceeding; 10,400 students from this great province of Chihli having presented themselves this year. The great expense, and the slow, tedious journey to Peking, does not deter the aspirants. For fourteen days and nights they are shut up in separate cells, with desk, chair, paper, pen and ink, their provisions being handed to them through a trap door in the wall. Thankful they must be when the ordeal is over.
We went on the last afternoon to see the Tsungli Yâmen, or Foreign Office—the Board which alone has dealings with the representatives of foreign countries. We pity these in their frequent pilgrimages thither; for to reach it we passed through a succession of the filthiest lanes, tortuous and narrow, bordered with stinking heaps of rubbish. In one of these was the green lion-guarded residence of the Emperor's cousin, Prince Tung, and all these fashionable dwelling-houses with their crumbling walls, from which the coatings of whitewash are peeling, are surrounded by these disgusting passages. Arrived at the Tsungli Yâmen, I only see the outer gateways of green and gold, for of course its desecration by feminine feet is not to be thought of.
Peking is for this reason a disappointment. There is so much to see, and yet so little that can be seen. Of recent years they have closed nearly everything to foreigners, and the bitter feeling against Europeans seems to be increasing. The Lama Temple you cannot visit on account of the hostile attitude of the people. Closed are all the Imperial buildings of the Prohibited City. The Marble Bridge, the Temple of Agriculture, where the emperor ploughs a furrow in springtime, but above all, invisible is the Temple of Heaven.
This latter temple is the most interesting sight of the Chinese City. Its name properly speaking, means, "the Altar of Heaven," for the Emperor attends here to sacrifice twice a year. It is said that "The worship of the Heaven or Supreme Ruler is the most important of all the state observances in China", before the rationalism of the Confucianists and the polytheistic superstition of Buddhism predominated. There are no images of any kind in the temple, and the offering of whole burnt bullocks, strikingly reminds us of the ancient custom of western religions, as that of the Hebrews and Greeks. The ceremonies of the sacrifices are kept with the utmost severity, and are of a very complicated nature.
The chief sacrifice is at the winter solstice. On the 20th day of December, the offerings and an elephant carriage are sent with great array to the temple, and on the 21st the Emperor follows in a sedan chair, covered with yellow silk, and carried by thirty-two men; he is preceded by a band of musicians, and followed by an immense retinue, including the princes, high officials, "big" and "little" mandarins, all on horseback. Having arrived at the temple, His Majesty offers incense to Heaven and to his ancestors, and inspects the offerings; then he is conveyed on the elephant carriage to the Palace of Abstinence, where he is not allowed to take any animal food or wine, nor to sleep. Next morning, seven quarters before sunrise, he puts on his sacrificial robes and goes to the southern gate of the outer enclosure, dismounts from the carriage and walks to the great altar, where an Imperial yellow tent has been erected on the second terrace. At the moment he arrives at the spot where he kneels, the fire of the sacrifice is kindled and music is heard. The Emperor then proceeds to the upper terrace of the altar, kneels and burns incense before Heaven and also presents incense to his ancestors. Then he makes three genuflections, and one prostration, and offers bundles of silk, jade cups and other gifts, music being heard all the time. Afterwards he kneels at another point of the altar, where an officer reads a prayer aloud. At last he receives kneeling the "cup of happiness" and the "flesh of happiness." With the first dawn the whole party return to the palace. Foreigners, who watched the party when passing the Ch'ien-men from the city wall, speak highly of the splendid appearance of the whole procession: hundreds of officials in brilliant robes of state and numberless followers on horseback, among them a company of the Imperial Life Guards.