A constant stream of pilgrims, largely blue-clad coolies on foot, passed up and down the sacred stairway

WANDERING IN NORTHERN CHINA

BY

HARRY A. FRANCK

Author of “A Vagabond Journey Around the World,” “Roaming Through the West Indies,” “Vagabonding Down the Andes,” “Working North from Patagonia,” etc., etc.

ILLUSTRATED WITH 171 UNUSUAL

PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR

WITH A MAP SHOWING HIS ROUTE

THE CENTURY CO.

NEW YORK & LONDON

There is no particular plan to this book. I found my interest turning toward the Far East, and as I am not one of those fortunate persons who can scamper through a country in a few weeks and know all about it, I set out on a leisurely jaunt to wherever new clues to interest led me. It merely happened that this will-o’-the-wisp drew me on through everything that was once China, north of about the thirty-fourth parallel of latitude. The man who spends a year or two in China and then attacks the problem of telling all he saw, heard, felt, or smelled there is like the small boy who was ordered by the teacher to write on two neat pages all about his visit to the museum. It simply can’t be done. Hence I have merely set down in the following pages, in the same leisurely wandering way as I have traveled, the things that most interested me, often things that others seem to have missed, or considered unimportant, in the hope that some of them may also interest others. Impressions are unlike statistics, however, in that they cannot be corrected to a fraction, and I decline to be held responsible for the exact truth of every presumption I have recorded. If I have fallen into the common error of generalizing, I hereby apologize, for I know well that details in local customs differ even between neighboring villages in China. What I say can at most be true of the north, for as yet I know nothing of southern China. On the other hand, there may be much repetition of customs and the like, but that goes to show how unchanging is life among the masses in China even as a republic.

Lafcadio Hearn said that the longer he remained in the East the less he knew of what was going on in the Oriental mind. An “old China hand” has put the same thing in more popular language: “You can easily tell how long a man has been in China by how much he doesn’t know about it. If he knows almost everything, he has just recently arrived; if he is in doubt, he has been here a few years; if he admits that he really knows nothing whatever about the Chinese people or their probable future, you may take it for granted that he has been out a very long time.”

But as I have said before, the “old-timer” will seldom sit down to tell even what he has seen, and in many cases he has long since lost his way through the woods because of the trees. Or he may have other and viiimore important things to do. Hence it is up to those of us who have nothing else on hand to pick up and preserve such crumbs of information as we can; for surely to know as much of the truth about our foreign neighbors as possible is important, above all in this new age. In our own land there are many very false ideas about China; false ideas that in some cases are due to deliberate Chinese propaganda abroad. While I was out in the far interior I received a clipping outlining the remarks of a Chinese lecturing through our Middle West, and his résumé left the impression that bound feet and opium had all but completely disappeared from China, and that in the matter of schools and the like the “republic” is making enormous strides. No sooner did the Lincheng affair attract the world’s attention than American papers began to run yarns, visibly inspired, about the marvelous advances which the Chinese have recently accomplished. Such men as Alfred Sze are often mistaken in the United States as samples of China. Unfortunately they are nothing of the kind; in fact, they are too often hopelessly out of touch with their native land. There has been progress in China, but nothing like the amount of it which we have been coaxed or lulled into believing, and some of it is of a kind that raises serious doubts as to its direction. For all the telephones, airplanes, and foreign clothes in the coast cities, the great mass of the Chinese have been affected barely at all by this urge toward modernity and Westernism—if that is synonymous with progress. As some one has just put it, “the Chinese still wear the pigtail on their minds, though they have largely cut it off their heads.” How great must be the misinformation at home which causes our late President to say that all China really needs is more loans, thereby making himself, and by extension his nation, the laughing-stock of any one with the rudiments of intelligence who has spent an hour studying the situation on the spot. England is a little better informed on the subject than we, because she is less idealistic, more likely to look facts in the face instead of trying to make facts fit preconceived notions of essential human perfection. China may need more credits, but any fool knows that you should stop the hole in the bottom of a tub before you pour more water into it. At times, too, it is laughable to think of us children among nations worrying about this one, thousands of years old, which has so often “come back,” and may still be ambling her own way long after we have again disappeared from the face of the earth.

Though it is impossible to leave out the omnipresent entirely, I have said comparatively little about politics. My own interest in what ixwe lump together under that word reaches only so far as it affects the every-day life of the people, of the mudsill of society, toward which, no doubt by some queer quirk in my make-up, I find my attention habitually focusing. I have tried, therefore, to show in some detail their lives, slowly changing perhaps yet little changed, and to let others conclude whether “politics” has done all that it should for them. Besides, the Far East swarms with writers on politics, men who have been out here for years or decades and have given their attention almost entirely to that popular subject; and even these disagree like doctors. Some of us, I know, are frankly tired of politics, at least for a space, important as they are; moreover, political changes are so rapid, especially in the “never changing” East, that it is impossible to keep abreast of the times in anything less than a daily newspaper.

At home there are numbers of young men, five or ten years out of college, who can tell you just what is the matter with the world, and exactly how to remedy it. I am more or less ready to agree with them that the world is going to the dogs. What of it? You have only to step outdoors on any clear night to see that there are hundreds of other worlds, which may be arranging their lives in a more intelligent manner. The most striking thing about these young political and sociological geniuses sitting in their suburban gardens or their city flats is that while they can toss off a recipe guaranteed to cure our own sick world overnight, if only some one can get it down its throat, they seldom seem to have influence enough in their own cozy little corner of it to drive out one grafting ward-heeler. In other words, if you must know what is to be the future of China, I regret that I have not been vouchsafed the gift of prophecy and cannot tell you.

In the minor matter of Chinese words and names, I have deliberately not tried to follow the usual Romanization, but rather to cause the reader to pronounce them as nearly like what they are on the spot as is possible with our mere twenty-six letters. Of course I could not follow this rule entirely or I must have called the capital of China “Bay-jing,” have spoken of the evacuation of “Shahn-doong,” and so on; so that in the case of names already more or less familiar to the West I have used the most modern and most widely accepted forms, as they have survived on the ground. At that I cannot imagine what ailed the men who Romanized the Chinese language, but that is another story.

The author gratefully acknowledges his indebtedness to Mr. Edwin S. Mills of Peking, China, for the use of the pictures of Urga.

The traveler from Japan to the peninsula still known to the Western world as Korea has a sense of being wafted on some magic carpet thousands of miles while he slept, a sensation which the splendid steamers bridging the Straits of Tsushima several times a day do not dispel. It is surprising how different two lands separated only by a few hours on the sea can be. A fortnight on a Nippon Yusen Kaisha liner and six weeks of wandering from end to end of the Island Empire gave us a Japanese background against which many of the problems of the Far East stood out more clearly, but it did very little to prepare us for the physical aspects of the “Cho-sen” over which the banner of the rising sun now waves. Those who have listened to the long and heated controversy over the adding of this large slice of mainland to the mikado’s realm must often have heard the apologists’ assertion that the two peoples, Japanese and Koreans, are so nearly alike as to be virtually the same. Perhaps they are; but if so, all the outward evidences the casual visitor must depend upon to form an opinion are deceiving. Superficially, at least, Japan and Korea are as different as two Oriental lands and races could well be. In landscape, customs, costumes, point of view, general characteristics, even in the details of personal appearance, the two shores of the Sea of Japan strike the new-comer as having very little in common.

Perhaps the most outstanding feature of Korea, to any one newly arrived from Japan, is her treelessness. The lack of forests is, with the possible exception of exclamations of incredulity over her extraordinary costumes, almost certain to be the subject of any Occidental’s first paragraph of Korean notes. In our own case this denuded 4aspect of the peninsula was emphasized by the blazing, cloudless sunshine that beat relentlessly down during all our first day of travel northward to the old capital, and on many another to follow. The bare and sun-scorched landscape suggested some victim of barbarian cruelty, who, stripped of his garments, was being tortured to death by slow roasting. Possibly we should have been prepared for this, but we were not. We had heard much of the doings of Japan in Korea; we knew something of the opera-bouffe hats of the men and the startlingly short waists of the women, but no one had ever told us of the curiously pure and molten sunshine of “Cho-sen,” of the vividness of its shadows and the filtered transparency of its air, nor, for that matter, of the incessant heat we must endure because chance allotted us from June to August in what was once the Hermit Kingdom.

Trees as sparse as the hairs of a Korean beard stood out in lonely isolation across the more or less flat lands of all that first day’s journey; beyond these, usually rather near at hand, rose scarred and repulsive hillsides as unsightly as the faces of those countless inhabitants along the way who had been visited by the “honorable spirit” of smallpox. It was not merely the barrenness of a naturally treeless country, a barrenness as dreary as those upper reaches of the Andes to which real vegetation never attains, but one which, like the denuded plains of Spain, visibly complains of the wanton violence of man. To be sure, many of the rocky hills that sometimes rose to be almost mountains were here and there thinly covered with evergreen shrubs which might some day be trees, and even forests. But these, travelers are informed with what becomes tiresome persistency, were planted by the new Government. The Japanese policy of reforestation, we were eventually to know, has already done excellent things for Korea, and that not merely, as those who resent the rape of the peninsula assert, where it will attract the passing tourist’s eye, and it promises in time to accomplish something worth while; but it is an unfortunate Japanese trait to fear that good deeds will not speak loudly enough for themselves.

The reducing of a once well wooded land to its present nude state is characteristic of the Korean, we were to learn, suggestive of his general point of view. In the olden days the people were often driven to the hills by their savage or demented rulers, and as the rigorous winters that contrast with the tropical summers came on, they not only burned the trees, but as roots make excellent charcoal they dug up even these, leaving nothing that might by any chance sprout again. To replant in better times, to take any serious thought for the morrow, 5would have been un-Korean. The Korean even of to-day who covets the half-dozen cherries or plums on a limb does not usually take the trouble to pick them; he breaks off the branch and goes his way munching the fruit, with never a thought of next year. Translate this improvidence, this almost complete lack of foresight, into all the details of daily life, and the condition and the final fate of Korea become understandable, in fact inevitable.

Woods survive to any great extent in Korea only in two places—about royal tombs and up along the Yalu River which forms the northern frontier. Elsewhere in the peninsula, with minor exceptions, there are only groups of trees planted by foreign missionaries, and rows of pine shrubs set out directly by the Japanese Government, or by local authorities, school children, or private individuals, under Japanese influence. This treelessness is not the unimportant detail many may think; it is the wanton destruction of her forests of long ago that gives the Korea of to-day her mainly mud houses, much of her filth, dust, and swarming flies, and those devastating floods of the rainy season which sweep roads, bridges, fields, and even villages before them.

There were many other things which gave the Korean landscape its strikingly un-Japanese aspect. Fewer people were working in the larger and less garden-like fields; the village roofs thatched with rice-straw had a flatter, smoother look than the homes of Japanese peasants; the towns themselves seemed to huddle together as closely and inconspicuously as possible, as if to escape, or join in resisting, the rapacious tax-gatherers of the olden days that are not forgotten. Koreans in white, their inevitable color, so rare in Japan, were everywhere, though more often in the shade of villages or rare wayside trees or huts than out in the baking sunshine. The suggestion forced itself upon us that perhaps the fields were larger because the people could not coax themselves to work alone. In Japan it had been unusual to see more than a peasant and his wife in the same field; here work seemed to be done almost entirely by gangs. In spite of the general aridness of the landscape, there were many flooded rice-fields, and in nearly all of them waded a soldier-like line of often a dozen laborers, as many women as men among them. Much of the country showed no signs of the languid hand of man, yet even in the drier sections scattered rows of these peasants, their garments still almost snow-white at a distance, gleamed forth in the otherwise mainly reddish landscape.

Similar groups stood in semicircles on earth threshing-floors flailing 6grain in a way that is familiar to the Western world, but which we had never seen in Japan. Nor were there any reminders of the Island Empire in the clusters of women kneeling at the edge of every bit of a stream or mud-hole paddling clothes with a sort of cricket-bat. The ways of life, the very architecture, were strangely reminiscent of lands inhabited by negroes.

The most primitive of plows, drawn by bulls, dragged their way to and fro in a field here and there. Along what passed for roads others of these lumbering animals plodded almost hidden under loads of new-cut grain or brushwood, at a pace which seemed to fit the languid temperament of the country. In places a highway, constructed by the new rulers, tried to preserve an unbroken march; but wherever a bridge should have been they almost invariably pitched headlong down into the bed of a stream as waterless as those of summer-time Spain. Even the Japanese, we were to learn before leaving the peninsula, are poor bridge-builders, while the Korean remains true to his natural improvidence in constructing flimsy things of branches and earth, with totally inadequate abutments, which the first dash of the rainy season down the treeless hillsides converts into scattered masses of rubbish.

All the day long the scene varied little from these first few glimpses. There was a certain rough beauty in the tawny hillsides and the broad stretches of sun-flooded rice lands, but of a similarity that grew monotonous, while the ways of the people, until opportunity should come to see them in closer detail, were such as the fleeting tourist is wont to sum up under the outworn word “picturesque” and quickly lose from between the pages of memory. Korea has often been called a land of villages, and in all the two hundred and eighty miles from the southern point of the peninsula to Seoul there was little more than a frequent succession of smooth-thatched, closely snuggled towns varying, outwardly at least, only in size. Not until later on, and by more primitive means of travel, were we to know of the remnants of bygone civilization, the pine-grove tombs of royalty, the ruined palaces of fallen dynasties, and the welter of modern problems with which the peninsula teems.

The Korean wardrobe has so little in common with that of the Occident, and includes so many startling absurdities, that it merits a few words in detail, even though some of its more striking features are fairly familiar to those interested in foreign lands. To begin with the basis of all wardrobes, there is that ingenious contrivance with 7which the Korean gentleman protects his other garments from perspiration during the blazing months of summer. A missionary who carried home a set of these and offered them to any one in his native parish who could identify them recorded forty-two guesses, all equally wide of the mark, which was the simple phrase “summer underwear.” Out of their environment these useful garments look more like primitive bird-cages or light baskets than what they really are. In their entirety they consist of a kind of waistcoat, a high collar of the Elizabethan period, and cuffs so long as to be almost sleeves—all made of small strips of ratan very loosely woven together. That they are effective in allowing the free circulation of air, and at the same time preserve the cloth garments from contact with the perspiring body, one is willing to grant without the evidence of actual personal experience. Now and again one runs across a Japanese petty official who, in an effort to mitigate his midsummer sufferings, has adopted at least the cuffs; but on the whole this ingenious contribution is likely to suffer the common fate of never finding appreciation beyond its native habitat.

Over his ratan skin-protectors the Korean gentleman wears a kind of waistcoat-shirt, trousers (if so commonplace a term may be used for so uncommonplace a garment) which are more than voluminous even in use and, when hung out to dry, suggest the mainsails of a wind-jammer, and finally a turamaggie, an overcoat reaching to the calves and tied together with a bow over the right breast. All these articles are snow-white, and in summer are made of a vegetable fiber so thin as to suggest starched cheese-cloth. The mainsail trousers are fastened tightly about the ankles with a winding of cloth, which also supports the carefully foot-shaped and curiously thick white socks, which are thrust into low slippers cut well away at the instep, slippers formerly of leather richly embroidered or otherwise decorated, but now rapidly giving way to the white or reddish rubber ones made in Japan which are ruining the feet of Korea. The crowning glory and absurdity of this de rigueur costume, however, is the head-dress. About the brow is bound, so tightly as to cause violent headaches when first adopted and to leave lifelong marks, a black band about four inches wide and reaching well up over the curve of the head. On top of this sits a brimless cap shaped like a fez with an L-shaped indentation in its front, and finally over all else reigns an uncollapsible opera-hat. Both the hat and the cap beneath it are made of horsehair, or cheap imitations thereof, and are so loosely woven and screen-like in their transparency that facetious and unkindly foreigners are wont 8to refer to them as “fly-traps.” This term is as unwarranted as it is offensive, for the one place in Korea which is free from flies in season is the hat-protected crown of the adult Korean male. One need not take the word of “old-timers,” but will find ample evidence in photographs of a decade or more ago that the opera-bouffe contraption with which the Korean gentleman tops himself off once had brim enough to do duty almost as a real hat. Such utilitarian days are past, however; perhaps it is that universal bugbear of the human family, the high cost of living, which has reduced the brim to little more than a ledge. The fact remains that a fly must walk with caution now in making a circuit which in the good old days he might safely have accomplished after sipping long and generously at the edge of a bowl of sool. However, let there be no misapprehension, no uncalled for sympathy under the impression that this shrinking has worked hardship upon the wearer. The Korean hat was not designed to be a protection for the head and a shade for the face. Its purpose in life is far more serious and is concentrated on one single object,—to protect from evil spirits the precious topknot which is the badge of full Korean manhood. Hence its duty is not merely an outdoor one; wicked beings of the invisible world have no compunction in taking unfair advantage of their victims, so that to this day it is a common practice for the Korean man to lay him down to sleep—on his bare papered floor, using a hardwood brick as a pillow—with his precious top-hat still in place.

However, we have not yet completely garbed our yang-ban, our gentleman of the Land of Morning Calm. His hat, being light, almost ethereal, in fact, must be held in place, whether in sleep or in the slightest breeze, for which purpose a black ribbon under the chin serves the ordinary man and a string of amber beads his haughtier fellow-citizen. Add to this the unfailing collapsible fan, and a pipe as long and heavy as a cane, with a bowl the size of the end of the thumb, and you may vizualize in his entirety the proud gentleman who sallies forth from his mud hut and picks his way leisurely between the mud-holes and offal-heaps of any town or city street. The fan is rarely inactive, now dispensing a breeze to the copper-tinted face of its owner, now shading it from the direct rays of a burning sun. The pipe, bowl down, swings with the jaunty aggressiveness of an Englishman’s “stick”; above all else the features remain fixed and unalterable in their serenity, for in the code of the genuine Korean gentleman of the old school there is no greater vulgarity than to show in public either mirth, anger, curiosity, or annoyance. Nothing could be more 9specklessly white than this dignified apparition, for do not his servant-wives spend their days, and no small portion of their nights, in preparing his garments for the daily sortie and mingling with his fellows? Behold him, then, as he joins the latter, in a shop-door or on a shaded street-corner, where he squats with them in that fashion which has caused a row of Korean males to be likened to penguins, letting his spotless starched turamaggie spread out on the unswept earth with a carelessness which seems a boast of his ability to command unlimited female labor.

We must come back again, however, to the incredible hat, as the eyes and the attention constantly will as long as one remains in Korea. If the Japanese are commonplace and unoriginal in their head-dress, certainly their newly captured fellow-subjects make up for it. Set usually at a jaunty angle, whether by design, breeze, or cranial malformation, a jauntiness enhanced by its scarcity of brim, the “fly-trap” hat furnishes Korea half its picturesqueness. Graduates of modern mission or Japanese government schools, self-complacent young men who have been abroad, native Christian pastors, may wear the Panama or the felt of the West above their otherwise national white garb, but the “fly-trap” is still the prevailing head-dress throughout the length, breadth, and social strata of the peninsula. Far and wide, in city or village, in crowded marts or on lonely country roads, indoors or out, awake or asleep, the high hat is seldom missing. It persists to the very edge of the frontier, then disappears as suddenly as it had sprung up at the other extremity of the country. After one has weathered the first shock it does not look so greatly out of place on your city gentleman, but I never learned to behold it with proper equanimity on the heads of porters, plasterers, and peasants. Even the workman without it, however, is still conspicuous. Tattered, soiled, and sun-scorched men wandering across the country with a kind of tramp’s pack on their backs wear the horsehair bird-cage on their heads; perhaps the most incongruous sight of all is to behold a battered old man of the rice-fields solemnly squatting on a garbage-heap in his mud hamlet, with his opera hat perched on guard above his gray and scanty topknot.

Once or twice we caught a glimpse of the light-brown hat formerly worn by all men about to be married, or to add a new wife to their collection of servants; once the custom was wide-spread of painting the hat white in sign of mourning, but to-day black is almost universal, and an excellent foil to the otherwise white garb. Bridegrooms no longer feel compelled publicly to announce their happy status, and there 10is another and more effective means of showing grief at bereavement,—a mourner’s hat like a large, finely woven, inverted basket with scalloped edges, which completely hides the afflicted face of the wearer. As he ambles along under this ample protection instead of blistering beneath a horsehair cage, surely a feeling of gratitude toward the departed relative must pervade the thoughts of the bereaved, particularly as the Korean term of mourning lasts for three years. There is a still more enormous, very coarsely woven, sunshade worn by peasants in the midsummer months, while Buddhist priests, otherwise indistinguishable from layman tramps and beggars, wear a smaller hat of similar shape to that of the mourners, but raised on bamboo stilts well above the head. The horsehair hat is costly, by Korean standards, the better ones even by our own, and, being put together with glue, is frail and perishable. Water is particularly fatal to it. Let the first drop of a shower fall, therefore, and from within the garments of every Korean man appears a hat-umbrella, a little cone-shaped cover of oiled paper or silk, like a miniature Japanese parasol, which is quickly opened and slipped over the precious hat. As to the rest of the male garb, no damage is possible which cannot be repaired by the return of sunshine or a few hours’ labor by the women at home. Thus on a rainy day the black heads above white bodies characteristic of all Korea turn to drenched cheese-cloth surmounted by oily yellow clowns’ caps.

It is fitting that the wardrobe of the insignificant sex should be simpler, and more easily described. Except that anything in the way of head-dress is denied them, lest they compete with the decorative male, the garb of the Korean women is in the main a crude replica of that of the men. All reasonably available evidence goes to show that the women are never permitted the luxury of wickerwork undergarments. Trousers, socks, and slippers are similar to those worn by the male; above these is the thinnest and slightest of garments, which barely covers the shoulders, and over the trousers is worn a white skirt fastened well up above the floating ribs. In summer at least that is all, except in a few old-fashioned communities, where a muffling white cloak covering everything except the eyes and the feet is still occasionally seen. That, I repeat, is all, and from our puritanical point of view it is not enough. For the Korean woman insists that the waistline is at the armpits, and makes no provision to have the upper and lower garments contiguous, with the result that she displays to the 11public gaze exactly that portion of the torso which the women of most nations take pains to conceal. Missionaries, who are as prone as the rest of us to lose their native point of view through long contact with other races, assure us that Korean women are extremely modest. In general deportment the statement holds water; but a married lady of Korea, marching down the main thoroughfare of one of our cities in her native garb, would be granted anything but modesty. One might fancy that the costume was prescribed by some lascivious tyrant of olden days; those who have looked deeply into the matter, however, assure us that it is due to the pride of motherhood. The fact remains that, though the precept and example of Western nations have tended to lengthen the upper garment among better-class women of the cities, and particularly among those who have attended modern schools, the great majority of the adult female sex in Korea still wear their breasts outside their clothing. Sun-browned and leather-textured as the face, the plumpness of matrons or the withered rags of age are almost always in plain, not to say insistent, evidence. In fact neither the men nor the women of the masses often succeed in making both garments meet; males below the turamaggie class as habitually display their navels as their wives do their bosoms.

White is as universally the color of Korean garments in winter as in summer; the only difference is that they thicken from cheese-cloth to cotton-padded ones as the cold season advances. The incongruous sight of skaters in what looks like tropical garb, of whole towns of people wading through the snow from which they are barely distinguishable, provokes the wonder of winter visitors. The whiteness of a Korean crowd can be duplicated nowhere on earth. Within the lifetime of any one capable of reading these lines the glimpse of a figure in dark or colored garments anywhere in the peninsula betrayed it at once as that of a foreigner. The first record of any variation from this rule was when, a decade ago, the upper classmen of a mission school in Seoul agreed by resolution to adopt dark European trousers, in order to spare their wives or mothers some of their incessant washing and ironing.

The sounds of these two occupations are never silent in Korea. Stand on an eminence above any town or city of the land, and to the ears will be borne the similar yet easily distinguishable rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat of a hundred housewives busy with one or the other of their two principal duties. How they attain the snowy whiteness required by their unaffectionate masters by paddling their garments at the edge 12of any mud-hole or trickle of sewage is one of the mysteries of the East; yet not a roadside puddle or a hollowed rock but is turned into a wash-tub, and never is the visible result outwardly anything but spotless purity. In contrast to the dull plump-a-plump of washing paddles is this falsetto tone of ironing, prolonged far into every night. Nay, wake up at any hour and it will be strange if you do not catch the sound of some distant housewife putting the finishing touches on the garments in which her lord will strut forth into the world in the morning. For in Korea the hot iron is not in vogue, except a tiny one used along the sewed or pasted seams. Instead, the clothing is folded over a hardwood cylinder and beaten with two miniature baseball-bats, beaten with an endless persistency that suggests an unsuspected durability in the apparently flimsy material, and with a rhythm that has grown almost musical with centuries of practice.

Children are often dressed in colors, and unmarried maidens may wear garments of a green or bluish tinge; but all soon succumb to the omnipresent white. Huge hats not unlike those of men in mourning were once universally required for young women not yet sentenced to the servitude of a husband, that their faces might not be disclosed to the male sex. Missionaries by no means gray in the service recall how half-acres of these basket-hats used to lie stacked up before native churches on days of service. But the old order passes, even in the once Hermit Kingdom, and one may travel far afield now and still perhaps look in vain for any survival of this long prevalent custom. As in Japan, the head-dress of the women of Korea is now a matter of hair, in this case drawn smoothly and tightly down over the scalp, like a cap of oily black velvet, and tied in a compact little knot behind, decorated perhaps with a red cloth rosette and thrust through with what looks almost like one of our new-fashioned nickel-plated lead-pencils.

The Koreans have never been reduced to any such crude expedient as a bachelor-tax to keep up their marriage-rate. Until very recent years all boys wore their hair in a long braid up to the day they took a wife. Even now this custom survives in some outlying districts, though none yielded more swiftly to the influx of foreign influence. As long as a man wore a braid he was rated a minor; when he approached manhood he became more and more a community butt, and shame and ridicule rarely failed to drive him into an early marriage. Girls, too, had powerful reasons for not long persisting in the dreadful condition of maidenhood, not the least among which was the custom, still widely practised, of burying the body of an unmarried woman in the public highway, to the everlasting shame of her family to its remotest branches. Moreover, a Korean woman is not given a name of her own until she has borne a son, after which she is forever known as “Mother of So-and-So.” Before that her title, even to her husband, is “Yea!” or the slightly more honorable “Yea-bo!” which correspond fairly closely to our affectionate “Heh!” or “Heh, you!”

CHINA
AND
JAPAN

13When the happy day comes that is to put an end to the ridicule of his fellows and the shame of his parents, the youth transforms his braid into a topknot, a tightly braided, twisted, and doubled mass of hair an inch in diameter and about three inches high, standing bolt upright in the center of his head, and transfixed with a nickeled or silver ornament similar to that worn by the women. Unlike the cue of the Chinese, forced upon them as a sign of alien subjection, the topknot is the Korean’s badge of manhood, his proudest and most precious possession. Thenceforth one of his most serious problems in life is to protect it from the powers of evil. About his brow is placed the painfully tight band that he is seldom again to be seen without this side of the grave, and he sallies forth under his gleaming new horsehair hat with the masterly air that befits a man of family cares and advantages. To its wearers the Korean top-hat must have become, as even the worst eyesores of human costume will with long use, a thing of beauty; for though many are the men, and myriad the youths, who now cut their hair in Western fashion, numbers even of these still cling to the native hat, while shopkeepers with close-cropped heads, or those whom the evil spirits have outwitted and left bald, may be seen squatting among their wares virtually without clothing but with the discredited head-gear precariously perched upon their bare heads.

Once in a dog’s age even now a country youth turns up at a government or a mission school wearing the braid that not long ago was universal among unmarried males, or, since early marriages are still in vogue, with a topknot; but it is seldom that the end of the first week does not find his fashion changed. Pseudo-pathetic stories still come in from the outlying districts of mothers who wept their eyes red at the cutting of a son’s braid, or of conservative old fathers wrathfully driving from home youths who have sacrificed the topknot that stands for manhood. But the shearing goes steadily on, and thus is passing one of Korea’s most conspicuous idiosyncrasies. The bachelor braid down the back yielded swiftly to foreign influence; a generation hence the topknot, perhaps even the stovepipe screen that surmounts it, may 14be as unknown in the peninsula as the pre-Meiji male head-dress is now in Japan.

If one takes heed not to carry the likeness too far, the Korean might be described as a cross between the Japanese and the Chinese. Some of his traits and customs resemble those of one or the other of his immediate neighbors, but a still greater number seem to be peculiar to himself alone. He builds his house, for example, somewhat like those of Japan; he heats it somewhat after the fashion in China, yet in neither case is the similarity more than approximate. Certainly he is content with as few comforts as any race, with the possible exception of the Chinese, that ever reached the degree of civilization to which he once attained. This, of course, is partly due to the centuries of atrocious misrule under which he lived, when it was unsafe for even the wealthiest of men to attract the ravenous tax-gatherers, turned loose upon the kingdom in rival bands by both king and court, by living in anything more than a thatched mud hovel.

Thus it is that even the larger Korean cities are little more than numerous clusters of such hovels, huddled together along haphazard alleyways of dust or mud, except where the hand of the new rulers of the peninsula, or of those Westerners who have been striving for more than three decades to Christianize it, show themselves. The typical Korean house, whether of country or town, is made of adobe bricks or odds and ends of stone completely plastered over, inside and out, with mud. Thus the walls remain, until they crumble or wash away, for neither paint nor whitewash is used to disguise their milk-and-coffee tint. Except in rare cases, or a few special localities, a rice-straw roof covers them, a roof so smooth and almost glossy, so low and nearly flat, that a village suggests a cluster of dead mushrooms. The accepted shape of the dwelling is that of the half of a square, though in its poorer form it may be merely a hut somewhat longer than it is wide, and in the more pretentious cases it sometimes completes the whole square. Whether it does or not, it must be wholly shut off from the outside world, usually by a wall or screen of woven straw as high as the eaves and enclosing a wholly untended dust-bin of a yard between the two ells. The well built and spick and span servants’ houses erected by a missionary community near Seoul were unpopular with the domestics because they looked off across a pretty valley to the mountains, instead of being shut in by the customary mat-fence.

The outside of the half-square has no openings whatever, but 15presents to the world a perfectly blank face. The inside, on the other hand, is little else than openings, across which may be pushed paper walls or doors somewhat similar to those of Japan. Like the Japanese, the Koreans are squatters rather than sitters, so that the three living-rooms of the average dwelling are barely six feet high, and not much more than that in their other dimensions. The floors are raised somewhat above the level of the ground outside, and are made of stone and mud, like the walls, covered with plaster, or sometimes wood, and this in turn by a heavy, yellow-brown native paper of a consistency between cardboard and oil-cloth. None of the thick soft mats of the Japanese, nor of his cushions or padded quilts, soften life by night or day in a Korean home. When sleep suggests itself, the inmates merely stretch out on the floor on which they have been squatting, thrust a convenient oak brick under their heads, and drift into slumber. Rarely do they make any change of clothing at retiring or rising, the men, as I have said before, often wearing their top-hats all night. Shoes, or, more exactly, slippers, are dropped as the wearers come indoors as unfailingly as in Japan on the ledge of polished wood which forms a cross between a porch and a step along the front of the house. To the Western eye the lack both of space and furniture is surprising. In the center of the house, and usually wide open, is a kind of parlor or sitting-room, at most ten or twelve feet long, flanked at either end by two little living-rooms no longer than they are wide, and the house nowhere has a width much greater than the height of the average Western man. Eating, sleeping, the whole domestic life, in fact, is carried on in a constant proximity exceeding that of our most crowded tenements. It looks more like “playing house,” like a building meant for children to amuse their dolls in, than like the actual lifelong residence of human beings. This impression is enhanced by the miniature furniture, usually as scarce as it is small. There are, of course, no chairs, and no tables unless the little tray with six-inch legs on which food is served be counted as one. If there is a student in the family, or the father is engaged in business, there may be a little writing-desk without legs set flat on the floor; probably there is a chang, or legless chest of drawers, and one of the famous Korean chests, both more than generously bound in brass, or even silver if the family is more prosperous than the exterior of the building ever suggests. That is usually about all, except perhaps a little sewing-machine run by hand, and the few trinkets and inconspicuous odds and ends which the women and children gather about them.

16In the ell, flanking one of the little square living-rooms, is the kitchen, with earth floor and the crudest of stone-and-plaster stoves and implements. Next to this, or perhaps across the dusty, sun-baked yard in the other right-angled extension, is a rough store-room, which commonly alternates in location with an indispensable chamber offering much less privacy and convenience than a Westerner could wish. The walls of the floored rooms are usually covered with plain paper, white or cream-colored, though sometimes figured in a way that recalls both Japan and China. In the yard sit half a dozen or more enormous earthenware jars of the color of chocolate. In one or two of these water is kept; others are filled with preserved or pickled food, particularly the Korean’s favorite delicacy, kimshee, a kind of sauer-kraut of cabbage and turnips generously treated with salt and time and rarely missing from the native menu except in the hot months when it is perforce out of season.

When it comes to heating his house the Korean takes complete leave of his island neighbor and turns his face westward. Under the stone floor runs a large flue, the entire length of the house, connected with the kitchen at one end and springing out of the ground in the form of a crude chimney or stovepipe at the other. None of this shivering over a hibachi filled with a few glowing coals for the otherwise comfort-scorning Korean; he will have his dwelling well heated from end to end, not merely his k’ang, or stone bed, after the Chinese fashion, but every nook and corner within doors. While the cooking is going on he may lie on the papered floor and toast himself to his heart’s content; or a bundle of brushwood—almost the only fuel left him in his deforested land—thrust into the business end of the flue in the morning and another at night makes winter a mere laughing matter. It is an ingenious scheme, yet not without its drawbacks. In the blazing summer-time, for instance, there is no way of shutting off the kitchen heat, and the house-warming goes as merrily on as in January. Not that the native seems to mind; he is as immune to a hot bed as to a hard one. But many is the foreign itinerant missionary who, having found lodging on a frosty night with hosts who would outdo themselves in hospitality, has gratefully stretched out on a nicely warmed floor and fallen luxuriously asleep—to awaken half an hour later dripping with perspiration, and toss the night through in a vain effort to shake off the nightmare impression of having brought up in that very section of the after-world which all his earthly efforts had been designed to avoid.

Our first view of Seoul, in which the former Temple of Heaven is now a smoking-room in a Japanese hotel garden

The interior of a Korean house

Close-up of a Korean “jicky-coon,” or street porter

At the first suggestion of rain the Korean pulls out a little oiled-paper umbrella that fits over his precious horsehair hat

17Like his neighbors, the Korean eats with chop-sticks, but he uses a flat metal spoon with his rice. This grain is the basis of the better-class meal, but is not so highly polished as in Japan; and it is too costly for the common people, who replace it with cheaper grains, especially millet. What may seem a hardship is really a blessing. The poverty which denies them some of the refinements of the table imposes upon the people of Korea a more healthful diet than that of their island neighbors; in the mass they are more sturdily built; if all other signs are insufficient one can usually distinguish a Korean from a Japanese by the excellence of his teeth. Besides his beloved kimshee, no Korean meal is complete without a pungent sauce made from beans pressed together into what looks like a grindstone and then soaked in brine, a sauce into which at least every other mouthful is dipped. Meat is more often eaten than in Japan; fish, as generally. But tea is not widely used; in its place the average Korean uses plain water, or the water in which barley or millet has been cooked, or, best of all, sool, cousin of the fiery sake or samshu of the neighboring lands. Then come a dozen little side-dishes,—pickled vegetables, some strange, some familiar to us, cucumbers cut up rind and all, green onions, and some distant member of the celery family, all immersed in vinegar-and-oil baths, slices of hot red peppers, tiny pieces of some hardy tuber, brittle sheets of seaweed cooked in oil until they look as if they had been varnished, a jet-black kind of lettuce, and other odds and ends for which there are no equivalents in our language. Sugar is hardly used at all, and the adaptable traveler who learns to be otherwise satisfied with a native dinner usually rises to his feet with a longing for a bit of chocolate or some similar delicacy.

It is curious how geographical names often persist in our languages of the West long after they have become antiquated and even unknown in the places to which we apply them. The name “Korea,” for instance, means nothing to those who live in the peninsula we call by that term; nor for that matter did the word “Korai” from which we took it ever refer to more than a third of the country, and that long centuries ago. Ever since they absorbed the former kingdom the Japanese have striven to get the world to adopt the native name “Cho-sen” (the “s” is soft), a word already legitimized by several hundred years of use. But the world is notoriously backward in making such changes; perhaps it is suspicious of the motives of Japan, and a bit resentful at her attempt to render whole pages of our geographies out of date. Yet 18there is nothing mysterious or tricky in the wholesale alterations in nomenclature which she has wrought in her new possession, though there is often irksome annoyance. Every province, every city, almost every slightest hamlet has been given a new name; but this has come about as naturally as the Frenchman’s persistent obstinacy in calling a horse a cheval. It is a mere matter of pronunciation. A given Chinese ideograph stands, and has stood for centuries, for a given town or village of Korea. The Korean looks at the character and pronounces it, let us say, “Wonju”; the Japanese knows as well as we know the word “cat” that the proper pronunciation is “Genshu”—and there you are. It is hardly a dispute, but it is at least a new means of harassing the traveler. If he is American or English, or even French or German, for that matter, he will find that nearly all his fellow-countrymen resident in the country, mainly missionaries, have lived there, or been trained by those who have, since before the Japanese took possession, and that they know only the Korean names. If he has a guide-book, which is rather essential, it is almost certainly concocted by the new rulers or under their influence, and insists on using the Japanese names. So do the railway time-tables, all government documents, and the like. Thus he discovers that it is almost impossible to talk with his own people, at least on geographical matters.

“Have you ever been in Heijo?” he begins, with the purpose of pumping a compatriot for information on that second city of the peninsula.

“Never heard of it,” replies the old resident, with a puzzled air, whereupon the new-comer gives him up as a hopeless recluse and goes his way, perhaps to learn a few days later that this very man was for ten years the most influential foreigner in that very city, but that to him it has always been, and still is, “Ping Yang.” Thus it goes, throughout the length and breadth of the peninsula, so that the man who would mingle with both sides must know that “Kaijo” is “Song-do,” that “Chemulpo” is “Jinsen,” that what the guide-book and time-table call “Kanko” has always been “Ham-hung” to the missionaries, that every last handful of huts in Korea is known by two separate and distinct names, though the erratic slashes with a weazel-hair brush which stands for it in the ridiculous calligraphy of the East never varies. Long before his education has reached this fine point the traveler will have completely forgotten his resentment at finding, as he rumbles into it at the end of a long summer day, that the city he has known since has early school-days as “Seoul” is now officially called “Keijo.”

19It doesn’t greatly matter, however, for the chances are that he has always spoken of it as “Sool,” which is the native fire-water, instead of using the proper pronunciation of “Sow-ohl”; and to learn the new name is easier than to change the old. Our own impressions of what was for more than five centuries the capital of Ch’ao-Hsien, the Land of Morning Calm, and is still the seat of the Government-General of Cho-sen, started at delight, sank very near to keen disappointment, then gradually climbed to somewhere in the neighborhood of calm enjoyment. Seen from afar, the jagged rows of mountain peaks that surround it should quicken the pulse even of the jaded wanderer. The promise that here at last he will find that spell of the ancient East which romancers have enticed him to seek, in the face of his cold better judgment, seems to rise in almost palpable waves from among them. Then he descends at a railway station that might be found in any prairie burg of our central West, and is bumped away by Ford into a city that is flat and mean in its superficial aspect, commonplace in form, and swirling with a fine brown dust. But next morning, or within a day or two of random wandering, according to the pace at which his moods are geared, interest reawakens from its lethargy, and something akin to romance and youthful enthusiasm grows up out of the details of the strange life about him.

There are, of course, almost no real streets, in the American sense, in the Far East; hence only those wholly unfamiliar with that region will be greatly surprised to find that the “many broad avenues” of Seoul, emphasized by semi-propagandist scribblers, are rather few in number and, with one or two exceptions, are sun-scorched stretches of dust which the rainy season of July and August will turn to oozing mud. But the eye will soon be caught by the queer little shops crowded tightly together along most of them, particularly by the haphazard byways that lead off from them into the maze of mushroom hovels that make up the native city. From out of these dirty alleys comes jogging now and then a gaudy red and gold palanquin in which squats concealed some lady of quality, though these conveyances now are almost confined to weddings and funerals; the miserable little mud hovels disgorge haughty gentlemen in spotless white who would be incredible did not the falsetto rat-a-tat of ironing and the groups of women kneeling along the banks of every slightest stream explain them. There is constant movement in the streets of Keijo, a movement that might almost be called kaleidoscopic, were it not for the whiteness of Korean dress; but it strikes one as rather an aimless movement, a 20leisurely if constant going to and fro that rarely seems to get anywhere. Dignified yangbans, that still numerous class of Korea, and especially of the capital, which in the olden days was rated just below the nobility, strut past in their amber beads and their huge tortoise-shell goggles as if they were really going somewhere; but if one takes the trouble to follow them he will probably find them doubling back on their tracks without having reached any objective. In the olden days they could at least go to the government offices where they pretended to do something for their salaries; since Japan has taken away their sinecures without removing the pride that forbids them to work, there is little else than this random strolling left for them to do.

In contrast to this numerous gentry, outdistanced by modern changes, there are sweating coolies lugging this or that, bulls hidden under mounds of brown-red brushwood from some far-off hillside, sleek-haired women slinking by with an almost apologetic air, many of them with the uncovered, sun-browned breasts somewhat less general in the capital than elsewhere, here and there a Korean pony, cantankerous with his full malehood, all streaming to and fro between an unbroken gauntlet of languid shopkeepers in their fly-trap “household” caps, of mangy dogs and dirty children. “Old-timers” will tell you that this was not so long ago all there was to Seoul, except inside the several big palace compounds, now so uninhabited; that walking, still much in vogue among the Koreans, was for the overwhelming majority the only means of getting about the city. Then there were no rickshaws, not over-numerous even to-day after twelve years of wholly Japanese rule; then none of the little dust- or mud-floored tram-cars, now so crowded, bumped along the principal avenues; certainly no battered and raucous-voiced automobiles scattered terror among the placid foot-going population. It is not difficult to picture the comparative silence of that bygone Seoul, with slipper-clad footsteps pattering noiselessly through the dust, or the mild clumping of that cross between the Dutch wooden shoe and the Japanese geta still worn in muddy weather, punctuated now and then by the booming of a mammoth bell, the mild hubbub of passing royalty surrounded by shrieking out-runners, and the incessant accompaniment of the falsetto rat-a-tat of ironing.

With the definite coming of the Japanese much of that ancient Seoul has departed. The great wall that enclosed the city has been largely leveled, for the Koreans, according to their new rulers, can only fight behind walls. Only a pair of the imposing city gates remain, and these as mere monuments instead of entrances and exits. The Independence 21Arch built to celebrate the end of paying tribute to Peking stands shabby, cracked, and blistered in a bed of sand in the ragged outskirts. Rubbish and worse litter the dark, wooden-slatted enclosure in which the mighty bell that once transmitted royal commands sits drunkenly and dejected on the ground. Vagabonds build their nests beneath the Oriental roof that shelters the stone-turtle monument of which the city was once so proud; the magnificent Altar of Heaven has become a garden ornament within the grounds of the principal hotel, and is generously furnished with Japanese settees and capacious cuspidors bearing the railway-hotel insignia. Of the three principal palaces one is a mere wilderness of weeds and vacant-eyed edifices; another houses the weak-minded remnant of the once royal family and has bequeathed most of its grounds to museum, botanical, and zoölogical purposes; the third, and most historic, is being completely hidden from the city by a mammoth modern building designed to become the headquarters of the Governor-General.

One might almost assume that a policy of blotting out the visible reminders of the old independent Korea had been adopted by the new rulers. Yet it is hardly that, I fancy, but mainly the utilitarian sense of modern improvement which is showing such small respect for the monuments of bygone Cho-sen. The Japanese are ardent in their efforts to make Seoul a city in the modern sense—the modern Western sense, I could have said, for their new structures are hardly copied from Japan. Imposing buildings that might have been transported from our own large cities are growing up for the housing of banks and important firms and government offices. There is already one genuinely asphalted street; new parks have been laid out where only wilderness or rubbish heaps were before. Besides the big central one there are adequate branch post-offices in every section of the city; police stations at every turn keep a watchful eye out for new candidates to the mammoth new penitentiary, built on the latest approved model, out near the “Peking Pass.” After their lights the new rulers are steadily improving the material aspect of the city, as of the whole peninsula. It would be too much to expect them to improve certain personal habits and domestic customs beyond the point which the Japanese themselves have reached, so that some forms of uncleanliness and undress, for instance, which a new American colony would quickly be forced to eradicate, have been given no attention.

The new rulers once planned even greater changes in the old city. They set about with the apparent intention of virtually moving it, or 22at least the commercial center of it, down nearer the River Han, in a section they called Ryuzan. There they built the railway headquarters and blocks of brick residences for the employees. A stone palace for the mikado’s viceroy was erected, streets laid out, and improvements impossible in the crowded portion of the city were projected. But commerce has a way of choosing its own localities; the Koreans are nothing if not conservative; local gossip has it that when Prince Ito was taken down to see his new residence he remarked to his well meaning subordinates that they might live down there in the swamp if they wished, but that he for one would stay in town. The prince is well known to have been no recluse and hermit who would deny himself the soft pleasures of cities. In the end his choice proved wise, for it is a rare rainy season that does not wipe out scores of native huts down along the Han and encroach upon the unused and isolated palace he rejected. The railway headquarters, residences, and school remain, and trains halt for an exasperatingly long time at Ryuzan station, so near that of Nandaimon to which most travelers are bound, almost as if the officials would vent their pique at having their will thwarted; but even the Japanese residents have preferred the old city. Along its southern edge, under the brow of Nansan Hill, dwell and trade that quarter of the fourth of a million of population which wears kimonos and getas, and the stroller down “Honmachidori” and its adjacent streets, narrow, crowded, busy, and colorful as a thoroughfare of old Japan, could easily imagine himself back in the Island Empire, far from the languid, white-clad throngs of the Land of Morning Calm.

It was our good fortune to dwell out over the hills beyond Seoul rather than in the hot and often breathless city itself. The half-hour walk led up past the big granite Bible School, along a little stream with its inevitable clothes-paddling women, flanked the grave-mound of a little prince, then climbed steeply over another half-wooded ridge from which stretched a wide-spreading mountainous view, everywhere deep green except for the broad brown streak of the River Han and here and there a mushroom patch of village. An American mission college was building in a big hilly pine-grove that owed its preservation to the tomb of a king’s concubine. Pines as fantastic and sturdy as any in Japan stood out against the sky-line; here and there a group of stinking chestnut-trees kept them company. Before they were granted this semi-sacred site the missionaries from our almost mythological land of “Mi-guk” had to agree not to build anywhere overlooking the grave; they had already been asked to close a path used as a short cut by students and an occasional faculty member, because it ran along the brow of the hill above the tomb. To look down upon a royal burial site is the height of disrespect in Korea, hence they are all arranged after a fixed pattern designed to avoid this sacrilege.

Out beyond the Todaimon, or East Gate, on the opposite side of the city, is the tomb of a more famous queen; but we preferred what we called our own, which is identical in form and size, and in a solitude much less often broken. Besides, “ours” really contained the mortal remains, while even the finger and a few bones which were all that remained after the brutal assassination and burning of Korea’s last queen were now buried elsewhere. Quite like ours are all the royal graves scattered up and down the peninsula of Cho-sen, in the several regions where succeeding dynasties built their capitals, flourished for a while, and fell, so that leisurely to visit it was worth a hasty glimpse of many others.

We could wander up over the pine-clad hill to the grave, for all the 24injunction against it; things are not so strict as all that in Korea, unless something Japanese is involved. But it was more convenient, and not merely more respectful, to approach the sanctuary from the bottom. On a level space in the forest, wholly cleared of trees but thick with grass, there was first of all the caretaker’s residence, a high-walled compound set off in the edge of the woods to the left. In a direct line down the center of the grassy rectangle stood first a torii, a square arch made of three light tree-trunks painted red, the upper crosspiece decorated with crude and fanciful carvings, a gateway without contiguous fence or wall. The Koreans are sensitive about the use of this symbolic entrance to their royal tombs; the caretaker of the little prince’s tomb we passed on our way in or out of Seoul told us one day, when we found that arch newly closed with barbed wire, that we might still pass through the grounds, but not beneath the torii. A hundred feet or more through this isolated entrance to her last resting-place stood the concubine’s prayer-house, so to speak—a large building by Korean standards, with a roof of highly colored tiles and four flaring gable-peaks, along which sat as many rows of porcelain monkeys to guard against evil spirits, as is the Korean custom. Through the many holes that had been torn by time or inquisitive fingers in the oily paper serving as glass between the slats of the many padlocked doors, one could dimly make out a bare wooden floor, scattered with dust and bits of rubbish, and a bare table-like altar on which, no doubt, boiled rice and other foods are at certain intervals offered to the spirit of the dead. It was plain that no such thoughtfulness had been shown recently, for dust and dinginess and faded paint were the most conspicuous features of the edifice, inside and out.

Two smaller but similar chapels flanked this main building, behind which the grass-rug-ed ground rose gradually to the burial mound, another hundred feet back and some ten feet high. In front of this plain grass-covered hillock stood a huge stone lantern, like those in Japanese temple grounds, in the opening of which the reverent or the superstitious sometimes place offerings of rice. Directly behind this graceful receptacle rose what we of the West would call a tombstone, a high upright granite slab standing on a big stone turtle and carved with Chinese ideographs briefly extolling the departed lady’s alleged virtues. More fantastic still were the figures about the mound, duplicated on either side. First came two large stone horses, such as might be chiseled by some aspiring but untalented school-boy. Then a pair of stone men, priests, or gods, recalling similar figures in the ruins 25of Tiahuanaco beyond Lake Titicaca, gazed at each other with a sort of smirking, semi-skeptical benignity. Two lions, two rams, and two mythological beasts, even more crudely fashioned than the rest, completed the menagerie, all these last with their backs turned to the mound, out of respect for the departed. Finally an ancient stone wall with tiled roof threw a protective semicircle close about all this at the rear, beyond which the rather thin pine forest, gnarled and bent with age, climbed the hill-slopes across which only disrespectful mortals ever pass.

About the only Korean thing which moves rapidly is a funeral, and even this may have been a concession to the incessantly sweltering summer. We met one rather frequently in the streets of Seoul,—a barbarously decorated palanquin in blazing reds and yellows, borne by eight or ten coolies in nondescript garb, who jog-trotted as if in haste to be out of reach of the evil spirit that had laid low the inert burden inside. If the latter had been a man of standing and sufficient wealth, there were two palanquins, the second bearing the actual remains, the first a false bier meant to deceive the wicked beings of the invisible world. The rest of the procession was made up of priests in fantastic robes and flaring head-dresses, leaning back at contented ease in their rickshaws, and a varying string of relatives and perhaps friends, most of them in sackcloth and on foot. Just where these incongruously hurrying cortèges finally brought up we never learned to a certainty until we ourselves moved out over the hills.

In a hollow not far from our suburban residence rose the ugly red brick chimney of what we at first took to be a small factory, but which turned out to be one of the several crematories in the outskirts of Keijo. Across the valley below us, by the little dirt road that wandered through the flooded rice-fields, came several funeral processions a day, announcing themselves by the shrieking auditory distresses which the Koreans regard as music. The unseemly pace may have slackened somewhat by this time for it is nearly five miles around the hills by the route that even man-drawn vehicles must follow; but the clashing of colors was still in full evidence, standing out doubly distinct against the velvety green of newly transplanted rice. Now and again a procession halted entirely for a few moments, while the carriers and pullers stretched themselves out in the road itself or along the scanty roadside above the flooded fields. We drifted down one day to one of them that was making an unusually long halt, and found the 26chief mourner, a lean old lady of viperous tongue, in a noisy altercation with the carriers over the price of their services. But those who halted, or indulged in such recriminations along the way were, no doubt, of the class that could not pay for unchecked speed.

Several times, too, when whim took us to town over the high hill from which an embracing view of Seoul was to be had, we saw processions returning. Then they were quite different. The chief burden, naturally, had been left behind, and the palanquins are collapsible, so that mourners and carriers straggled homeward by the steep direct route as the spirit moved them, the latter at least contentedly smoking their long tiny pipes, and musing perhaps on the probability of soon finding another victim. But the end and consummation of all this gaudy parading to and fro remained to us only an ugly red brick chimney, standing idle against its hilly background or emitting leisurely strands of yellowish-black smoke, according to the demand for its gruesome services.

Then one evening curiosity got the better of our dislike for unpleasant scenes, and we strolled out to the uninviting hollow. In it, a little above the level of the plain, sat a commonplace brick building with half a dozen furnace-chambers not unlike those of a brick-kiln. Several Koreans of low class, stripped to the waist, were languidly working about it, now and then producing discordant noises, which was their manner of humming a tune. Close before the principal building stood a smaller one, from which rose the loud chanting of a single voice that would have won no fame on the Western operatic stage. This, we learned, belonged to the priest whose duty it was to give each client the spiritual send-off to which he was entitled by the price of admission to the furnaces. The cost of cremating a body, explained one of the workmen, was twelve yen (nearly six dollars), but it included an hour-long prayer by the priest. The latter was too steadily engaged in his duties to be interrupted, but the cremators were openly delighted at the attention of foreigners, and at the opportunity of helping us make the most of what they called our “sight-see.” Into the ears of the articulate member of our party, born in Korea, they poured the details of their calling without reserve. That, inside the rude straw-mat screen which stood between the house of prayer and the door to the ovens, had come early in the afternoon, they explained, but he was only a poor man and had to give precedence to his betters. We peered over the top of the screen and saw a corpse completely wrapped in straw and fastened to a board with ropes of similar 27material. Did we care to see what was left of the last job? one of the coolies wished to know. It was time that was finished, anyway. He led the way to the back of the furnaces, opened an iron door, and, catching up a crude, heavy iron rake, hauled out half a peck of charred bones and ashes. This, he explained, unnecessarily, as he turned up one still glowing remnant of bone after another, was a rib, that was a piece of what the man walked on, and so forth. It was a rich man, he chattered on—to be rich in his eyes did not, of course, imply being a millionaire—and he had been sent here all the way from Fusan. The dead man’s relatives, he continued, as he carelessly raked the still smoking débris into a tin pan and set it aside to cool, had paid him to keep some of the ashes for them, instead of dumping them in the common ash-heap. Rich people always did that. But it was time to get that other fellow there out of the way, and go home to supper.

“What did he die of?” we asked, as the straw screen was thrown aside and the planked corpse fully disclosed to view.

“Of a stomachache,” replied one of the two coolies, as they caught up plank, straw wrapping, and all, and thrust the last “job” into the furnace, then salvaged the plank with a dexterous twist and jerk. No flames were visible in the depositing-chamber itself; the heat was applied externally, so to speak, perhaps as a sort of survival of the olden days when Korean dead were wrapped in a mat and left to bake and fester in the sun. We were turning away, satisfied for a lifetime with one “sight-see” of that kind, when a sound, so out of keeping with the matter-of-fact tone of the workmen as to be startling, brought us back again. Out of the semi-darkness had appeared a Korean of the peasant or porter class, past forty, lean and sun-browned; and with a wail that had in it something of an animal in extreme distress, he flung himself at the furnace door as if he would have torn it open and rescued the form it had for ever swallowed up. We had never suspected the rank-and-file Korean capable of showing such poignant grief. Nor was it seemly in one of his standing, evidently, for almost at his second wail the three carriers who had brought the body rushed down upon him and demanded forthwith the price of their services. Their strident bargaining rose high above the dismal, discordant droning of the so-much-a-yard prayers that had never once ceased during our stay. The surly porters made it plain that there was no time for vain mourning while the serious matter of their hire was unsettled.

“He was my older brother,” wept the man, “the last of my family. Have I any one left? Not one. And now....”

28The unsatisfied carriers were still cruelly bullyragging him when we left, and the sound of their quarreling voices, intermingled with the never ending droning of the priest, came to us through the night after we were well on our way home.

It is only the Buddhists who cremate by choice in Korea, and by no means the majority of the people are of that faith. Many are mere ancestor-worshipers, or placaters of evil spirits, or have a mixture of several Oriental faiths and superstitions which they themselves could not unravel. The non-Buddhists bury their dead, and thereby hangs, as in China, a serious problem. For definitely circumscribed public cemeteries will not do. The repose of the departed and the fortune and happiness of his descendants depends upon the proper choice of a burial-place, which is by no means a simple matter. It calls for the services of sorceresses, necromancers, and other expensive professionals; it may take much time; and the final indications may point to a most unlikely and inconvenient spot. Green mounds, wholly unmarked except in the rarest of cases, but each known to the descendants whose most solemn duty it is to tend them, cover hundreds of great hillsides throughout the peninsula, to the detriment of agriculture, Korea’s main occupation. The Japanese took the Western utilitarian point of view and ordered prescribed areas set aside for graveyards; but this was one of the most hated of their reforms, and the right to lay away their dead at least in private cemeteries has once more been granted to the Koreans.

Tucked away in the pine-clad hills about us were several little Buddhist monasteries. The last word is deceiving, however, for there was hardly anything monasterial about these semi-isolated retreats. In theory the Buddhist monks and priests of Korea live in celibacy; in practice few even of their most devout coreligionists pretend to believe that they do so. About the tile-roofed clusters of buildings, varying mainly in pretentiousness from the thatched homes of laymen, there was no dearth of women and children; and the monks were the last in the world to deny themselves the pleasure of wandering to the near-by city or up and down the country as the mood came upon them. The brilliant saffron robe that distinguishes the followers of the Way in central Asia, and adds so vividly to the picturesqueness of lands farther west, is unknown in Korea. A shaven head in place of the precious topknot is almost the monk’s only difference in appearance from the ordinary layman; when whim or a sincere desire to tread 29in the path marked out by Gautama sends him out into the Korean world, the distinguishing hat of woven ratan may be superimposed, but even the symbolic pretense of a begging-bowl hardly marks him out from his more toilsome fellow-countrymen. For a long period in the history of Korea, Buddhist monks were rated lower in the social scale than even the peasants of the fields, and this attitude toward them has survived, perhaps unconsciously, in a marked lack of deference, almost an indifference to them, except in their official capacity, or among an unusually superstitious minority.

In these monasteries the principal living-room—to use the word very loosely—is floored with the thick oily brownish paper universal in private dwellings, and the scant furniture is of a similar type. Perhaps one of the big half-oval drums that call such of the monks as happen to be within hearing to their not very arduous duties swings from the center of the low ceiling; about the walls may sit a few bronze ornaments or figures of some significance which totally escapes the uninformed visitor. Certainly Gautama himself would not recognize the barbarous gaudiness, the crowds of fantastic figures which clutter the adjoining temples, as having been inspired by his simple teachings. Big golden Buddhas in the center, behind a kind of altar and offering-table in one, are flanked on either side clear around the three walls of the room with hybrid manikins of Chinese mythology and demonology, often of human size, which would outdo the phantasmagoric imaginings of any child in terror of the dark. Fourth wall is there none, but only a long series of double doors, which first open and then lift up to the horizontal, where they are supported by quaint Oriental substitutes for hooks. If the discreet rattling of a few small coins succeeds in accomplishing the complete opening of the doors, the more than dim religious light of the musty interior gives way to the glaring radiance of cloudless Korea, and a myriad of details that are otherwise only suspected, if even that, make their appearance. One discovers, for instance, that in addition to the score or more of large figures in the gaudiest of greens, reds, and all possible clashings of colors there are several times as many figurines, knee-high or less, interspersed among them, as if these queer puppets had their human quota of offspring. Like their adult companions, these little effigies wear expressions varying all the way from that of terrorizing demons to a smirking gentleness which suggests a well spent babyhood. Mere words, however, are useless pigments with which to attempt to picture the color-splashed paintings that cover the walls behind the row of stodgy standing 30figures. All the chaos of Oriental mythology seems to have been thrown together here, in battle scenes, in court processions, in helter-skelter throngs of human beings in garbs that were antiquated long before the Christian era, all fleeing in terror from the mammoth central figure of some wrathful monarch, his wildly bearded face painted jet-black to suggest the horror that his countenance sheds upon all beholders. Every feature of these silent temple denizens, be it noted, are Chinese, not Korean; and history tells us that as late as the Boxer Rebellion it was not so much the European troops as their black auxiliaries who put terror into the hearts of the fleeing Celestials.

Gautama, the Buddha, as I have said, would puzzle in vain to find the connection between the strange beings which clutter these Buddhist temples and his own gentle doctrine. The medieval Christian, on the other hand, should find himself perfectly at home in certain corners of them, where are depicted such scenes as sinners fastened between two planks in order to simplify the task of assistant devils nonchalantly sawing them down the middle from crown to hips, in exactly the same way that Oriental workmen turn logs into lumber to this day. Perhaps the most surprising thing about these monasteries, to visitors from Christian lands, is the complete lack of sanctity toward the objects they worship which marks the outward behavior of the inmates. Casual callers of other faiths, or of the absence thereof, are as freely admitted to the most sacred corners as the monks themselves. The elaborate genuflections and throaty chantings of a group of bonzes in full barbaric regalia at the behest of a group of peasants come to lay offerings of rice and copper coins before a favorite figure may be followed a moment later by the tossing of a dirty altar-cloth or a dusty old rag over the head of the same god to whom they have just been appealing so grovelingly. Whatever their faults, there is always something charming about the tolerance of Buddhists. No small number of Christian missionaries in Korea spend their summer furloughs in the monasteries of this gentle rival faith.

We struck out one Sunday afternoon over the high hill directly north of us, to visit the famous White Buddha, carved and painted on a great stream-washed rock cliff in the outskirts of the capital. It needs much less of a climb beneath the blazing sun of midsummer Korea to leave one drenched, but the view from the crest soon made that a half-forgotten detail. Of the hills rolling away into mountains on every hand, or the broad brown Han flecked with its rectangular 31junk-sails, little need be said; such scenes are commonplace in Cho-sen. But the complete panorama of Keijo, erstwhile Seoul, beginning at the very base of the perpendicular rock cliffs below us and stretching from the “Peking Pass” to far beyond Todaimon Gate, from ill sited Ryuzan to the section of old city wall along a mountain ridge which the Japanese have permitted to stand, called for a longer breathing-spell. Ancient Chinese-roofed palaces, efforts at modern buildings which somehow still seem unacclimated, the mainly Japanese city to the south of Shoro-dori—that broad street which distinctly separates Keijo into two nearly equal portions—the acres of yellow-brown thatched Korean huts of the northern half so compact as almost to seem a great hayfield, all stand out with the clearness of an illuminated engraving. Most incongruous, as well as most conspicuous, of all the details of the picture are the homes and other structures of the Christian missionaries, of red brick, and standing forth, if the time-worn comparison is legitimate in such a connection, like sore thumbs. Statistics assert that of the quarter of a million dwelling in Seoul only two hundred are Caucasians, a statement which there is no good reason to question, but which nevertheless seems strange from any such point of vantage above the city, for the big twin-spired Catholic cathedral alone, on the commanding site it has been true to form in choosing, seems to imply far more than that number. It was not merely the sounds of washing and ironing coming up to us in a great muffled chorus from the city below on this brilliant Sunday afternoon, however, which reminded us that for all these obvious edifices we were in no Christian country.

At the foot of the swift jungle-clad descent to the narrow suburb along the northern highway our ears were suddenly assailed by a great jangling hubbub. We crowded into the little courtyard of the square-forming house from which the sounds arose, and found that we had stumbled upon a sorceress performance. Numbers of men and children and many women were jostling one another along the wall-less fronts of two rooms on opposite sides of the yards, inside which the typical native hocus-pocus was at its height. On the papered floor of each room a sorceress was hopping, posturing, grimacing, and from time to time shrieking, with an activity which at least could not leave her open to the charge of physical laziness. I am no custodian of fancy-dress ball costumes, hence I can do little more than appeal to the vivid imaginations of those better fitted for the task to picture to themselves the incredible regalia in which these two middle-aged females, with the worldly wise faces, were swathed, though I can throw in the hint that 32they would not have suffered from cold six months thence, and that head-dresses which seemed to have been built, and then improved upon and built some more, about sections of stovepipe formed the crowning feature of their make-up.

We gave our attention mainly to the older, more agile, and more demoniacal of the pair. In one hand she swung incessantly a curved knife half as long as herself, and in the other a big clumsy iron three-pronged spear not unlike the one attributed to Father Neptune, one of her principal objects evidently being to slash and prod and swing as near the credulous beings who crowded about her as she could without inflicting actual physical injury upon them. In one corner sat half a dozen dejected-looking men picking at native musical instruments as they howled, and seeming to resent that the despised sex occupied the center of the stage. Several ordinarily dressed women stood or squatted along the walls. These, it was explained to us, had sick children and had come to have the malignant devils that had entered their little bodies exorcised and driven out. From time to time the sorceress called upon them to rise and join in the dance, particularly to posture in the center of the room while she made wild lunges at them with her two weapons. At other times they were ordered to kneel and bow their heads to the mats before what seemed to be imaginary gods or devils behind the displays of food set around the edges of the room. Now and again they ate bits of this, and at certain rather regular intervals the sorceress ceased her hopping, lunging, and posturing to partake copiously of some native drink respectfully tendered her by women of the house, or by those who had come to get the benefit of her ministrations. Through it all the dejected male orchestra, squatted on the floor in a corner, screeched incessantly some incredibly discordant Korean conception of music.

Some of the figures, in the gaudiest of colors, surrounding the Golden Buddha in a Korean temple

The famous “White Buddha,” carved and painted in white, on a great boulder in the outskirts of Seoul

One day, descending the hills toward Seoul, we heard a great jangling hubbub, and found two sorceresses in full swing in a native house, where people come to have their children “cured”

The yang-ban, or loafing upper class of Korea, goes in for archery, which is about fitted to their temperament, speed, and initiative

33Half an hour or more after our arrival the sorceresses simultaneously changed their costumes to something quite different but equally fantastic, and after a deep drink and a long breath each they sprang again into the fray. They had already been at it for hours and might continue until dark. For these ceremonies seem to be rather of a wholesale nature, to which come all those who happen that day to have a devil to be exorcised, and the price of that service available. The bystanders made themselves comfortably at home, as is commonly the custom in the easy-going East, unawed by the great feats that were taking place before their eyes. Children played in and out of the throng; men, and some women too, placidly smoked their long tiny pipes; the sturdy fellow who had brought the paraphernalia of the sorceress calling slept babe-like on the box in which it had come, waiting for the word to carry it away again. Apparently there was nothing to be feared, except by the evil spirits which were being cast forth from within their absent or present victims. For some of the women had brought their ailing children in the flesh and were subjecting them to the noisy balderdash in ways that should have increased rather than diminished the demons of illness within them. How many mothers of sick infants came to that day’s ceremony was only suggested by the dozen or more present at one time. How many worldly-wise women of Korea, some of the most famous of them blind or boasting some other infirmity reputed to increase such powers, win their livelihood and even lay up small fortunes as sorceresses, even the statistics-loving Japanese overlords probably could not tell. One runs across them in wayside villages, in little valleys hidden by brush and rocks out among the hills all over the country—and in nearly every case there is a modern hospital run by missionaries or the Government no great distance away, sometimes, as here in Seoul, right on the road to the performance, where ailing infants would be readily admitted, probably at less cost than the fee of a sorceress.

The Japanese are so often accused of having no ideas of their own that perhaps I am mistaken in believing that they did not copy from some other nation their Railway School in Seoul. It is their own impression that the idea originated with the general manager of the Korean part of the South Manchuria Railway, and their opinion ought at least to be worth those of passing strangers. The plan is to recruit young boys after the usual six years of preliminary schooling and gather them together into a kind of railway West Point, where future employees of the railway shall be trained not merely in the immediate and mechanical things of their calling, but in general citizenship, in esprit de corps, in all those things which a body of men charged with so important a job as running a great railway system should have and be. There was already great eagerness to enter the school, though it was only in its third year, since the future for which it prepares is not only moderately bright but is definite and certain. At intervals competitive examinations for admission are given. The latest one had been attended by one thousand and eighty candidates, of whom a hundred and fifty were admitted to the school. The Japanese officials asserted, and seemed sincerely to believe, that, given equal preliminary training, 34Korean youths have equal opportunities for admission to the school and for preferment in what lies beyond. But the bare fact that of the five hundred and thirty-eight students only eighty were Koreans did not make it easy to accept this statement without question. It would scarcely be natural in any nation, let alone one of so tight a national feeling as Japan, to let such prizes get to any extent out of the hands of their own people.

The school is a big red-brick building, or compact cluster of them, down at Ryuzan, where the railroad community lives in an orderly, well built town of its own, and it has everything which even the most exacting peoples of the West expect a school to have. The principal is not a railroad man, but an M.A. and a famous pedagogue from Japan, and the whole curriculum is laid out with the idea of giving the future trainmen as broad a training as could possibly be of use to them in the line of work toward which they are heading. All of them take, for instance, six hours of English a week. They are taught the importance of courtesy in its practical as well as its ethical aspects—a point which seems to have been largely missed by the labor-union brotherhoods of the West. To the strictly utilitarian Occident some of the things taught would seem highly fanciful. We would hardly expect our engine-drivers to take fencing, samurai style, as well as jiu-jitsu, however handy these accomplishments might be in ridding their trains of hoboes. But the Japanese idea is to develop health and physique and a well-rounded personality as well as mere mechanical ability, the spirit of fair-play, character and esprit de corps, as well as mere laborers’ qualities, that there may be a railway morale, as there is in most countries an army and a navy morale. Thereby the founder of the school hopes to avoid what he calls “labor-union madness,” and at the same time to have men properly fitted to come into contact with the public; not merely pullers of throttles and takers of tickets. The school, as I have said, is barely three years of age, so that one could scarcely expect any distinctly visible results of the policy as yet in the railway itself, but the scheme strikes even the layman observer as at least one thing Japanese well worth imitating.

When the Russians and the Japanese grappled with each other a couple of decades ago, the railways of Korea, it will be recalled, were not linked up with those of Manchuria, destined to be the chief battleground. The little islanders pushed them quickly through, first in hastily constructed emergency form for military use, and later in a more finished manner. To this day they are straightening out curves and 35moving higher up from flooding areas that were ill chosen in war-time haste, and here and there along the way lie bits of the old road-bed and the abandoned abutments of a bridge that is gone. Like the railways of Japan, those of Korea are government owned; but they are not government operated. The South Manchuria Railway system, comprising all the Treaty of Portsmouth transferred from the Russians to their victors, has been given, as a private corporation, the complete control of the lines in Cho-sen for a long term of years, so that both comprise virtually one system, and operate as two trunk lines—from Fusan to Mukden and from Dairen and Port Arthur to Changchun, with their various branches. There is nothing of the Japanese model about these railways; they are almost exact copies of those in the United States, with standard gage, American cars with only minor hints of European influence, even the deep-voiced whistle which so instantly carries any wandering one of us back to his home-land. There is no railroad in the world at which the carping traveler cannot now and then find fault, but on few will he be harder put to it to find just cause for grumbling often than on these two systems operated as one from Dairen.

In Korea the traveler who has seen them at home gets a somewhat corrected picture of the Japanese. It is as if they had put their best and their worst foot forward there simultaneously, and cause for high praise lies plainly side by side with reasons for strong censure. Everyone in the peninsula seems to admit that materially Korea is much better off for having been taken over, lock, stock, and barrel, by Japan. Intrigues, the selling of offices, brigands, few and virtually worthless police, catch-as-catch-can tax methods to impoverish the people, a government so corrupt that there was not a breath of hope left in the country or the hearts of its inhabitants—there remained in all the peninsula of Cho-sen little but the most primitive agriculture in an almost wholly deforested land when the Japanese at length took upon themselves the task and the pleasure of administering it. But like our involuntary wards of the West Indies and elsewhere, the Koreans object to being forcibly improved, and it is not, one comes to the conclusion, merely disgruntled, because dispossessed, native politicians who are creating the continued growl of dissatisfaction.

For all the admitted improvements they have brought, in spite of a distinct change of policy now under a civil instead of a military government, even the mere passer-by will scarcely fail to hear a long list of Korean grievances against the Japanese, and he is not unlikely to see some of these exemplified before his own eyes. The Japanese make so free with the country, run the complaints; they treat it as something picked up from the discard, with all signs of its former grandeur obliterated, no memory even of a former existence. They always speak of “Japan proper” when they mean their native islands, as if this great peninsula, more than half as large as their Empire “proper” including Formosa, and with seventeen million people who are distinctly not Japanese, were a mere tatter on the garment itself. They change without a by-your-leave not only the form of government but the very names of the provinces; they interfere in the minutest matters of every-day 37life—require people to walk on the left side of the street, for instance. Those who came when the country was first taken over did anything, the complaints continue, took anything, that pleased their fancy or appealed to their appetites, without payment, or at whatever they chose to pay. A new governor chased this riffraff out of the peninsula and a better class is now in evidence; but even these strike the passing observer as “cockier,” more arrogant than the average in Japan—and perhaps somewhat brighter.

One is quickly reminded of Poland under the Germans, from whom it might easily be suspected that the Japanese copied almost verbatim in their annexation of what was once Korea. Japanese get the cream of mines, factories, and other concessions; the advantages given the “Oriental Development Company,” in reality a semi-official, strictly Japanese, concern, amount to a scandal. The monopoly bank does about as it sees fit in rates and exchanges; wherever there is a chance for it a Japanese always seems to get the preference over a Korean. Railwaymen, policemen, even the “red caps” at stations, are nearly all Japanese; at such places the Japanese rickshaw-men are given the best stands, with their Korean competitors in the background. I was returning one night from Gensan on the east coast, whence there had just been put on a night train to Seoul, which for some reason had not been found worthy of carrying a sleeper. About twenty minutes before train-time I started through the platform gate, only to be stopped by the gateman, who almost at the same instant promptly punched the ticket of a little man in kimono and scraping wooden getas and let him pass. My training in taking a back seat having been neglected, I pushed past the gateman and followed the sandal-wearer across to the waiting train. From end to end it was half full of Japanese passengers, most of them stretched out on two double seats; and when, just before the train started, Korean passengers were admitted to the platform, there was little left for them to do but to squat on the floor or the arm of a seat here and there or stand up all night.

I have seen a petty Japanese official keep a public autobus waiting for half an hour while he played with his children or had a last cup of tea with his neighbors. Railway stations are, with few exceptions, miles from the towns they serve, though the line may run almost directly through them. Possibly, as those in authority claim, this is for protection, though I do not know from what; the disinterested visitor finds himself agreeing with the Koreans that it is probably done so that a Japanese town can grow up under more advantageous conditions 38than the old Korean city behind it, as has already happened in many cases, and perhaps to help the Japanese owners of Fords, rickshaws, and hotels. The Japanese hold up and examine mail, whether of Koreans, missionaries, or foreigners in general, at the slightest provocation, often, one suspects, out of mere curiosity. Korean youths who wish to go to school in America or Europe are almost invariably refused passports. Possibly a dozen are granted out of a thousand applications, and it often takes as long as a year to get those. One group of students who applied for permission to study industries abroad were told to study them in Chinnampo instead. To appreciate the joke fully one must have seen Chinnampo. In general the Koreans are virtually prisoners within their own country, and even if they escape from it they are not always safe. Koreans whose land has been taken away from them by force have moved to Manchuria and become Chinese citizens. Even if this prattle of “self-determination” means nothing so far as nations are concerned, certainly the right of an individual to choose his own allegiance should be axiomatic in this day and generation. But the Japanese will not recognize the Chinese citizenship of a Korean. Having taken the country, they claim possession of all its people also, irrespective of their location or personal choice, and send soldiers to round them up on the foreign soil of Manchuria, forcing the Chinese to hold them in their jails, bringing them back to Korea for trial, or shooting them on the spot.

Everywhere the Japanese stick together—another German trait; if they did not know the ropes and have everything in their favor, including the official language, say those who know both races well, the Koreans would outdo them in almost any line. Personally I could not sign so broad a statement, for though I have seen many indications that the Koreans are of quicker and sharper intelligence than the Japanese, they have other weaknesses which largely neutralize this advantage. But the policy in Korea, even in these improved days, seems never to be humanity and justice first, but Japan and the Japanese über alles—and after that whatever may conveniently be added. Koreans of standing say that Japan’s inability to overlook her petty interests for the fulfilment of greater things is her greatest weakness, as her policy of assimilation, of trying to make Koreans over into Japanese, which the experience of Germany in Poland should have taught her not to attempt, is her greatest mistake. The same dominating instinct which insists that even a railway porter shall be Japanese, if one applicant among a hundred is of that race, is manifest in all her political dealings, and this 39over-patriotism may prove her final undoing, where a bit less of it might permit her to continue as an unconquered nation under a single dynasty for another twenty-five hundred years.

Japan is eager to make Shintoists of the Koreans, to teach them that ancient cult of the mikado as a direct descendant of the gods which has been revived and repaired and strengthened during the last half-century in Japan itself, that his “divine right” may survive even in an age that is so completely in disagreement with such fallacies. Korean school-children especially are subjected to this form of propaganda, so similar to the German school- and pulpit-made Kultur of kaiserly days. The requirement that their children in government schools shall not merely salute the banner of the rising sun at frequent intervals, but shall bow down daily in what is virtually worship, however much the Japanese may deny it, before a picture of the mikado, is one of the sorest points with the Koreans. A modicum of intelligence should tell any people that such methods are out of date and much worse than useless. The new Shinto shrines on hilltops all over Korea, with their newly peeled torii before them, look like late and exceedingly weak rivals of the Christian churches which dot the peninsula.

Until very recently all Japanese officials in Korea, including schoolteachers, wore uniforms and carried swords! Picture to yourself how much more handy the latter would be than a ferule. But Japanese influence on the rising generation would be greater if there were not such a discrepancy in the rights of schooling. With seventeen million Koreans and less than three hundred and fifty thousand Japanese in Korea, the 65,654 Korean children who find accommodations in government schools represent something like one two-hundred-and-fiftieth of the Korean population, while the 34,183 Japanese youngsters in school are one tenth of the sons of Nippon in the peninsula. Yet the Government still hampers to a certain extent private, and especially missionary, schools. The Japanese have brought many improvements, say the Koreans, but for whom?

Silk, tobacco, salt, gin-seng, to some extent beans, and in a certain sense prostitution, are government monopolies in Korea. The Japanese seem to bring immorality and “red lights” and disease wherever they take root, and to adopt a callous, cynical attitude toward this matter which marks them as closely related to the French in at least that one point. Thirty years ago, say missionary doctors, before their war with China brought the islanders to the peninsula in any great number, the diseases of prostitution were virtually unknown in Korea; now they 40are widely prevalent. As is their custom, the Japanese have established yoshiwaras in every city of any size, with Korean as well as Japanese inmates—Chinese also in the zone they control in Manchuria—and while these are not exactly government owned, the protection accorded them, the official regulation of them, and the large income in the form of taxes derived from them makes them virtually so.

A Japanese policeman in spotless white summer uniform and sword, relieved by a blood-red cap-band which is said to be symbolical, is to be found in any Korean gathering, even in the utmost corner of the peninsula. The traveler will probably not be in Korea long before he sees one or two such officers driving to prison a Korean with his arms tightly bound with ropes, the loose ends of which serve as reins. This is an old Oriental custom, but one feels that it could, to advantage, yield to something a little more modern and reasonable, a bit less conspicuous. In August, 1919, the police force under an army lieutenant-general virtually independent of civil authority was replaced by a gendarmerie or constabulary directly responsible to the new governor-general, Baron Saito. The latter is widely admitted to be a superior official, with the best of intentions and a high grade of ability. But tales of oppression by subordinates, and cruelties by the police, persist even under his comparatively beneficent rule. The time-honored excuse that “excesses of police and gendarmes do not have the approval of higher authorities” is out of date; if higher officials cannot curb those under them, they are equally to blame. Baron Saito’s Government seems to recognize this and has changed the formula to “It cannot be true that the police still beat prisoners, for there is a law against it.” Definite cases of persecution and torture still turn up from time to time, but the victims are so cowed that they dare not report the matter to higher authorities, and a fluent lie by the police involved settles an investigation, since the word of a Japanese is always accepted over that of a Korean. An American missionary who had reported many cases of persecution to the present governor was asked to bring the next victim in person. But when he suggested to a man who had sneaked in to see him, badly cut up and mottled in black and blue from head to foot, that he go and show himself to the governor-general, the fellow all but fled at the bare suggestion. Word would be sure to get back to the police of his own province, he insisted, and he would be manhandled worse than ever when he went home. True, gendarmes who misbehave are sometimes court-martialed, which sounds to the average civilian like something dreadful, but those of us with a little military experience know how often a court martial is a synonym for a whitewashing, unless it is the sacred army itself which has been wronged.

The Korean method of ironing, the rhythmic rat-a-tat of which may be heard day and night almost anywhere in the peninsula

Winding thread before one of the many little machine-knit stocking factories in Ping Yang

The graves of Korea cover hundreds of her hillsides with their green mounds, usually unmarked, but carefully tended by the superstitious descendants

41It is not, of course, quite the same to a Korean to be beaten by the police as it seems to us. Flogging has been practised in Korea as far back as records go, and it is not unnatural that Japanese gendarmes should consider this the only sure way of really reaching the intellect or getting the truth out of some Koreans. But they failed to see that while men punished in this time-honored way by their fellow-countrymen might not feel particularly humiliated, might take it almost like a son from his father, they would deeply resent being so treated by Japanese aliens, little men whom they have always heartily despised. Certainly some ugly stories are still afloat, and all indications point to the probability that the torturing of prisoners—and of witnesses—still goes on in the secrecy of some police stations, the perhaps real disapproval of higher authorities notwithstanding. To say that the same thing sometimes occurs in New York is not to make the practice any less reprehensible.

Once convicted of a crime, it is another matter; but when a man is suddenly arrested without warning and imprisoned for weeks, months and sometimes more than a year without knowing what charge has been made against him, without being allowed to get a word in or out of prison, even to notify some one to communicate with his family or see a lawyer, or to do anything but sit and await the good pleasure of his jailers, which may include being bambooed for two hours daily, the infliction of the “water cure,” the clamping of the fingers, the hanging up by the thumbs, the forced squat, and many other ingenious tortures which are guaranteed to leave no telltale marks on the body, it is not a sign of civilization but a remnant of the barbarism from which Japan tries hard to prove to the world that she has entirely recovered. Once the police get a confession by such methods there is no going back on it, we were told, no matter how innocent the sufferer really may be. His case is turned over at once to the procurator, and only after he has been twice condemned can he have counsel. The French system of considering the accused guilty until he proves his innocence prevails, and the chief of police has often been known to sit behind the judge and virtually to give him his orders as to what is to be done with the prisoner at the bar. Nine months in prison merely as a witness has been the experience of many a Korean Christian. Interpreters, even in important conspiracy cases, where it may be a matter of life and death, 42are reputed to mistranslate testimony in favor of Japanese or in favor of conviction. There is a classic case of an American missionary arrested during the independence movement on the charge of “harboring prisoners,” simply because he did not drive out of his house convert students whom he knew to be innocent and whom the police were eager to torture. Though he was ill at the time, he was refused permission to have a bed brought from his house to the bedless prison, was not allowed even to send word of his whereabouts to his wife, was kept incommunicado for fifteen days, during which he was grilled by a haughty Japanese official who spoke to him only in “low talk,” such as one uses to coolies, and after four trials his punishment was reduced from one year’s imprisonment to a fine of a hundred yen.

Perhaps the most repulsive custom of the Japanese police in Korea, from our Western point of view, is their indifference to domestic privacy. They march even into school-girls’ dormitories or women’s apartments with or without provocation; American missionary women traveling in the interior have often been compelled to admit policemen to their quarters at inns or in the homes of converts not only after they have prepared for bed, but several times during the night, merely to answer over and over again their silly “Who-are-you? How-old-you? Where-you-come-from? Where-you-go?” questions.

The many reforms that have recently been introduced into Korea, say its residents, would have been of far more credit to the Japanese if they had thought of them before rather than after the independence movement of March, 1919. The handling of that, by the way, was a typical example of Japanese stupidity. The independence agitation which broke out simultaneously all over the peninsula was merely a demonstration to prove to the outside world that the Koreans had not been so completely and successfully “Japalacked” (as the missionaries, with no unbounded love for the little brown Prussians of the East, put it) as the Japanese at the peace conference led the world to suppose. Their city walls had been torn down; they had no weapons; the native Christians, who were foremost among the agitators, had refused to have anything to do with the demonstration until it was agreed that there should be no violence. If the Japanese had acted with the jovial moderation which their power over the peninsula made quite possible, the movement would very likely have been nothing more serious than a kind of lantern procession on a national scale. There is an anecdote floating about the Far East to the effect that half a dozen British “Tommies,” strolling down the street of a city in India, were met by a 43mob shouting the Hindu version of “Long live Gandhi!” They neither raced back to the barracks for their rifles nor fell upon the crowd with such weapons as they could snatch up; they merely began shouting with the natives, “Long live Gandhi!” Within five minutes the demonstration had broken up in peals of laughter at the antics of the soldiers and their ludicrous Hindustani accent. Whether it is true or not, the story illustrates a great weakness of the Japanese. Almost no nation is so devoid of a sense of humor, as we use the phrase; that is, they are wholly incapable of permitting anything but the greatest solemnity of word or deed concerning their persons, their country, or their “sacred” institutions.

Instead of treating the “Mansei” movement as more or less of a joke, therefore, they acted with incredible childishness, as well as quite unnecessary brutality. Groups of unarmed Koreans gathered on hills overlooking the towns, shouted “Mansei!”—which is merely the Korean form of the Japanese “Banzai!” or “Ten Thousand Years!” and means something like “Long live Korea!”—then scattered. The silly police ran hither and thither, distracted. The honor of their nation, the luster of their military caste, the glory of their god-descended ruler might have been at stake. They arrested sixty school-boys eight years of age because some one among them had shouted the dreadful word, and they kept them at the police station until ten o’clock at night. A high official quizzed a roomful of little girls with such questions as how they could expect liberty, and where they would get money to run the Government, if they had it. When they answered, woman-like, “Oh, we’d get it,” the Japanese on the platform foamed at the mouth and devised ingenious ways of punishing the tots for their temerity. Brutalities like ours in Haiti, and worse, were perpetrated on the population. Students were beaten if they admitted they attended mission schools. They were asked at ferry stations and other points of concentration whether they were Christians, and if they replied in the affirmative they were cut with swords and otherwise mishandled by soldiers and police. If they denied the allegation, even though they were known to be converts, they were not abused, the idea seeming to be to get them to apostatize. Prisoners were tied together and driven on forced marches of sometimes a hundred miles, sleeping on plank floors full of cracks, with no food whatever on examination-day (otherwise known as “torture-day”). Great gangs were marched into Ping Yang from the country roundabout, many of them virtually unable to walk, and with carts of dead ones behind. Women who had shouted “Mansei!” were 44taken to police stations, stripped, and marched around while the police amused themselves by burning them with cigarettes. Whether or not they were violated, they were subjected to every other form of indignity. The Japanese claim that “not a few policemen and their families in isolated stations were ruthlessly massacred,” and that they were therefore provoked to harsh measures. But they neglect to give the exact chronology of the affair, which indicates that they were the first to adopt harsh measures, and that Korean violence was in retaliation for their unnecessarily stern suppression of what probably would have remained a bloodless demonstration. Thus all the complaints, dissatisfactions, and grievances that had been repressed within the breasts of the people of Cho-sen for ten long years broke out at last like the cataract through a broken dike.

Those not friendly to them say that the Japanese police are cowardly as well as bullies, citing such examples as a group of Americans being mobbed only a few yards from one of the innumerable police stations in Seoul during our stay there, without a single white uniform appearing on the scene. Since the establishment of civil government some Koreans have been made gendarmes and otherwise given positions of authority, but as so often happens in such cases, many of them are more cruel to their fellow-nationals, and more itching with curiosity as to the doings of foreigners, than the Japanese themselves. Up to the time of the “Mansei” movement the Japanese scorned to study Korean and tried to force the Koreans to learn Japanese instead, again aping the Germans in Poland. But they have learned the disadvantages of using Korean interpreters and depending on native stool-pigeons for information, so that now they offer five yen a month in addition to the regular salary of those who have a workable knowledge of the native tongue.

The Japanese learned considerable from the uprising of 1919, but they still have something to learn. There are officials yet who advocate fines and flogging for Koreans who refuse to hoist the flag of Japan on national holidays. A modicum of common sense should teach any people that a national flag is a symbol of patriotism the display of which should be only an expression of free will, that patriotism can never be forced into the hearts of a people, and that any false show of it is much worse than worthless. Even shops which close as a sign of protest against certain Japanese doings are compelled by the police to open their doors. When the warship Mutsu anchored in the harbor of Chemulpo, the port for Seoul, every visitor who went on board was 45compelled to salute the common sailor on sentry duty at the gang-plank, who barked like an enraged bulldog at any one who did not perform the ceremony with the deepest solemnity. Until they cure themselves, or are cured, of this ridiculously Prussian point of view on matters pertaining to their national life naturally the Japanese will not be able to see that it is silly to speak of the “wickedness” of trying to change, or even of talking of changing, a given form of government, that as a matter of fact any form of government is no more sacred than an old pair of shoes that has served the wearer moderately well.

We of the West should not forget, however, that the “white peril” has been a much more actual thing to the Japanese than the “yellow peril” ever was to us. Korea was not only a convenient spring-board for Russia and the whole white world behind her, but it was a greater source of danger to Japanese health than Cuba in its most yellow-feverish days ever was to us. Old residents paint a distressing picture of pre-Japanese Seoul—narrow streets plowed up into bullock-cart ruts, no general means of transportation except one’s own feet, however deep the mud, corpses of those dying of cholera left before any “rich” man’s house, forcing him to bury them. The Korean royal family was “liberally provided for” and left in possession of their palaces and their titles in perpetuity on condition that they would not interfere in any way with the new Government or the people of the peninsula. The sop of titles of nobility was thrown to influential Koreans who were likely to make trouble, and seventy-six new peers stepped forth from their mud huts. The Japanese claim that they spend ten million dollars a year on the occupation of Korea, that with its need of schools, roads, trees, sanitation, and many other things the peninsula is a great burden to them. “Though it is treason to say so now,” a high-placed Japanese in Seoul assured me, “Korea will eventually get her independence, as soon as she can stand on her own feet and protect herself—and us—from the north.” Possibly this was mere prattle meant to throw me off the scent, but I have met some Japanese intelligent enough sincerely to believe in this eventual solution.

The American and European merchants in Korea think that the Japanese did on the whole better than any one else could have done in handling the situation, and that the Koreans cannot possibly govern themselves. So, for that matter, do most of the missionaries. Russia would have forced the Greek church upon the people, they say, but would have left the lowest form of inefficient and unsanitary burlesque 46on government. They would virtually have encouraged the persistence of ignorance and filth that made the Hermit Kingdom in every sense a stench to the nostrils of the world and a land of but two classes of people, the robbers and the robbed. “If Japan were to say to us to-morrow, ‘Here’s your country; run it yourselves,’” said a man who was trained to become prime minister under the old régime, “there are not bright men enough in it to form a cabinet.” The people have sometimes been made to suffer, the merchants go on, in such matters, for instance, as the taking of their land to build roads—for in old Korea as in China to-day highways were mere trespassers on private domain; but on the whole Japan has been no rougher than the United States or England in the countries they have taken over.

The agitation of Koreans for independence, the foreign laymen in the peninsula claim, emanates from self-seekers in foreign lands, and from the young students of mission schools, “especially American mission schools”; and the two “provisional governments,” one in the United States, and one, which has been in existence since the annexation, in Shanghai, do not at all represent the wishes of the Korean people as a whole. As it is, they are ground between the two millstones of the Japanese on the spot and these exiled governments, which send agents to make life miserable for those who fear one or both of them may some day come into power. Even the old politicians and office-holders are content, if we are to believe the men of commerce, now that even the Japanese have discovered that few military chiefs are of a type to make successful colonial governors, and that their subordinates, especially of the lower ranks, are almost always tactless, to say the least. But business men have a tendency the world over to praise anything that tends to keep “business as usual,” and one will probably come nearest the truth by striking a balance between their impressions and those of the missionaries, crediting the latter with somewhat more sincere, because less self-seeking, motives.

Whatever his personal opinion on the usefulness of foreign missions, no one with his eyes half open can set foot in Cho-sen without being impressed by the Christian influence, or at least by the number of missionaries, converts, and churches. He may be highly amused at the many subdivisions of that faith, by reason not merely of minor matters of creed and national lines but of such political cleavages as that caused by our Civil War, so nearly obliterated at home, which bewilder the natives like a countryman in a department-store with the wide choices of salvation offered them by—to mention only some of the 47American varieties—the “Northern” Presbyterians and the “Southern” Presbyterians, the “Northern” and the “Southern” Methodists, the Kansas Baptists and the Oklahoma High Rollers, for all I know, all guaranteed to give equal satisfaction. But the very intensity with which native converts regard these arbitrary lines of division, much slighter among the missionaries themselves, and the care which “Bible women” and country pastors take to keep their charges from wandering into any adjoining heretical sheepfold, is an evidence of the genuineness of their new beliefs.

Whether or not Christianity is the one and only true faith, it seems to be an established fact that it thrives under persecution. Protestant mission work began in China in 1808, in Japan in 1859, but not until about 1888 in Korea; yet there is to-day only a scattering of native Christians in the two former countries as compared with the hordes of them in Korea. Many towns, even Ping Yang, second city of the peninsula, are almost more Christian than “pagan”; and the missionary boast that Korea will be a Christian land within a generation or two does not sound so wild as many another statement that drifts to the ear of the naturally skeptical wanderer. There is some evidence to show that this rapid progress is considerably due to those very Japanese who are least eager for the Christian faith to spread. The law of Japan and Korea grants absolute freedom of religious belief and practice, but even the passing layman can plainly detect something very close to persecution of Christians by some of the Japanese authorities in the peninsula, though it be only unconscious and unintentional, which it probably is not. While the Catholics have been there much longer, and have often carried things with a high hand, it is the Protestants in particular, and especially the American missionaries, who seem to have won most of the Japanese ill will. This I believe to be almost more because of the fact that they are Americans than because they are missionaries. As Americans they just naturally resent the lack of human liberty, of “self-determination,” to use the catchword of the hour, which Japanese rule in Korea means. The opposite point of view is bred in their bones. Though they never opened their lips on the subject, their mere unconscious attitude, their negative lack of approval of the existing state of things politically, cannot but seem to the Koreans an approval of their own opposition to the Japanese. Obviously, the study of American history, even of American literature, in the mission schools adds to the discontent of young Koreans with the present status of what was once their own country, even though the teachers lean over backward 48in the effort not to mix academic and political matters. In fact, while the missionaries might deny it, it may be that the Koreans are rallying in increasing numbers about the American sponsored churches as much under the mistaken impression that the Americans are secretly sympathetic to the throwing off of the alien yoke, even by violence if necessary, as from the conviction that the American brands of salvation are the only sure passwords at the celestial gates.

At any rate, the Japanese seem to have concluded that American missionaries were behind the independence movement of 1919, and that they are still not to be entirely trusted. Now, I am as certain as I am of anything in this uncertain world that not a single American missionary was in the conspiracy of the “Mansei” demonstration. A very few may have known something about it, at least have felt in the air that something was coming; but it was no business of theirs to turn tattletales and run to warn a Government which had usurped since most of them came to Korea and had not treated them with any notable kindness, besides having what should have been an ample supply of its own spies to pick up such information. But the Japanese have not our way of thinking. They are ready enough to have the missionaries render unto Cæsar what belongs to him by keeping out of politics, but at the same time they seem to expect them to lend a hand to the extent of passing on to the authorities any hints or rumors that may be of use to them.

However, the independence demonstration and the unwise acts it brought in its train have trailed off into history. The more intelligent Japanese officials seem to have seen the light and acquitted the American missionaries of any active and conscious part in it, and the new governor-general and his immediate aids even sometimes call them into conference to get their point of view on subjects in which they are involved. But there is still an undercurrent of something akin to persecution of the American churches. As in the case of the persistent rumors of police floggings in spite of the new law forbidding them, it is impossible to make certain whether this is due to deliberate disobedience of orders by recalcitrant subordinates, to secret instructions at variance with those made public, or to pure stupidity, of which the Japanese have their liberal quota. In every mission town there is a detective in charge of matters pertaining to missionaries. He attends all services, comes hotfooting it whenever a foreigner stops even for lunch at a mission, demanding information concerning him back to the nth degree of absurdity, asks the future plans of the church almost daily, and other stupid and impertinent questions. In some districts the police still literally hound the church—demand lists of all contributors, send spies to stand at the church door and take note of every Korean who enters, burst noisily in during prayer, order new women converts not to attend services. Even the missionaries strike one as being rather afraid of the police, though this may merely be due to their strenuous efforts to avoid giving further offense and to come more than half-way toward established friendship with the political authorities; it can easily be imagined how native pastors and the simple converts are affected by a brutal attitude.

A chicken peddler in Seoul

A full load

The plowman homeward wends his weary way—in Korean fashion, always carrying the plow and driving his unburdened ox or bull before him; one of the most common sights of Korea

The biblical “watch-tower in a cucumber patch” is in evidence all over Korea in the summer, when crops begin to ripen. Whole families often sleep in them during this season, when they spring up all over the country, and often afford the only cool breeze

49Christian students in government schools often report that they have secretly been ordered to quit the church. There seems to be little doubt that the Japanese foster the student strikes which are increasingly becoming the bane of mission schools, now with demands for a Korean principal in place of an American who has grown gray in that position, now that no teacher be hired who has not been educated in Japan or Korea, or that there shall be no studying of the Bible in school—almost prima facie evidence of Japanese influence. All this cuts both ways in separating the Koreans and the foreigners. When the strikes reach the point of demanding that laboratory or library equipment be improved, notwithstanding that every tack in the school wall is due to American charity toward the strikers, the ordinary human being finds himself wishing that the missionaries would forget their unnatural patience and boot the strikers down the front steps. Permits are required for everything under the sun—to be pastor, to build a new church, even to solicit contributions to mission hospitals. The Japanese meddle with hospitals, schools, and churches in ways which even they could not possibly believe are excusable. The missionaries have to submit to their dictation as to curriculum; they even have to make their school year conform to the Japanese custom and teach in July. Perhaps the greatest hardship the missionaries have to endure is the constant dread that their sick children will be carried off to Japanese isolation wards, on the pretext that contagious diseases cannot be properly isolated in mission hospitals, and there virtually killed by being given only Japanese food, lack of beds, and treatment, while the parents may not even be allowed to see them.

All books by foreigners must be fully printed before being submitted to the police censor, who will not look at manuscript. Three days before publication two copies of the finished book must be in his 50hands, and if any of the contents is considered objectionable the whole edition is confiscated. Christian schools are often called out to meet officials on Sunday, or teacher’s examinations are given on that day with a frequency that could scarcely be coincidence. The requirement that all children in government schools shall bow down before a picture of the mikado in an attitude of worship is of course a constant thorn in the side of the Christians. The authorities claim that American mission students have no discipline, which is probably true from the Japanese point of view, in that they are not told just what they should think and do on every possible subject and occasion. In their published maps of Korean towns the Japanese rarely give any signs of the existence of Christian establishments, though these are often many years old and the most prominent institutions in the place. On the other hand, when their travels take them out of their own orbit the missionaries almost always go to Korean hotels instead of patronizing the foreign ones under Japanese management, but old custom and the high prices of the latter could easily account for this without including a suggestion of pique.

Personally I came to the conclusion that, while both are in evidence, it is the thick-headedness of the rank-and-file Japanese more than deliberate persecution which causes the continued friction between the two peoples who are doing the most for the regeneration of Korea. I might cite a typical case in point. Over near Gensan on the east coast the missionaries have a private summer resort, half a hundred houses and a beach, all enclosed within purchased grounds. But as the Japanese are very insistent in matters which they conceive to involve the equality of their race to the rest of the world, they refuse to let the missionaries keep the townspeople off their beach. Now, the bathing demeanor of the Japanese, innocent and proper though it may be to those who like it, is decidedly not suited to a place where American women and children come to spend their summers. So by dint of coaxing and explaining their own peculiar point of view, the Americans got the authorities at Gensan to post a notice that no one should bathe on the missionary beach unless arrayed in proper swimming costume. The Japanese of course are notoriously law-abiding. One afternoon when I found time to join my family on that beach a big limousine stood at the edge of the sand, and several dignified middle-aged men who might have been bankers or lawyers from the city were disporting themselves in perfectly respectable bathing-suits. But when I chanced to glance about a little later, one of them stood within ten feet of us, 51stripped stark naked as he calmly and leisurely changed from swimming to street costume, and two others were in the act of disrobing for the same purpose. I feel sure that they had no intention whatever of being offensive toward the dozen or more American women about them; probably their limited minds really thought that they were complying with both the letter and the spirit of the posted order and the desires of those who inspired it by wearing bathing costumes while in the water, and getting into and out of them on the open beach. When I addressed them with an unmissionary vehemence that might have landed me in a police station if they had chosen to make the most of it, they apologized hastily for the unwitting offense and hurried off to the privacy of the limousine. The Japanese in Korea are spending large sums in the effort to make certain of the beaches of the peninsula popular with foreigners, and quite likely some of these bankerly-looking gentlemen were involved in the scheme; but none of them still have any clear conception, probably, of why no beach can ever be popular with foreigners as long as Japanese also have the right of admission to it.

Missionaries after all are only human beings, as they themselves are the first to admit, and we do not expect the supernatural of them even in such a matter as meekly accepting the abuse of what they more or less regard as a usurping and alien political power over a people the benefiting of whom they consider their life-work. Many of the Americans in the mission field have been in Korea far longer than the Japanese. Some have lived there so long, according to those foreigners of another class who see them as dangers to their precious “business as usual,” that “they think they own the country and can countenance no changes in it, not even improvements. They used to do exactly as they liked, and they hate the least suggestion of coercion.” We should remember that the missionaries had the advantages of extraterritoriality in Korea before the Japanese came, and they cannot but resent the loss of it, the submitting to alien rulers whose ideas of everything, from housing to justice, are so widely different from their own. Moreover, though they readily admit that the Japanese are doing many things for the good of the peninsula, they see them primarily as men with an ax to grind.

It would be strange, if it were not long since commonplace, to see how sharp national lines remain even among men who think they are working above nationalities, how completely even men of strong ideals succumb to their environment. The American missionaries in Japan say that there is some reason for the Japanese to be suspicious of the 52American missionaries in Korea. They agree with the officials there, who contend that those destined for mission work in the Korean field should first have a year in Japan, that they may judge more fairly the Japanese national point of view. Even those in Korea, after ten to forty years’ residence there, cannot agree on many of the points involved, so how can a mere passer-by be expected to get at the exact truth of the matter? He can merely decide that there is some reason on both sides, with perhaps a private opinion as to which one is most inclined to tamper with the scales, and let it go at that. Friction is gradually decreasing, as the Japanese and Americans become more able to talk together—generally in Korean; and as there is no doubt that Japan has the good of Cho-sen and its people at heart—as an integral part of the Japanese Empire—constant improvement may confidently be expected.

Perhaps it is because I was properly “Japalacked” that I was able to wander at will about Korea by train, steamer, Ford, rickshaw, and on foot without the annoyance of that constant police supervision and the incessant showing of my passport of which many other travelers have complained. Once, long ago, when the Japanese were at war with Russia, I was arrested forty-eight times during thirty-six days of wandering through Japan, and while the experience was much more amusing than serious, there was nothing to be gained by repeating it. So I took the trouble this time to satisfy Japanese inquisitiveness at headquarters beforehand, and while I may have been, and probably was, under more or less surveillance during my six weeks in Korea, I am sure that many of my jaunts were known so shortly in advance even to myself that no detective could have kept constant track of me. Certainly no visible attempt was made to keep me from going when and where I chose, and talking with whomever I wished.

A missionary Ford carried me off once to the gaunt hills to the east of Seoul. Even the “great roads” in the interior of Korea are much like the caminos reales of Spanish America—“great” or “royal” only in the name they bear. In places there are what the Japanese call “highways,” but even these seldom have bridges worthy the name, some being mere sod-covered logs, others dirt-and-branch foundations under concrete, or nothing at all but the crudest of ferries. In the rainy season whole treeless hillsides wash away and force traveling missionaries to sell their Fords and walk home. Though the weather of Korea is on the whole much better than that of Japan, the floods of summer are naturally severe in a mountainous and deforested country. In Seoul it rained incessantly day after day during much of July and August, sometimes with barely half an hour of cloudy clearness from dawn till dark. Many villages and some thirty miles of railroad were under water, and countless bridges were made at least temporarily impassable. Men waded waist-deep in the flooded rice-fields, raking 54out the duckweed with which these were covered, and which would choke the rice when the water subsided. Clothing and shoes molded overnight. In other parts of the country, such as Ping Yang district, there was less rain than the peasants asked for, though the almost tropical heat was everywhere and incessantly in evidence.

Even one of the most fair-minded of guide-book writers speaks of the Koreans as “incredibly lazy”—proof that he saw much more of the old capital and its vacant-minded yangbans than of the country districts. If he had ever toiled for a day in the blazing rice-fields, even driven a bull knee-deep in mud through them, or carried a “jiggy” load along the narrow paths between them, he might have been of a different opinion. In a land where agriculture is the national industry, where four-fifths of the population still remain living among and tilling the hills of their forefathers, their horizon bounded by their own narrow valley and the nearest market town, there can scarcely be general indolence. The Koreans in the mass are not lazy; but life means to them something more than incessant exertion merely for exertion’s sake, and they amble along even at work as if there were never any hurry to do anything or get anywhere, quite the antithesis of the busy little Japanese. With some such foot-note as this to one accusation against them, it is easy to agree with the man who put it so well, that the Koreans “are garrulous yet inarticulate, stolid yet excitable, frugal yet improvident, lazy yet lashed by necessity to strenuous efforts.” A childlike people on the whole, one is likely to conclude from weeks of wandering among them, happy-go-lucky, with little tendency of laying up for a rainy day, a trait in which they are widely at variance with their present rulers.

In June the peasants were still spreading over the fields the decomposed oak-leaves used as fertilizer, but by early July the transplanting of rice began, soon to be followed by the weeding. Gangs pull up the closely grown seedlings and tie them in bundles, which they throw out across the fields to be planted with an expertness which reminds one that their national pastime, at least in pre-Japanese days, was stone-throwing. The earth-laden roots being much the heavier end, the bundles unfailingly land upright just where the thrower chooses to place them. A line of six to a dozen men and women move slowly across each flooded field, replanting the grasses one by one, and everywhere the green, low, flat country is dotted with hundreds of near-white figures rooting in the soft, flooded earth. That no space may be wasted, beans are often planted on the tops of the dikes between the paddy-fields. 55Frogs sing their lugubrious chorus far and wide, little realizing the unwisdom of betraying themselves to the beautiful ibis which feed upon them. At weeding-time whole villages join together in great gangs, with drums, fifes, brass cans, and all manner of native noise-producers, to make a festival of the task, singing as they weed. The men, stripped to the waist and burned a permanent brown, display leathery skins that glisten red-brown in the sunshine, like a well polished russet shoe. Yet many a peasant uses a yellow fan as he works. Where irrigation calls for the lifting of water from a ditch to the fields, a man leisurely swings all day long an enormous wooden spoon suspended in a little framework. If the work calls for shoveling, one man holds the handle of the implement and two or three others lift it by the ropes attached to the shaft, precisely like the people of the Lebanon far across on the opposite edge of Asia. The Korean is famed for his kindness to his bulls, almost his only draft-animals now that his savage little stallion ponies have become so scarce, and it is the commonest of sights to meet a peasant lugging his wooden plow on his own broad back while the bull strolls lazily homeward before him.

Korea is a land of villages, not of cities, nor yet of isolated peasant houses, so that the broad flooded country is usually unbroken clear to the foot-hills of distant ranges, unless a town, its thatched roofs slicked down to the women’s hair, intervenes. Here stands a stone monument with a roof over it to commemorate the wife who died of grief for her departed husband, or at least refused resolutely to remarry, a noble example, by Oriental standards, to all her sex. Farther on several upright granite slabs flanking the road announce themselves as erected by grateful citizens in honor of departed magistrates, though the deep-cut Chinese characters upon them usually express anything but the real public sentiment toward these village looters. Babies suckling like shotes mothers stretched out on the floors of open houses, babies eating great green cucumbers, skin and all, babies wailing as one seldom hears them in Japan, are among the most constant details of any Korean village landscape. Among the fixed customs of the country is the burning off of the hair over the soft spot of an infant’s head, and most Koreans preserve this little round bald place throughout their lives.

In July lettuce and green onions are everywhere, adding a still greener tinge to the landscape. Men sleep anywhere in the middle of the day, on the narrow paddy dikes, at the roadside, in the road itself, naked to the waist but with their ridiculous horsehair hats still in place. You will find them still working at dusk, however, and before the mists 56begin to rise under the morning sun. Koreans of the masses never seem to sleep, or to eat, all at once. The children have no fixed hours of going to bed, nor beds to go to for that matter, so that they grow up able to doze off anywhere at any time. Like the Japanese, the race shows the effects of poor beds and piecemeal, catch-as-catch-can slumber. One by one each member of the family lies down, still fully clothed, on the brown-paper floor of the house as the whim strikes him, and drifts away into more or less sound slumber, while all the domestic life steps in and out among and over the sleepers. No matter at what hour of the night one passes through a village some of its people will be squatting on their porches or chattering inside. As crops approach the ripening stage, little watch-towers, like thatched dove-cotes, rise high on their pole legs all over the country, and by night he who comes strolling along almost any road will hear some or all the family within beating the little elevated shack with a stick or singing some weird old song as a protection against the myriad evil spirits which roam the darkness.

I have said that the national pastime of Korea was—for it seems now almost to have died out—the throwing of stones. In Cho-sen this game more or less took the place of jiu-jitsu in Japan, and in the olden days whole villages lined up on opposite sides, led by their chief bullies and most expert throwers, the women often piling up stones within easy reach of the warriors, and the festivities did not end until several were badly injured, if not actually killed. Koreans still have the reputation of being the most accurate stone-throwers in the world, as more than one unwelcome stranger has learned to his dismay during some dispute with a group of villagers. Under the influence of both Japanese and American residents this faculty is being turned to another account, and Korean baseball teams have already beaten more than once the best aggregations which our countrymen in the peninsula can muster.

One has moments of doubt in Korea about the accuracy of the “survival of the fittest” theory. The Koreans are superior to their rulers in mental quickness, certainly in physique, and probably in some moral qualities. This straighter, stronger-looking race seem big men beside the pushing little dwarfs who have subjected them—though I found that the largest native socks and shoes were nearly two inches too short for my own by no means oversize Caucasian foot. That they are brighter, or at least of swifter mental processes, than the Japanese, I am personally convinced by numerous little episodes within my own 57experience. There was the guide I had in the Diamond Mountains, for instance, only to cite one of many similar examples. He was just an ordinary jiggy-coom, a porter with the Korean carry-all on his back; yet though neither of us knew a word of the same language, we had not the least difficulty in exchanging all the thoughts we needed to during a four-day journey, by signs and gestures. I have yet to see the Japanese who would not have failed dismally under similar circumstances, and not merely because gestures mean nothing to the people of Japan. We arrived one evening at a temple-housed hotel run by the government railways, and the Japanese in charge, though he had much more education than my guide, and spoke considerable more or less English, displayed his racial density to such a degree that I was forced to call in the Korean carrier as an interpreter. Entirely in the language of signs and a few monosyllabic place-names he caught the idea perfectly, and passed it on, in one tenth the time I had already spent trying to drive it through the skull of the son of Nippon.

But while many Koreans possess an alert mentality, this is often offset by superstitions, prejudices, conceit, and the lack of initiative and perseverance. They seem to have been slaves to clan or village opinion for so long that they can seldom assert themselves individually. They learn elementary things quickly, but they are prone to run out of steam in the higher reaches. One gets the impression that they have less self-control, that they are undisciplined, both by training and temperament, compared to the Japanese. Unlike the Chinese, they will fight upon slight provocation, which may be another proof of a lack of self-control as well as of manliness. Such things as school strikes against missionaries who have given them long and unselfish service to the full extent of their resources indicate but little sense of gratitude. Even their most friendly foreign teachers admit that almost any of them will cheat at examinations if given the opportunity. Their cruelty, or at least indifference to the suffering of others, is perhaps as much an Oriental as merely a Korean trait. In the village just over the hills from Seoul near which we made our Korean headquarters an old man was found ill and half starved in a straw hut in the outskirts. If the foreign gentry who pass that way almost every day take no notice of him, the villagers evidently asked themselves, why should we? But the first information the foreigners had of the invalid or his condition was when our host happened one day to see him lying all but naked beside a muddy stream, apparently trying to drink, his skin mere parchment stretched tightly over his bones. The American gave the villagers 58a note to the mission hospital and paid some of them to carry the old man there on an improvised stretcher. Next morning nothing had been done. Called to account, the villagers explained that they had decided not to take him to the hospital, because he would only die soon anyway, and if they buried him themselves it would cost less, they thought, than if the hospital did so and then made the village pay for it.

It seems to be Japanese policy to keep deformity out of sight, but Korean instinct and custom work to the same end. The native teachers of a mission school vociferously objected to admitting a particularly brilliant candidate—because he had only one eye! “If this thing goes on,” one of the teachers raged, “we’ll be nothing but a collection of cripples,” and to illustrate the point he sprang up and humped himself across the floor like a paralytic, with the dramatic effect at which the Koreans are adepts. Whatever his opinion of the Japanese in that respect, no one would accuse the Koreans of having no sense of humor, though they are much more solemn of demeanor than the Chinese. An American resident who carries a massive old watch that once belonged to his grandfather drew it out one day as he was leaving a railway station—whereupon a Korean boy wearing the jiggy of the porter’s calling promptly backed up to the watch and solemnly asked if he should transport it. There is less curiosity, or at least less child- or monkey-like inquisitiveness about the Koreans than their immediate neighbors either to the east or west display, more personal dignity, one feels, and the stranger does not collect a following half as easily as even in Japan. It is true, however, that villagers poke holes in the paper walls of any inn-room housing foreigners, and missionary ladies are obliged to carry a complete curtain-room with them on their travels in the interior. Superstitions are still rife, for all the outside influence, and some of them take quaint forms. As in Haiti, it is a common thing to have a pedestrian dash across the road in front of a moving automobile just as it seems to be upon him, the idea being to get rid of the evil spirit which dogs his heels like his shadow, either by having it crushed beneath the wheels or attaching itself to the motorist. In fact, there are many little suggestions of the black man’s republic of the West Indies about Korea—Napoleon beards, little pipes, thatched market-stalls and the tiny transactions they are willing to make, the custom of sleeping peacefully at the roadside or in the roadway wherever the whim overtakes them, the same swing of the women carrying burdens on their heads, a similar carelessness about exposure of the person.

59It is still an ordinary experience for a Korean bride to discover when she enters her future home that she is only her husband’s “Number 3” wife—yet all the children she may bear him are considered as belonging to Wife Number 1. Nine-tenths of the suspensions from the church, at least among Protestant converts, are for concubinage; most of the rest are for marrying “heathen.” I have already mentioned that the missionaries insist that Korean women are very modest, particularly as compared to their Japanese sisters. They seem not to consider the public display of breasts immodest, for missionaries, just like ordinary people, appear to get used to things which must at first have struck them as “dreadful.” They do not like to have them photographed, however; people at home would “misunderstand.” Women still come to church flaunting this open proof of motherhood, just as men do in their horsehair hats. Yet when Japanese women came into public baths already occupied by Korean men there was so much talk that the authorities were forced to modify a time-honored custom of Japan and order a division of the tubs by sexes. Less than two decades ago no Korean woman of the better class appeared on the streets even of Seoul in the daytime, and servant-girls compelled to do so covered their faces. After ten at night no men were expected to be abroad, for then the women, usually in sedan chairs, with lantern-bearers and followers, came out to pay their calls. In those days young men never smoked in the presence of their elders—at least of the male persuasion. No decent woman could read, but only sorceresses and keesang, the geisha of Korea. To-day things are so changed in some circles that the sewing-woman of a missionary family sent her girls to school first, saying that the boys could take care of themselves; with the result that her daughter became the wife of a vice-consul in Manchuria while her son was still a jiggy-coom, waiting at the station for a job of carrying. Points of view differ, of course, and what we of the West consider quite proper may strike the Korean as highly immodest, as well as vice versa. I remember once coming upon a group of Korean servants in a foreign house all gazing with great curiosity at the cover of one of our cheap high-priced magazines, decorated with a silly, but from our point of view harmless, picture, after the stereotyped manner of our “popular” illustrators, of a boy and girl kissing. The servant who had worked longest for foreigners was explaining to his scandalized fellows that they often did that, and held hands, too—which last dreadful vice he demonstrated by taking a hand of one of the others, by the wrist!

60One should keep in mind, in considering the recent swift changes in Korea, that it was closed to the outside world much longer, tighter, and later than Japan. Yet the quaint old scholar’s cap is now as rare as the old learning. The new generation seems to have lost the poise of the old, and so far to have gotten nothing in its place. The rather flippant youths of the new schools cannot read the classics—for there is a splendid old Korean literature which is forbidden by the Japanese, so that the younger generation is growing up without it—and thus far they are not at home in the modern world that has so suddenly burst upon the ancient peninsula. One of the demands of the thirty-three men who signed the Korean “declaration of independence” a few years ago—the finest types of Koreans, according to the missionaries, and the first of whom were just being released, yellow and thin, when we were in the country—was the freedom to study things Korean, including their history. The idea of an education as the road to a government job and a lifetime of loafing still carries over from the days that are gone. Four fifths of the population is still reported illiterate, too, and even of those eager to go to school hardly one in three can get inside one. The rest can go to—well, to a Korean school of the old type, for instance. Frowsy old men keep them privately, and a dozen or a score of boys come at dawn, seven days a week, to squat on the floor of some dark and miserable little room in a back alley, their slippers in a row along the porch, and rock back and forth all day long shouting incessantly in what would be a chorus if it were not also a chaos of individual noises more often without than with meaning. Not until night falls do they unfold their legs and stumble homeward, and all the day through, as they “study,” the “teacher” in his special form of horsehair hat dozes on his knees at the head of the room, and flies beyond computation in numbers flit hour after hour from boy to boy. The Japanese officials of Korea pay a bounty on flies by the pint, but they do not seem to have done much toward wiping out their breeding-places. Yet, one recalls, while gazing in upon one of these old-fashioned schools, much of the civilization of Japan came from Korea—its culture, writing, Buddhism, pottery—and its smallpox.

A Korean church service, too, is a sight worth going to church to see. There are no seats, except perhaps a bench along one of the walls near the pulpit, for the missionaries. All others sit or squat on the floor, covered with straw matting, all in white except some of the smaller children, mainly dressed in pink. Many of the men still wear topknots, and some their “fly-trap” hats, for by Korean standards it is 61impolite to take these off except in one unmentionable place, where it is imperative. The sunburned breasts of women are also somewhat in evidence, though the great majority of the average congregation have adopted Western styles now in both these particulars. There may be a rare man in foreign dress, but even the native pastors almost all wisely cling to the flowing native garb of snow-white grass-cloth, so much more comfortable and becoming to Koreans. The men squat on one side, the women on the other, with the children in front between them, and seldom do they rise at all during the service, but merely bow their heads to the floor to pray. Now and again they sing one of our old familiar hymn tunes, with Korean words, in loud, metallic voices. Dozens of children of from two to six wriggle and talk and race about. From time to time a “Bible woman” squirms out of her place, picks up a few of the eel-like urchins, and returns them to their respective mothers, ordering them to be nursed forthwith, then wriggles back into her place again. There may be quiet during the infant dinner-hour, but the whole act is sure to be repeated several times before the service is over and the snow-white throng pours out between two unnecessarily stern-faced, sharp-eyed men in plain clothes whose habitat is the police station.

There can be no doubt of the many difficulties of mission work in a country where everything is so different from the home-land that an expression sounding almost exactly like “Come on!” means “Stop!” Among the dreadful stories one hears of missionary hardships is that of a man still in the field, who in his early days wished to preach a sermon on the text “Tam naji mara,” which is Korean for “Thou shalt not covet.” But as his command of the language was still somewhat faulty, he made the slight error of giving the text as “Dam naji mara.” Now while “tam” means “to covet,” “dam” means “to sweat,” and when the long service was over a little old Korean lady came up to say timidly to the youthful pastor, “I loved your sermon, dear teacher, but please tell me, how can we help sweating when it is so hot?”

Northward from Seoul by the railways which, broken only at the Straits of Tsushima, reach from Tokyo to Peking and beyond, lies much the same Korea as to the southward. Kaijo, or Song-do, reminds one that the ancient rulers of Cho-sen knew how to pick beautiful mountain sites for their capitals, for the landscape there rivals that about Seoul, alias Keijo. The first unification of the whole peninsula took place under the Korai—hence the name the West still uses—dynasty, 62which made its headquarters at Song-do and ruled for more than four centuries. When it was overthrown by one of the king’s generals, just a hundred years before the discovery of America, a new capital was established at Seoul and an ancient name for the country was restored—“Ch’ao Hsien,” roughly the “Land of Morning Calm.” The Chinese still call it Koli. Remnants of the groundwork of what must have been imposing buildings lie scattered to the west of the present Kaijo, and a great wall still climbs along the side of the mountain range that shuts it in. But the Song-do of to-day is little more than a large and very compact vista of smooth thatched roofs close beside the railway but an appreciable distance from the station. It has an American mission school famous for the ginghams made by students earning their way—un-Oriental as that may sound—in a factory in charge of a man from South Carolina; and some of the old customs have survived longer than in Seoul, the muffling from head to heels in a white sheet, for instance, of some of the women who glide through the narrow, unpaved streets.

Then, too, Kaijo is the center of the gin-seng industry of Korea. The root of this plant is credited with miraculous curative powers by the credulous Orientals and reaches prices verging on the fabulous. Cases are scarcely rare of wealthy invalids, particularly Chinese, paying as much as two hundred dollars for a single root no larger than a little forked carrot at most three inches long, though it is the wild mountain-growing species of this originally Manchurian weed that reaches such heights; the cultivated variety is much less esteemed. Throughout the Far East there is hardly a native drug-shop without its carefully hidden supply of this precious tonic, which is said to have some real value for old and weak persons, at least of the Orient; even Chinese physicians admit that it is too heating for Westerners, already too hot by temperament, according to their view. No doubt its celebrity is largely due, like that of many another commodity, to its absurdly high price. One might fancy that the growing of gin-seng would fit the Korean temperament, for it takes seven years to mature, after which the land must lie fallow, or at least free from the same crop, an equal length of time. The fern-like plant dies in the sun; so for a considerable distance along the way through Song-do district there are big brown patches on the landscape which on closer inspection prove to be fields of gin-seng in rows of little beds, each protected by reed or woven-leaf mats forming a north wall and inclining slightly to the south. Here, under the watchful eye of the government monopoly bureau, this delicate 63aristocrat of the vegetable kingdom is tended with far greater care than the babies of Korea, and at last is hidden away in the form of yellow-brown dried roots in the safest places known to native drug-venders.

Farther north are red uplands waving with corn and millet, and at some of the stations mammoth bales of silk cocoons, the worms within which are doomed to die a wriggling death in boiling water as their precious houses are disentangled into skeins in the thatched huts among which they will be scattered, the monopolistic eye of the alien government upon them also. Heijo, which to Koreans and missionaries is Ping Yang, has a somewhat less picturesque location than its two principal successors as capitals, and it bristles now with smoking factory chimneys. Indeed, it is quickly evident that this second city of the peninsula is more industrious than Seoul. Knitting-machines clash incessantly in hundreds of huts; yangbans and high hats and spotless white garments seem conspicuously rare to the traveler still having the capital in mind, and everywhere are evidences that here life has not been for centuries a holiday broken only by occasional languishing in government offices. Then, too, the eighteen thousand Chinese with which official statistics credit Korea are somewhat concentrated in Ping Yang and the north, and the Celestial adds to the industrious aspect of any land. These bigger and more rational-looking men do much of the hard work of Korea, such as stone-cutting and the building either of Christian schools or temples to the ancient gods. The latter seem to be losing some of their popularity in Ping Yang, for Christians are so numerous that the clatter of bells for Wednesday night prayer-meetings is as wide-spread as the sermons of Korean preachers are endless. Yet it is barely fifty years since Ping Yang went down to the river in a body and killed the foreigners who had dared to come in a Chinese junk into the Forbidden Kingdom.

In this metropolis of the north even topknots are rare and clipped heads the rule. It seems to be inevitable with the coming of Christianity to lose the picturesque; but usually the crasser superstitions go with it, and one should not, perhaps, regret the passing of anything which takes these also. Besides, there remain the roofs peculiar to Ping Yang and its region, with their high-flaring corners made of six to eight superimposed tiles, now required by law in place of combustible thatch; and the complicated cobweb of streets in the Korean section still teems with the ancient weazel-hair brushes working from ink-slabs and sounds with the busy, insistent, incessant rat-a-tat of ironing.

64It is striking how completely Korean Cho-sen remains to its very borders. Even in Yuki, where the coasting-steamer that brought me down from Vladivostok stopped to load logs, town and people were quite the same in appearance, manner, and customs as in Seoul or Fusan—and Japan had just as firm a grip. One might have suspected, from the long array of flags out through the little frontier village, that nearly all the inhabitants were Japanese, but it turned out that all shops, in honor of some mikado-ordained holiday, had been required to put up the rising—or is it the setting?—sun.

Seishin, a more important port farther southward along the coast, is picturesquely placed among foot-hills, and even has a railway, though this begins miles away behind it. There are no rickshaws for weak-legged passengers either, though little hand-run flat-cars operate on a tiny track, the spinning along on which on the edge of the bay by moonlight is delightful. Few thatched roofs are to be seen along the isolated little segment of the Korean Railways between Seishin and the garrisoned border town of Kainei, but tiled, Chinese-looking houses set down almost out of sight in patches of corn, and many mountains and tunnels, though also some fair valleys. Big chimneys made of hollowed logs of wood sprayed at the top by the fire that sometimes reaches them stand high above every mud-stuccoed dwelling in this region. Even there the landscape is almost treeless, except for a certain growth of small evergreens in patches here and there, though it is not far beyond to the great forests of the upper Yalu. Among them rises the rarely uncovered head of the Ever-White Mountain, and there are genuine tigers of Bengal and other game worthy the best sportsman’s skill in the wooded labyrinth of mountains about it. Kainei itself is quite a large town with many Japanese, thanks largely to the great barracks that seemed to swarm with soldiers. Part of an unambitious wall crawling along the foot of the hills not far north of it marks the ancient boundary between Korea and Manchuria, and in this midsummer season the town was hot beyond description in its pocket among the mountains. There were many little straw-built watch-towers standing stork-legged at the edges of the ripening crops, and up a hillside at the edge of town was a pathetic little Shinto shrine trying to force its way into the life of the people.

A village blacksmith of Korea. Note the bellows-pumper in his high hat at the rear

The interior of a native Korean school of the old type,—dark, dirty, swarming with flies, and loud with a constant chorus

In Kongo-san, the “Diamond Mountains” of eastern Korea

The monastery kitchen of Yu-jom-sa, typical of Korean cooking

65Much of the east coast of Korea is a mountainous wilderness, culminating in one truly Alpine cluster which the Japanese, quite justly, are striving to make better known to the outside world. If there is anywhere in eastern Asia a more marvelous bit of scenery, or a finer place in which to wander away a few summer days or weeks, than Kongo-san, beginning to be known among foreigners as the Diamond Mountains, I have overlooked it. One might enthuse for pages over the cathedral spires, the colossal cliffs, the magnificent evergreen forests clinging by incredible footholds to the gray rock even of mighty precipices, and a hundred other unnamed beauties of this compact little scenic paradise without giving more than a faint hint of the charms it encloses.

From Gensan, railway terminus of the branch northeastward from Seoul and principal port on the east coast, a small steamer hobbles southward for half a day to a blistering little town called Chozen, swaps passengers with a diminutive wharf, and hurries away again as if the evil spirits of the mountains were after it. One can walk, rickshaw, or Ford it to Onseiri, five miles inland, where the Japanese have built a modern hotel lacking nothing but freedom from Japanese prices, and where there are several Korean inns which house virtually all visitors. Or, one may leave the train from Seoul long before reaching Gensan, and cover the eighty-eight miles from Heiko to Choan-ji Temple, one of the buildings of which the same Japanese have made over into a pleasant little hostelry, by a highway that will carry even full-grown automobiles whenever the rainy season does not suddenly and bodily wipe out great sections of it. For that matter there are sixty-four miles of a road similar in capacity and subject to the same lapses along a beautiful coast-line from Gensan to Onseiri direct. Everything so far mentioned, however, functions only in the summer season, for from October onward Kongo-san is snow-bound and its monks and simple mountaineers drift back into the bucolic existence they and their forerunners enjoyed for centuries before the noisy, hurrying outside world discovered their enchanted retreat.

If the Diamond Mountains were in China, chair-bearers would humor the lazy in their indolence and carry them around the circuit for a most inadequate compensation. Fortunately the Koreans are not so ready to take up the burdens of others, with the result that Kongo-san is spared the sight of the mere tourist, incapable of depending for a few days on his own legs and head. A jiggy-coom, of whose intelligence I have already spoken elsewhere, and whose sturdiness, unfailing good cheer, and knowledge of the mountain paths were on a par with his other good qualities, kept my indispensable belongings within constant reach in spite of the swift pace circumstances forced me to set; 66otherwise my own feet paid the toll for whatever my eyes feasted upon. In fact, we made the circuit in three days, and saw in four everything that other visitors have considered worth making an exertion to see, which is reputed to be a record. But I admit this not in pride, but in contrition, for not to linger, to stroll, to camp for weeks hither and yon among the towering peaks, beside the torrential ravines, away in the scented recesses of the virgin forests of Kongo-san is to commit a sacrilege and to deny oneself one of the good things of life.

There are trails that pant upward for hours more steeply than any stairway built by man, revealing constantly changing vistas of fantastically carved rock pinnacles, of combinations of mountain and forest rarely seen even in the Alps, and, high enough up, glimpses of the sea itself, down into which Kongo-san comes tumbling in mighty cliffs, sheer as the walls of sky-scrapers. There are trails that wander hour after hour down great rock gorges where streams too clear to be described in words leap from pool to blue-green pool, and where the world rears up on either side so swiftly that only an eagle could escape from the ravine except by its natural exit. There are places which only the feet of intrepid and ardent lovers of nature have ever trodden, or, what is still better, ever will, and pinnacles of sharpened rock from the all but unattainable points of which myriads of others like them, yet each utterly different, stretch away in an endless forest of white granite spires among which sunshine and rain and the often swirling mists make new beauties each more beautiful than the last.

But we are wasting ink. The most expert weaver of words could not spin a pattern that would be more than a faint and caricature-like resemblance to the reality, even in some of the milder corners and aspects of the Diamond Mountains. Let us acknowledge plain impossibility at once therefore and see what hints can be conveyed by the matter-of-fact pigments at our disposal.

It is about fifty miles around the base of Kongo-san and the whole playground of nature covers only an area of seventy-five square miles, but not even in the Andes has the builder of mountains so nearly outdone himself within so limited a compass. A range over which no one has yet found a way divides this into what is called the Inner and the Outer Kongo, each with its endless variety of peerless scenic features. In places the trails crawl along the face of granite precipices by causeways or stairs of logs laid corduroy fashion and held in place by big iron spikes driven into the solid rock. In others there are huge chains by which to drag oneself to the top of some all but inaccessible summit 67that repays a hundredfold all the exertion of reaching it. Twice we had to wade and swim Bambakudo (the “Cañon of Myriad Cascades”) where man-built aids of chiseled rock or chained logs failed us, and where no human legs would have been frog-like enough to carry us from boulder to boulder across the foaming stream. To see the best of the region needs often hands as well as feet, and there are many times when the agility and steel nerves of the steeple-jack and the endurance of the Marathon runner are indispensable to the man who cannot bear the shame of turning back from an attempted undertaking.

If its delicious sylvan isolation and its marvelous scenery were all Kongo-san had to offer, it would be well worthy of world-wide fame; but to these are added about twoscore of Buddhist temples and monasteries so old and so withdrawn from the world that they alone would be worth climbing far to see. Ever since the introduction of Buddhism into Korea, some four centuries after Christ, this chaotic cluster of peaks and abysses has been a kind of holy land of that faith. Converted kings outdid each other in aiding the priests and monks who retired to this secluded region, sending workmen and sculptors to build them temples and cloisters in many and strange places, to chisel images of Buddha in isolated gorges on the faces of immense cliffs, ordering the laymen roundabout the mountains to furnish the recluses sustenance in perpetuity. Tradition has it that there were at one time a hundred and eight separate religious establishments scattered among these compact mountains; but it came to be the kingly custom toward the end of the fifteenth century to persecute Buddhism, and many of the retreats were burned or fell into ruin, while the rest cut themselves off from the outside world as completely as possible. After they were rediscovered, so to speak, some thirty years ago by, strangely enough, an English woman, their almost utter solitude of centuries began to be more and more broken by visitors of the nature-loving rather than the purely pious turn of mind.

The largest of the temples of Kongo-san is Yu-jom-sa, in which we spent the night following the perpendicular climb into the Inner Kongo, and it is quite typical of the others. A log bridge led across the acrobatic stream we had been trailing from near the summit, to a cluster of a dozen or more buildings, widely varying in size but all in the rather gaudy yet not unpleasing flare-roofed style common to Korean temples, and more or less so to those of Japan and China. Built of wood throughout, they had a dark and venerable aspect, even though they are credited since their establishment with having been destroyed more than 68forty times by fire—an extremely common affliction to the monkish residents of Kongo-san. Of the multicolored bogies and painted wooden gods within the temples, of the colorful wall scenes which give these background, even of the dainty pagoda rising slenderly as high as the highest roof, with tinkling little bells at each corner of its many stories, I need say nothing in particular, for these are things to be found in any Korean sanctuary. What was less familiar were the great kitchens from which the big establishment and its visitors are fed, or the wooden trough that brings the finest of mountain water down from miles away to a series of huge hollowed logs ranged closely side by side on the slightly sloping space between the two clusters of buildings. Those who wished to drink dipped with a quaint little wooden dipper from the upper logs, those supplying the kitchen took water from a little farther down; hands and faces were washed lower still, and finally came the reservoirs in which kitchen utensils and the like might be rinsed. To say that these descending orders of use were strictly obeyed either by visitors or the monks themselves, however, would be to overdraw any Korean picture.

Most of the temples and monasteries of Kongo-san supply food, and many of them sleeping-quarters, to all who apply for them, as there are neither inns nor the suggestion of shops or laymen venders in the mountains. A novice met us at the temple end of the bridge and assigned me a room, quite bare until it came time for boys to bring the little table on which I was served in a squatting position, but with the usual brown-paper floor of Korean dwellings. Cleanliness, at least as far as anything came to my eyes, was quite general. We had arrived before sunset, and there was time to see something of the daily life of the place before it retired early for the night. Big piles of cord-wood and brush in back courts testified to quite different weather than this delightful August evening at many hundred feet elevation. Numbers of the younger inmates were playing a medieval kind of cross between tennis and handball when we came; on the edge of the graveled temple terrace that served as court were two crude gymnastic turning-bars on which some of the priests and novices did tolerably difficult feats. A roar of laughter went up when, having been jokingly invited to join in this sport, I had almost to duck my head to pass under the bars that most of the others could only reach by jumping. They trotted out the tallest man in the establishment, and roared again when he proved to be several inches shorter than I; and I am sure I lost the reputation for veracity among them because I asserted that, as people of my country go, I am not particularly tall. There were many boys about the place, but I saw no signs of women, though the recluses of Kongo-san are reputed to obey their vows of celibacy much more in the breach than in the observance. The yellow robe which makes the Buddhist priest so picturesque a figure in some other lands had no counterpart here, at least in their outdoor, every-day wear. They wore almost the ordinary Korean male costume, in most cases of sackcloth, like men in mourning, though there were some white and others with a bluish tint. Heads of course were cropped, and there were no head-dresses of any kind in evidence.

One of the monks of Yu-jom-sa

This great cliff-carved Buddha, fifty feet high and thirty broad, was done by Chinese artists centuries ago. Note my carrier, a full-sized man, squatting at the lower left-hand corner

The carved Buddhas of Sam-pul-gam, at the entrance to the gorge of the Inner Kongo, were chiseled by a famous Korean monk five hundred years ago

The camera can at best give only a suggestion of the sheer white rock walls of Shin Man-mul-cho, perhaps the most marvelous bit of scenery in the Far East

69The booming of a great bell struck by the end of a suspended log called for gayer and more elaborate garments in which monks and novices sat and rocked as they chanted through the evening service on the papered floors of several of the main buildings. Meanwhile I had been called back to my room and served supper. There must have been at least twenty courses, or, rather, different dishes, to the meal, including no meat, but with more examples of the really excellent performances of the Korean cook than I had ever tasted elsewhere. Even tea was served, though up to quite recent years Koreans never drank it. Best of all, the attendants and idlers did not come to sit and watch me eat, like some wild animal in a cage, but withdrew when I had been served and did not intrude again until I lighted my evening cigar. Then a group of us strolled down to the bridge across the brawling stony river and chatted in the language of signs until night blotted out the evergreen wooded mountains that pile up close on every hand above this delightful refuge from the silly babble of the world.

It is true that a quartet of Japanese noisily smoked and gambled most of the night away on the other side of a thin partition, but these are afflictions against which Koreans have no effective weapons. My attendants actually left the door open all night; but, oh, the unspeakable hardness of a Korean floor serving as a bed! Breakfast was almost as generous as the evening meal, yet as I recall it I paid, at a roundabout suggestion from my hosts, only two or three yen for the full accommodations of myself and guide.

Sometime during that morning we came upon the mightiest of the carved Buddhas in the Diamond Mountains, in a wild and utterly uninhabited ravine through which we were descending from another slowly attained summit covered with reeking wet half-jungle. The image was cut in deep relief on the face of a cliff, and is so mammoth that my companion, squatting at a corner of it, looks like a fly-speck 70on the picture I took. At noon we were the guests of the score of monks of Makayun-an, the largest of the cloisters, as Yu-jom-sa is of the temples. A useless, perhaps, but certainly a gentle life these sturdy white-clad fellows with the shaven heads lead at the sheer foot of one of the most perpendicular peaks of the Inner Kongo. There are other cloisters far more inaccessible, some which almost never see visitors. One, I recall, on that afternoon down the magnificent Gorge of the Thousand Cascades, was set so sheer on the vertical mountain-side that a post, which seemed to be of iron and was surely a hundred feet long, under a corner of the building was all that kept it from pitching headlong into the abyss along which we scrambled our way far below.

I have said enough, no doubt, but no visitor to the Diamond Mountains should hurry back to drab reality until he has climbed by finger-nails and eyelids into that maze of white granite crags, like a hundred gigantic Woolworth Buildings designed by no earthly architect, which the Koreans call Shin Man-mul-cho. It rained more or less all the time we were risking our lives and all but bursting our lungs to reach even some of the slighter elevations of this fairy-land, but it would have been a strange offshoot of the human race who would have considered a mere soaking and the day’s toil of a galley-slave a high price to pay for the sights that were conferred upon us. My coolie carrier himself, though he had been there more than once before, was as averse to turning back, even long after it would have been wisdom to do so, as was the bedraggled and ragged Westerner who accompanied him.

Then, if there is time enough left after throwing away the tatters to which any proper excursion into Kongo-san will reduce the stoutest garments endurable there in summer, and the substitution of something less exposing, one should have a glimpse of the Sea Kongo, where islands that are like peaks of the fantastic mountains farther inland dot the route over which ply in the summer season crude conveyances that in real life are fishing-boats.

The change from Korea to China is not merely abrupt, it is instantaneous. In the exact middle of the big bridge over the Yalu, across which rickshaws trot and pedestrians of all degrees shuttle in two constant, almost silent-footed streams on either side of rumbling trains, stand a Japanese guard and a Chinese soldier, as strikingly unlike as two men of the same profession and rather similar background could well be; and they are typical of the wide differences in customs and costumes, in all the details, if not the essentials, of life on the two shores of the famous river. White gives way to blue denim as the garb of crowds and individuals—for in China, as in Japan, the former is the color of mourning. Pigtails take the place of topknots; tiny bound feet, which the traveler perhaps has never before seen, instantly become general among women of all ages and classes; uncovered breasts die out as suddenly as does the silly horsehair pretense of a hat. Instead of stallions there are geldings; wheelbarrows and oscillating shoulder-poles replace the back-rack known as a jiggy; the Chinese sense of humor, or racial cheerfulness, comes at once to the fore—there was more laughing in an hour in Antung than in a day in Korea or a week in Japan. One could not but be struck by the size of the Chinese as compared even with the Koreans, to say nothing of the dwarfish Japanese, and by their more common-sense air and dress—and at the same time by the horrible sloughs of mud that passed for streets, the diseased beggars wallowing up and down them, the truly putrid conditions of life in the native city.

There is a paved and well built Japanese fore-city about the railway station, but even this was essentially Chinese in its human aspects, in spite of the big mat-covered arena that had been hastily thrown up to house the paunchy second-rate Japanese wrestlers who strutted the streets in loin-cloths and fluttering kimonos. The low and ancient “victorias,” that rattled to and from the station, jerked rather than drawn by an emaciated horse or two streaked with mud and perspiration, and loaded to the gunwales often with a full dozen Chinese besides 72the heartless driver, seemed strangely in keeping with the north bank of the Yalu. All trains halt for an hour or more at Antung for the lenient examination of baggage, so that there is time to see all this, as well as the great log rafts floating down the river as its upper reaches are denuded and their forests turned into Chinese coffins. Nor will it be an unusual experience if the traveler is approached by a Japanese gendarme asking to see his passport, to which the proper reply of course is as gentle a reminder as is consistent with the brazen courtesy and one’s individual temperament that China has not yet been internationally recognized as a Japanese colony.

A few miles northward a serrated range rises close on the right, and there are other groups of hills on the way to Mukden, two or three of them strikingly crowned by ancient temples. But broad rolling fields of corn and millet and kaoliang are the chief impression of this ten-hour journey. There is an atmosphere reminiscent of pioneer America in these broad reaches of Manchuria, so unlike the little diked and flooded paddy-fields of Korea and Japan. Only rarely is there a human being in sight, now and then a lone man in a pigtail and blue denim hoeing corn, or plowing with a thin red ox or a cow. The few houses are as miserable as the huts of Korea, otherwise quite different, being plain and square, thatched with corn- or kaoliang-stalks instead of the hair-smooth rice-straw, and without a suggestion of the picturesque about them. In the midsummer season the landscape is a deep, almost unbroken green, for the few houses are so low that they are all but hidden among the tall crops, and there is the slightly denser green of scrub timber on the constant succession of fair-sized hills. Willows abound; in fact, it would not be difficult to imagine oneself in the hillier parts of Pennsylvania, did not the visibly splendid fertility of the country contrast so strongly with the lack of real houses or any indication of prosperity and comfort. At length high terraced hills become more populous; then the country grows deadly flat, with the soya-bean, king of Manchurian products, lording it over all other crops as one approaches Mukden.

The Russian name for the capital of China’s “Eastern Three Provinces” bids fair to persist in Western speech, though to the Japanese it is Hoten and the Chinese themselves now call it Feng-tien. That constant fight for a livelihood, for bare escape from starvation, which becomes in time an accepted feature of life in China, is in evidence even this far north and east, for all the spaciousness of Manchuria. There is a swarming of rickshaws like men set on the 73mark ready to race to any exit where there is the shadow of a promised fare, blocking the way if one attempts to set out on foot, trailing the stroller until walking ceases to be a pleasure. Carriages with a suggestion of Russian ancestry completely surround the man who gives the slightest hint that he may at some time want one, and escape is hardly possible without the vigorous wielding of at least as deadly a weapon as a cane, which leaves the average American handicapped. Both rickshaw-men and drivers are deathly afraid of even the most insignificant Japanese bell-boy, however, and as there is no way of alighting in Mukden except from the west without passing through a cordon of these, assistance may be had against the first fierce onslaught of the over-numerous means of transportation. There are rows of “Peking carts” also, ready to crowd half a dozen hardy and unhurried travelers beneath their blue-denim hoods, and finally, if one chances to be as fond of local odors as of local color, there are the horse-cars, which may conceivably strike some of the more aged visitors from the Occident as vaguely familiar. Just how many years back it is that these same cars jogged up and down Third Avenue in medieval New York I have not the requisite data to say, but they spent quite a number of them earning their livelihood in Tokyo, and there are rumors that their jaunt into the Orient has not yet reached its termination.

There is almost nothing Chinese, except these things and those who patronize them, about the red-brick Japanese city with its wide, often well paved streets in diagonal patterns, its typically Japanese monuments and its little khaki-clad gendarmes in blood-red cap-bands, where the traveler by train usually alights in Mukden. But Feng-tien proper is quite thoroughly Chinese, when one does at last reach it by one of the many available but all leisurely means of transportation. There is not merely a massive inner wall surrounding what was the capital of the Manchus before they spread over China and took up their headquarters in Peking, but a mud wall of careless and irregular shape encloses the entire city, down to the last suburb hovel, less as a protection against earthly enemies than to shut out those omnipresent evil spirits of the fervid Chinese imagination. Inside, there is what Spanish Americans would call mucho movimiento, interminable movement, a dodging to and fro of more rickshaws than there are taxicabs in New York, a constant passing of myriads of men and boys, even of women and girls, these often in the fantastic Manchu head-dress, an ever moving multitude on business, pleasure, or nothing whatever bent. Shops offering everything from steamed bread to rolls of copper coins, 74from red paper banners to pulverized deerhorns, line the way thickly, in dense succession. Venders of anything which native Mukden is in the habit of consuming, or of keeping unconsumed, weave their way in and out of the throngs, the muddy side streets, the tight little alleyways, announcing their wares by strange cries or mechanical noises that have come to be accepted for what they purport to be. Yet for all the bustle there is an atmosphere of Chinese calm. Shopkeepers may be eager for trade, but they will not be hurried out of a fitting deportment merely to please clients from the breathless West; hawkers move through the streets and carry on their bargaining as if the commodity we know as time had no appreciable value to them, though they keep industriously at their allotted task of announcing and disposing of as many of their wares as the fates decree. Above all the katydids or crickets singing in their crude little woven-reed cages suspended before house- and shop-door give a sense of bucolic calm that neutralizes any hint of haste in the incessant swarming to and fro of every type of Chinese.

Hawkers of this curious breed of Chinese singing-bird wander all the streets of Feng-tien, a score or more of the little cages at the ends of their shoulder-poles, one or two of the green insects, resembling “grasshoppers,” in each cage, and beside them sprigs of grass to feed upon until their support devolves upon a purchaser. We bought one for the diminutive member of our family, cage and all for twenty coppers, which seemed to be about a nickel, though it goes without saying that both as strangers and foreigners we were no doubt grossly swindled. Nor would the captive sing for us, at least long enough to be worth the price, during the day or two we kept him, gay and melodious as he and his companions were in Chinese captivity. Possibly he missed the mellifluous odors of the native city and was drooping with homesickness. When his little alien owner set him free in the park of the Japanese city, there was no great hope that he would enjoy his liberty long, for Chinese urchins were slinking about with a furtive air and an alert demeanor which boded ill for singing insects—unless, as we half suspected, those of China prefer to hang before a shop and chant keepers and clients into harmonious understanding.

The mere “sights” of Mukden in the tourist sense all date back at least three hundred years. There is the Manchu palace within the real city wall, its many structures still impressive in their roofs of imperial yellow tiles for all the dust-covered wrecks they are fast becoming under caretakers interested only in the size of their gratuities. An 75hour’s churning by Mukden’s Russian type of carriage over what the Chinese regard as a road is not too high a price to pay for a stroll through the capacious grounds of the Pei-ling, or Northern Tombs, where the second and last emperor to occupy the palaces in the city lies with his consort under the usual artificial hillock behind elaborate structures roofed also in imperial yellow. For though one is sure to see as many tombs of the famous and infamous in China as cathedrals in Europe, this is by no means the least imposing of them. It takes a bit more courage to jolt out to Tung-ling, the Eastern Mausoleum, a generation older and twice as far away; but there pine-clad hills and rather gentle yet impressive scenery make up for the somewhat less expansive tombs. Then, too, those whose interests are not entirely in the past may wish to run out on the branch line to Fushun, where the Japanese are taking out—by the use of economical Chinese muscle—vast quantities of coal from an open cut that goes down into the earth in steps, like a dry-dock prepared for some mammoth ship many times larger than any sea has ever floated.

It was at Mukden that we first came into personal contact with the swarms of soldiers—“coolies in uniform” might be a more exact term—with which all China is cursed under its putative republican régime. Chang Tso-lin, the war lord of Manchuria, had just been thwarted in his plan to get control of Peking, and his troops in their muddy-gray cotton uniforms were still pouring back into the city by the train-load. Wagon-trains of ammunition, useful another year, were rumbling through the narrow streets, hauled by dust-caked mules. Troops were stowed away everywhere, in every big yard or semi-public compound, in unsuspected corners, in barracks outside the town. Nowhere could one open the eyes without seeing soldiers, lounging in unmilitary attitude before guarded gates, lolling about the streets and bazaars with the air of conquerors to whom nothing could be denied, drawn in endless files through the Japanese city on their way to the railway station stretched out at ease in rickshaws among their bed-stuffed possessions and grasping in one hand the rifle with the butt of which the great majority of them probably paid the perspiring coolies so incessantly trotting back and forth with them. How much more picturesque life would be with us if our soldiers mobilized in taxicabs, and booted the driver out of the way if he dared to call attention to the taximeter.

Scholarly-looking little Chang Tso-lin, in his ugly French-château style of dwelling that seems so inexcusable an intruder among the 76graceful palaces of China, is an enigma, at least to those who have merely met rather than learned to know him. How this outwardly almost insignificant man can hold a great territory in the hollow of his hand, baffling all the cross-currents of intrigue which sweep incessantly up and down the “Eastern Three Provinces,” was a query worth pondering. Virtually a bandit in his younger days, then a lieutenant in the Japanese army during the war with Russia, Chang gathered somewhere the power to rule which made him an autocrat over his own people and won him even among many of the foreigners who breathe the Manchurian atmosphere the reputation of being the “strong man” of China. His methods are drastic and prompt; he is said to depend more on intuition, on “hunches,” than on ordered reflection. Keys to the leg-irons of serious criminals he kept in his own possession, so that they could not buy off in the time-honored Chinese fashion. Just before we reached Mukden two of his generals had been detected in the not unprecedented Chinese feat of putting into their own pockets a few cents a day from each soldier’s pay. Chang had them up on the carpet only after he had undeniable proof of their guilt, and there was nothing left for them to do but to confess and plead for mercy. A curt order to have them taken to the execution-ground beyond the outer city wall closed the incident. On the same day two common soldiers who had indulged in looting in outlying districts were found in the possession of the extraordinary sum of five hundred dollars each, and for three days their bodies were left lying out in front of the Chinese railway station as a hint to others whose plans might be taking similar shape. Cynics, and those foreign residents whose pet among the “strong men” of China is some one else, lay such personal disasters to the simple fact that Chang himself did not get his share of the “squeeze,” but the consensus of opinion seemed to be otherwise.

Two ladies in the station waiting-room of Antung, just across the Yalu from Korea, proudly comparing the relative inadequacy of their crippled feet

The Japanese have made Dairen, southern terminus of Manchuria and once the Russian Dalny, one of the most modern cities of the Far East

A ruined gallery in the famous North Fort of the Russians at Port Arthur. Hundreds of such war memorials are preserved by the Japanese on the sites of their first victory over the white race

The empty Manchu throne of Mukden

77The centuries-old Chinese method of execution by the lopping off of heads seems almost to have died out in modern militaristic China, at least in the north, along with such punishments as the slicing or the boxing up of those who win official displeasure. As condemned men cross the bridge to the execution-ground at Mukden, they are politely asked whether they wish to take morphine. Most of them “save face” by refusing it and assuming an outward air of bravery and indifference, perhaps even of gaiety. Sometimes as many as a score kneel on the ground together, their arms tied behind them. A soldier, who gets two “Mex” dollars for each man he despatches, walks down the line and kills as many as he chooses, and when he tires of the sport another soldier quickly takes his place. There are stories of men quarreling violently because the first one killed more than his share. The rifle barrel is placed behind the ear of each victim in prompt succession, the other kneeling men gazing up the line to see when their turn is coming, sometimes even laughing aloud at a bad shot, and as each man falls on his face from the force of the discharge a guard yanks the body out straight and cuts off the leg-irons. One might as well be in a barber-shop so far as any atmosphere of life and death, as we of the West understand it, goes at these frequent execution-parties at Feng-tien.

It must take a certain nerve-control to serve under the “war lord of Manchuria.” Hardly an hour after the two generals so radically cured of grafting had joined their ancestors, another general was asked to step into an automobile and go out to the execution-grounds with two American visitors. There was something about his manner which suggested that the general was under some great strain, but his companions, familiar with despotic rulers only in popular fiction, did not suspect until they reached their destination just why it was so obviously an effort for him to keep his attention on a subject, or even to swallow. But when he saw that there were no armed soldiers on hand to receive him, and that he had really been sent for no other purpose than to act as guide for the visitors, he thawed out so thoroughly that the foreigners carried off a false impression of the expansiveness which a Chinese gentleman displays to casual acquaintances.

Chang himself is evidently not without certain misgivings of a personal nature. When another American, armed with a motion-picture outfit and full credentials, was introduced into the war lord’s residence by one of his most trusted officials, General Chang the younger, his son and commander-in-chief of his armies, came to look things over in person, and even then the father cautiously examined the camera when he appeared, and a dozen of his personal body-guard—to which, rumor has it, no one is eligible who has not killed at least ten men—stood behind the camera-man with rifles loosely slung in the crook of their elbows during the filming. Yet the younger general reads, and to a certain extent speaks, English; his wife wears over her ears the hair-puffs of the Western “flapper”; a graduate of Columbia University is the official interpreter, several Chinese graduates of West Point serve under him, and the general’s favorite car 78comes from Michigan’s best automobile factory—where it was fitted with machine-gun emplacements and straps to keep the guards on the running-boards from changing their minds in times of danger.

I passed through Mukden four times before my journeys in as many directions from that focal point of Manchuria ended, and often had news from there after we moved on, for the doings of Chang Tso-lin were always of interest to the rest of China. To all intents and purposes this forceful little Chinese had become the absolute ruler of what was the home-land of the Manchus before they usurped the throne at Peking, completely reversing the rôles of the two peoples as they were played in 1644. The influx of Chinese after that date, when the Great Wall ceased to be a barrier between the overcrowded regions inside it and the vast open spaces of the nomad herdsmen beyond, gradually turned these into tilled fields where cultivation had hitherto been as strictly prohibited as had Chinese immigration, and finally swamped the thinly inhabited region entirely. The Manchus conquered China, and China began again in her time-honored way to swallow up the conquerors, until to-day there is no such thing as a Manchu nation, hardly a spoken remnant of the sonorous Manchu language, no one resembling the fierce warriors and hardy horsemen who put an end to the Ming dynasty such a little while ago. For it is barely three centuries since the chief of the “Eastern Tartars” commanded several learned persons of his nation to design a system of writing Manchu, upon the model of that of the Mongols, and not until two decades later that his successor ascended the dragon throne. To-day one meets individuals all over China who consider themselves Manchus, but they are hardly in any way distinguishable from the Chinese among whom they have been completely assimilated. One may travel the length and breadth of Manchuria now without realizing that he is not in China “proper,” and particularly since the rise of its present Chinese dictator it is much more fittingly known by its Chinese name of “Eastern Three Provinces.”

Virtually, if not openly, independent under his rule, that vast fertile region may possibly have a new future that will make it worthy of still another name, devoid of any suggestion of dependency. Mukden has its own foreign office; the incomes from the national salt monopoly and the customs, from that portion of the railway to Peking which lies north of the Great Wall, and from other similar sources flow directly into Chang’s treasury. The latest report is that he is making a good and, within Chinese limits, honest use of them. Mukden 79threatens to blossom out soon in widened and paved streets, to increase her school facilities, to send the old horse-cars off again on their wanderings and become the third city of China with electric tramways. Incidentally there is talk of a system of conscription to give Chang’s armies the full supply of hardy young men which this great granary of them under his command is capable of supplying, which will be a line of demarcation indeed from the haphazard, voluntary enlistments so long and fixedly in vogue in China “proper.” There are those who believe that provincial autonomy in place of the tightly centralized form of government of imperial days is not merely the visible development in modern “republican” China but the best thing that could happen to the colossal old empire, and these are watching with interest what they hope is the advancement of Manchuria under its approximately independent rule. But political changes are often swift in what was for so many centuries the unchangeable Middle Kingdom, and which still calls itself by the old name, so that it would be worse than boldness to prophesy whether another year will find Chang Tso-lin the undisputed sovereign of a progressive and well administered Northeastern China or merely another of those innumerable eliminated politicians fattening into dotage over their ill gotten gains in the safety-zones commonly known as foreign concessions.

As the traveler races north or southward from Mukden by the excellent expresses of the South Manchurian Railway, well ballasted and much of it already double-tracked, through towns lighted by electricity and as spick and span as Japanese rule can make them, it is hard to realize that when the present century began the home-land of the Manchus was almost unknown to the outside world in anything but name. Back behind these modern railway cities bulk the old walled towns of China, and in the never distant background the mere passenger glimpses the primitive methods of transportation and of life in general that are in such sharp contrast to his immediate surroundings, fitted with almost everything that civilization has mechanically to offer. In the summer season kaoliang, a species of what our own South knows as sorghum and which bears a considerable resemblance to the Kaffir-corn widely cultivated in Haiti, covers the earth with its deep green to the height of a horseman’s head, often as far as the eye can see for hours at a time—and makes magnificent hiding for bandits. The flatness of Manchuria at Mukden and to the north is made up for by the splendid range of mountains that follows the railway 80not far off on the left all the way to Dairen, great tumbled hills in which the mere tramper or the seeker after old temples and ancient monasteries finds himself equally rewarded. But it was still my lot for a time longer to stick rather closely to the lines of modern travel and to commonplace, if comfortable, modern cities.

Dairen, which the Japanese have made of the Russian Dalny in the leased portion of the Liaotung Peninsula that fell to them as the spoils of war, has all the un-Chinese characteristics of such cities, to enumerate which would merely be to describe in detail any one of a hundred great ports and railway termini in Europe or, with certain modifications, North America. May not therefore the broad macadamed streets, the big brick and stone buildings, the great breakwaters, the mammoth cranes on the docks, and all the rest of the signs of what we call progress, so admirable but so unpicturesque, be taken for granted? We liked Port Arthur, which the Japanese have redubbed Ryojun, better. There life was more leisurely; old buildings constructed by the Russians, streets that broke out every little while into grass- and even weed-grown open spaces, the spaciousness of a place which never grew to be the large busy city its founders planned, gave it something of the atmosphere of an old town of England, or of our South, somewhat off the track of present-day hasty and bustling activity. Ryojun is the seat of government of the Japanese leased territory, while Dairen is merely its metropolis. The old Port Arthur and the new are separated by a rivulet emptying into the splendid landlocked port, and by some hills, of which there are more than the eye can count rolling and piling away across all the landscape of the region. These are by far the most conspicuous features of Port Arthur and vicinity, for there is scarcely a knoll among them that does not bear on its summit a monument. Whether it is merely an unconscious manifestation of their military spirit, strong and continual as far back as history can trace them, or a deliberate parading of their victory over a branch of the white man’s world, the Japanese have marked every spot where a handful of their countrymen fell and have preserved the ruins of every fort out of which the Russian defenders were bombarded, so that the hilly landscape of all the region is littered with mementos to the god of war. Nor is his day over in Port Arthur, for a garrison commander sits ever on the alert against kodaking tourists who would profane his stone-built playthings overlooking the bay. Both at Port Arthur and at Dairen there are beaches that might become the international resorts the Japanese are striving to make them, could their sponsors ever learn that the rest of the world is not so enamoured of the dwarfish Nipponese form in the nude as they seem themselves to be.

A Manchu woman in her national head-dress, bargaining with a street vender of Mukden for a cup of tea

The Russian so loves a uniform, even after the land it represents has gone to pot, that even school-boys in Vladivostok usually wear them,—red bands, khaki, black trousers, purple epaulets

A common sight in Harbin,—a Russian refugee, in this case a blind boy, begging in the street of passing Chinese

A Russian in Harbin—evidently not a Bolshevik or he would be living in affluence in Russia

81Northward from Mukden there are also many reminders of Japanese military prowess, besides the railway itself. Here the line was being double-tracked, perhaps because the diversion of shipping, by fair means and foul, from Vladivostok to Dairen was proving too much for it. The Chinese workmen lived in semi-caves and reed-mat huts, and left a bush or a small tree at the top of a slim pyramid of earth here and there to show how deep they had dug for the new grading. Dense green hills and the unpicturesque, widely scattered huts of Manchuria broke the general landscape of endless fields of beans closely planted, with kaoliang and millet, wheat and corn, demanding their share of the broad open country. Cattle, horses, mules, and donkeys were plentiful, and ungainly black pigs more so. Every little while we passed a large walled town of which we in the West know not even the name, and somewhere not far from each of them was a new Japanese section including the railway station and rows of trainmen’s houses, perhaps schools and a hospital. But for all the advantages showered upon them the migrating Japanese plainly could not compete hand to hand with the Chinese pouring up from the crowded provinces across the Gulf of Chihli. They kept shop, ran the railroad, filled all the higher positions in the enterprises, such as mining, milling, and electric lighting, in which they are engaged, but as actual producers from the soil itself, of overwhelming importance in spacious, fertile, still rather thinly populated Manchuria, they were visibly incapacitated.

The changes which burst suddenly upon the traveler at Changchun would be startling if he were not almost certain to be prepared for them. Unless his memory is short or his age brief he can scarcely be unaware of the fact that the Treaty of Portsmouth on our own New England coast made Changchun the meeting-place of that portion of the Chinese Eastern Railway which remained to the Russians after their trouncing, and that long section of it which their conquerors have made over into the South Manchurian Railway. One steps from what is essentially an American express-train upon the station platform, and from that into an express-train that is European down to its most insignificant details. Cars of the “Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits” offer him the comfort of their separate compartments, brilliantly lighted by frosted bulbs, furnished even with thermometers, roomy with the five-foot gage of Russian railways, on which trains use the right- rather than the left-hand track. The heavy-stacked engine is as different from the one across the platform still panting from its race northward as the densely bearded Russian trainmen are from the alert little brown men of the same calling. Suddenly there were Russians everywhere, and by no means all of them were of a type to make one unduly proud of the white race; some indeed were roustabouts and station hangers-on living by petty graft upon uninformed travelers, such as the latter are never subjected to on the Japanese railways of Manchuria. There was such a mixture of Chinese, Japanese, and Russians at Changchun that one could only surmise who was really in control. It was a Russian who asked me for my passport—and who raised his hat, bowed low, and retired with an almost subservient “Thank you” when I answered that I was American. Booted and spurred Russians in khaki, in woolen trousers and cotton smocks, in the best they could do in the way of an individual uniform, their waists compressed to maidenly slenderness by tight belts, strutted the platforms in long swords with an air that said plainly that they would far rather die than have to work and 83not be able to strut about in uniform, boots, spurs, and sword. European civilians of both sexes, tow-headed women and children, mere Russian farmers, leaned on station barriers or made their way to and from the third-class coaches. One type in particular was very familiar,—the half-subservient, half-cocky, always vulgar Russian Jew, much assured of himself now, since the new turn things have taken in Russia, but still more or less openly despised by the non-Jewish Russians. In our car was one of the most offensive of these fellows, head of the opium ring of Harbin, who acted as if he had purchased the earth from its original owners and was making it a personal plaything.

The train made incredibly long stops at every station, but excellent speed between them, though it burned wood and thereby saved us from soot and cinders. I had a sense of being in an utterly foreign land, many times more so than among the Japanese. For one thing station names were in Chinese and Russian, equally illegible to those of us who recognize a word only in Roman letters, while from Yokohama to Changchun even the most insignificant stopping-place announces itself in English. Hitherto at least the head trainman was almost certain to have a smattering of my tongue; at worst I could produce a few short but highly valuable phrases of Japanese; but these black-bearded fellows were separated from me by an utterly impenetrable linguistic wall. They might quite as well have been Hottentots or Zulus as far as any possibility of communicating with them either by spoken or written word went. Perhaps it was mainly this sense of strangeness that made the air seem surcharged with something ominous, something akin to hopeless political conditions.

But through it all the endless plains of corn and beans, millet and wheat, beautiful in their deep green, spread as far as the eye could reach in every direction, hour after hour, all afternoon long. The plodding Chinese peasant, who is the mudsill of all the struggles of rival empires to control this vast rich territory, was still toiling here and there when the sun touched the flat western horizon. But at frequent intervals Russian boys in soldierly caps came running out of yellow brick farm-houses surrounded by a kind of Chinese wall. Many more of them lived in villages, some of which might have been lifted bodily out of European Russia. At these, Chinese and tow-headed venders appeared on the off side of stations, until they were chased away by policemen, offering live chickens, ducks, eggs by the basketful. A wonderful land, Manchuria, whether for cultivating or 84merely for the grazing of stock; no wonder crowded Japan covets this broad, half-wasted region, yet she has already shown that she would exploit rather than people it.

Rain was pouring when we reached Harbin, and seemed to have been for weeks. At least never in all my wanderings have I floundered through worse sloughs of mud than in the droshke which lost itself in the inky blackness and the downpour in what looked for a time like a vain attempt to get me from the station to a hotel. By morning light there seemed no particular reason for this, for though every street was covered at least with slime, there were enough of them roughly stone-paved to carry all the droshkes with which Harbin swarms. Perhaps it was merely an example of the impracticability of the Russians, of which I was to hear so many more before I moved on.

At Harbin, though still well inside China, the traveler finds himself back in Europe. Unless his geography is proof against such deceptions, he might easily believe that he had crossed the line into Russia and brought up in one of its most typical cities. Streets, architecture, customs, inhabitants are all on the Russian model. Instead of rickshaws there are two types of carriages,—the droshke, of barouche effect, drawn in most cases by two horses, the shaft animal under a great arched pole and the off one with its head tied down to a level with its knees and twisted well to the outside, thanks to some time-honored Russian idea of style or efficiency; then there is the amerikanka. The “American woman,” as foreign residents facetiously translate the word, is a two-wheeled cart with a plain open box on top, on a corner of which sits the driver, apparently wholly inured to the jouncing with every step of the horse and every unevenness of the road which the passenger or two beside him seldom gives evidence of enjoying. But the amerikanka is ridiculously cheap by Western standards, and the Russian who manipulates it is almost sure to be cheery and pleasant, filled with naïve tales of what is and what he believes is going on inside Russia proper, if one chances to have a companion who can act as interpreter, and in any case a relief merely as a Caucasian after months among squint-eyed Orientals. Already, however, the motor-buses which probably have by this time driven most of the leisurely Russian wielders of horse-whips out of business had begun to appear on the streets of Harbin.

The houses have double windows, with a space of two or three feet between the panes of glass; and great cylindrical stoves built into the walls from floor to ceiling, preferably in a corner where they can 85bulge into two, and even four, rooms, are almost as universal as in Russia. In a July heat which left one drenched after a short stroll, even by moonlight, and which made the briefest interview in any of Harbin’s dungeon-like, double-walled offices a kind of “third degree,” it was hard to believe these evidences of long winters during which, barely four months thence, it would often be forty below zero and the wearing of furs indispensable. To its residents and to most of its visitors Harbin, all Manchuria in fact, is a land of snow and ice and bitter gales; to me, who happened to be there in the very climax of the brief summer, it will always bring back memories of a climate compared to which that of the tropics is mild and invigorating. Nor can I remember meeting in all Japan such battalions of flies as helped to make life miserable in summer-time Harbin, with its brief nights and its interminable days.

I know at last why one’s hat is always snatched from him when he enters a Russian-Jewish restaurant in New York. In Russia, and equally in Harbin, it is an inexcusable discourtesy to go into an office, even for the briefest instant, wearing, or carrying, hat or overcoat. There are always flunkies waiting to take them away from you outside the door, and obviously they expect to be remembered when you leave. I am overcome with grief to think that, in my appalling ignorance, I so long fancied one of the least beloved customs of our metropolis a mere scheme to extort tips, instead of a transplanted refinement from urbane Russia. Equally Russian is the Harbin practice of shaking hands with the entire personnel, from proprietor to errand-boy, of any shop one enters, however slight the purchase one has in view. Indeed, the more genuinely well bred shake hands all around again before they leave.

Several gaudy blue, green, and gold churches of the Russian Orthodox faith rise in fantastic domes and puffed-out, cross-surmounted spires above the general level of Harbin, and religious ceremonies imported direct from pre-Bolshevik Moscow may be seen any day in the week. Funerals, for instance, were of more than daily occurrence. Most often they were those of impoverished refugees, and were brief and inconspicuous; but there were frequent processions of the elaborate, typically Russian character. I passed two such within half an hour one noonday. The first was of the wife of the Russian station-master. He had discharged a Chinese employee for negligence and “squeeze,” and the latter had returned to kill him, his bullet accidentally striking 86the wife instead. The second was of the head of the Harbin Gymnasium, or upper school, once a colonel and a man of great wealth in Russia, now so impoverished that his wife and children, on foot behind the hearse, as is the Russian custom, were almost in rags and virtually barefoot. Mummers in fantastic costumes, including long, light-colored robes, walked before and on either side of the deceased, who were carried in canopied vehicles gay beyond anything western Europe or the New World has to offer the dead, even the horses draped from ears to fetlocks in flowing white coverlets fancifully embroidered. But the most surprising, not to say repulsive, Russian feature of the ceremony was the public display of the corpse. In each case the heavy lid of the coffin was laid diagonally off to one side, and during all the miles from church to cemetery, with several stops for the burning of incense and priestly blessings on the way, the yellow face of the departed rolled from side to side as the open hearse jolted over the stony pavements.

It is an old saying that to scratch a Russian is to find a Tartar, but I had taken this to be a mere figure of speech until I came to Harbin and northern Manchuria, where the European and the Asiatic Orientals live side by side. The Chinese and the Russians, one quickly realized there, understand each other better than we of the real West can ever hope to understand either. They have the same complicated Oriental way of thinking, a similar point of view in such matters as “squeeze,” not very dissimilar business methods. In a Russian department-store of Harbin the purchaser gets two checks, one of which he pays at the desk under the personal eye of the owner or manager, getting the other stamped and presenting it, not to the clerk who served him, but to another so far away that collusion between them would be difficult, before he is finally handed his purchase. The mere loss of time on both sides no more worries the Russian than it would the Chinese. At every turn I found myself startled to recognize as another Russian trait what I had fancied was characteristic merely of eastern Asia. Every important house in Harbin had its private policeman, usually a Russian ex-soldier, and wherever one attempted to enter a gate watchmen and domestic hangers-on sprang up from all sides as thickly as at the entrance to a Chinese residence or yamen. Perhaps the greatest surprise was the discovery that the Russian uses the abacus or swan-pan for doing his arithmetic, just like the people of Japan, Korea, and China, except that with him the contrivance is much larger, as if his heavier fingers needed wooden balls worthy of their strength. Mental 87arithmetic seemed to be as impossible to him as to a Chinese shopkeeper or to the subjects of the mikado. On my first visit to a dining-car on the C. E. R., it being two or three hours before dinner-time, I had merely a glass of tea and some Russian form of pastry. The bill of fare announced these as costing 15 and 45 sen respectively—Japanese money is most widely used now in the Russianized zone of Manchuria. The ikon-faced man at his desk in a corner of the car, his mammoth black beard looking like a wig that had fallen from its place on his utterly hairless head, solemnly picked up his counting-board, rattled the balls back and forth for a full minute, and finally wrote down with an air of intellectual triumph the total of the two items on my check before him. No Westerner can ever hope to sandwich himself in between two peoples who prefer the abacus to pencil and paper for their arithmetical problems.

Yet the Russians are white men, and thereby hang certain problems that are sure to thrust themselves upon the visitor to northern Manchuria in the present days of Russian upheaval. It was a distinct pleasure to find myself again where Westerners were not incessantly stared at, even though it was useless to attempt to speak a word with men and women who would have looked perfectly at home on the streets of any large American city. But it was quite otherwise suddenly to realize that some of the weaknesses of our Western civilization are much more conspicuous, or at least more public, than similar flaws in Oriental society. Neither China nor Japan are model lands in many respects, but during all the time I had spent in the Far East I had not seen a fraction of the open indecency, the unashamed vulgarity, the deliberate flaunting of sexual wares that raged in the several conspicuous café singing-halls of Harbin. It was almost a shock even to see white women again in any number; to find them dressing and behaving as no Japanese geisha, no singsong-girl of Korea or China, would ever think of doing outside her semi-domestic circle, was more impressive, more suggestive of the vices of our civilization, than the average of us would have called to his attention during a lifetime of Western residence. The contrast, added to a little knowledge of the point of view of the Oriental as to the proper place of the sex appeal in life, made such things stand out with the vividness of electric sign-boards. As Westerners we might understand that Harbin, under undefined economic conditions and somewhat chaotic government, with overturned Russia pouring its vices and its hungers down into it, was not a normal sample of the West; to the occasional fat, smug Chinese 88visitors to these blatant places, and through them to thousands of their race, such parading of our vices could do more to give a false impression of Western life and the Western character than a thousand decent Occidentals, working for years to no other purpose, could correct.

Two decades ago, while I was wandering across Asia during the Japanese-Russian War, an English-speaking Hindu expressed to me his great astonishment that the white world should permit the yellow race to show its superiority over even what seemed just then the most widely disliked branch of the Caucasian family. He realized what at least the untraveled bulk of the Occident does not to this day, that every sign of weakness in any white nation, almost in any white individual, is immediately applied by the average Oriental mind to the whole white race. The effect of Japan’s victory over Russia, working like a leaven through the masses of Asia for a score of years, was quite apparent in certain general changes of attitude toward Westerners, some of them fortunate, many of them quite the contrary. Now, with the second catastrophe of Russia flooding Asia with new examples of Caucasian weaknesses, of white men reduced to a lower level than Asia had ever before seen them, one could not but feel that it behooves the Western world in general to look to the impression Russians in China are making for the Caucasian family as a whole, and to know what their treatment is at the hands of the Chinese. For while we may recognize the Russian as essentially an Oriental, really more closely allied to the Chinese than to ourselves, the latter thinks of him entirely as a Westerner, typical in his faults and his weaknesses of that other side of the earth toward which the Oriental attitude is of growing importance. I do not know whether or not the continued supremacy of the white race is best for the world at large; but I have rather strong personal opinions on that subject, and those who are like-minded would do well to look into the question of the present-day conditions of Russians in China, where at least the respect on which much of that supremacy depends is being gradually eaten away.

Along all the principal thoroughfares of Harbin squatted scores of white beggars, women and children among them, appealing to Chinese as well as to European passers-by. In the market-places of this and of other towns along the C. E. R. I saw many a Russian covered with filth, sores, and a few tattered rags, a noisome receptacle of some kind in his hands, wandering from stall to stall pleading with the sardonic Chinese keepers to give him a half-rotten tomato or a putrid piece of 89meat. Barefooted refugee children roamed the streets, picking up whatever they could find, including some of the nastiest of Chinese habits. Former officers of the czar, and wives who were once the grace of any drawing-room, speaking French with a faultless accent, lived in miserable pens with only ragged cloth partitions between them and their teeming neighbors, eating the poorest of Chinese coolie food, some of them unable to go out unless they went barefoot. In the so-called thieves’ market every conceivable kind of junk, from useful kitchen utensils to useless bric-à-brac of Russian ancestry, was offered for sale; any morning one might see several hundred Russian men and women shuttling to and fro there, trying to sell an odd pair of boots, an all but worn-out garment, a child’s toy, for the price of a handful of potatoes or a measure of kaoliang, or attempting to exchange something they had at last found they could do without for something their fellow refugees still had that seemed to them indispensable.

The few Americans in Harbin at least were doing what they could to relieve the needy Russians. But it was an even more complicated task than we of the West would suppose, for here again the essential Orientalism of the victims came out. Young men with fine faces, on which the signs of semi-starvation were in plain evidence, would come imploring any kind of assistance, any position that would give them enough to buy bread. “Why,” they would cry, as if they were going the utmost limit in describing their horrible state, “I will even work with my hands!” But this was merely bluff; nothing could make your typical Russian of the class which Bolshevism chased out of the country debase himself to any such degree as that, starve, beg, or steal though he must. With a plethora of hungry, yet still sturdy, Russians of both sexes all about them, it was almost impossible for the American residents to get servants, unless they took Chinese from the native city. They could get innumerable teachers of Russian, almost none of whom had any conception of how to teach, nor the persistence, patience, and punctuality which that calling requires; but when it came to washing dishes and mopping floors chances went begging in the very houses which were being bombarded with frantic appeals for help against incipient starvation. It was not merely that these former well-to-do did not know how to work; they would do anything rather than learn.

Fifteen boys who worked their way across Siberia and were found jobs by the Y. M. C. A. secretary of Harbin all ran away very shortly afterward, taking with them money or clothing, or both, belonging to their employers. One went home all the way across Siberia again to 90find his mother, discovered no trace of her, was caught by the “Red” army, and finally turned up in Harbin once more with frozen feet and looking like an old man, though he was only seventeen. This same secretary had countless appeals for help and at the same time a job of pumping water at his own house, but he was never able to make the two meet. Time after time he offered some hungry young Russian this task, which meant less than two hours’ work a day, at any time of the day that the worker might choose, the salary to be all the food he could eat and $7.50 “Mex” a month—a very liberal offer in China, even for high-priced Harbin. Invariably each applicant for aid bowed low at this offer, assured the secretary that he had saved his life, thanked him in the deepest Russian manner possible, which might include the kissing of the benefactor’s hands—and invariably never turned up again. One case was so obviously deserving that the secretary dug a good suit of clothes out of the bottom of his trunk, had it dry-cleaned, and gave it to the poor fellow, along with the pumping job, from which he discharged the Chinese boy who had recently been filling it very satisfactorily—and the next day, when his water ran out, he found that the man and the suit had gone to Vladivostok.

American representatives of such organizations as the Red Cross, who were spending money and energy for the betterment of Russian refugees in Harbin, Kirin, and other towns of northern Manchuria, could not get a man among all the big sturdy fellows they were feeding to build a brick stove, to patch a roof, or to dig a trench for their own benefit; Chinese laborers had to be called in to do all such “work with the hands.” Indeed, the refugees expected their benefactors to hire servants to sweep out and keep in order the buildings that had been found for them. There were some well-to-do Russians in Harbin—more C. E. R. officials than there were positions for them to fill lived there in style, and a few families had escaped from Russia early enough to have been able to bring much of their wealth with them, not to mention others who had long been in business in Manchuria. But these were the last people in Harbin to help their unfortunate compatriots. They might flaunt their own comfort and extravagance in the lean faces of the unfortunate; they were even known to “squeeze” some of the poor devils among the refugees of the working-class who found and accepted work; but they were as Oriental as the Chinese in looking callously on while their own people starved about them, or were succored by men from across the sea.

91For a time the Y. M. C. A. secretary helped young Russians to immigrate to the United States under the guise of students, there being some special ruling for these in spite of the new immigration restrictions; but so many of them turned out to be men who had helped to start the revolution in Russia and hoped to do the same in America that the plan proved to be unwise. Those who succeeded in finding tasks to the liking of the hand-sparing fugitives had their own troubles. “Hire a Russian and you have to hire another man to watch him,” was the consensus of opinion among all who had had that experience. Russian ideas of honesty were frankly Oriental; moreover they were idealists, dreamers, with no business sense, no conception of economics or economies, no “go,” not a practical trait in their whole make-up, unless they had some German, Swedish, or French blood in their veins, which the few enterprising ones in Harbin did. For all that they were a most likable people, childlike in their manners as well as their irresponsibility, with nothing of the surliness of the Japanese, nor of the Chinese love of ridicule. They gave one the feeling that they were not fitted to cope with the practical every-day world, that they should not be wandering about it without guardians and advisers. One soon ceased to wonder that the trade of Harbin was almost exclusively in the hands of the Jews and the Chinese; a few days in northern Manchuria were enough to explain why the Jews are so powerful and so hated in Russia, why it has been considered necessary to curb them, almost enough to make clear the incredible success of Bolshevism over common sense.

Distinctly a chip of the degenerate old régime was Harbin, inhabited mainly by people whom nothing would drive to manual labor but who were quite ready to spread intrigue and false propaganda against the new rulers in their native land. The Bolsheviks, it seems generally admitted, are at least sincere, wildly impractical as they are in their ideas of human society; these refugees of Harbin, one felt, would be just as bad as ever if once they got back into power, would have learned nothing whatever, thanks to their incapability, their temperamental ineptitude, from their bitter experiences. “Propaganda aside,” said foreign residents who were in a position to know, and who certainly were not friendly to the new order in Russia, “if the bulk of the Russian people were able to vote between the old régime and the present one they would choose the latter as the least of two evils”; and any one who has made even a brief stay in the Russian metropolis of China would probably be inclined to agree with that statement.

92The night life of Harbin, even passing over the vicious part of it, was in great contrast to that of Japan and the adjoining lands I had so far visited. Whatever else they might have to do without, the Russian exiles plainly did not propose to deny themselves the gay times, the mingling together in social concourse, the rivalry of dress and public squandering of money, the joys of good music, which had been so important a part of their life at home. Countless anecdotes floated about Harbin of refugees dressing like lords though they had not a crust left at home, of selling necessary things, even of spending money that had been given to keep them from starvation, to get raiment in which they were not ashamed to appear in the frequent social gatherings. In the park of the Railway Club, to which members and their families were admitted free and passing strangers at a goodly price of admission, there was an immense crowd on the evening I spent there, as there is almost any night of the week, so purely European a crowd that it took a distinct mental exertion to realize that one was still in China. Yet in all the big audience that stood and strolled about the huge shell-shaped sounding-board, from within the mouth of which a large orchestra gave an all-Tchaikowsky program that would have been loudly applauded by music lovers anywhere, there was scarcely a visible sign of straitened circumstances, to say nothing of poverty. Ladies as well gowned as at the Paris races strolled with men faultlessly garbed, by European standards, who swung their “sticks” with the haughty grace of aristocrats to whom the lack of an adequate income had never so much as occurred. Men and women sipping iced drinks on the veranda of the club paid their checks and tipped their waiters with as lavish an air as if the World War had never happened. Not a few men were in a kind of combination smock and uniform, with collars buttoning high about the neck; but these looked as much like an exuberance of fashion as like subterfuges to save shirts or cover the lack of them, just as their tightly belted waists were more of a fad than an open admission of the meagerness of their suppers.

It was like such a concert in a Spanish-American plaza, yet in many ways different. The hearers stood during the numbers and walked between them, reversing the usual practice south of the Rio Grande. There was endless hand-shaking; beards were not conspicuously numerous and even mustaches were little in fashion, at least among the younger men, but closely clipped, even shaved, heads seemed to be as much the style as among the modern Chinese, who, now that they are doing away with the pigtail, are doing so with such a vengeance that 93their scalps show white through the bristles. Short hair was not uncommon among the women, too, though less as a fashion, it was said, than because so many had had typhus during their fugitive days. It was strange to see the women all wearing hats, quite aside from the fact that they were almost all new ones; it was strange to see women openly treated with respect, for that matter, and walking arm in arm with their men; strangest of all was the queer feeling of mingling again with thousands of white people, after months of never having seen more than a dozen of them together. Not a few of the girls and young women were more than good-looking, in form as well as face, a fact which many of them seemed to take care not to conceal, for some of the newest dresses were startlingly thin, and rolled stockings barely covering the ankle were almost the rule among the younger set. But Russians do not appear to be prudish about the display of the human form; during July and August great numbers of both sexes, quite of the decent class, bathe together perfectly naked in the muddy water of Harbin’s uninspiring river.

I was introduced to princesses in simple but very appropriate garb, to people with strange and with sad stories, to men who had run away from Russia and left their wives to follow—if they could—to women who had performed incredible feats and suffered unbelievable hardships to escape from the blighted land or to join such unworthy husbands, and who in some cases still retained their striking beauty and in many their Russian charm. Yet numerous as were the fine faces in the crowd, it hardly needed the experience of foreign residents to call attention to the fact that in so many instances these looked proud and impractical and—well, inefficient in the matter-of-fact things of life. Now and then there passed through the throng that made respectful way for them old generals still wearing their uniforms, blazing from shoulder to shoulder with decorations, and the same haughty expression of men expecting instant obedience as in their bygone days of power and emoluments. I could not quite get the point of view on some Russian prejudices. Not one of that race with whom I spoke during my journey through northern Manchuria lost an opportunity to curse the Jews, whom they always spoke of as synonymous with the new régime in their native land. Yet the leader of this orchestra was a Jew, and he not only got wild applause at the end of almost every number, even from men who left off vilifying his people just long enough to add to it in the heartiest fashion, but when he raised his baton to start the first number the almost entirely Russian orchestra 94had given him a “rouser” instead, a sudden burst of music entirely different from what they were about to play, which is considered in Russian musical circles the highest honor that can be paid a musical director.

Harbin consists of four towns, each with its individual name. There is the old one where the Russians first settled when they built the Chinese Eastern Railway, now almost deserted but for tillers of the surrounding fields, a makeshift home for orphan refugees, and the like. In Pristan, popularly called “Jew-town,” most of the business is carried on, as well as the far-famed singing-halls. Up the hill from this and separated from it by an open space in which Chinese executions take place is the more commodious railroad town, with important offices, the better-class residences, the garish Russian Orthodox churches which rise like unnaturally gorgeous flowers above the rather drab general level. Lastly, there is Fu-chia-tien, the Chinese city, a mile or more away from the others, as completely Chinese as if there had never been a Russian within a thousand versts of the place. There are many rickshaws in Fu-chia-tien, but not one in all the other three towns, and rarely indeed does a foreigner ride in one, though they are more comfortable on the horrible streets than the droshke, and certainly more so than the excruciating “American women.” The severed heads of bandits hung in cages on several street corners in Chinese Harbin, and many other such touching little details showed that the town clung strictly to its own ways in spite of the many foreign examples so close at hand.

Until the debacle of the czarist régime in Russia, the three Russian towns of Harbin were entirely under their own rule. Even now, since they have formally taken over the jurisdiction of them, the Chinese still let the Russians largely alone in their municipal affairs, but they are more and more prone to “butt in” and gratuitously assert their authority, just as they have in the Chinese Eastern Railway. This now has a Chinese as well as a Russian president and the whole category of Chinese officials down to the last clerk, in addition to Russian duplicates of the same in the greatly over-staffed offices. Some say the Russian railway officials are deliberately selling out to the Chinese; others claim that they are running this important link in world communication into wreckage and bankruptcy while they and the Bolsheviks quarrel, on paper and at a distance, as to whether it belongs to the Russian Government or merely to the Russo-Asiatic Bank. Meanwhile it staggers along under its top-heavy double staff, paying salaries to 95Chinese who do nothing and to many Russians who do not do much. The latter, old officials cut off for years now from higher authority, avow that they are merely administering the line for the benefit of the czarist régime that appointed them, until such time as this shall recover its rightful place in the world, but in practice they act as if the C. E. R. were the private property of the little clique of reactionary Russians who hold the power and wealth of Harbin. How public-spirited these are is suggested by such actions as their refusing to transport, except at full rates, food and clothing furnished by the Red Cross for the relief of their compatriots in the various towns of northern Manchuria.

At Versailles in 1919 and again at the Washington Conference two years later the Chinese delegates demanded the abrogation of extraterritorial jurisdiction in China, as a derogation of her sovereign status as a nation. The request was denied, but at the second gathering it was decided to appoint a commission to examine on the spot the assertion of the delegates that the administration of justice in the former Celestial Empire has so far improved that foreign jurisdiction may safely be abolished. Since then certain occurrences in China which have not been testimonials in her favor have caused the commission indefinitely to postpone its coming; but in the meanwhile there is considerable evidence at hand in the treatment of the Russians by the Chinese since the former were deprived of their extraterritorial status.

It is probably not necessary to explain that extraterritoriality, as it is familiarly called, consists, briefly, in the right—or is it privilege?—of foreigners in China to be tried only by their own consuls or judges, under the laws of their own countries. Eighty years ago, closely following the Treaty of Nanking, which ended one of her “opium wars” with China, England forced this concession upon the Chinese Government, the Americans and the French quickly followed suit, and soon there were very few foreign residents indeed who were not protected by treaty from Chinese courts and prisons. This state of affairs remained unbroken until about the time of the Washington Conference, when China took advantage of conditions in Russia to repudiate her treaty with the czarist Government, and the many thousands of Russians in China suddenly found themselves on a par, legally, with the Chinese themselves. A new treaty between China and Germany, in which the latter either inadvertently or purposely left out any mention of extraterritoriality, and lack of treaties with some of 96the other countries on which China declared war at the behest of the Allies has left Germans, Austrians, Bulgarians, and some other nationalities in the same boat with the Russians.

Since then life has not been quite the same in Harbin and the other Russian towns of northern Manchuria. On one hand the change has caused some just retribution. In the olden days Russians kicked the Chinese about almost at will; now when a Chinese carriage driver in Harbin gets a good excuse and opportunity, Russian heads are likely to suffer. Russian railway-men used to throw Chinese passengers back into third class or out on the platform, if they felt in the mood, even though they held first-class tickets; now the minions of Chang Tso-lin suddenly levy a new tax and Chinese soldiers go out and “beat up” Russian farmers to such an extent in some cases that ships lie waiting for cargo in Dairen while crops rot in the fields. Unfortunately things do not often stop with mere retribution. The Chinese along the C. E. R. seem sometimes to go out of their way to be insolent toward any Westerner, to jostle and to annoy him without cause; taxes have been levied on the property of foreigners other than Russian, and men arrested in spite of treaties of extraterritoriality still in existence. An Italian woman who complained that her purse had been stolen by a Chinese pickpocket was taken to jail along with the thief, as openly as was a Russian who tried to get back his fur coat, and the latter at least was imprisoned for weeks. You cannot expect the garden variety of Chinese soldier or policeman to recognize a difference in foreigners, and in a town where 98 per cent of these are Russians we others have to watch our steps. Perhaps this inability of their Chinese comrades to distinguish between foreigners without and those still with extraterritorial status is the reason that there are Russian police in Harbin, splashing through its mud in their heavy boots as if they still had the czar’s authority behind them—until the passing of some supercilious Chinese official causes them to snap to attention and salute.

The grain of the kaoliang, one of the most important crops of North China. It grows from ten to fifteen feet high and makes the finest of hiding-places for bandits

A daily sight in Vladivostok,—a group of youths suspected of opinions contrary to those of the Government, rounded up and trotted off to prison

A refugee Russian priest, of whom there were many in Harbin

Types of this kind swarm along the Chinese Eastern Railway of Manchuria, many of them volunteers in the Chinese army or railway police

97Many examples of Chinese oppression of the Russians were common knowledge in Harbin, some of them more serious than others. A young Russian member of the Y. M. C. A. who was putting the shot in a park of the residence town was arrested by the Chinese on the charge of having a bomb in his possession. He spent some hours in jail, finally to be released on bail, the police confiscating what the judge agreed with them was an explosive agent of destruction. The association secretary had to threaten to refer the matter to the American consul before the “bomb” was returned, and when I left Harbin the charge against the “bomb-thrower” had not been dismissed. Then there was the sad case of another member aspiring to athletic prowess, who, in throwing the javelin, hit a dog, though that was complicated by the fact that the injured animal was of Japanese nationality, which made the affair much more serious. Chang and his retainers may have a justifiable scorn for those of us whose governments so habitually turn the other cheek of late in cases of Chinese aggression, but there are several thousand good reasons, all splendidly armed and equipped and right on the spot, why he should respect Japan’s wishes, even if his former lieutenancy and certain allegations of secret allegiances still frequently heard have no weight with him.

These instances, I admit, are not such as nations should go to war over, but they are just as good examples as are many far more serious ones, which any foreign resident of Harbin can cite, of how misunderstandings alone, if there were the very best will and desire to be just, would make it impossible for foreigners to get justice in China once their extraterritorial privileges were taken away from them. Nor was it a particularly agreeable sight to see a line of Russian men and women waiting for hours, if not for days, the good pleasure of haughty Chinese officials and their gutter-snipe-like underlings in order to get passports to go to another town, or out of the country. The court-room I visited in Harbin was an ordinary brick and plaster building, but chasers of evil spirits climbed its eaves, and dragons sat on the roof, their antennæ waving in the wind. Many Russians were gathered, including a huge lawyer in robes who suggested Gulliver in fear of his life when he bowed and smirked before the diminutive almond-eyed officials. In theory court opened at ten, but there had been fireworks in the Chinese town the night before and his honor was still being patiently awaited at noon. Out in front of the court was a string of bill-boards on which cases were posted in tissue-paper sheets covered with Chinese characters, reminding one that an interpreter to explain what the police had against one would be indispensable under lost extraterritoriality.

The judge did come at last, a boyish-looking fellow who sat in splendid, not to say haughty, isolation in his high chair, singsonging something now and then in a half-audible falsetto, and still more often hawking and spitting on the floor, though there were signs all over the court-room forbidding it. On the desk before him was one tissue-paper bordereau, as the French, who use similar loosely bound collections of papers, would call it; but there were no signs of law-books, and the judge seemed to get his precedents, and his opinions, too, one suspected, 98from the not too immaculate clerks and hangers-on who frequently came up to whisper in his ear. Meanwhile a gray-bearded Russian was standing respectfully before him at the rail, droning on and on in his own tongue some sort of complaint, testimony, or defense. The case was not a very serious one, it seemed, there being a mere matter of two or three hundred dollars “Mex” involved; but without going any farther into details, let me put it briefly that, though there was in evidence all the machinery of justice which a visiting commission would wish to see, I should very much have regretted the necessity of expecting justice from this soggy-eyed Celestial youth, bending his ear to this and that whisper from his unkempt, shifty-looking attendants.

I visited also the big prison down in Pristan, built by the Russians but now taken over by the Chinese. There were two hundred and seventy-seven Russian prisoners and one German in it, a dozen of them women, among whom was a Jewish member of that sex who had lived for years in “Noo Yoik,” and spoke her fluent English accordingly. The same rules governed the prison as under the Russians, but orders from higher up now came from Chinese, and inmates put their hope, in cases where they had any left, in Chinese courts and officials. Some of the guards were still Russian, but the majority were not, and the sight of white men, clanking with enormous chains, chased about the yard while they cleaned out toilets and did similar menial tasks, by Chinese jailers who openly enjoyed their discomfiture, would not have added to the joy of white nations. Nearly all the prisoners, however, were in groups of six to a dozen in large cells that could be dimly seen through a small slit in each door. Living conditions were those of the old type of Russian prisons, with immense locks, and very thick walls that made the July heat furnace-like; the food was mainly kaoliang and other cheap, coarse grains; there were no shops, or regular work of any kind, and only half an hour’s exercise a day in the open air was allowed, even “in principle.” There were, of course, desperate criminals among the rather pasty-faced but generally big brawny men who peered out the door-slits with expressions uncannily like caged lions and tigers, and from these China must protect herself and those who dwell within her borders. But my American missionary companion, who had lived for some time in Harbin and spoke Russian, knew personally of several men for whose innocence the whole Caucasian community could vouch, who were there merely out of Chinese spite and whose trials had been, or would be, if they ever took place, worse than travesties on justice. The worst hardship of all, according 99to the misguided lady from “Noo Yoik,” was that no one had the least inkling, nor any possible way of finding out, when the Chinese might deign to bring a prisoner to court and air the charges against him.

Terms up to forty years were inflicted, but “long-timers” had the privilege, at least in theory, of being transferred to the “model prison” in Peking. Thus far no Russians had been executed, “because of the impression this might make among foreign nations,” according to an official Chinese statement. Of course once those nations give up their extraterritorial rights it will not so much matter what impression is made. Not long after our visit, however, when a thin and effeminate-looking little Russian charged with half a dozen murders in the pursuance of his calling as highway robber, and with whom I talked “high-brow stuff” in his tiny private cell, walked calmly out of the court-room and killed two or three of the policemen who pursued him, the announcement was made that in his case at least, if he were ever retaken, this policy would be rescinded. There is little doubt that this particular “bad man” should be done away with; but when Chinese soldiers get to shooting white men as one of their regular duties, what little prestige our race retains in China will soon evaporate. For what those many untraveled Westerners who feel that China should have complete sovereignty within her borders do not realize is the primitive mentality of the Chinese masses, which includes the soldiers, in such matters as the natural fights of others and the assumption of a low estate in those who are not outwardly honored and protected.

Though it is trespassing on the future to mention it here, I visited, months later, that “model prison” of Peking. It is just that, a well built, splendidly arranged penitentiary on the most modern, wheel-shaped lines, out in the southwest corner of the Chinese city. The new section recently built for foreigners—which had room for four times as many inmates as had so far been collected—was quite all it should be, with hot and cold baths, reasonable provisions for heating in winter, a kitchen of its own where foreign food was prepared. The workshops of the entire institution were large, airy, and light; there was a Russian as well as a Chinese chapel in which Taoist, Confucianist, Mohammedan, Christian, even Y. M. C. A. speakers appeared on Sundays; the régime of the place was considerate and enlightened; as a prison, in fact, it should make such a place as Sing Sing faint with shame. I saw other “model prisons” in China, notably that in the capital of Shansi, which has never had a representative from the outside world except a Turk 100who was caught peddling opium pills. But these few praiseworthy institutions in the more enlightened centers, and toward which the eyes of an investigating commission would, of course, be carefully directed, are as nothing compared to the unspeakable holes all over China into which prisoners are thrown, and where foreigners also would have the privilege of moldering away while provincial authorities slept, if extraterritoriality were abolished.

There is no Chinese code of laws; the fate of most prisoners depends on the often poor judgment, the mood of the moment, the devious political machinations, of the judge himself, not to mention wide-spread bribery and Oriental intricacies of which even old residents have only an inkling. Two separate codes, for foreigners and Chinese, would certainly have to be introduced before extraterritoriality could be surrendered. You cannot justly shoot or lop off the head of a Westerner for stealing a suit of clothes or a sack of grain, however necessary such drastic measures may be among a people desperate with habitual semi-starvation and so inured to hardships that ordinary punishments mean nothing, any more than you can justly arrest a foreign merchant because his overcoat has been stolen, and keep him in jail for weeks as a witness. In Chinese jurisprudence torture is a recognized procedure, and false confessions forced thereby are considered legal proof of guilt. Every prisoner is presumed to be guilty, and must prove his innocence, rather than be convicted by the prosecution, no strange point of view to Latin races, but a topsyturvy one to Anglo-Saxons. Not the least disagreeable of Chinese practices is the “doctrine of responsibility,” which means that in any group, be it village, family, crew, or, if the present status were changed, assemblage of foreigners, some one must be punished for the misdeeds of any individual member of it, so that a perfectly innocent head may be lopped off to save the trouble of hunting out the real criminal. Even though the Chinese were to do their best to treat foreign prisoners justly, the very differences in point of view, in customs, in diet even, would make it impossible. The East and the West are so unlike that an American could die of Chinese food and living conditions while his jailers were priding themselves, in their ignorance of other lands, on giving him the best the world affords. Of course Japan is an example of the abolishing of extraterritoriality; but even there the foreigner by no means gets Western justice, and for all the virtues and likable qualities of the Celestial and the often disagreeable traits of the Nipponese, government in Japan is ideal compared to the corrupt, chaotic travesty on it which rules China.

One of the Russian churches in Harbin, a creamy gray, with green domes and golden crosses, with much gaudy trimming

A policeman of Vladivostok, where shaving is looked down upon

Two former officers in the czar’s army, now bootblacks in the “thieves’” market of Harbin—when they catch any one who can afford to be blacked

Scores of booths in Harbin, Manchuli, and Vladivostok, selling second-hand hardware of every description, suggest why the factories and trains of Bolshevik Russia have difficulty in running

101I traveled from end to end of the Chinese Eastern Railway, including the extension of it from Pogranichnaya to Vladivostok, through what was once, like Korea, Chinese territory. Endless steppes, flat as a floor, covered as far as the eye could see with coarse grass, here and there being hayed, was the general aspect north of the Sungari. Great herds of cattle and sheep, carts drawn by six or eight horses over roads which in the rainy season could not have been passable at all, millions of acres of potential wheat-fields, a great granary of everything, including sturdy youths for Chang Tso-lin’s armies, formed the outstanding features of Hai-lung-chiang, northernmost and largest of China’s provinces. South-bound freight-trains were not only crowded with Chinese soldiers, gambling amid the chaotic messiness that surrounded them in their roofed cars, but the uncovered flat-cars loaded with their paraphernalia, with car-wheels and rusted machinery, were crowded with Russian women and children sleeping on makeshift nests in sunshine or heavy rain. There were cattle-cars with barefooted Russian men tending them, little European box-cars fitted up as homes, sometimes with a still aristocratic-looking young woman suckling a babe in the center of it, impertinent Chinese soldiers looking on. There is no way of computing how many pretty Russian girls, with nothing to live on but the sale of their charms, there were along the C. E. R. from Manchuli to Vladivostok, like the little end of the funnel down through which the miseries of Russia had been oozing for years.

For all the rumors of degeneration of that line, however, the through express was an excellent train, though even more leisurely than that on the branch from Harbin southward, halting interminably at every station, apparently to let the crew talk to the girls who decorated every platform. It had all the comforts of compartment-divided sleeping-cars, with Russian attendants; the dining-car, with its ikon and its abacus, had a boarding-house table the entire length of it, and comely young Russian waitresses, who rolled their socks.

When I awoke in the morning beyond Tsitsihar, the landscape was silvery with white birches. Large and often pretty towns appeared every now and then among the low green hills or on the broad prairies of this most arctic of the “Eastern Three Provinces,” decidedly Russian towns, with wide unpaved streets, discordantly colored half-Oriental churches of the Greek Orthodox faith rising high above all else, against 102backgrounds that gave above all a sense of vast, wide-open spaces. The Russians have about twelve square miles at each station, and a strip of territory on either side of the railway, where they can rent land for about eighty years, as against only eighteen for foreigners in the rest of China, where none but Chinese can own land, with certain exceptions in favor of missionaries. There were far more Russians than Chinese at the stations of these frontier towns, reminiscent of those of the Dakotas, where every one came down to see the daily train go through. Most of the peasant women were barefoot; in town the girls all rolled their stockings, or went without them entirely. But huge bearskin coats and big fur caps hung out on lines, airing. Hot water was furnished at all the important stations, and bushels of eggs, all manner of food, especially just at this season most magnificent raspberries, were for sale by robust Russian women, often in a substantial booth built for the purpose. But long lines of Chinese soldiers with drawn bayonets still slouched along every platform, besides no end of Russians in uniforms of every swaggering description, as if the dregs of a dozen routed armies had been scattered along the line. Many of these strutting fellows wore swords, and some carried firearms, members evidently of some sort of local or railway police, as the unarmed majority were probably men who had no other garments left. The constant swashbuckling, the incessant parading of deadly weapons, got on the nerves; quite aside from the decided economic loss of so many men withdrawn from production, there was an ominous something about these thousands of young fellows, who had not been old enough to get into the war, now strutting about in its aftermath as if looking for a chance to make up for lost opportunities. The Russians saluted all Chinese officials, even those in civilian dress, raising their hats to them obsequiously if they themselves were not in uniform. At one station a drunken Russian went around forcing Chinese ragamuffins to shake hands with him.

All northern Manchuria was much troubled by bandits, hung-hu-tze, or “red beards,” they were called, who had devastated far and wide, even attacking the trains and station towns. There were at least a few renegade Russians among some of the bands. The public shooting of hung-hu-tze, in an open space between Pristan and the railway town, was one of the frequent sights of Harbin. But the real curse of Manchuria, as we were to find it of almost all China, were the soldiers. The bandits often paid for what they took, but the soldiers looted openly and carried off their plunder by the train-load within plain sight of 103every one. When they wished to move, away from the railroad, they forced farmers to let their crops go to waste and furnish them transportation for ten-day journeys, feeding the drivers and their animals along the way, but leaving them to find their way home as best they could. If there were no other carts to be had at the end of the ten days, the old ones must go on, twenty, thirty days, and even more. One man I heard of had been away a year, and still could not get back. A few hundred hand-picked, well paid soldiers, perhaps with a few Russians among them to give them starch, could, according to competent opinion, put a stop to banditry in Manchuria. But such coolies in uniform as swarm up and down the C. E. R. accomplish nothing to that end, even when they are not in actual collusion with the bandits. The hung-hu-tze rout whole barracks of them, and prey on the Chinese and the Russian population alike. Yet the Government clings to the fiction that they afford sufficient protection, and will not allow the Russians to go armed, unless they hold some kind of military position under the Chinese. Soldiers and bandits alike abuse all the inhabitants of northern Manchuria, except the Japanese, who have their own troops on the spot.

Manchuli, on the edge of Siberia and almost on the fiftieth parallel, is a large, prairie-like town of much more Russian than Chinese aspect. Many of its houses are built of logs, yet are not unhomelike; sod hovels like caves half below and half above ground shelter some of the population, among which were many down-and-outs. Cossacks in their big caps, with curiously liquid eyes, roam the wide, if dusty, streets. Russians and Chinese sit joking together; both ride the small sturdy horses of the region; many of the Chinese wear the long, soft, black boots so general among their neighbors, but there seemed to be very few mixtures of the two races. Sturdy fellows indeed were these bearded Caucasian farmers from the north and west, but for that matter the far-northern Chinese, with enough to eat and room to live in, are big and strong, too, real pioneers, used to a different environment than are their overcrowded compatriots farther south, in touch with and more sympathetic toward European civilization. Now and again one of the Chinese spoke to me in Russian and, when I could not answer, announced to his companions that I was a yang gwei, though without any thought of insult in the term, Russians evidently being so numerous and familiar that they are no longer ranked as “foreign devils.” A market-place of scores of makeshift shanties was stocked with enough second-hand hardware to supply half Manchuria. Like those in Harbin and, 104I found later, Vladivostok, these marts were crammed with everything from railroad equipment to hinges, from factory machinery to crooked nails, all more or less rusted, broken, and out of order. It was as if every Russian who had fled before the “Reds” had torn loose and brought with him anything he could lay his hands on, and here was another explanation of why the factories and trains of Soviet Russia have difficulty in running.

From Manchuli one can easily look across into Bolshevik territory; but that was not China, and the traveler must turn back somewhere. An ancient engine and the most rattletrap collection of cars that ever masqueraded under the name of train was preparing to set out for Chita, wretched-looking women and gaunt, hungry babies among the passengers who occupied the dirty, miserably dilapidated compartments that were lighted only by the candles travelers brought with them. Even those of us for whom hardships have a certain zest could hardly regret that the way lay back the comfortable way we had come.

From Mukden on to Peking one has a feeling of being in the real China at last. Silver dollars take the place of convenient bank-notes; the chaotic rough and tumble of Chinese crowds unchecked by foreign discipline pervades stations and trains, both swarming with unsoldierly men and boys in faded, ill fitting, gray cotton uniforms, who pack even the dining-car to impassability; here and there a bullet-hole through wall or window of the stuffy coupés into which the half-breed American-European cars, with certain curious native characteristics, are divided reminds one of recent history in the once Celestial Empire. Endless fields, enormous seas, of kaoliang, enough to hide all the bandits in China, flank the way. For that matter the towns as well as brigands hide in it, for the slightly oval-roofed houses of stone and baked mud are barely as high as this tall grain, and as the roofs themselves are often covered with grass, places of considerable size easily escape the eye entirely. In other seasons it is quite different, for once they are denuded the fields are mere wind-swept stretches of bare earth protesting against the habitual scarcity of moisture in North China by sending frequent swirling clouds of dust to envelop any one and anything within reach. Walled towns far from the stations that serve them, iron-riveted cart-wheels hub-deep in the “roads” through which rural transportation laboriously flounders its way, Chinese in long cloaks, almost universally denim-blue in color, naked children and ragged, diseased adults begging abjectly wherever the train halts, were but a 105few of the details that somehow we had always associated with China. Even the towns hidden in the grain seemed to be overrun with soldiers, yet about all pretentious properties were big stone walls that suggested bandits in perpetuity. All these things we saw hazily, through a veil, as it were, for some pseudo-genius has had the unhappy thought of lining nearly all the railways of China with willow-trees, which flash constantly past with exasperating persistence, combining with the inadequate little windows of the stuffy compartments still further to reduce the visibility.

At Shanhaikwan, where the Great Wall clambers down to the sea at last, weary with its three thousand miles over the mountains, soldiers were much less numerous than in towns not so important to the north and south of it. For the warring factions had declared a neutral zone on either side of the colossal ancient rampart, which had become again, after nearly three centuries of no real importance, the dividing-line between what threatens to be an independent Manchuria and China proper. On the beach at Shanhaikwan, or neighboring Pei-tai-ho, where half the foreign residents of North China spend the summer, with turbaned Hindus, white and black soldiers of France, an Italian gunboat, and other reminders of their protective home governments to discount rumors of being in danger, the heat was still too scorching to make an immediate entry into still hotter Peking inviting, though August was well on the wane. Even a week later, when much of the landscape was flooded with the brief rainy season, a cool breath of air night or day was as rare as a Chinese field without a grave. Within the Great Wall, beyond which seems to be considered outer darkness for such purposes, these bare, untended mounds, without even the grass which beautifies those of Korea, dotted the country like spatters of raindrops on a placid yellow sea. As we neared Taku, at the mouth of the river that gives Tientsin its importance and all but washes the walls of Peking, higher, newer conical heaps of earth suggested that many men of importance, or wealth, had recently been buried there. But these turned out to be salt-fields, where the surface soil of a great sea-flooded region is thrown up in mounds and rectangular heaps which gradually wash down from earthy brown to the white piles that are sacred to the government salt monopoly.

The traveler who lets his friends rush him about the foreign concession of Tientsin by trolley or automobile will get an impression of a comfortable Western community in an Oriental land, but he will carry off very little idea of the real China, or even of the real Tientsin, which 106is a swarming Chinese city, none the less so for having had its wall reduced to a street of boulevard width as a punishment for the Boxer uprising. To those for whom commerce and modern efficiency are everything of importance, the Concession at Tientsin is of more consequence than a whole province of interior China, but I found myself more interested in any one of the ten Mohammedan mosques within the native city, or in the former home of Li Hung-chang, now a tomb in which he is worshiped by his descendants quite like any other prominent bygone Chinese from Confucius to Yuan Shih-kai, than in the whole length of Victoria Road.

A foreign concession in China, while it serves its purpose of making life more livable and business more possible to the foreign merchants who inhabit it, is altogether too convenient a refuge for the Chinese crooks who choose to make it one. How many of China’s ex-ministers of finance or of communications, how many former office-holders of every graft-collecting grade, have retired to the protection of foreign jurisdiction at Tientsin alone, living in luxury on their loot of office, and how much of this might have been recovered by the Chinese people to whom it rightfully belongs were there no such safety-zones of easy access, is suggested by the magnificent establishments many of these rogues maintain there. Yet the gaunt human horses who toil past them tugging at heavy carts piled high with imports and exports get barely six cents a day in our money, which they wolf in scanty, unwholesome food copper by copper as fast as their tally-sticks amount to one. As mere passers-by we could not but be thankful that, after a brief following of the example of other nations, the United States decided that concessions on Chinese soil were not in keeping with our national policy. The Russians and the Germans and the Austrians have lost theirs now, as they have their extraterritoriality, and it would not be strange if this recovery of sovereignty taken from them for the misdeeds of the Boxers gives hope to the people of China of chasing us all out before the century has grown much older. Where a bare score of Italians can hold a large tract of Chinese territory under their jurisdiction, trafficking in arms and munitions from it with the various factions that are doing their best to make China a continual battle-field, and selling at almost any price they wish to ask what is virtually the protection of their flag to Chinese rascals, it is not to be wondered at if enmity toward “foreign devils” in general does not show rapid strides toward oblivion. Jealousies among the various nationalities which still keep their holdings also make a queer story. Thus as many police forces 107and fire departments are maintained as there are concessions, and one miserable little bridge connects the principal foreign quarter with the rest of China, when getting together would make really efficient substitutions. Tientsin is perhaps a pleasant dwelling-place for those who like it, but we left it without regret one morning soon after our arrival and by noon were rumbling along under the massive walls of Peking, which was to be our home for the unprecedented length of nine months that will not soon be forgotten.

In September, when the kaoliang has ripened to its purple-red, there is added beauty to the eight-hour climb from Peking, by leisurely Chinese train, through Nankow Pass and the Great Wall, to Kalgan. Beyond that treeless, mountain-girdled city the railway turns sharply westward, timidly keeping within the outer spur of China’s mammoth rampart, and the traveler to the vast open world to the north must abandon it for a more courageous form of transportation.

Down to the very doors of to-day the camel caravan, drifting along for six weeks or two months, was the swiftest thing from Kalgan to Urga, capital of Outer Mongolia, seven hundred miles away, unless it was sometimes outsped by the forced relays of the Imperial Chinese Post. But the ratio between time and distance has of late undergone violent changes, even in such far-off stretches of the globe. Little more than a decade back mankind was astonished to hear that a venturesome motor-car had fought its way from Peking to Paris; five or six years ago men of more commercial turn of mind took to following this pioneer of swiftness across the Gobi; and to-day it is a rare week that does not see several automobiles, always with room for one more passenger, climb out of Kalgan on their way to Urga.

How some of these ever reach their destination is one of the innumerable mysteries of the Orient. Our own expedition seemed risky enough, yet it was a mere parlor-game compared to those we met or overtook along the way. In the first place there were but four of us—the Russian Jewish fur-merchant from Tientsin who owned the car, his chauffeur of similar origin, and we two wandering Americans whom chance had momentarily thrown together in the intricate byways of the earth. What with our necessary baggage, the food and beds and arctic garments it would have been foolhardy to reduce, and the cases of gasolene that completed the ramparts which made each ascent to our seats a mountaineering feat, I at least fancied we were heavily laden. Yet we passed on the trail cars with eight or nine Chinese passengers, and on a memorable morning one with eleven, besides all manner of baggage, winter garments, and paraphernalia, somehow packed away in them. They were often old and crippled cars, too, and no wonder, while our own was fresh from the factory, with two gasolene-tanks, a host of reinforcements and accessories, and the right-handed drive befitting left-handed China. Like all those engaged in the Kalgan-to-Urga traffic, it came from Detroit, though not of the breed one first thinks of in that connection, but from the second most popular motor tribe of that habitat. Those who should know say that this is the only car sturdy and at the same time economical enough to endure life on the Gobi Desert.

The human freight horses of Tientsin, who toil ten or more hours a day for twenty coppers, about six cents in our money

Part of the pass above Kalgan is so steep that no automobile can climb to the great Mongolian plateau unassisted

Some of the camel caravans we passed on the Gobi seemed endless. This one had thirty dozen loaded camels and more than a dozen outriders

But cattle caravans also cross the Gobi, drawing home-made two-wheeled carts, often with a flag, sometimes the stars and stripes, flying at the head

109We honked and snorted and sirened our way through the narrow, dust-deep, crowded streets of Kalgan, as automobiles must in any genuine Chinese city, now blocked completely by the deliberate foot-going traffic, now by languid trains of ox-carts, and always quickly surrounded by gaping and grinning Chinese, to whom a foreigner seems always to remain a rare bird, however many of him may be seen daily. Twice we were halted at ancient city gates by policemen with fixed bayonets. They were somewhat more deferential to us, and more easily satisfied with the credentials we chose to show, than toward our two companions with their big red huchao, large as a newspaper page, by means of which the local yamen had given them permission for their journey. Russians are subject now to Chinese law, and Americans are not, which at times makes a world of difference. Yet it was at one of these same gates that an American resident of Kalgan was killed by one of these same guards not long afterward for refusing to submit to an illegal decree of the local overlord.

For about two hours beyond the outer gate we climbed a stony river-bed, wide enough to have carried a stream with ships on its bosom, but merely crisscrossed by a narrow brook bringing down silt from the treeless mountains above. The city abandoned us with reluctance, struggling along for a way in closely crowded shops and dwellings, then straggling more and more until it dwindled to a single row of mud houses on either side, finally to little clusters of huts strung together like loose strings of beads, and breaking up at last into isolated hamlets dug back cave-like into the cliffs of dry fantastic hills that rose yellow-brown above and beyond us. The unpromising route was dense with traffic,—long trains of camels haughtily treading past, strings of ox-carts with the solid, heavily riveted wheels indigenous to China, patient-faced mules and donkeys carefully picking their way through acres of tumbled stones, throngs of cheery, unbelligerent Chinese in blue denims, 110mingled here and there with a more hardy, weather-beaten, hard-faced Mongol, a stray soldier perhaps, with an ancient gun slung over his sheepskin-clad shoulder, or a robust lama in filthy quilted garments that had once been red or yellow. Whenever some of the many obstacles brought us momentarily to a halt these religious tramps came to beg the half-smoked cigarette from between our lips, to feel the car all over, as if it were some new breed of horse, and to hint that a dollar or a dime or a few coppers or even some remnants of food would be more or less gratefully accepted.

Where the waterless river tumbles down from the high plateau across which lies nearly all the route to Urga, the slope is too swift even for the sturdiest of motors, wherefore the adaptable Chinese villagers have found a new source of income. Before this steeper section was reached, Chinese along the way began to wave appeals at us, to point out their lean and hungry mules and horses, in some cases even to climb up over our baggage rampart with harnesses in their hands, begging the job of hauling us to the top. Three horses, a mule, and a donkey were at length engaged, after the bargaining indispensable to both races concerned in the transaction, hitched with long rope traces to the front axle of our now silent car, and for more than an hour they toiled upward under the discouragement of three shrieking Chinese drivers and their cracking whips, at a pace which that one of us who chose to walk easily outdistanced.

From the chaos of broken rocks where the animals were allowed to abandon us stretched a tumbled brown world not unlike the upper reaches of the Andes. Of road in the Western sense there had been none from the start; there was even less now. Across pell-mell hillocks with rarely a yard of level space between them, among rocks of every jagged and broken form, we plowed for the rest of the morning. Cattle—curiously effeminate-looking cattle, with long ungraceful horns—flocks of sheep and goats intermingled, files of camels under varying cargo, here and there a cluster of black pigs rooting more or less in vain, marked a trail that might otherwise have been less easy to follow. Men in cotton-padded clothing and sheepskins plodded beside their animals, or tramped alone with a worn and faded roll of bed and belongings on their backs; cheery, amused, seldom-washed people smiled at us over the mud walls of their compounds; for some time big ruined towers of what was, or was to have been, another Great Wall, stood at brief intervals along the crest of the bare, yellow-brown ridge beside us. Then came rolling stretches of grain, principally oats, most of it already 111harvested by the sickle and carry-on-the-back method, for all the vastness of the cultivation, and lying in carefully spaced bundles in the fields where it fell, or set up in long rows of closely crowded shocks near the hard-earth threshing floors.

Bit by bit even this cultivation grew rare and scattered, and finally died out entirely. By the time the speedometer registered eighty miles from Kalgan we were spinning along, often at thirty miles an hour, across high, brown, grass-covered plains, still somewhat uneven, but with little more than a suggestion of hilliness remaining. Flocks of sheep far off on the sloping sides of the horizon looked like patches of daisies; veritable gusts of gray-blue birds of stately flight, suggestive both of cranes and of wild geese, rose in deliberate haste before us and floated away to the rear in a vain effort to outdistance us. Almost frequently we passed long camel caravans, broken up into sections of a dozen animals each, tied together by a sort of wooden marlinespike thrust through their noses beneath the nostrils and attached by a cord to the pack of the animal ahead, the first of each dozen led by a well padded, skin-wrapped man who was more often Chinese than Mongol. Some of these camel-trains seemed endless, with dozen after dozen of the leisurely, soft-footed animals slowly turning their heads to gaze, with a disdainful curiosity that suggested a world-weary professor looking out from beneath his spectacles at incorrigible mankind, upon this strange and impatiently hasty rival that sped breathlessly past them. Now and again a beast shuffled sidewise away from us, uttering that absurd little falsetto squeak which is the camel’s inadequate means of protest at a cruel world; but most of them refused to be startled into undignified activity by any such ridiculous apparition. Once on the journey I counted a caravan bound for Urga which stretched from horizon to horizon across the brown undulating world; and there were thirty dozen camels bearing cargo, and a score of outriders to keep the expedition in order.

We spent the night in a Chinese inn, mud-built and isolated, with the usual stone kang, heatable and mat-covered, as bed and only furnishing. It might have been quiet and restful but for over-zealous watch-dogs and the arrival long after dark and the departure long before dawn of two dilapidated cars with seventeen chattering Chinese passengers. We, too, were off well before daylight, a half-moon lighting the way as we spun across rolling, utterly treeless country with nothing but short, scanty grass giving a touch of life to the brown-green 112landscape over which a cloudless sun at length poured its molten gold. Even the confirmed tramp would have found this an unendurable journey on foot; a motor-car in its prime was scarcely swift enough to avoid monotony, to come often enough on flashes of interest to keep the senses from sinking into slothfulness. Pedestrians and lone travelers had long since disappeared; safety, both from possible violence and from starvation, demanded banding together, and some form of mount. The big shaggy black dogs of Mongolia, filthy in diet as those of Central and South America, but several times more savage, roamed wild across the plains. A woman abroad at sunrise, gathering the offal left by a camping camel-train and tossing it with a bamboo pitchfork over her shoulder into a basket on her back, was the only sign of life for several miles. Such fuel, like the llama droppings of the Andean highlands, is all that is to be had in this barren region.

There were striking reminders of the aborigines of the Andes among the scattered inhabitants of this high plateau. Mongols, distinctive in face, dress, manner, and physique from the Chinese, had the same broad, stolid features to be found along the spine of South America, though they were much more bold and independent of bearing, as if they had never been cowed by alien races. The interiors of their rare clusters of two or three huts recalled the Andes, too—the bare earth for floor, a dozen woolly sheepskins as beds, an extra pair of boots, a couple of aged pots as total belongings. Instead of heaped-up cobblestones without mortar, however, these yourts were made of thick rugs of felt fastened about a light wooden framework into a perfectly round dwelling perhaps ten feet in diameter, the door, invariably facing the south, so low that a man could barely enter upright on his knees. Inside, at least under the wheel-like apex-support of the round and sloping roof, even we Americans could sometimes stand erect—by peering out through the opening for the escape of smoke and the entrance of air in pleasant daytime weather, left by turning back the uppermost strip of felt. At one such tent, where we halted to satisfy a thirsty radiator, only a soil-matted old woman appeared and took to feeling along the ground about it for the vessel that lay in plain sight. She was stone-blind, it turned out, yet to all appearances quite satisfied with life as she knew it, with only her miserable yourt and an uninviting water-hole a few rods away. The Mongol is still a true nomad herdsman, and his round, gray-white dwellings are easily transportable, so that when one little hollow in the plain dries up he has only to pack his house and wander along.

The Mongol would not be himself without his horse, though to us this would usually seem only a pony

Mongol authorities examining our papers, which Vilner is showing, at Ude. Robes blue, purple, dull red, etc. Biggest Chinaman on left

A group of Mongols and stray Chinese watching our arrival at the first yamen of Urga

113Once every two or three hours we passed a cluster of three or four of these low, movable homes, always at a considerable distance off the trail. There was still no road, yet we made good speed almost steadily. Besides the often dim traces of other travelers there was the guidance of a line of telegraph-poles, carrying two wires but as yet no messages. In the days before the World War word could be flashed by this route from Paris to Peking, even from London to Shanghai, in three minutes; but retreating armies must have fuel even in a treeless desert. Mixed flocks of sheep and goats, slate-colored goats mingled with those fat-tailed sheep of Asia which waddled so ludicrously as they scampered away from us, still found sustenance here and there under the protection of a mounted shepherd or two. It was still too early autumn for wolves, but bands of antelopes, like big pretty rabbits, loping gracefully yet swiftly across the rolling plains, became more and more frequent and immense as we sped northwestward. Before the journey ended, great lines of these, like brown-gray heat-waves, sometimes undulated along the whole horizon, and more than one herd of fifty to a hundred, startled by the sudden appearance of our snorting black monster, all but ran themselves off their legs in a mad dash to cross the trail in front of us, instead of speeding away out of danger.

It was about noon of the second day that we gradually entered the real Gobi Desert. Yet it was not a desert in the Sahara sense, of mere shifting sand, but of hard sand and gravel mixed with clay, always covered at least with the thinnest of grass, and often with tufts of a grass-bushy sort, enough to keep even a desert from shifting and blowing. Thus far the weather had been cool but glorious; but no sooner had we come to the Gobi, where, as any teacher of geography can tell you, it never rains, than the sky roofed itself over completely with gray-black clouds and rain forced us to halt and contrive some means of raising the top over our ramparts of baggage. Skeletons of cattle, particularly of camels, became more than frequent, blanching into dust closely beside the trail just where the end of their life’s labors had overtaken them. Buzzards that looked more like eagles vied with the wild black dogs in disposing quickly of the carcasses. Nor were the modern rivals of the camel free from a like fate. Several skeletons of automobiles caught our eye, and they were always scattered piece by piece for some distance, as if they had disintegrated at full speed, or their bones, too, had been picked clean and dragged hither and yon by those savage dogs that roam the Mongolian plains. Floor-flat and wide as it is, and almost as free from the “other fellow” as from “traffic 114cops,” this natural speedway of the Gobi has had a number of fatal automobile accidents.

Unlike the Sahara, it is not merely the camel that can cross the Gobi. Mules and horses make the journey, and the miles-long camel caravans were rivaled by endless strings of ox-carts, the crudest of two-wheeled contrivances, plodding along across the dry, brown world as if all sense of time or destination had long since been cast aside as worthless paraphernalia. Often, especially in the cold early mornings, we passed caravans camped out, perhaps for a day or two, while their weary animals browsed the stingy hillsides. A denim-blue tent backed by scores or hundreds of bales of hides or wool, if the expedition was China-bound, or boxes of food, cloth, liquor, and oil products, if Urga was its destination, with perhaps more uptilted two-wheeled carts than could have been counted during one of our average halts, usually completed such a picture as we came upon it. At the sound of our unmuffled engine tent-doors became alive with gaping, bullet-headed Mongols, lower orders of whom, or their Chinese counterparts, came to life from beneath what had seemed to be mere bundles of felt rags and sheepskins on the cold hard ground, while the horses tethered about the camp with three feet hobbled together after the Mongol fashion made frantic and often successful efforts to escape from this new terror descending upon them. The horses of the Gobi have not yet learned to behold the automobile with equanimity, and our passing often sent great herds of Mongolian ponies sweeping away in chaotic masses across the plains in a stampede which the dozen outriders were powerless to stem.

Twice during the second day we made out large compact clusters of white buildings on the flank of distant ridges along the horizon—lamaseries in which scores of Mongol monks pass their days in anything but monasterial austerity. Once, when we had seen no other living thing for hours, an old Mongol came loping across the desert on a camel in the teeth of the cold, raging wind, a picturesque figure in the still almost bright-red quilted cloak reaching to his ankles, and his pagoda-shaped fur cap. When we called to him he halted and pulled sharply at the reins attached to the perforated nose of his beast, which thereupon knelt in instalments, front, back, then front again, and rose to follow his dismounted master over to us. Our Russian companions, who managed to make themselves understood in any language, though actually speaking none but their own, passed the time of day in Mongol, the one important word of which seems to be buyna, corresponding to 115the French il y a, but greatly outdoing it in service. The leathery face of the old man was like a boot that had lain out in the elements for years; the two teeth he showed suggested the fangs of a wolf; but his smile was as kindly as that of an Iowa farmer, and while his thankfulness for a cigarette was very briefly expressed, as becomes a nomad scorning or unaware of the formalities of a politer world, there was something distinctly manly in his every movement from the time we first saw him until he mounted his kneeling camel again and rode away into the vastness of the desert. For hours afterward there was nothing to catch the attention, unless it was the compatriot beside me. He was one of those American wanderers in the Orient who have never recrossed the Pacific since coming out to help pacify the Philippines a generation ago, and he still preferred a horse and “buggy” to these new-fangled things fed by gasolene; he had not yet heard of scores of facts and inventions which have become ancient history to us at home; and he passed his idle hours in humming the songs that were popular in our land twenty years back.

At length we ran out from under the great motionless canopy of clouds into brilliant sunshine again, though even there the racing wind was almost bitter cold. The Gobi, as I have said, is no Sahara, yet it was beautiful in its many moods as the sea, stretching away in tawny browns or cold bluish grays to infinity, or to scampering lines of antelope along the far horizon. Beyond the mud-walled compound enclosing the telegraph station of Ehr-lien the smooth, grass-tufted desert gave way to a savage country of protruding rock-heaps, peaked heaps of blackish stone outcropping everywhere, as if nature, too, built prayer-piles, like the pious Mongols, who litter their landscapes with conical piles of stones wherever they are available, as appeals to the supernatural powers.

Nightfall found us midway between two mud-walled telegraph stations, and shelter from the raging wind and the penetrating night air of a more than four-thousand-foot elevation was highly desirable. Two weather-blackened yourts broke the immensity about us, far off to the right. One does not need to look for side-roads on the Gobi; we made a bee-line for them across the plain. But the unsoaped occupants were not willing to double up in one tent and rent us the other, for which I was duly grateful when I had caught a glimpse inside the pen that might have been assigned to us. Several miles farther on, a larger group of nomad dwellings appeared, this time to the left across more 116broken country. By the time we had struggled near to the settlement we were surrounded by Mongols and black dogs, several horses had broken their tethers and were already mere specks on the horizon, and even the camels reclining about the yourts had risen to protest in their ridiculously childish falsetto against this unauthorized disturbance. This time there were half a dozen tents, in much better repair and more nearly resembling human dwellings. Moreover here there was a man of importance to receive us. He was a lama, as his close-cropped head and a kind of bath-robe gown, thickly quilted and still dully red for all its unwashed age, told us; for the Mongol layman wears a cue and more masculine garments, wore a cue in fact centuries before this girlish head-dress was imposed upon the Chinese by their nomad conquerors. But it required the linguistic lore of our Russian companions to learn that he was also a princeling, a kind of tribal ruler of a neighboring region, who had come on a visit to his friend, the family head of this cluster of huts. He was a big brawny man, rather handsome in his own racial style, with a wide, frank, fairly intelligent face, pitted with smallpox. We were invited to enter his own hut, which was round and low and made of thick gray felt, like all those on the Gobi; but the earth floor was also carpeted with felt mats, and about the circular walls were several small chests and other simple articles of household use, not to mention saddles and bridles. The lama gave orders briefly and to the point, more like a commander than a guest. A sort of iron basket on legs was set up in the middle of the tent, filled, by hand, with dried camel-dung, and was soon blazing so merrily that the bitter night wind outside was more endurable than the temperature inside the tent. I know no fuel which outdoes that of the Gobi in quickness and intensity of heat. The Mongols, however, seemed to be impervious to it. Though inured for many generations to the bitter cold of their plateau, they crowded into the hut without removing a single one of their heavy garments, tightly closed the little low door, and squatted about the roasting iron cage with every evidence of keen enjoyment. There is but slight differentiation by sex in Mongol dress, and the men and women alike wore heavy, ungraceful trousers, huge high boots of soft, pliable, black leather with pointed turned-up toes, and a thick quilted garment covering all else from neck to calves, not to mention uncouth fur head-dresses. Even in these desert yourts the reddish faces and garments of the women are often set off by elaborate and fanciful hair-dress and other ornaments; but if these existed here they had been laid away, and the very girls stalked 117about in their oversize sock-stuffed boots like lumber-jacks in midwinter.

Mongol tea was prepared over the fire-cage and served us in brass bowls; but as the resident of Mongolia puts his salt in his tea rather than on his food, and has other un-Western notions of how it should be concocted, I did not insist on having my bowl refilled. I found my mind frequently harking back to such nights as this on the high Andean plateaus of South America, though there the travel itself had been quite different. Here was the same bare, vegetationless earth round about, the same complete ignorance of, or interest in, cleanliness, similar crowded, comfortless huts, and much the same attitude toward life as among the Indians of the Andes. But these plateau-dwellers were far more hospitable, cheery of manner, and with a live human curiosity which, though it caused them to finger monkey-like any of our possessions they could reach, had a more agreeable effect on the spirits than the sullen dullness of their American prototypes. Now and again, when they became over-troublesome, the lama ordered them outside with a commanding voice and manner which usually was effective at the third or fourth repetition. Yet he, too, was not lacking in fingering curiosity, of a slightly more controllable nature. While we ate we passed out samples of our strange foreign food to the gaping, over-clad semicircle about us. One of my canned cherries, dropped into a gnarled Mongol palm, created a considerable commotion. What was it; and was it safe in a Mongol stomach, even though this other kind of man ate it without misgiving? It passed from hand to hand around the circle, each evidently expressing his opinion of the risk involved, and the consensus seemed to be that it was up to the original recipient to make the venture. He licked cautiously at the fruit for some time after it had been returned to the furrowed hollow of his hand. At length, reassured by the two Russians and urged on by the lama, he bit gingerly into it—and half sprang to his feet with the shock it seemed to give his tongue. More reassurance finally induced him to eat it, and all went well until the stone betrayed its existence, whereupon there was an instant demand to know whether the presence of that foreign substance was normal, or whether his evil spirit was playing new and perhaps destructive tricks upon him. Considering the quantity of foreign substance the average Mongol absorbs with his meals, there seemed to be something absurdly incongruous about this lengthy performance. But then, we of the uninstructed West know little of the myriad methods the teeming evil spirits of the Orient devise to trap their victims.

118A bit of chocolate caused less flurry, though the semicircle around which it disappeared unanimously pronounced it too sweet to be agreeable. A cube of sugar was not a total stranger, and each of the gathering asked the privilege of letting one melt on his tongue. When it came to meat, even from tins, there was no mystery left; mutton and beef form the almost exclusive diet of the Mongols, except for milk and cheese in summer, and their salted tea. Not only are they true nomads, but their pseudo-Buddhist religion teaches that it is wicked—or shall we say dangerous?—to till the soil.

Though there is little formality in Mongol intercourse, I inadvertently made one faux pas during the evening. Among those who crowded into the overheated hut was what I at first took to be a handsome youth, but who turned out to be, under the heavy, sexless garments of Mongolia, a girl, perhaps of seventeen. When I offered her a tidbit of some sort, she shrank back without accepting it, while the rest of the semicircle looked at me with an expression of mingled wonder and resentment, and a moment later she slipped out through the tightly closed, knee-high door into the night. I should, it seemed, have been more indirect in my methods, handing the donation to the old woman or to one of the men of the family, and hinting that they might pass it on. As it was, I had evidently boldly made an advance, and that publicly, similar to handing my door-key to a chance lady acquaintance in the West. The girl returned, later on, and indirectly accepted a few knick-knacks, but it was evident as long as I remained that I was a man on whom it behooved parents and husbands to keep a watchful eye.

The tin cans we emptied were, of course, considered great prizes, to be quarreled over and at length allotted by the lama. The old woman begged us to open others and somehow dispose of the food in them, in order that she might still further increase her stock of kitchen utensils. Her curiosity seemed to have reached almost a morbid growth, for though we or the lama drove her several times out of the hut, she was evidently bent on watching these curious beings from another world disrobe. A ragged old man who proved to be the tribal shepherd was equally hard to banish, though for a different reason. He had been accustomed to sleep in the hut we occupied, and he resisted as long as he dared, and quite justly, the demand of the lama that he sleep outside. The lama won in the end, of course, and the shepherd curled up grumblingly in a nest of quilted rags and sheepskins along the outer wall, where his deep bark resounded in the desert stillness all through the night. Heavy colds seem to be quite as common among these 119permanent denizens of the plateau as they were universal with the four of us. The fire-cage was carried outside, but the thick heat remained, in spite of which the lama called to a boy to pull the topmost layer of felt down over the opening left in the top of yourts by day, hermetically sealing the place. But he was right; before morning we would have resented a pinhole in the felt walls. I had indulged in the luxury of bringing an army cot with me, which excited not only the wonder but the admiration of our host. The inventiveness which had produced such a contraption seemed less surprising to him than the courage I displayed in using it; he, said the lama, would be certain to fall off it in the night and seriously injure himself. Instead he stripped to the waist and lay down on a bundle of blankets and skins along the wall, pulling a rough cover of camel’s hair over him. But this was not until the formalities of his calling had been fulfilled. As we were turning in, he called once more to the boy outside, who soon appeared with two brass disks, loosely tied together. The lama squatted on his haunches, clashed the disks once together with a resounding clang, then mumbled for several minutes through his prayers. Then he sat for some time staring from one to the other of us, as if wondering what breed of men were these, who dared lie down for the night without having propitiated the evil spirits which ride the darkness, until at length he blew out the floating-wick lamp and lay down.

We were glad, indeed, to see the sun again next morning, when at last it burst up like the exhaust from a puddling furnace over the low, level horizon. Already we had bumped our way back to the “highway,” as worthy of the name as the caminos reales, the “royal roads,” of South America are of theirs, and had sped some distance along it. The eyes suffered most in this glaring light and the incessant strong head wind from which nothing short of entirely wrapping up the head could protect them. The constant bumping and tossing made up for any lack of exercise. Among myriad rock-heaps, natural and prayerful, we crossed the frontier between Inner and Outer Mongolia, marked merely by two huger stone-heaps on either side of the there sunken trail, the summits connected by a wire from which hung tattered bits of cloth prayers and various mementos of the pious, culminating in a weather-beaten straw hat of Chinese make. That was all, except the immensity of the desert, for the frontier-station was still about fifty miles distant. Then the rock-heaps died out, and the earth as far as we could see it was thickly covered with millions of little mounds, like untended 120Chinese graves, with hints of scanty tuft-grass on top of them. At long intervals we passed a caravan, the dull-toned notes of the bell-camels reaching our ears momentarily as we dashed past. The first camel of one long train carried the American flag at his masthead, so to speak, to warn would-be marauders that the hides and wool behind him were under whatever protection our consuls and diplomats in the former Chinese Empire have to offer. Otherwise the world about us was mainly a confirmation of the fact that, while China proper estimates the density of her population at two hundred and twenty-five to the square mile, Mongolia’s is rated at two.

Were the world not so slow to accept geographical changes, even in these days of the constant remaking of maps, we should long since have ceased to distinguish between Mongolia and China “proper.” Though the Chinese Republic claims, and to a certain extent maintains, the loyalty of that strip of earth bordering her on the north and known as Inner Mongolia, the vast region we call Outer Mongolia cast off Chinese rule a decade ago. More exactly, it never was under Chinese rule, at least in modern times, for barely had their kindred Manchus been driven from the throne of China than the Mongols asserted their independence from the new-formed republic. That was why we Americans had looked forward with some misgiving to our arrival in Ude, which occurred early on this third day. Ude consists of half a dozen yourts and a new mud-walled telegraph station, a desolate spot, owing its location to a near-by water-hole. But it is the place where the merits or demerits of persons entering Outer Mongolia from China are passed upon—passed upon by unpolished Mongols who have little knowledge of, and less interest in, the way such things are handled at other boundaries between the countries of the globe. The Russians had no misgivings; while men of their race would not willingly have traveled to Urga eighteen months before, they were now, as it were, among their own people. But, for reasons which will in due time be apparent, there is just now a certain lack of welcome in Mongolia toward Americans, in which the British and certain other important nationalities share. Less than a month before, two Englishmen in their own car had been halted at Ude and refused admission to the land beyond, eventually giving up lengthy and useless negotiations to have this decision reversed, and returning to China. We had no “papers” calling upon Mongolia to admit us. Our legation in Peking had only been able to tell us that, if our passports were sent to the Chinese foreign office, they would be returned—long afterward—with the information that, 121while Mongolia was still Chinese territory, it was in the hands of rebels—they might even have called them bandits—and since the Chinese Republic could not guarantee the safety of foreigners in that region, they could not consent to our traveling there, even to the extent of giving us a visé. The Mongols themselves have no accredited representative in China, naturally, and while certain other agents in Peking might have smoothed things over for us if they had wished, it is their policy to pretend that they and those they represent have no real power in Mongolia, apparently in the hope of keeping the world ignorant as long as possible of their doings in that region. It is customary, therefore, for those citizens of Western nations who wish to enter Outer Mongolia to pick up their traps and go, regardless of legal permissions.

But all our misgivings of being turned back at Ude were worry wasted. The Mongols have a reputation for instability in the conduct of affairs of government, of stiff-necked severity at one moment and great leniency in quite a similar matter the next; for after all they are little more than adult children to whom government is a new and amusing plaything. Moreover it may be that the letter and the bottle of vodka which the chief of our party brought for the Ude functionary had their effect; at any rate he not only did not demand our papers but did not even ask to see us, so that by the time we had breakfasted on our own food and local hot water in a yourt next to the official one we were free to continue to Urga.

Ox-carts with a single telegraph-pole diagonally across them were crawling northwestward in great trains; new poles and rolls of wire, both from far off, lay here and there along the way near Ude, where we ran into the Dane who had been all summer repairing the line which retreating armies had left a wreck behind them. Within a week, he promised—and his word proved good—messages would again be flashing from Paris to Peking, as they had not in more than two years. Mongols and Chinese now well trained for the task were replacing the last of the thousands of missing poles which forced neglect or the demands of military camp-fires had brought down, and their methods were worth watching. Instead of the sharp spikes at the instep used by our pole-climbers, the Mongols wore on each foot a semicircle of iron about two feet long, with saw-teeth on the inside, which made their climbing suggestive of some tropical spider, and must be taken off whenever they walked from pole to pole. The Chinese, on the other hand, used a method characteristic of their overcrowded, man-cheap 122country—each pole-climber had two coolie assistants, who carried a ladder! Building, or even repairing, a telegraph-line across the Gobi is no effeminate matter of nightly beds and full hot meals. The sole national representative in Mongolia of this Danish enterprise had been weeks at a time even without bread, while the less said in his presence about bathing the greater the popularity of the speaker. Stern methods are needed, too, to protect such exotic assets as telegraph-poles in an utterly treeless and even bushless region. By the “law of the Living Buddha,” as it is called in Mongolia, the cutting down of a telegraph-pole is punishable with death. The Dane and his party had come across a man so engaged not long before, and had tied him up and sent him off to be judged by his fellows; but so effective has the law been that the severed and useless end of a pole will lie until it rots away close beside a trail along which pass hundreds of caravans and groups of travelers to whom fuel is almost a matter of life or death.

For nearly a day’s journey beyond Ude the desert is so smooth and hard that we could maintain a speed of fifty miles an hour for long stretches, so smooth that riding the roadless plateau was almost like falling through space. Sain-Usu, which is Mongol for “Good Water,” welcomed us for half an hour in one of its three huts, and not far beyond there rose deep-blue above the horizon the flattened peak that marks the site of Tuerin. With such splendid going as nature furnished, it seemed visibly to move toward us; yet the sun was low and the night cold already biting into our bones when we dragged ourselves to the ground before the telegraph station at its foot. This highest point on the trans-Gobi journey, five thousand feet above the sea, is a great fantastic heap of black rocks, many of them large as apartment-houses, piled up one above the other, here as carefully as if by the hand of man, there tossed together in such a pell-mell chaos as to suggest that the Builder had suddenly taken a dislike to his task and knocked it over with a disdainful sweep of the hand. On the further slope lies a large lamasery, where travelers may sometimes find shelter, but not food, for all the quantities of everything which the pious nomads roundabout bring the loafing lamas. Otherwise there is nothing whatever except the yellow-brown plains, sloping away to infinity in every direction.

The last hundred and fifty miles were more like a prairie than a desert, beautiful light-brown folds of earth, everywhere cut on a generous pattern, rolling on and on farther than the advancing eye could ever reach. There was a kind of prairie-dog, too, squatting on its 123haunches and gazing saucily upon us, or dashing for the gravel-banked holes with which it had dotted the plain. These were marmots, of special interest to our Russian companions, since their skins form one of the most important items of export for the fur-traders of Mongolia. Mile after mile they lined the way, whole colonies of them, some of the bluish tint much sought after by dealers, most of them a beautiful gray-brown which flashed for a moment in the brilliant sunshine as they dashed gopher-like for their holes with an impertinent flip of their bushy tails.

At length women and children, and not merely men, began to appear, riding on camels and horses; camps of hides and wool grew almost numerous; there were more settlements along the way, though all of them were still the round portable huts of the nomads. Great flocks of what looked like plovers swirled up; big brown birds that seemed a cross between hawk and vulture rode by on the wind; wild ducks were so tame and numerous as to have tantalized a hunter. We came out upon a rise with a magnificent view—the yellow foreground fading to brown as the world rolled away before us, then a purplish tint, increasing to a blue that grew ever darker, until the broken ridge along the horizon far ahead blended into the strip of clouds hanging motionless over it. Gradually mountains rose on every hand, the few scrub evergreens along the crests of some of them being the first trees or even brush we had seen since soon after leaving Kalgan. The cold wind that had cut clear through us for days seemed to come forth from the Siberian steppes beyond with renewed savage intensity. Before long the crest-line of trees became a low but dense green forest, covering all the upper portion of what we soon learned was the sacred mountain of Urga, where all furred and feathered creatures are under the protection of the “Living Buddha.” We entered ever deeper into a broad valley, Mongols in their long cloaks becoming more and more numerous, and more disagreeably sophisticated than the simple herdsmen with their long poles and noose-lassos out on the open plain. There the broad-cheeked nomads had been more friendly, had more manly dignity, than the Chinese; here the manliness remained, but there was something surly, almost savage about them, which we were quickly to learn was no mere matter of outward appearances. There came a small river, actually crossed by a bridge, a queer massive wooden bridge with what looked like piles of railway-ties as pillars; and on down the valley a town appeared, the towers of a radio-station rose from among the hills, a long row of barrack-like buildings of a European type grew distinct—and just then our troubles began.

Across the broken valley at a gallop came two mounted men who turned out to be Mongol soldiers, picturesque certainly, but not otherwise particularly inviting. As they rode, they waved their rifles wildly in the air, and were apparently bellowing to us orders which the raging wind carried away before the sounds reached us. When they drew near, their uniforms proved to be the usual costume of the lower-class Mongol—heavy red knee-boots, pagoda-like fur hats, and a faded, quilted kind of bath-robe gown covering the rest of their iniquities; but on their chests and backs were sewed two cloth patches a foot square on which were several upright lines of Mongol writing, announcing their official capacity. But for these we might easily have mistaken them for bandits, for both their manner of riding down upon us and their air toward us when they had arrived suggested that they had captured booty and prisoners for ransom rather than that they had merely come to escort us to town.

One of them, it appeared from their actions, must get into the car with us; the other would have to ride in with the horses. Like children who very rarely have the chance of an automobile-ride, they quarreled and argued for a long time, while the biting wind snapped and lashed at us, as to which was entitled to the privilege, meanwhile flourishing their aged rifles with a carelessness that made even such time-honored weapons dangerous. At length one of them won the point and climbed unceremoniously aboard, mopping his muddy feet on our robes, stretching himself out at ease partly on our knees, partly on our most breakable baggage, and poking us, perhaps unintentionally but none the less unpleasantly, in the ribs with the business end of his loose-triggered rifle, while the loser sourly turned away with the horses and the expression of a six-year-old who had been deprived of his toys and driven from the playground.

We forded half a dozen stony little streams, for the going had become abominable in ratio as we approached Urga; we were waved 125hither and yon across the valley by other rifle-shaking, vainly shouting soldiers, and finally brought up at an ordinary little round felt hut with a smoking stovepipe protruding from its top. It must have been much more comfortable inside this than out in the bitter wind, for those within showed no haste in braving the outer temperature. Finally, however, two or three Mongols crawled through the low door and demanded our huchao, our Chinese permit to make the journey. There was an interminable argument over this, mainly inside the yourt, which we had not been invited to enter. Then two more bullying soldiers with poorly controlled rifles tumbled into the car and ordered us to drive on.

Before a yamen that might have been mistaken either for a run-down temple or a well kept stable we were again halted and commanded to dismount. This place, it turned out, was not yet Urga, but the former Chinese merchant section of Mai-Mai-Ch’eng (“Buy-Sell-Town”) some miles away from the sacred city, in which trading was until recently forbidden. Here a veritable mob of soldiers and petty officials poured out upon us, led by an exceedingly insolent youth in a rich, silky, but much soiled light-blue gown topped off by a kind of archbishop’s miter. He demanded our weapons. We dug them and the bit of ammunition we carried out of our baggage, protesting in vain that as this was all to be examined at the next yamen, and armed guards were to conduct us there, this extra labor of disentangling our overloaded car was unnecessary. But it was plain that there were at least two motives for putting us to this gratuitous trouble: the insolent Mongol youth did not wish to lose an opportunity to show his authority to the full, particularly toward men of a race which seldom fell into his hands; and the whole posse was eager to meddle with our belongings as much as possible. They passed our revolvers and my companion’s rifle from hand to hand, each trying his own method of manipulating them. Fortunately—at the time we felt it was unfortunate—we had not loaded them, or several tragedies might have ensued before their curiosity was satisfied and we were allowed to conclude our journey. Then the overbearing youth in charge decided that he must search our persons for weapons, though we had given our word that we carried none. The implied insult would not have mattered so much had not his hands looked as if he had been handling Gobi fuel incessantly from childhood without a pause even to wipe them, and had his manner been less that of the protected bully venting an unaccountable spleen against the whole white race. But cleanliness and common courtesy, we soon 126learned, are the two qualities most foreign to the crowd now ruling Outer Mongolia.

The quarrel as to who should have the privilege of the automobile-ride into Urga was at length decided in favor of all who could pile themselves into and about the car and baggage. How the machine escaped a broken back under the burden was a mystery which even Detroit probably could not have explained. Then there came a delay while the blue-gowned youth found and adjusted a fanciful pair of goggles, in all likelihood filched from the baggage of some previous victim, and without which of course the two- or three-mile ride ahead would have been unendurable. We groaned away at last, rifles and our own weapons covering us on every side, first through a half-ruined town of mud alleys between endless palisades of upright logs of the pine family, then across a stony, barren, wind-swept space with several axle-cracking little streams to be forded. Between bumps we caught glimpses of the several distinctly isolated sections of Urga, its golden temples and black dogs, its one lofty building, and the Tibetan texts in stone on the flank of its sacred mountain across the valley. Then we were suddenly turned into a noisome back yard peopled with shoddy-clad and unwashed soldiers and prisoners, the latter engaged in worse than menial tasks under the bayonet-points of the former; the gate to the outside world was closed and barred, and a new set of examiners fell upon us.

If a gang of young East Side New York rowdies should suddenly get the complete upper hand in the city, I can imagine them going through the belongings of their victims along Fifth Avenue in quite the same way as now befell our own. At a word from a superior who would himself scarcely have inspired a lone lady with confidence on a dark night, there sprang forward from all sides a dozen young men who seemed to have been specially chosen for their gangster-like appearance. In their shoddy uniforms of some nondescript dark color, they looked like a cross between low-class Russians and the scum of the Mongolian plains—which is about what they were, in other words Buriats. The pleasure they took both in putting us to annoyance and in prying minutely into our affairs quite evidently purged their task of any stigma of labor. I have passed many frontiers in my day, but never have I beheld an examination in the slightest degree approaching in thoroughness this one. Every single article, large or small, in our valises, bedding-bags, even our lunch-sacks, was picked out one by one, carefully, 127not to say stupidly, scrutinized, taken apart if that was physically possible, and finally tossed into a heap on the filthy bare ground of the yard. Clean linen must be completely unfolded, stared at minutely on both sides, and crumpled up into a mess from which only a laundryman could rescue it. We were not surprised that such articles aroused the suspicion of the examiners; anything resembling clean linen was quite evidently strange to them. Nor was there any intentional offense meant, perhaps, in mixing our bread and our tooth-brushes with the offal in the yard, for no conscious line of demarcation between these seemed as yet to have been drawn in the minds of the examiners. They did consciously resent our own higher plane of cleanliness, however, when it was called to their attention. I was attempting to rescue my dismembered sleeping-bag from a worse fate by picking it up from the ground where it had been thrown after examination, when one of the rowdies snatched it out of my hand and deliberately tossed it into an especially choice source of contamination.

My shaving-stick was opened with extreme caution, as a possible infernal machine. My safety-razor caused a considerable argument, until a gang-chief ruled that it was not a deadly weapon. The man who picked up an ordinary can of pork-and-beans tore off the label and attempted to unscrew the top in his efforts to examine the contents, and was with difficulty induced to spare me the labor of attacking it with a can-opener. I rescued my exposed films just as they were about to be unrolled, and came very near bodily injury for my interference before our interpreter could get in touch with some one of authority and more or less human intelligence. Thus it went, for more than an hour, through every simplest article we had brought with us. Nor did a single examination of each suffice; whenever anything unusual turned up, which, thanks to the ignorance of the examiners, was often, all of them must satisfy their monkey-like curiosity by thoroughly studying it. It was not that we objected to having our baggage inspected, even with unusual thoroughness—though legally we Americans were not subject to any interference by the local authorities of Mongolia—but at least it would have been a kindness to give the job to men who had some inkling of the paraphernalia of civilization and some hazy notion of why tooth-brushes and offal are not commonly mixed.

In the end they kept our weapons and cartridges, our American passports, and all our papers, down to letters of introduction and scribbled memoranda, which had not escaped their erratic attention. They demanded that the tool-box be removed from the car and the spare tire 128opened, as possible hiding-places. That these were the only ones they thought of was due to their ignorance of automobile mechanism. The Russian Jews had more influence than we, however, and after long and vociferous wrangling this order was rescinded. In contrast to the deliberation with which they had been examining it, they insisted that we snatch together our heaped-up property and thrust it pell-mell, filth and all, back into our bags and valises. Long blanks must then be filled out, in Russian, with our personal biographies. These went to an inner office, while we still shivered like hopper-screens in the wintry air outside; and at length a man came out to announce that they must also keep my kodak and films. This required a complete reëxamination of all my baggage, for my word as to the number of films I carried could not of course be trusted. Finally we were taken into the sanctum of the Okhrana or the Ghospolitakran, as it is variously called in popular parlance—the “State’s Internal Guard” would perhaps answer as a poor and inadequate translation in English. This is a genuinely Russian form of secret service and espionage within the country, devised under the czarist régime and continued by its receivers, the Bolsheviki, who had recently imposed it upon Mongolia. The plain bare room of European style contained a rough table and a few chairs, a surly Mongol nearer twenty than thirty, in native garb except for a faded slouch felt hat, who proved to be the ostensible head of the secret service, and an older Russian “adviser” in grayish semi-uniform and quite modern glasses. The “adviser” looked as if he had been familiar with the common forms of courtesy in earlier days, but evidently he had either forgotten them or dared not mix them with his “Red” allegiance, for his behavior was as studiously uncivil as that of the Mongol was naturally rude. We had stood for a long time, with empty chairs plentiful, when the pair deigned to notice our existence. A handsome, courteous little Buriat, greatly contrasting with the rest of the crew, explained our cases at length, with special emphasis on the seizure of my kodak. Uncouth soldiers, Mongol, Buriat, and Russian indiscriminately, lounged in and out, most of them carelessly juggling guns with fixed bayonets, glaring ominously at us from time to time, and picking up and examining any of the official papers on the table which happened to catch their fancy. It is said that there are no ranks in the “Red” army; certainly there was no outward evidence of discipline among the detachment of it in Urga, or among their apt Mongol pupils.

The frontier post of Ude, fifty miles beyond the uninhabited frontier between Inner and Outer Mongolia, where Mongol authorities examine passports and very often turn travelers back

Chinese travelers on their way to Urga; it is unbelievable how many muffled Chinamen and their multifarious junk one Dodge will carry

The Mongol of the Gobi lives in a yourt made of heavy felt over a light wooden framework, which can be taken down and packed in less than an hour when the spirit of the nomad strikes him

Mongol women make the felt used as houses, mainly by pouring water on sheep’s wool

129A receipt, in Russian, was finally given us for our confiscated belongings, and about four in the afternoon, ten hours since we had eaten and five after our arrival, we were at last allowed to drag our shivering frames away in quest of lodging. There are no hotels in Urga, and visitors must appeal to the hospitality of one or another of the stray Europeans living there, of whom, excepting of course the numerous Russians, there seemed to be a single sample of each nationality. I was just sitting down to a belated lunch in the home of Norway’s handsome contribution to this international group when a red-clothed native of the better class dropped in, hat and all. He was a young man of unusual attainments for Mongolia, it seemed, educated at the University of Irkutsk, speaking Russian perfectly, and famous as the only Mongol known who spoke English. In the last accomplishment, however, he had not advanced beyond the bashful stage, and consented to display it only when there was no one to interpret his Russian or his Mongol. He was attached to the foreign office, though soon to leave for Moscow as a member of the Communist Congress there; and he had come, mainly out of personal friendship for my host, to warn me of trouble ahead. A telegram, he told the Norwegian in Russian, had just been received from a station out on the Gobi, announcing that two Americans in a motor-car carrying four persons had killed a Mongol on their way to Urga. He had no intention of making unkindly insinuations against me or my companion, he said, but we were the only Americans who had arrived within a fortnight, the only foreigners who had come within a week, and ours was the only car that had reached Urga for two or three days, as well as the only one in a long time with only four occupants. Moreover, we had carried arms.

Absurd as the covert charge was—for our revolvers had lain unloaded in our baggage throughout the trip—it was not wholly a laughing matter. My compatriot had frequently fired his rifle at antelope along the way, and there was a very slight possibility that a bullet had carried too far. But worse almost than any question of guilt or innocence was the possibility of becoming entangled in the intricacies of a Mongol court of justice. Its point of view would be quite unlike that of our Western judiciary; certainly haste would not be one of its attributes. All at once the rights of extraterritoriality, to which I was legally entitled in Urga even though forcibly deprived of them, seemed no mere forced concession but the only way of being fairly judged in such a predicament in a land and society so utterly alien to my own. Within an hour or so, the Mongol thought, they would come to arrest us, and 130though he spoke optimistically of the final outcome, he could not recommend even four or five days in prison as a pleasant week-end. I had already heard something of Urga’s place of detention, the earth cellar of the Okhrana where we had been examined, in which a score of Russians and as many Mongols were even then huddled together, without a suggestion of daylight, beds, blankets, human conveniences, or anything that could honestly be called food, with nothing but the cold, damp ground to lie on and a scanty bit of garbage to eat and drink. Judging by the cavalier manner in which we had been treated as unaccused and ostensibly free beings, it was not hard to imagine what those rowdy soldiers about the place would do to us as prisoners. I did all possible justice to the lunch before me, for at least if we were to join the community in the icy cellar I wished to be partly filled up and thawed out before beginning the experience.

A hasty council was convened of the few Americans—all visitors—and the more Western Europeans in town. The seriousness with which these treated the situation was anything but reassuring. Their patent distrust and unexpressed dread of the sinister powers then ruling Urga recalled stories of the terror that filled men’s lives in the worst days of the French Revolution. It was plain that it was not a mere matter of proving our innocence, if the authorities chose to make this a “frame-up” to be rid of unwelcome visitors. In the end it was decided that the best plan would be to forestall the authorities, to go at once to the minister of justice before some of his less intelligent underlings received and carried out the warrant for our arrest.

We reached him indirectly through his adviser, who was fortunately a friend of my host. In the late afternoon light of his wholly European study this polished and intelligent man in our ordinary garb looked entirely like a Russian; it was not until next day that his more swarthy tint and the quilted silk robe he wore to office showed him to be a Buriat. He admitted that the telegram in question had been received, and that the warrants would probably be ready within an hour or two—and no doubt served, I reflected, in this leisurely moving world, just in time to drag us out of our beds in the middle of the cold night. But as I had taken the trouble to come and show myself, the Buriat went on, and to explain my movements to his personal satisfaction, he would suppress the warrants for the time being, if all four of us would appear at the yamen of justice, with an efficient interpreter, in the morning.

For all the absurdity of the whole affair there was a sense of relief 131in having gained at least a respite, and before dinner was over I had almost forgotten the matter. But when I woke once during that otherwise deathly still Urga night, the howling of two or three of her man-eating dogs had a curiously ominous, almost terrorizing, sound. Only a fortnight before, fifteen men, a former prime minister among them, had been shot in a near-by gully and their bodies fed to these dogs, in the cheery Urga fashion. Those had been Mongols, to be sure, but a score of Russians were even then shivering out the night in the cellar-prison, charged with a hand in the same conspiracy, and from thinking of shooting Russians for treason to actually shooting a stray Caucasian of another nationality for some other alleged crime would be no impossible leap for these “Red”-led, self-satisfied nomads. I had to remind myself several times what a fool I was before I turned over and fell asleep again.

Few things are ever as serious the next morning as when they happened the night before, and I could laugh at my midnight anxieties when I sat down to breakfast. It took some time to get our scattered party together, and a suitable interpreter was not easily picked up, so that it was nearer eleven than ten by the time we found a Russian speaking both English and Mongol and set out for the yamen. But we need not have let a little thing like that worry us. Promptness is neither customary nor welcome in Mongolia; moreover, there are no two timepieces in anything like agreement in all Urga, so that an hour or two one way or the other can always be excused, in the unlikely event of any excuse being expected, on the ground of incompatibility of clocks. What does an hour mean, anyway, in a land where time is merely a vacuum? An American who was just then flirting with the Mongolian Government for an important concession made an appointment with the minister of foreign affairs for ten one morning, and was there on the dot. When he had waited an hour and a half he beckoned to a sub-official and asked whether the minister would be unable to see him that morning, in which case he had other matters requiring his attention.

“Oh, yes,” replied the functionary, “he will see you; but it is not yet ten o’clock.”

However, to come back to our own affairs; we made our way across the stony, dusty, wind-howling open space between the business and the official sections of the holy city in time to avoid any risk of being charged with tardiness. The yamen of justice was a two-story frame building mainly in European style, built by the Chinese when 132they held the suzerainty over Outer Mongolia, as the flaring roofs, sky-blue façade, dragon-decorated brick screen against evil spirits, palings of crossed sticks to the number of outriders due the prince who once occupied it, and the like, told us without any necessity of inquiring. Two typical Mongol soldiers, resembling Oriental rag dolls that had lain out in the garden for weeks and then been lost for a few days in the coal-bin, lumbered to their booted feet from a fantastic sentry-box in order, as is the habit of their class nowadays, to impress us with their equality and authority by gratuitously delaying us for a few moments, and at last we reached our destination. This was one of the barn-like rooms of the unpretentious building. Near the door rose to the ceiling a big cylindrical Russian brick stove. Around the other three sides of the room ran a raised platform, knee-high and a man’s height in breadth. The reed matting and cushions covering it recalled Japan, but there was nothing Japanese in the way in which the dozen officials stepped upon it from the unswept floor in their heavy boots, all more or less covered with the filth of the streets, and calmly tramped about it or squatted on their haunches. All these functionaries were dressed in Mongol fashion; that is, in long robes of dull red, blue, green, purple, violet, or similar conspicuous color, half obliterated with grease and dirt, topped off with some one of their many fantastic national head-dresses. The latter were never removed, nor were we foreigners expected to take off our hats. In fact there seem to be no social politenesses among this rude nomad people. They neither shake hands, unless they are meeting or aping foreigners, nor bow, like the Chinese, nor use any other gestures of greeting or parting; they stalk into foreigners’ houses in hats and boots; their whole conduct is as if none of the little courtesies and formalities of more highly civilized communities had ever occurred to them, which is probably the case.

The place had electric lights, and from one of the walls hung an ancient European type of telephone, which was frequently jangling or enduring the shrieks of one or another bureaucrat, but which never seemed to bring or transmit any information. Most of the functionaries, big sturdy men who would have looked more at home herding cattle on the plains, squatted near little tables or desks, a foot high, some smoking long pipes with tiny bowls and much silver decoration, others rocking idly back and forth, while their greasy pigtails, swaying to and fro, increased the soiled line they had already drawn down the backs of their gowns. A few were working; that is, writing in their national script, so different from Chinese, on long strips of cheap 133tissue-paper folded lengthwise and opening like an accordion. Their pens were the camel’s-hair brushes common to the Far East, however, of which each man carried two in a silver scabbard hanging from his girdle; their ink was taken from a little flat stone on which they rubbed their pens sidewise, and their writing-desks were thin squares of board held on their left hands. A big dinner-bell in a corner of the room served to call attendants, or to summon prisoners for the next case to be tried. For justice was being dispensed, leisurely but steadily, all the time we were there. In the center of the raised platform, opposite the door and in the chief place of honor, squatted an imposing man who might easily have been taken for an unusually burly Chinaman, in his darker gown, his mandarin cap with a colored button, his oily cue, and his rimless ear-piece glasses. He was fat, and he was fully aware of his own importance in the Mongolian scheme of things. From time to time a group of prisoners was brought in by one of the coal-bin soldiers, always armed with a fixed bayonet. The accused, all ragged, shivering, and visibly hungry, looking as if they had been living for weeks in an underground dungeon and had been periodically beaten half to death, were forced to kneel on the bare floor and bow their heads down to it several times as an obeisance to the haughty judge. If they failed to do so promptly, they were prodded or thumped to their knees by the soldier. The trial consisted merely of the judge’s questioning the cringing prisoner, during which his honor smoked, stretched himself, and spat copiously on the floor in front of the kneeling culprits. When he was done, he growled out something which may or may not have been a sentence, and the prisoners were led away again. Of the score or more tried while we were there none was released.

Meanwhile other business, such as our own, went serenely on along the side platforms. Some of the scribes or officials wrote on their little boards, some asked questions of an official nature, more chatted and smoked as freely as if they were in a café. Curious individuals dropped in now and then. There was, for instance, a little dried-up Jew with long straggly red whiskers, and a furtive look in his eyes, as if he had been the last survivor of a dozen pogroms. For more than an hour he sat inconspicuously in a corner near the door, holding his aged slouch-hat in his hands, ignored by the contemptuous Mongols, lacking the courage to address them on whatever matter had brought him.

Our own case moved as we would have had it, except in speed. When testimony must be written down in Mongol script with a camel’s-hair 134brush on the poorest of paper and the least convenient of desks by an official whose chief code of conduct is never to let any one or anything hurry him under any circumstances, even a simple affair is not quickly disposed of. There was a long argument as to how to turn our extraordinary names into the native hieroglyphics; there were other lengthy discussions during which I found ample time to study not only the scene within the room but the big felt tent of fanciful decoration with a mat-cloth door, in which the minister of justice lived out in the back yard, a true Mongol nomad still, like many of his highly placed fellows. The whole case should really have collapsed like a house of cards, for another telegram had arrived which not merely reduced the crime from the killing of a Mongol man to slightly wounding a Mongol boy in the wrist, but showed that, by the records of our stopping-places, we were at least a day’s travel away at the time; furthermore, the deed had been done at short range with a revolver—on that point the information was insistent—and the most cursory examination of our pistols, in the hands of the secret service department, would have demonstrated that they had not been fired on the way. In fact, it looked rather doubtful whether even the slight crime alleged had been committed; perhaps it was some boyish tale made up to gain sympathy for a scratched wrist. Officially “the incident was closed” almost before we reached the yamen; but that did not hinder us from being three hours there, nor did it make it possible to have the thing written up in its legal form and “deposited in the archives” forty-eight hours later, when the clearing of our reputations was essential to the making of certain other requests with which we were forced to trouble the authorities.

The holy city of Urga squats out on what would be an ordinary Mongolian plain were it not for the rows of hills or low mountains which roll up on either side of it. The landscape is the same yellow-brown, smooth as the fur of the fox, the city, its wide shallow valley, and the rolling hills on the right hand are as utterly devoid of trees or even a suggestion of brush, as the Gobi. Only along the edge, and covering the upper portion, of the range to the west and south, sacred to the “Living Buddha” whose two palace compounds sit at the foot of it, is there any vegetation except the thin brown grass of mountain heights. The soil does not welcome it, for one thing. Even the forests capping the long low sacred mountain, though planted centuries ago and strictly protected, while dense enough, have attained little more than scrub growth. About forty-five hundred feet above the sea and no great distance from the Siberian border, Urga is no tropical haven. They tell me that in summer its middays are sometimes uncomfortably hot; but though it was only the middle of September when we arrived, all the clothing we had brought with us was none too much to shut out the penetrating mountain cold. Five days before, Peking had been sweltering; here the entire population wore heavy quilted garments, from which hardly a bare foot peered among the most poverty-stricken even on the days when a brilliant sun in a glass-clear sky made delightful autumn weather; before the month ended, howling gales of hail and snow swept across the city and blotted out the surrounding hills, to leave them covered with white as far as the eye could see.

The city is built in several towns or sections of distinctly different characters, separated by bare, stony, wind-swept spaces. Besides the old Chinese merchant town back up the valley, and the straggling buildings which partly flank the nature-laid road to it, there is the official town of yamens and the like, with two great temple compounds closely allied to it, then the now main business and residential section where virtually all non-Mongols live, and farther on, a little higher up the 136slope of the hills, a whole city completely given up to lamas, with the great sanctuary of Ganden, only high building in Urga, bulking far above it. Then, across the flat valley and several little streams, more than a mile away against the background of the sacred mountain, is the dwelling-place of Bogda-Han, the “Living Buddha,” flanked at some distance by his summer palace on one side and on the other by clusters of buildings housing the things and the men who serve him. Lastly there are scores of yourts, the low round felt tents of Mongolia, scattered at random outside the permanent city, particularly to the north, the homes of true nomads who will not be without the comforts of their portable houses even though they live in the holy national capital.

For that matter, many of the dwellers in the city itself still cling to the customs and architecture of the plains from which they came. Mongol princes and saints, of whom there is a generous number in Urga, cabinet ministers and judges, may have a rather Russian type of frame house within their compounds, but the chances are that they do their actual living in their felt tent beside it. The yourts are said to be uncomfortably warm in summer, whence the tendency of those who are wealthy by Mongol standards to copy European dwellings; but when the first early frosts come they like the low crowded tent, with its intense dung-fire heat, its sense of coziness, even the smell of the sifting smoke of their pungent fuel, that has come down to them from their hardy nomadic forefathers. The story is told of some high-placed Mongol to whom fell a fine big room in one of the government buildings of the expelled Chinese, who complained that it was as bad as living outdoors and demanded either that another small low room be built for him within it or that he be allowed to conduct his official business in his tent.

Urga is as wholly made up of walled compounds as any Chinese city; but here the walls, instead of being of stone or baked mud, are of upright pine logs, bark and all, some ten feet high and set so tightly together that only here and there can one peer through a crack. Between these frowning palisades, broken for block after block only by identical gates which are a cross between a wooden arch and a Japanese torii with three uncurved crosspieces, and painted a dull red, run, not streets, but haphazard passageways deep in dust, mud, or mere stony soil, according as nature left them—grim defenseless lanes full of the offal of man and beast, of putrid carcasses and gnawed bones, and always overrun with groups of those surly, treacherous big black wild 137dogs of Urga, ready the instant they feel they have mustered sufficient force to pounce upon and drag down the passer-by. Inside, the compounds are bare and unswept yards, for filth means nothing to the Mongol, and the planting of a flower or a shrub is far beyond his stage of civilization. A house or two, even three, perhaps as many felt tents, a tethered horse, a heap of dried dung fuel, and the inventory is complete. A small stream, its banks heaped high with filth and garbage, lined with foraging dogs and squatting Mongols, crossed by half a dozen precarious bridges culminating in the red one sacred to the “Living Buddha,” which is barred against every-day traffic, meanders disconsolately through the gloomy town. For there is a gloominess, an ominousness about Urga which even the great gleaming gold superstructures of its many temples and shrines, so brilliant as to cow the eye on days of clear sunshine, do not dispel.

A few streets of the central town, to which commerce is confined, are flanked by shops of a hybrid Chinese-Russian character, the great majority of which are inwardly establishments quite like those of China, though often scanty of goods and with a discouraged air in these days of oppressive rule. Then there are numerous open-air markets more worth visiting for their picturesqueness than for their wares. In one wide dusty space Mongolian ponies are put through their paces for prospective purchasers; camels or oxen may be had near-by on certain days; then, there are several blocks lined with displays of furs, mainly of sheep and goats in this season, but now and then offering wild pelts at reasonable figures. Shop after shop is filled from floor to low shack roof with the gaudy boots worn indiscriminately by all Mongols; little portable booths or stands overflowing with every manner of silly and useful trinket, chaotic collections of second-hand hardware spread on the ground, more or less itinerant purveyors of used garments and of the heavy silver ornaments that go with Mongol dress, each strive in their turn to attract and detain the stroller. Almost all these merchants, from horse-dealers to hawkers of lama rosaries and alleged photographs of the “Living Buddha,” are Chinese; the Mongol is frankly a nomadic herdsman and scorns any other occupation. Even in the purulent meat and vegetable market stretching along the carrion-lined stream just outside our window there were but few native venders. The more lowly members of the tribe might consent to slash up and distribute the still bleeding carcasses of cattle and sheep which Urga consumes in surprising daily quantities; even out on the plains that is a necessary and respectable task. But as the 138Mongol considers it unholy to cultivate the ground, the huge carrots, the turnips larger than cocoanuts, the squashes, potatoes, cabbage, lettuce, kaoliang, millet, and corn-meal all came from the truck-gardens of Chinese in inconspicuous hollows about the city and were sold only by them. Millet and kaoliang and rock-salt were about the only non-flesh wares appealing to the natives, anyway, for boiled meat, each mouthful slashed off before the lips with a sheath-knife, as among the gauchos of South America, is almost an exclusive diet with them the year round.

There is the atmosphere of a frontier town about Urga, for all its age and holiness and costly religious structures. Perhaps it is the great prevalence of mounted people as much as the rough-and-ready style of its architecture and streets which gives this feeling. The poor, and most of the despised foreigners, may or must go on foot, but the true Mongol, male or female, young or old, layman or lama, is by nature a horseman. Even the women, in their incredibly heavy ornaments and cumbersome garments, sit the tight little wooden saddles covered with red cloth as if they were part of the jogging animal beneath them. Children ride as easily and as soon as they can walk. Horsemen are so numerous and so fundamental in the Mongol scheme of things that the pedestrian has only secondary rights in the soft-footed streets of Urga. It is not so much his natural rudeness, nor even his inbred scorn for the horseless, which makes the Mongol so apt to ride down the walker unless the latter sidesteps. Probably it has never occurred to him, any more than to his horse, that all other movable beings should not necessarily always make way for him.

Besides the omnipresent Mongol pony there are strings of haughty camels from, or off again to, the desert; there are oxen and their crudest of two-wheeled carts, and now and again a yak, or a cross between this and the native cattle, identified mainly by its thick bushy tail. It is not only this quaint long-haired animal from the roof of Asia which reminds one of the close relationship between Mongolia and its distant neighbor, Tibet. The lengthwise Tibetan script stands beside the upright Mongolian on the façade of more than one building and on many a monument; not a few of the friendly-looking, darker-tinted natives of the lofty land behind the Himalayas, recognizable also by their different garb, the right arm and shoulder protruding from the cloak, may be met in the market-places; when the visitor begins to poke his nose into religious matters he finds that Tibet is much closer to him than he suspected.

139Though there are sights of an inanimate nature in Urga that are well worth seeing, it is especially the unique and striking costumes of her people which cause bitter resentment for the confiscation of a camera. The Mongols are as fond of gaudy colors as the Andean Indians, though somewhat less given to barbaric combinations of them. Of a score of laymen often no two wear robes of the same hue; red, purple, blue, green, and all the combinations and gradations between them may be seen in any gathering outside religious circles. Men who pride themselves on their liberality toward the outside world show a fondness for ugly slouch-hats of a cheap quality that quickly fades to a nondescript hue. But these are so few as to be conspicuous among their orthodox fellows, who display a variety in head-dress which I have not the energy to attempt to describe. Suffice it to say that these are all striking, both in color and form, and that the overwhelming favorite seems to be the pagoda-shaped thing with a ball, generally of colored glass, on top, and side-wings of fur. This is common to both laymen and lamas and is said to have been originally copied from a sacred peak of central Asia.

But it would be unchivalrous to expect the men, even of an Oriental race in which the women form the bottom layer of society, to outdo the other sex in effective decoration of the cranium. Until I came to Mongolia I had been laboring under the delusion that in my various wanderings about the globe I had already run across the final word in woman’s head-dress. I humbly apologize, and hereby bestow the leather medal upon the ladies of Urga, without the least fear of ever again having to modify my decision. In intricacy, ugliness, fearsomeness, unportability, wastefulness, absurdity, not to say pure idiocy, their contraption surely outdistances all competitors, at least in our own little solar system.

It starts, so I have been assured by those of wider experience and reputation for veracity, often at virtual baldness, which under the circumstances, or under such a head-dress, is not surprising. Over this goes a skull-cap of silver in elaborate designs, weighing, if the eye be permitted to judge what the fingers may not touch, several pounds. I am no ladies’ coiffeur, and I may be getting the cart before the horse, but it is my strong impression that the hair comes next, most of it the hair of some one else, naturally, or at least hair which has ceased to derive its direct nourishment from its wearer. In color and texture, too, it has a way of recalling the tail of a horse, though this may be mere coincidence. First of all the hair forms a wig; then it flares out 140and is wound, in single strands that give it a cloth-like texture, round and round two horns that are thin and flat but wider and longer than those of the water-buffalo, which the lady with these appendages protruding well beyond her shoulders considerably resembles. Across the horns, front and back, at close intervals, run inch-wide bars of silver—replaced by wood or other substitutes in poverty-stricken cases—while from the ends, perhaps as a concession to the timid spectator who cannot rid himself of the fear of being gored, are suspended braids or cords reaching to the waist. A lady of reasonable tastes might conclude that this is enough, but there are innumerable opportunities for adding other silver and colored decorations, and naturally one needs a hat over one’s hair, so that milady of Urga piles on top, at the jaunty angle of a first-year sailor, one of the fur-sided, pagoda-shaped helmets favored by the men, thereby crowning herself in a manner befitting the rest of her costume. Let not the hasty reader get the impression that this ponderous and deeply cogitated head-dress is confined to the consorts of princes and saints, nor relegated to festive occasions and popular hours. The old woman who sold half-decayed fruit opposite our window wore the whole contraption, and all available evidence goes to show that it is as seldom removed as is the fly-trap hat of the Korean male. Indeed, it would be impossible to reconcile daily hair-dressing with the early hours at which many a fully clad woman appears. One easily surmises that this unbelievable millinery was copied from the cattle that have been the Mongols’ constant and chief companions for many centuries; but why hang the horns on the woman? Is it to keep before the mind that she, too, is a dangerous creature, or is it a means of training her in patience and the uncomplaining endurance of lifelong impediments, like the crippled feet of the women of China?

In ordinary circles the rest of the female costume of Mongolia would attract attention, but under the national head-dress it is almost inconspicuous. It includes big puffed sleeves, for instance, not unlike those of the Western world a generation ago, but filled with something that makes them hard and solid, and lifts the puffs some six inches above the shoulders. Unseemly exposure of the person is not a Mongol fault. Though personal habits of an indescribable nature are constantly in evidence among both sexes and all classes, there is never anything even remotely reminiscent of the freedom of a bathing-beach in more civilized lands. The woman’s thick, quilted, colorful jacket-gown covers her from tonsils to instep; her long sleeves serve her, Chinese fashion, as gloves; though it is known that she wears heavy 141lumber-jack trousers quite like those of her husband, even her trim ankles, if she has them, are never in evidence, for she thrusts her feet into the same mammoth boots which are universal beneath all ages, ranks, callings, and degrees of sanctity.

The Mongol boot, as I may have said before, is knee-high, of soft leather, usually red and most elaborately decorated, the toe turned up like the prow of Cleopatra’s barge, and it is made much too large for the foot, in order that many layers of thick socks may be worn in wintry weather. The extraordinarily slow pace of life in Urga is partly due, beyond a doubt, to the necessity of stalking about like a hobbled prisoner in such boots; but then, they were never made for walking, which is not a natural Mongol means of locomotion. The favorite one is the single-foot pony, with a kind of Indian rawhide reins, stirrups so short that the rider seems to be kneeling, and a tight little red saddle. It is an old joke in Urga that a Mongol would make an excellent cook—if he could ride about the kitchen on horseback. As the women as well as the men ride astride, with the easy abandon of born cowboys, it is perhaps as well that most of them cling to their marvelous head-dress, for without it there is little to distinguish between the sexes.

It is said that almost half the population of Urga are lamas. Certainly there are thousands upon thousands of them, swarming everywhere, in the market-town as well as in their own temple-topped sections, sometimes on horseback, more often plodding through the slovenly streets in their ponderous boots. Their round clipped heads, in contrast to the long cues of laymen, are often bare in any weather. It is visually evident, without asking questions, that they wear no trousers under their long quilted robes, which are similar to those of the marriageable men, yet easily distinguishable from them. Their gowns, originally saffron-yellow or brick-red in color, are well suited to the mahogany tint which the cold of high plateaus gives the Mongol cheeks; but they are so invariably dulled by grease, filth, and rough desert living as to suggest that this is considered the most holy and fitting state for seekers after a pseudo-Nirvana. Cleanliness certainly has no relation whatever to godliness in this unedifying religion of creaking prayer-wheels and barbaric hubbub; laity and lamas alike seem frankly to scorn it. Now and again one saw a prince who had just donned his winter garments, or a group of high lamas rode by in gleamingly new saffron or red robes, the yellow streamers from their 142high hats trailing behind them, clad in the most spotless of beautiful silks. But there is evidently something unmanly about such a condition, for those even of the highest class seem to make haste to reduce themselves to the common dirty drab, as some of our youths “baptize” a new pair of shoes. From high to low the Mongols are an unlaundered people, like so many dwellers in semi-desert lands, apparently never subjecting their clothing to any cleansing process—so filthy in fact that even the Chinese call them dirty!

Yet these big brawny Mongols of the Gobi, beside whom the Chinese look delicate and harmless, bring history home to the beholder in a striking fashion. It was easy to imagine these fearless nomad horsemen banding together under a Jenghiz Khan and sweeping down upon the rich but weaker people to the southward; once in Mongolia, that breeding-ground for many centuries of new virility for the human race, as it were, it was no longer hard to understand why the timorous but diligent Chinese should have spent such incredible toil to fling a wall across their whole northern frontier, in the vain hope of shutting themselves off from these dreaded barbarians, scorning civilization but ever ready to loot it of its fruits. Now and again I met a prince—not a pampered weakling of a run-down stock, like so many who bear that title in the West, but big powerful fellows who could ride their horses day after day like centaurs, sleep out on the open plain, and master their great herds with the pole-and-noose lasso as easily as any of their herdsmen subjects—handsome Mongol princes with a truly regal poise and dignity, for all the countless grease-spots on their silken gowns, whom one could readily picture in the rôle of another Jenghiz Khan.

Speaking of those halcyon days of the Mongols seven centuries ago, there seems to be but little differentiation in the minds of historians between them and the Tartars; but in Mongolia to-day there is a wide gulf between these two peoples. What is known as a Tartar in Urga at least, where a few score of them dwell, is no longer a warrior but has degenerated into a tradesman, a close bargainer wearing mainly European garb, with a little velvet cap always on his head, topped off by one of fur when he sallies forth into the street. He is a Mohammedan, too, and the Mongol certainly is not. Once he seems to have been at home in central Mongolia; now he lives far to the West, scattered through the regions about Bokhara, Kashgar, and Samarkand. In much greater numbers and influence in Urga to-day are two other semi-Europeanized peoples,—the surly Kalmucks from western Mongolia 143and Sungaria, and the Buriats, Mongol by race but grown half Russian during generations under the rule of the czars in an annexed province, and by long intermixture with their more Caucasian fellow-subjects.

But though Urga so nearly coincides with that Karakoram which was still the capital of Jenghiz Khan when his vast conquests ended, one feels even there that the power of the Mongol is broken, that with his debauching idolatry and his all but universal taint with one of the most abhorred of diseases, he will never again have the initiative and the energy to band together into a menace to more advanced civilizations. He will do surprisingly well, in fact, if he succeeds in his new attempt to govern himself. The traveler cannot but be struck by the astonishing scarcity of children in Mongolia, especially if he has just come from Japan and China, until he learns that fully a third of the population of the country as a whole are lamas, and notes the prevalence of missing noses among both sexes and all classes in the streets of Urga. The most educated Mongol, in our Western sense, with whom I came in contact declared that within a century his race will completely have disappeared. While there is probably undue pessimism in so flat a statement, there are many signs that the people which once subjugated nearly all Asia and stopped only at the Danube in Europe is to-day on the same swift downward path as the American Indian they in so many ways resemble.

As befits a holy city, Urga is overrun with temples, shrines, monasteries, and all the myriad paraphernalia of lamaism, that degenerate, repulsive, yet picturesque offshoot of Buddhism, centered in Tibet but clinging with a tenacious hold to all Mongolia. Take away everything concerned with her religion, and the Mongol capital would shrink to a mere filthy village. Most conspicuous of its structures is the shrine or temple of Ganden, towering not only above the lama town about it but over the whole city. A stony and sandy hollow separates this monasterial section from the secular one, but when one has climbed the further slope of this he finds himself wandering through just such another maze of narrow, dunghill streets shut in by high wooden palisades. Here it will be doubly wise to carry a heavy stick, for not only are the savage black dogs that everywhere dot the landscape in and about Urga particularly numerous and ravenous in this log-built labyrinth, but they are accustomed to seeing only lamas in their dirty robes, and foreign garb quickly attracts their unwelcome attention. 144At least in theory there are no women in lama-town, and as lamaism is not a religion calling for congregations, even native laymen are conspicuous in this section by their absence.

As the stroller comes out upon an open space on the summit of the low, broad hillock, he finds before him not only the great central edifice of Ganden, built in Tibetan fashion of a square stone wall many feet thick, with deep window-embrasures of fortress-like size, topped by three overhanging stories in wood, but also many lower yet no less ornate buildings flanking and surrounding it. From these, in all likelihood, proceed barbarous sounds of drum-beating, the hammering of big brass disks, a cabalistic chanting, and yet more awe-inspiring noises the source of which he cannot identify. Huge cylinders on the high corners of Ganden, many of its absurd outer ornaments, and much of the superstructure of the lower buildings are covered with gold, upon which the cloudless sun gleams richly. If it is “school” or service time, only a score or so of ragged, besmeared beggars, most or all of them lamas, will be in sight, scattered along the outer walls or in the gateways of the religious structures. One of the largest of these is built like a mammoth Mongol tent, with a saucer-shaped roof, and inside, if a lone Caucasian wanderer has the courage to march through the gate and step into the open doorway in the face of hundreds of scowling bullies in once-red robes—for the “orthodox” yellow of more genuine Buddhism is much more rare in Urga—he will behold a veritable sea of lamas, squatted back to back on wide low wooden benches more or less covered with soiled cushions, in rows so close together that a cat could scarcely squirm between them, and stretching so far away in every direction that one must stoop low to see beneath the idolatrous junk suspended from the low rafters, even as far as the dais in the center of the building. Here sits what I suppose we would call an abbot, leading the services or instructing the gathering in the fine points of lamaism. For this is a kind of seminary, a lama university to which sturdy red-robed males come from all over Mongolia and beyond, to perfect themselves in the intricate hocus-pocus of their faith, in which a bit of Buddhism is swamped by the grossest forms of demonology and ridiculous superstitions. The students are of no fixed age; burly men in the forties and sensual-faced old fellows who are soon to feed the dogs are almost as numerous as impudent youths already soiled and begrimed in true lama fashion. For hours at a time this huge gathering rocks back and forth on its haunches, intoning supplications under the lead of the abbot, sometimes chanting its litanies to the accompaniment of a “music” so barbaric as to send shivers up the unaccustomed spine, meanwhile moving the hands in distorted gestures prescribed by the ritual. Their devotions consist mainly of the endless repetition of the same brief prayers, mumbled over and over until the monotony promises to drive the listening stranger to sleep or to distraction. The notion is that this never ceasing iteration of the same scant theme will withdraw the minds of the devotees from worldly things and fix their attention on that nothingness which is the goal of the seeker after Nirvana; it needs but a slight acquaintance with lamas, however, to show that the real effect is to make them mere mumbling automatons, with minds as narrow and as shallow as their monotonous invocations.

The upper town of Urga, entirely inhabited by lamas, has the temple of Ganden, containing a colossal standing Buddha, rising high above all else. It is in Tibetan style and much of its superstructure is covered with pure gold

Red lamas leaving the “school” in which hundreds of them squat tightly together all day long, droning through their litany. They are of all ages, equally filthy and heavily booted. Over the gateway of the typical Urga palisade is a text in Tibetan, and the cylinders at the upper corners are covered with gleaming gold

High-class lamas, in their brilliant red or yellow robes, great ribbons streaming from their strange hats, are constantly riding in and out of Urga. Note the bent-knee style of horsemanship

A high lama dignitary on his travels, free from the gaze of the curious, and escorted by mounted lamas of the middle class

145From time to time the immense crowded gathering stops to eat and drink, still squatted in their places, from bowls of tea and of some such grain as millet, which are passed around among them. This is “holy food,” and the young lower-class lamas who bring it growl protests if the stranger comes too near them while they are carrying it. Then the intonations begin again and go on hour after hour, as tediously as such things can go only in the East, until at last “school” is dismissed and red lamas pour forth through the door and gate like wine from a punctured wine-skin, pausing a moment to take advantage of their first escape into the open air in many hours, then stalking away in their heavy oversize boots with that peculiar ball-and-chain gait of the walking Mongol.

Nowhere on earth probably, unless it be in Tibet, is so great a proportion of the population exclusively engaged in the unproductive nonsense of saving its souls. Every first son becomes a lama; if a boy recovers from any serious illness, the parents usually take the vow that he, too, shall don the red or yellow robe; there are many other reasons, among them the dread of labor, fear of hunger, hope of more promiscuous favors from the weaker sex, which add to the crowded ranks of lamas. No census is available, but in Urga almost every other person one meets displays the clipped head and collarless gown, while conservative estimators reckon that fully two fifths of the population of all Mongolia live, in the name of religion, on the exertions of the rest. Nor is it possible to conceive of a priesthood—to use the word loosely—more deeply sunk in degradation. Not merely do the lamas live in filth and sloth, engaged only in the pursuit of their own salvation, in no way serving their fellow-men, but they are notorious libertines, moralless panderers, in many cases beggars of the lowest type. The first 146lamas I ever saw were a pair who accosted us at a halt during our climb out of Kalgan, powerful fellows big and sturdy enough to have laughed at the most arduous labor, yet who begged even the sweepings of our wayside lunch and picked up the cigar-butt I tossed away. In Urga lamas bedraggled to the nth degree squatted day after day on busy street-corners telling their beads and monotoning a brief prayer incessantly from dawn to dusk for a few stray coppers and scraps of food.

However, there are lamas of high as well as of low degree—Jenghiz Khan himself, you may recall, was one. Several of the ministers in the Mongolian cabinet were lamas; some are princes as well, holding vast tracts of land and hundreds of slave-like subjects; among a number who called upon my departing host during my stay I recall a magnificent specimen of manhood who came to buy for his own use all the best furnishings of the house, and a strong-featured older man who brought a thousand silver dollars to make good the debt of a scamp for whom he had gone surety out of mere friendship. Such strict honesty is not customary among the Mongols, though they have something like the Chinaman’s way of keeping promises; hence there was not even the pressure of public opinion, certainly no fear of legal action, to cause him to yield up for no value received what was perhaps a considerable portion of his fortune.

Some of the lower orders of lamas engage in worldly occupations, at least intermittently, to keep the wolf from the door; and those who do not live in monasteries may enter into a sort of left-handed marriage, though their wives are always known as “girls.” The higher ranks are in theory celibates, but no such rule actually cramps their personal desires, and the “Living Buddha” himself has led anything but a life of lonely bachelorhood. Among the rank and file of red-robed roughnecks much the same standard of sexual morals seems to prevail as that reached by the lecherous touts of our large cities. It is said to be almost the general practice to reward a lama who has “cured” a young woman by means of his incanted gibberish by granting him the temporary boon of her affections, and foreigners have had experiences in Mongolia which indicate about the same indifference to lack of privacy in the amorous adventures of wearers of the red or yellow robe that prevails in some of their other personal habits.

There are no real schools in Mongolia except these choral gatherings of lamas. In them they learn to read and write, not Mongolian but Tibetan, the Latin of lamaism. The laymen boys of better-class 147families get their education, if at all, from private instructors, and in rare cases reach universities over the Russian border. Women have, of course, no need for other teaching than what their parents and husbands can give them, though now and then a prince or a wealthy saint hires tutors for his daughters.

However, to turn away from the retreating stream of lamas and push onward, even an enumeration of the religious structures and trappings about the great squat “university” would be wearisome. Most amusing or imbecile of them all to the Westerner, according to his mood, are the prayer-cylinders. Why these are more commonly called “prayer-wheels” is a mystery, for they are invariably cylindrical in shape, varying in size from the largest to the smallest sections of sewer-pipe. How many hundreds of these there are, not only in lama-town but everywhere in Urga, could be computed only by a man of energy and patience. Endless rows of large ones, each covered by a kind of sanctified guard-house, stretch along whole sides of the upper town; they line several of the principal streets; there must be at least one, that could better serve as outhouse, for every family in Urga. The small ones are as flies in summer. Each of these upright wooden cylinders contains thousands of prayers, all, if I am not misinformed, the repetition of the same monotonous phrase, written in Tibetan characters on scraps of tissue-paper,—Om mani padme hun, “The Jewel is in the Lotus,” whatever that means. A kind of capstan furnishes half a dozen protruding bars by which to turn the contrivance, and every turn is equivalent to saying as many thousand prayers as the cylinder contains. Every pious passer-by pauses to revolve one here and there; pilgrims, or residents who have sallied forth especially for that purpose, turn them all, one after the other, along the whole row or, as far as is physically possible, throughout the whole town. Thus the creak of prayer-cylinders is seldom silent, though they furnish a great market for axle-grease. Around the lower massive stone walls of Ganden shrine something like a hundred smaller cylinders are so arranged that by a simple twist of the wrist all of them are turned at once, releasing literally millions of prayers—a labor-saving device compared to which the proudest invention of our industrial world is but clumsy and wasteful.

Unlike the disciples of the truer and more kindly Buddhism to the east and west, the surly lamas of Urga resent visits by strangers to their sanctuaries, and prevent them entirely to the more holy ones. 148But there happened to be no higher official to forbid it when I stepped through the deep stone door of towering Ganden into a cluttered and musty interior, and the half-dozen young lamas of the garden variety who at first moved toward me in a mass, with a manner almost as threatening as might meet the intruder into a Mohammedan mosque, were softened by a gesture which implied the eventual bestowal of a silver ruble. Closely trailed by them I was permitted to make the circuit of the ground floor, and study from feet to knees the colossal figure of a standing Buddha which takes up almost all the space within Urga’s most lofty building. Then they urged me toward the door, but as I refused to part with the coveted coin for any such slight view they conferred together for some time in hoarse whispers. Finally one was sent to the outer entrance to make sure that none of the higher lamas was likely to drop in unexpectedly, and while two clambered before and three behind me I climbed a steep crude wooden stairway to the second story. This brought me about to the hips of the statue. In the semi-darkness of the building, filled to overflowing with hundreds of small Buddhas, with silk banners and streamers in many colors, with strings of paper prayers, with tawdry freaks of an unclean imagination and all the drab and indecent mummeries of a religion of fear, it was impossible to make out more than that the figure was of slight artistic merit, and that it was completely covered with what had every appearance of being real gold of considerable thickness. A third story on a level with its chest had low doorways at the four corners which opened upon a gallery overhung by one of the massive roofs and gave a far-reaching view of all Urga and its vicinity. Here one might have touched the massive ornamental lanterns, covered with gold, as were parts of the cornices and many of the smaller decorations. Still another half-perpendicular, makeshift stairway led to a higher gallery, carpeted with the droppings of birds and admitting light enough to show that the contents of the building were as soiled and unlaundered as the gowns of my suspicious and worried companions. This was at the level of the Buddha’s face, which resembled nothing so much as a very young “flapper” given to overindulgence in rouge, almost a babyish face, with bright crimson lips a yard long and an immature, affectionate expression that did not in the least befit a being presiding over the sullen and repulsive religion of Mongolia. Two sets of arms, one raised and the other extended in a familiar Buddhist fashion, could be made out in the gloom. Of the weight of actual gold covering the figure from sandals to coiled-snake coiffure there was no means of 149judging, but I would have been prompt to accept it in lieu of any income I could acquire in the course of a natural lifetime. One of the lamas wished to know whether we had anything in the outside world from which I came comparable to their four-story Buddha. Having in mind only ecclesiastical constructions, I could think of nothing that might be mentioned as a rival; but I might have told them of a statue on an island in the harbor of our principal city which just about equals this one in stature, without bringing in the fact that it is of tarnished bronze instead of gleaming gold.

It is easier to believe the tales of the old Spanish conquistadores after seeing Urga. If the capital of the Inca empire had half as many “golden roofs and cornices scintillating in the sunshine,” it would have been enough to arouse the cupidity of more saintly men than the followers of Pizarro. Gaze across the holy city of Mongolia in almost any direction, and a golden superstructure is almost certain to strike the eye. The lower story is in every case made of materials less tempting to the light-fingered, and palisades shut them in. But what burglar would not give all the rest of his earthly chances for one short half-hour of feverish, unmolested activity at any of those glittering second stories? That of the holy of holies in the monasterial section to the east of the official yamens, in particular, is of an elaborate massiveness which suggests some unlimited source of the precious yellow metal, and when the unclouded sun shines full upon it the eye can literally not endure the sight. Gold, filth, and superstition—after we have seen Urga even the least bigoted of us can understand more fully, if not completely condone, the high-handedness of a Cortez in overthrowing the heathen idols and burning the unholy temples of conquered “Gentiles.”

Along the sloping brown hillside just behind lama-town stands a row of whitewashed brick dagobas, the tombs of saints so holy that their bodies were not disposed of in the customary Mongol fashion. On the ledges of these, as on any projecting place inside the prayer-cylinder sheds, and indeed anywhere on holy edifices where there is room for them and it is permitted, worshipers have laid heaps of loose stones, each representing some appeal to supposedly supernatural forces. Of many another strange device in and about the mammoth temple compounds, there are the prostrating-boards, slightly inclined planks on short legs for the use of the pious during their extraordinary genuflexions before venerated shrines. With that indifference to soiling themselves for which the Mongols are conspicuous, however, the 150bare ground suffices most worshipers, and the boards do no great amount of service. The orthodox prostration so closely resembles one of the movements in great favor among our gymnasium instructors that the sight of a group of devotees, women fully as often as men, repeating it time after time in their ponderous boots and heavy garments threatens to convulse the American, at least, with laughter. Though there is no unison among the worshipers, each one performs the ceremony with a fixed rhythm which could not be more exact if a maltreated piano were pounding out the periods, so that the effect is of individual perfection of movement but utter inability to synchronize the group. The worshiper first stands at attention with his face to the shrine, as nearly like a soldier as “the conformation of the body”—not to mention the abundance of clothing—“will permit,” murmurs a prayer several times over, then bows his trunk to the horizontal, places his hands on the ground, straightens his legs to the rear, and lowers himself to the prostrate, even his nose touching the earth. There he remains a moment, then, flexing his arms until his rigid body rests on hands and toes, he regains the original position by performing the same movements in reverse order, repeating the exercise as long as piety, the weight of his sins, or his dread of evil spirits suggests. I know from experience that it is a genuine exercise even in gymnasium garb; what it is in full Mongol attire, sometimes including even the feminine head-dress, any vivid imagination can picture. No wonder the Mongols are big and strong; and what call is there for our famous gymnastico-religious organization ever to establish one of its Oriental branches in Urga? It may be just as well, perhaps, for us dilettante gymnasts of the West never to challenge a red-robed lama to bodily combat; for I have seen more than one of them make a complete circuit of some holy section of the city performing this prostration at every other step forward, leaving off at the point where night overtook them, and returning to start there again at dawn.

Except in Lhasa, and perhaps Rome, the worshiper in Urga has an advantage seldom to be found on this earth; he may perform his pious antics, not merely before silent shrines and motionless statues, but before a living god in flesh and blood. It is a pleasant tramp for any one with unatrophied legs across the valley to the dwelling-place of the “Living Buddha.” A few small streams block his way, unless he can hit upon the stepping-stone fords of the horseless lower classes. 151But if he is a Westerner, one of the mounted lamas who are constantly jogging back and forth between the palace and the city may, out of mere curiosity to see him at close range, or because all the native benevolence of the nomad herdsman has not yet been steeped out of him by superstition and the misbehavior of other outlanders, carry him across on his crupper. Or, if the stroller is not in a mood for petty adventures, he may take the causeway. This is a road wide as a Western boulevard and perhaps half a mile long, raised on wooden trestles which carry it across the slightly lower part of the valley; but it runs, not from the section where foreigners lodge and carry on such business as is possible under present conditions, but, being designed merely for the use of the “Living Buddha” and his courtiers, it connects his palaces with those of his late sainted brother, and with the shrine topped by that most coveted golden superstructure to which he sometimes comes to be worshiped. Apparently there is nothing sacred about this roadway, however, for any one may use it, and a gang of Chinese was engaged in replacing the logs covered with earth—which spells bridge to the Oriental—of a section that had collapsed. For that matter, it is Chinese workmen who repair, as they probably originally built, the fantastic gates and the flaring tile roofs even within the sacred palace precinct, but for which concession by his holiness and the jealous preservers of his sanctity nothing probably would ever get mended.

The low chaos of roofs within his principal compound, green, yellow, blue, golden, a jumble of Chinese, Tibetan, Russian and hybrid architecture, stands out against the little lines of trees along the foot of the sacred mountains,—evergreen, white birch, and other species, now red or yellow, like the omnipresent lamas, with early autumn. A few guard-houses with a ragged armed Mongol or two lounging before them surround the place, but these picturesque sentinels do not interfere with the movements even of foreigners so long as they do not attempt to enter the sacred precincts. On special occasions non-Mongols have been permitted to pass the gates, but very, very few have ever entered the presence or even the actual dwelling of the “Living Buddha” himself, to whom even the highest of Mongols do not have free access. The elaborate gates have the same demon guards, the same isolated wall as a screen against evil spirits, and all the rest of the flummery common to such structures in China and Korea. Some of the buildings within the compound, however, might have been taken bodily from some 152cheap European, or at least Russian, town, while the confusion of the whole scheme of structures would not awaken delight in the heart of any real architect.

The “summer palace” of the human deity, a furlong away, being more fully Tibetan, is less unpleasing to the eye. At about the same distance from the main palace in the opposite direction is almost a town of mainly modern buildings, housing the non-religious belongings and the servants of the Mongol god. His stables contain many horses; his garages have automobiles of a dozen different makes, European as well as American, not to mention the usual proportion of Fords; a Delco system lights his establishment; and most modern inventions are represented in one form or another. The “Living Buddha” buys every new contrivance the West has to offer, merely as playthings, in a vain attempt to make a noticeable inroad in a burdensome income. A foreign business man of Urga who has furnished much of it assured me that he purchases on the average ten thousand dollars “Mex” worth of assorted junk a day, things of every conceivable kind, which are petulantly tossed aside when the owner and his swarms of satellites tire of them. Many of the motor-cars rust away unused, though this modern god does all his traveling to and from his various thrones by automobile, and his chauffeur, a khaki-and-legging-clad Buriat, may frequently be seen speeding about town on the only motor-cycle in Urga.

In striking contrast to this modernity of his surroundings is the attitude of the Mongols toward their living god. It is something which we of the West can scarcely conceive, and which probably has no precedent among even the most pietistic creeds of the Occident. Second only to the Dalai-Lama of Lhasa in the hierarchy of lamaism, Bogda-Han, to give him one of the many titles by which he is known among Mongols, is worshiped by millions throughout a vast space of central Asia. The attribution of deity with which they invest him is due to the belief that he is a reincarnation of the original Buddha. When a “Living Buddha” dies—of which more anon—the high council of lamaism, by the consultation of certain sacred books and a deal of hocus-pocus which saner mortals would not have the interest to follow, determine where the body into which his soul has been reborn will be found. At first blush it would seem that this must be a new-born babe; but perhaps there is no nursery in the sacred palace, or no lamas of sufficient experience in that line to take charge of a puling infant. Therefore, by something corresponding to poetic license, the signs point to a boy of about nine years of age, who will be found, say, on such a corner of such streets in this or that city, doing so and so at a specified hour. A cavalcade of high lamas travel to the place indicated, which is more likely to be in Tibet than in Mongolia, capture the new and unsuspecting Buddha, and carry him off to a life of deification. It is commonly reputed in the outside world that each Buddha is quietly done away with by what we might call his cardinals at the age of eighteen, his body embalmed, and a new find installed in his place. A Russian professor long resident in Urga has been to some pains to prove that this is not true, that it is in fact mere nonsense; but he admits the curious coincidence that all the “Living Buddhas” up to the present one seem to have died at about eighteen years of age.

The market in front of Hansen’s house. The structure on the extreme left is not what it looks like, for they have no such in Urga but it houses a prayer-cylinder

A youthful lama turning one of the myriad prayer-cylinders of Urga. Many written prayers are pasted inside, and each turn is equivalent to saying all of them

Women, whose crippled feet make going to the shops difficult, do much of their shopping from the two-boxes-on-a-pole type of merchant, constant processions of whom tramp the highways of China

An itinerant blacksmith-shop, with the box-bellows worked by a stick handle widely used by craftsmen and cooks in China

153The present one played in unusual luck. To an even greater extent than his predecessors he took advantage of his position to become the Don Juan of Mongolia, and among his many light-o’-loves there was one to whom he wished to stick—or who decided to stick to him. Being a god is very convenient at times. This one calmly overruled the time-honored law that lamas, and especially “Living Buddhas,” may not marry—though of course this verb does not exactly fit the case—and attached the minx to him for life. She seems to have some such power over men as did the old Empress Dowager of China, an impression borne out by her masterful face in such photographs of her as are extant. Not only did she succeed in saving her paramour from the usual fate in his youth, but she so strengthened his position that he is still on his deified throne at an age variously reckoned at from fifty to sixty. Some explain this survival in another way: there were, they say, to have been a fixed number of reincarnations of the Buddha, of which this is the last, after which, we are led to infer, the stainless soul will pass into Nirvana; and of course a few years more or less of hanging back from that blissful state can do no one any harm, least of all in the Orient, where the sense of time is so nearly paralyzed. Even among those who do not accept this view there are many who claim that there will never be another “Living Buddha” in Mongolia, for political rather than lamaistic reasons.

The fact is, probably, that while the masterfulness of his consort had something to do with the survival of the present reincarnation, the powerful clique about him has been willing to permit it because of his weakness, which has prevented him from ever grasping any real authority. Since his gallant youth he has been tainted with that dread disease so wide-spread among the Mongols, which not only makes him 154a semi-invalid easily manipulated by the real power behind his pseudo-divinity, but which left him some years ago stone-blind. Because he is too sacred to be touched by impious hands, there was no way of curing him, and now it is too late. Besides, the high lamas preferred him sickly and supine rather than well and strong, not to mention the almost complete ignorance among the Mongols of the real nature of their well nigh universal ailment.

Perhaps his blindness increases his divinity in the minds of the faithful, as a sightless witch often wins more followers than one with all her senses intact. At any rate, Mongols of all classes treat their living fetish with divine honors. Pilgrims come from all over central Asia to prostrate themselves on the ground or the prayer-boards outside his compound; on special days they are blessed, not by his actual appearance in person—for visibility often breeds contempt, and the physical labor of being a god should be reduced to a minimum—but by being tapped on the heads with a contrivance in the hands of middle-class lamas to which is attached a rope the other end of which is grasped, hypothetically at least, by the “Living Buddha” seated on his throne inside his central palace. So divine is he that notwithstanding his infirmity the excretions of his body are collected in silver and gold vessels, sealed, and sent out among the credulous as a cure for their infirmities! Foreigners who have chanced to catch a glimpse of him on his way to or from the city temples to pray for rain—he has, of course, the latest and best thing in barometers—or some other ceremony, describe him as being more cleanly dressed than is the Mongol custom, but otherwise quite like any other lama of high class, plus a kind of gold crown. Close inspection might reveal that this alleged pulchritude is an exaggeration—I am skeptical of the possibility of combining cleanliness and Mongol—but that has never been permitted a foreigner.

While no manifestos are issued commanding the foreigner to remain within doors and avert his face, as was long the case when the emperor of China made his annual journey to sacrifice to the Altar of Heaven in Peking, armed guards as well as pious fanatics see to it that the divine being is not too nearly approached during his passing to and fro about Urga. No later ago than the month of my visit a group of Americans in an automobile were halted on one side of the unmarked route over which the “Living Buddha” was to return from the temple where he was just then enthroned, and compelled to get out and walk across it. As a special concession to the spirit of modernity, when the insistent guards were reminded that the abandoned machine could not 155advance of its own will, they permitted the chauffeur to climb in again and technically break the divine law by riding across the prospective trail of the blind god.

Tibetan, as I have said, is the Latin of lamaism. Even in Peking, where branch clusters of the faith exist, only two or three temples are permitted, by special dispensation, to carry on their services in Mongolian, and there is said to be only one in Asia where Chinese is used. The great stone letters on the flank of the sacred mountain, visible as far off as the eye can reach, are Tibetan characters. From Tibet come numbers of lamas, and orders tending to keep the ritual more orthodox; the Dalai-Lama himself once fled before foreign invaders to Urga. Neither these seekers after Nirvana from Lhasa and vicinity nor the traders from the more northern parts of Tibet make the journey now by the direct overland route. Not only are there bleak mountains and vast morasses, dreary despoblados without a sign of man for days, and the fanatical Mohammedan province of Kansu to cross, but in these settled times there are real dangers from bandits of several nationalities. So the beaten trail of to-day, except for those Tibetan divinities who come by sea, like any tourist, leads down through northern India and across into central China, thence northward through the former Celestial Empire, which still claims, if in vain, jurisdiction over all Outer Mongolia.

There is nothing more pleasant than a stroll on a brilliant autumn day across the golden-brown rolling plains about Urga, especially to the north and east, where they roll ever higher until all the holy city, to its most distant and isolated clusters of temples, lies spread out before one. No suggestion of modern industry breaks the peaceful quiet, which is enhanced by the law forbidding hunting or any other interference with wild creatures within a circuit of about twelve miles about the residence of Bogda-Han. Great flocks of pigeons fly up in purple-blue clouds only when the stroller has almost walked them down; less charming birds show a similar lack of fear of man; in the low forest along the crest of the sacred mountain roam elk, wild pigs, deer, bears, wolves, some say even moose and reindeer, not to mention many smaller and more harmless animals. Yet there is something ominous rather than tranquil and inviting about the scene as a whole; the Elysian charm is sullied and broken by various repelling things, particularly by the inhuman Mongol method of disposing of the dead.

This consists simply, except in rare cases of reputed gods or demigods, of feeding the corpses of all to the dogs. There seems to be 156nothing corresponding to a funeral service. Foreign residents say that formerly it was the custom to load the body on a two-wheeled cart and drive pell-mell across the hillocks until it fell off, the driver not daring to look back under penalty of having all the evil spirits which inhabited the dead man enter his own body. Others say they have sometimes seen a kind of procession of lamas and relatives follow the corpse to the hills and stand some little distance off watching its consumption. Certainly in the great majority of cases there is no more ceremony involved than in tossing garbage on the nearest dump. There are no fixed spots for depositing the bodies, but they are thrown hit or miss on the outer edges of the town, often right beside the main trails and especially in the shallow, verdureless gullies breaking up the wrinkled brown country about it.

One must be on the ground early after a death to find enough of the body left to recognize it as more than a broken skeleton. The big black dogs, covered with long shaggy hair, which dot the landscape everywhere in and about Urga, filling its streets with murderous-looking eyes that keep the pedestrian on the constant qui vive, have learned their task well from many generations of practice. The rapidity with which they can reduce what was a sentient, moving being the day before to a mere sprinkling of broken bones is astonishing. This doubly endears these loathsome beasts to the Mongols, for they believe that the more quickly a body is eaten the better man does this prove the deceased to have been in life. It is especial good luck and proof of unusual sanctity to see the body eaten by birds, but the dogs rarely leave their feathered rivals an opportunity thus to bear testimony to the character of the departed. The birds have their turn after the dogs have given up hope of deriving further benefit from their exertions, and finish off the job by cleaning out the skull and the other morsels for which a bill is needed.

There is nothing either hidden or sacred about these graveless graveyards. Any one may stroll through them, and find them quite as abandoned as any city dump-heap. Dog-nests made of the ragged quilted cloaks in which the bodies are carried out are the only conspicuous feature, except the skulls which lie about everywhere. I wondered at first that there were never any remains of the skeleton except widely scattered and broken bones, until I beheld a dog pick up a rib and carry it off to a comfortable spot on the hillside, there to sit down on his haunches, break it in two, and gnaw the last scrap of nourishment out of it. In the dry desert air the skulls quickly bleach snow-white 157and brittle; only here and there is one still “green” enough to be gray in color, so solid as to pain the toe that kicks it across the plain. These vast bone-yards are no place for the Westerner, living on his over-refined food, to spend the hour before an appointment with his dentist, for his envy of the full sets of perfect white teeth in almost every skull may become overwhelming.

It seems to be the idea of these putative Buddhists, the Mongols, and of their brethren, the Buriats and Kalmucks, who follow the same custom, that, since all living creatures are brothers, the least a man can do for his dumb fellow-beings is to bequeath them his useless body as nourishment—and thereby, of course, win merit that will improve his reincarnation. The Tibetans do likewise, except that they feed their mountain eagles or condors as well as their dogs, and prepare the food for the latter by mixing it with ground grain. Gruesome as the custom is, there is a thoroughness and promptitude about it which greatly outdoes the Christian mode of burial, a real and visible return of “dust to dust.” I know of no other means of disposing of the dead which gives the corpse so nearly its true value, none which leaves such a true sense of the worthlessness of human remains. Between this and the opposite extreme of an elaborate funeral followed by a showy mausoleum I am not sure but that I prefer the Mongol method.

To the Mongols themselves there is no more sanctity about their scattered bones than about any other form of rubbish. Shepherds or others whose calling brings them there wander or sit about the skull-strewn gullies quite as calmly as if they were in a field of daisies. Relatives seldom if ever come to pick up any of the remains; sometimes the rains wash broken bones down the gullies into the edge of town, where they lie until they are covered up with silt and disappear. Most of them simply disintegrate into the semi-desert soil about them. There is never a sign that the Mongol riding by feels any distress at the thought that some day these same surly black dogs that are tearing to pieces the corpse at the roadside will do the same for him. The tops of skulls, especially of higher lamas and men of standing, are sometimes used as drinking-vessels, or as oil-receptacles in the temples, and specially sainted thigh-bones make excellent whistles for use in ritualistic uproars; otherwise no one seems to have thought of the commercial possibilities of the bone-yards. Nor are these strange people, who might punish with death the stranger who forced his way into the presence of their living god, in the least sensitive about the possession of their remains. A high lama dropped in upon my host 158one day and chanced to spy a skull-top that had just been presented by some native admirer. He picked it up, looked it over carefully, held it up to a light, and announced that the original owner had been a very good man, proof of which was the condition of the zigzag joints and the fact that the skull was so thin in one spot that the light showed rosy red through it. Perhaps, he added, as he laid it back on the bric-à-brac table and accepted a cigarette, it had been the skull of his good old friend Lama So-and-so.

If I may hazard a guess, it is that this to us gruesome custom has grown up among the Mongols because they are nomads. They cannot carry the graves of their ancestors with them, whereas the dogs will follow of their own accord. Their attitude toward these surly black beasts without owners, which roam the plains as well as make every street of Urga a gauntlet, bears out this impression. Though they are as quick as we to beat them off with any weapon when they get too aggressive, they deeply resent a serious injury to or the killing of one of them by a frightened foreigner. Yet the tendency of any Westerner would be to do just that; I know of few assignments that would give me more satisfaction than to lead a regiment to Urga and exterminate her swarming dogs. Most of them seem to have acquired the disease most prevalent among those they feed upon, and one feels that the slightest bite would prove fatal. Luckily they spend the day largely in sleeping and making love, so that the streets are not always as dangerous as they might be. But they easily gather in packs, and especially at night or during the long hungry winters they are a distinct menace not merely to women and children but to the hardiest men. They are really cowards, these man-eating dogs of Mongolia, as the shrinking look in their tigerish eyes when they are effectively threatened proves; yet they are so accustomed to human flesh that man is to them natural prey, and they seem to have developed a knowledge of human anatomy which tells them where to attack most effectively, as well as what tidbits to prefer when they are not especially hungry. Urga is full of stories of the inability of these ugly beasts to await the natural end of their predestined victims. A man making his way late at night across the noisome market-place outside our window had been dragged down and eaten during the past winter. By poetic justice, he was a lama. In the outskirts just back of one of the temple compounds a Buriat woman was pulled off her horse and devoured one cold winter day before those looking on could come to her rescue. A year or so before, a Russian colonel newly arrived dined late with friends, who 159asked him as he left whether they could not give him an escort, or at least lend him a cudgel. No, indeed, replied the departing guest, a Russian officer could not be afraid; besides, he had his sword. Next morning the sword and a few buttons and rags were all that could be found of the colonel.

If I found time to see all Urga during my stay there it must have been due to the fact that it is not, after all, a large city, for most of my waking hours were of necessity spent in the various yamens. First, every new-comer must have a passport to remain in town; then we had to get permission from the war minister to carry them before our guns could be returned to us; there were endless negotiations involved in the matter of my confiscated kodak and films; finally, to mention only the high spots, any one leaving the country must have still another passport and fulfil numerous formalities. All these things would still have left some of my eleven days in Urga free if Mongol functionaries worked with even the deliberate speed of our own. But nowhere in all the Orient itself, probably, is the Oriental conception of time more fully developed, and when it came to shifting from one official or yamen to another a question on which no one wished to assume responsibility, these nomad herdsmen turned ink-daubers could “pass the buck” in a way to make our most experienced army officers green with envy.

Pious Mongol men and women worshiping before the residence of the “Living Buddha” of Urga, some by throwing themselves down scores of times on the prostrating-boards placed for that purpose, one by making many circuits of the place, now and again measuring his length on the ground

The Mongols of Urga dispose of their dead by throwing the bodies out on the hillsides, where they are quickly devoured by the savage black dogs that roam everywhere

Mongol women in full war-paint

Though it was still only September, our return from Urga was not unlike a polar expedition

161Every American is his own diplomat in Urga, where no nation except Russia has official representatives, so that most of our dealings were with cabinet members, especially with the minister of foreign affairs. He was a typical high-class Mongol, with greasy cue and soiled silk gown, whose qualifications for his office were that he spoke Chinese, though those who know Urga politics say he is a man of ability and the most powerful of the Mongols in the present Government. The prime minister, though a lama and a saint not many degrees below Bogda-Han himself, resembled all the others in appearance, except of course for his missing cue and certain details of dress. All the yamens were much like that of justice, to which we had the first introduction. Scores of booted and quilt-robed functionaries squatted on the cushioned platforms about the rooms of frame buildings that would be described as European, though they were built by the Chinese. An honest day’s work for any one of them seemed to be the scratching full of upright words with a weazel-hair brush of a two-foot strip of flimsy tissue-paper, the more careful copying of which would constitute their next daily contribution. The fastening of a portrait on the flimsiest of passports known to diplomatic circles, by sewing it in with pink silk thread and securing the knot with a wax seal many times heavier than all the rest of the document, left the man who accomplished it a sensation similar to that of the famous village smithy on his way to his night’s repose. The filing of a corresponding caricature of the applicant in the national archives was usually turned over to another functionary, in order to equalize the arduous toil. Then, too, no member of the staff wished to miss anything of interest. Every scrap of letter or document which we presented must be carefully examined by the whole yamen force; if it was in Mongolian, each one, from the assistant minister who would eventually take it in to his chief down to the youth who prepared the sealing-wax and wore over his eyes the black, bandit-like horsehair bandage which is the Mongol substitute for eye-glasses, must read it from end to end, which meant that we were forced to listen to the same meaningless song a score of times, for the Mongol cannot read without singing the words aloud. In my efforts to convince the Government of the harmlessness of the snap-shotting I should do about town if they would be so kind as to return my apparatus, I ran across some copies of the most photographic of our monthly magazines, and carried them to the yamens. These created unrivaled interest. All other work, slight as it always was, invariably was abandoned forthwith, and the combined force took to studying and discussing the pictures, their capped heads crowded closely together. When, hours after our arrival, it came time for the minister to give us his attention, he, too, must spend half the afternoon looking at the magazines, and end by telling us to come to-morrow when he could find time to make a decision. The advertisements won fully as much and quite as serious attention as the genuine photographs in the letter-press, which proved another cause for delay. For I challenge any one to explain in English turned into Russian and finally into Mongolian that there is really no curious race of dwarfs in America in spite of the picture of a merry tot barely exceeding in height the can of soup beside which he has stood for years in so many of our national publications.

However, we came to know official Mongolia well, and to find some of these functionaries pleasant and almost lovable fellows underneath their curious garb and their atrophied sense of the value of 162time. Eventually, too, we got results from our endless squatting about the yamens. Exactly a week after our arrival, when we had seen almost every one in ostensible authority in Mongolia except Bogda-Han himself, a soldier came to summon us to the Okhrana, and before the afternoon was gone our guns and cartridges were actually returned to us. True, the strap had been stolen from my companion’s rifle, and we were “squeezed” again in veritable Chinese fashion in the payment of the fees involved, as with our passports, by being forced to pay in “Mex” dollars instead of the legal rubles and copecks; but we had long since lost any inclination to trouble over trifles. Besides, the lumps of silver in which Mongol government employees are intermittently paid do not constitute large salaries. Permission to shoot lead, however, was not the chief motive of my yamen-chasing; I wished to turn my kodak on some of the curious types of Urga. The foreign minister having at length given me verbal permission to do so, I spent a morning in the office of the military staff—a dismal pair of little rooms occupied by a dozen gloomy and shoddy-clad Russian men and women dawdling over maps and translations—and finally interviewed the chief of staff himself. He was a tall, aristocratic-looking Russian who had been a major under the czar, but who held, of course, no rank in the “Red” scheme of things, though a kind of Cossack uniform flapped about his emaciated form and he occupied a position which in other lands would have called for at least a colonel. My hopes rose high, for here at last was a man with human intelligence enough to know that my simple request did not mean treason to the state. When the new supplication I was asked to write had been turned into Russian, he took it personally to the war minister. The interview was long, and though I was not invited to it myself, I knew that my case was being thoroughly discussed, for the minister spent some time in staring at me out of the window. Then the chief of staff returned my request with an annotation by his ostensible superior that the war department was quite willing to grant me the requested permission—if the minister of foreign affairs would also do so! I thought the struggle was won at last and that it was merely a question of awaiting the final papers with Mongolian patience; for had not the foreign minister already given such permission, if only by word of mouth? I no longer took with a grain of salt, however, the statement of my host that he had made twenty-one visits to the yamens for the simple purpose of getting a permit to ship some of his own horses out of the country.

163Two days after this appeal to the chief of staff a soldier met me in the street and handed me a Mongol document. Every one having promised me permission to use my kodak again, I called at once at the Okhrana and asked that it be returned to me. The surly, slouch-hatted churl at the head of that institution, after letting me stand the usual half-hour without deigning to acknowledge my existence, looked at me in a queer way and grumbled something about “to-morrow.” Perhaps the document in my hand was not what I fancied it to be. I went out to have it translated.

It is only by the exercise of the sternest self-control that I refrain from quoting that remarkable paper in its entirety. Not that it ranks high as a literary production, nor that it is intrinsically of any particular interest; but there are probably few better specimens of that frankness in diplomatic relations between nations which has been of late so loudly demanded. Written on the usual long strip of tissue-paper folded crosswise and opening like an accordion, it proved to contain a yard or more of perpendicular Mongol script, authenticated at both ends by the big square red stamp of an official seal. A lengthy preamble led up to the statement that, “inasmuch as an individual named S——, calling himself an American consul,” had during a visit to Urga some months before been in conversation with those members of a conspiracy against the People’s Government of Mongolia who had since been executed for treason, he “had made to perish the good name of the great American nation,” and therefore said Government could no longer believe any American, verbally or in writing, wherefore permission was refused me ... and so on, to the length of a treaty of peace. However, a little résumé of recent Mongolian history and politics is essential to the full understanding of this tidbit of amateur diplomacy; for such it was, for all its ostensibly private nature, since it was plain that it had been written in the hope that I would bring it to the attention of our Government, with whom Outer Mongolia had no regular means of communicating.

Soon after the revolution that made China nominally a republic, Outer Mongolia broke the ties which had bound it rather loosely for centuries to the Chinese Empire. The new Chinese Government had other problems on its hands, and for several years nothing serious was done to regain the allegiance of this vast territory, which had declared its independence without being very strict in such matters as completely expelling all Chinese officials. In 1917 there was organized 164in China under Japanese instructors an army-corps of twenty thousand Chinese, who were to take the enemy ships interned in Shanghai, sail for France, and win the war. But the armistice overtook these preparations and left the question of what to do with the troops on which so much training had been spent. Some genius at length suggested that they be made a “Northeastern Defense Corps,” and half the twenty thousand were sent to Urga under command of a general popularly known in China as “Little Hsu,” one of those choice morsels of humanity who had to his credit such actions as having a rival assassinated in his garden after inviting him to luncheon. All testimony seems agreed that these Chinese troops played havoc in Urga and vicinity, particularly after China had deprived Russians of their extraterritorial rights and after the “little worm” of a Russian consul who had been instrumental in having the expedition sent had departed. They began boldly looting and killing Russians as well as Mongols, and it was but a slight shift from that to attacking foreigners still entitled to extraterritorial privileges. Before matters grew serious enough to prod the powers to action, however, word came that a White Russian force was moving on Urga. “Little Hsu” ran away, leaving General Chu in command. The latter planned to kill all the foreigners left, according to his own assertion, then lost his nerve as the Russians drew near, and fled before his army; and when next seen by any of his intended victims he was basking in the hero-admiring smiles of foreign ladies and their escorts at a dance in the principal hotel of Peking.

The Russians under Ungern, justly known as the “Mad Baron,” entered Urga in October, 1920, and with the aid of Mongol troops chased the disorganized Chinese corps over the southern border of Outer Mongolia. It was then that the Paris-to-Peking telegraph line ceased to function for lack of poles. Bleached Chinese skeletons still lay scattered along the road to Kalgan when I made the journey to Urga. Ungern was one of those products of generations of Russian brutality who seem to find their keenest pleasure in bloodthirsty acts. In Urga he grew more and more mad, indiscriminately killing Mongols and Russians suspected of “Red” sympathies, and topping this off one February day in 1921 by a general slaughter of the Jewish inhabitants. Every Russian, he explained, hates a Jew; besides, the Bolshevik régime with which he was at swords’ points was and is still mainly in the hands of Jews, a fact not fully realized in our land because of the muffling Jewish hand on our press, but which it is essential to keep in mind in any study of present Russian problems. So deep was his 165hatred of these people that he refused to waste ammunition on them; they were despatched instead by splitting open their skulls with sabers. Foreigners still living in Urga describe the streets as shambles, strewn everywhere with the corpses of Jewish men, women, and children, even of babies with their brains oozing out amid the dust and rubbish. All speak of the curious fact that many bodies lay for days where they had fallen, without a dog’s coming near them, as if even these brutes had been frightened by the madness of the baron—or had eaten to satiety. As the soldiers reveling in the pogrom depended mainly on a hasty glance to identify their victims, not a few foreigners whose physiognomy was deceiving passed some very unpleasant moments. Such sights as two Mongols and a white woman hanging from the same gatepost, the woman a poor part-witted creature who maintained even in death a ludicrous expression of inane hauteur, are still recalled by the surviving foreign residents.

At length the Bolsheviks, having first, according to their own assertions, pleaded with the Chinese for several months to join them in the expedition and catch the “Mad Baron” between them, sent an army into Mongolia. The personal amusements of the baron do not seem to have had much weight in bringing about this decision, for the “Reds” themselves have a well developed taste for flowing blood; but they had begun to worry lest the Ungern group become the nucleus of a “White” force large enough to jeopardize their own security. Moreover, being true fanatics, they were eager to bring Mongolia the dismal gospel of their strange faith. The “Reds” entered Urga in July, 1921, and have been there ever since. In those notes for publication with which governments of all colors attempt to fool their neighbors, their own people, and even themselves, the present rulers of Russia assure us that they have only a corporal’s guard in Urga, merely as a protection against a new “White” gathering, and that the Mongols rule themselves without outside interference. Even the handsome and polished Jewish gentleman who under the title of Russian consul represents the Soviet in Urga, will tell you in any one of half a dozen languages, if you take the trouble to call at his perfectly consular office adorned with a large signed portrait of Lenin in a building flaunting a faded red flag, that he is only a lone foreigner in town, like you, and that he has little influence with the Mongol Government. But if he keeps from visibly smiling as he makes this assertion, it is a sign that the urbanity which he displayed at the time of his expulsion from the United States has improved rather than diminished.

166It is true that there are not more than two or three hundred Russian Soviet soldiers in Urga. Having painted the town “Red,” and seen to it that a Mongolian “People’s Government” of that color was installed, no great force is needed to see that the ideas of Moscow are carried out. The cabinet ministers ostensibly ruling the country are all Mongols, but at their elbow, just out of sight, sits a Russian “adviser” whose advice is never scorned with impunity. I still recall the scene when a Russian subaltern from the military staff brought the foreign minister a document that needed his signature to make it legal. As the minister began perusing it, the expression on the face of the subaltern said as plainly as if he had spoken the words, “Read it, you old beggar, if you want to waste the time, but you will sign it whether you wish to or not.” Thus the “advice” reaching Urga through the telegrams from Moscow that pour in upon the “powerless” Russian consul in a steady if slender stream seeps down through all grades of the “People’s Government” of independent Mongolia.

It has been a long way around, but we have at last come back again to that example of amateur diplomacy in which my simple prayer was denied, and a backhanded fillip given incidentally to all citizens of “the great American nation.” It is true, even as the document alleges, that an American named S—— did come to Urga a few months before my arrival, and he does not deny that he had conversation with some of the fifteen Mongols, one of them the former prime minister, another a saint high in the lama hierarchy, most of them as splendid fellows as could be found in Mongolia, who were shot a fortnight before I got there, on the charge of conspiring to overthrow the “People’s Government.” That he “called himself an American consul” is not surprising, in view of the fact that our State Department does also, and pays him a salary accordingly. Nor is there any cause for astonishment in the fact that he hobnobbed as much as possible with the most polished Mongols with whom he could come in contact, if only to avoid still greasier robes. In short, S—— is our consul at Kalgan, in whose district all Mongolia is included. Neither China nor the United States, nor in fact any nation except Soviet Russia, has ever recognized the independence of Outer Mongolia. By the law of nations, therefore, so far as any such thing exists, it is still a province of China and a part of one of our Chinese consular districts, where Americans are still entitled to extraterritorial rights and subject to trial only by their own diplomatic or consular officers. Soon after his appointment S—— 167hurried up to Urga to study the situation. The Mongols in power evidently hoped that his visit was inspired by an intention on the part of our Government to recognize their independence. When nothing of the kind followed, they became more and more resentful. The animosity of the “Reds,” who look upon the United States as the chief of the “capitalistic nations” opposed to their sad scheme of things, served to increase this feeling, at least with the “Red” Mongols just now in the saddle; there are many evidences that among the Mongols at large nothing has “made to perish the name of the great American nation.” That any American consul would promise a minority group in a foreign country that he would “put them in touch with the enemy of our people on the east” (by which was meant the Chinese in general and Chang Tso-lin in particular) “and give his assistance in the liquidation of the existing People’s Government of Mongolia and the restoration of the old régime,” as was charged in the reply to my request, is as silly as that document itself.

But enough of politics, which to my simple mind is usually a bore. I might add, however, as a personal chuckle, that my case came perilously near causing a ministerial crisis and overturning the Mongol cabinet. Not that this is anything to boast of in these days when cabinets almost daily stump their toes on this or that insignificant pebble and sprawl headlong; but it was some satisfaction to know that, if I could not snap-shot Urga, at least I could put it in an uproar. The cabinet, it seems, deeply resented the action of the upstart Okhrana, both in replying to me direct and in reversing the decision of the ministers, and the question of resigning en bloc as a protest was, I am creditably informed, debated long and vigorously. I could not of course, even as an unofficial representative of the slandered American nation, take such an attack as the Okhrana document lying down. I replied to it sternly, therefore, in proper diplomatic form, addressing myself to the foreign minister, who received my reply in due humility. But my hope that by thus again stirring things up I might still succeed in being the cause of a national crisis did not, according to the latest reports from Urga, materialize.

There can be no other reason than pique or pure ignorance for refusing any one permission to take photographs in Urga. It has no fortresses or works of defense surrounded with secrecy; as far as the presence of Soviet soldiers and “advisers” is concerned, the lens could catch nothing that could not be told as effectively in words. Simple, 168rather brute-faced young Russians in shoddy gray uniforms with a red star sewed upon them were about the only outward evidences of Bolshevik occupation. Here or there one or two of them stood on guard with fixed bayonets which they were even more careless than the average soldier in flourishing about unoffending ribs. Others, off duty, prowled about singly or in small groups in quest of anything appealing to their rudimental appetites which might turn up. Out toward the wireless station erected by the Chinese, where the Russian soldiers used the war-ruined office of an American mining company as barracks, detachments of fifty to a hundred of them might be met marching in close ranks at a funeral pace and singing in chorus, a rather engaging custom inherited from czarist days. It was evident, not merely from their appearance but by the way any suggestion of authority went quickly to their heads, that almost all these uncouth youths were of the peasant or the lowest city class. Though I had business in the Okhrana several times a day during all my stay in Urga, never once was I permitted to enter it, even when officially summoned, until whatever dull-faced soldier happened to be on guard at the door had halted me long enough to emphasize his authority and his dislike of the class which still dared to wear white collars. What was worse, as in every case of evil example copied by still lower strata of society, was the studied rudeness, the childish yet overbearing insolence of the Mongol soldiers, who were much more numerous, in their efforts to outdo in “redness” their Russian models.

It was common rumor that there were many “radishes” among the Russians stationed in Urga, which would account for the exceptions to the general rule of simple, plebeian faces among the soldiers as well as among those in more important positions. A “radish,” obviously, is a man who is red on the outside but white within, and the term has of late years become one of every-day speech in Russia. Many former officers of the czar, many a member of the old aristocracy whom one would least expect to find backing the new proletarian doctrine, have no other means of earning their bread than to accept some small position under the Bolsheviks and pretend to be in sympathy with their program. How many of these there are in Russia and adjoining lands who will turn upon their present rulers when they show definite signs of falling is a question not without interest to the outside world, but one which no casual visitor can answer. It is said, also, that men are very glad to be assigned to duty in Urga, where there is at least plenty to eat, in contrast to Russia where nearly every one is more or less starving. 169Yet there are Russian civilians even in Urga who know the pangs of hunger. Such utter poverty and abject beggary as may be seen in Harbin or Vladivostok among refugees from the Bolshevik régime are not found in this bucolic land of comparative plenty, but barefoot children and the leanest faces were never those of the Mongols. I recall in particular the widow of an official wantonly killed by the “Mad Baron,” a young woman who might have been charming under happier circumstances, who dwelt with her lanky little daughter in a kind of two-room hut occupied by at least half a dozen other persons, and who shivered past our window every morning and evening to and from some sort of physical toil that had already given her the hands of a peasant woman.

Far be it from me to condemn any honest attempt to work out a new and better form of government, for certainly I should pin no blue ribbons on any which so far exist. But even a few days in Urga under “Red” rule could scarcely fail to convince any one not hopelessly prejudiced in its favor that the “Red” system does not improve human felicity, which after all, though that fact seems almost completely to have been lost sight of the world over, is the only justification for any government. Bad as opposing systems may be, this one was patently worse, if only because it brings the dregs and sediment of society to the top and submerges the purer liquid. It places the ignorant over the more or less instructed, the rude and the malevolent over those who are at least polished enough to be somewhat tolerant; it brings to the surface the residue of savagery in the human race and immerses many of the improvements that have been accomplished by long centuries of effort. I was particularly struck by this aspect of things on the evening when I attended the weekly Spektakl with which European Urga is permitted to attempt to amuse itself. That, like the government which sponsored it, was as if the stokers had come up and taken possession of the cabin and insisted on using only the meager talents to be found in their own ranks, though those who had given their best efforts for generations to providing better entertainment still tarried in the obscure corners into which the irruption had driven them.

While they might as easily have led these childlike people of the Gobi toward better things, the “Reds” seem only to have improved the natural cussedness of those Mongols upon whom they have had any influence whatever. The two races have, to be sure, many qualities more or less in common, and a history which dovetails here and there. 170The Mongols under Jenghiz Khan defeated the Russians, destroyed Kieff, and made almost all Russia tributary to them. Out on the edge of Urga stands a long row of European barracks built by the Russians in czarist days as a part of their program of training a great Mongol army. In other words, it has been give-and-take between these neighboring races for centuries, and, shading together as they do through the intermediate Buriats and Kalmucks, they seem much more closely allied than Europe and Asia in general. In fact, seeing the two side by side, one was more and more struck with how Oriental are the Russians. They are Oriental, for instance, in their cruelty, and while they can perhaps teach little of that quality to a people who until yesterday placed condemned criminals in stout boxes and left them out among the skulls and dogs to die, they have certainly done nothing to soften their innate barbarism. Surely it is no worse to cut open the body of an executed felon in quest of some organ of fancied medicinal value than to sentence two of the most cultivated and charming young Russian ladies in Urga to serve the “Red” army in Siberia for five years in punishment for the atrocious crime committed by one of them in being the wife of a “White” officer—for “serving” a “Red” army in this sense means something quite different from sewing on buttons by day, something which makes a five-year term easily a life sentence.

Though they were on the whole surly now toward strangers in general and Caucasians in particular, one felt instinctively that this was not natural Mongol behavior. For they are a simple people, close to nature, a race with lovable traits for all their obvious faults. Three years ago, say those who knew it then, Urga was as free as air, a delightful place to visit, for all its filth and superstition. Hardly a Mongol but had a smile and a cheery, jocular greeting for any one, of whatever race, be it only at a chance meeting in the street. If now the atmosphere of the whole place kept the nerves taut, it was rather because of things that had recently been imposed upon them from the outside, things which they might or might not wish, but which they have no choice but to accept. In the olden days the visitor to Urga came and went, carried on business or loafed, and never met the slightest interference with his personal freedom. Now, though the European colony may stroll at sunset a few times back and forth along the noisome stream oozing past the market-place, no one may go out at night without imminent danger of spending the rest of it in clammy durance. This rule, added to the double windows of most 171houses, covered with wooden shutters, Russian fashion, gives the nights a deathly silence, only occasionally broken by the barking of foraging dogs, hoarse-voiced as if they all had heavy colds from sleeping outdoors. A humorous touch may soften this general atmosphere of apprehension, for the “Red” and Mongol idea seems to be that only those who sneak noiselessly along the dark streets can be bent on mischief, and the small non-Russian foreign colony have found it efficacious in returning from their dinner-parties to sing and whoop at the tops of their voices to convince prowling soldiers that they are innocent of any evil intent.

It is risky now even to use the word Guspadin, a kind of Russian “Mr.,” before any name, in any language; one is expected to say Tavarish, meaning comrade. When they first came, the “Reds” showed every intention of introducing the same communism in Mongolia as in Russia. They demanded all title-deeds of real property, announcing that they would rent everything of the kind for thirty years to the highest bidder, no matter who the owner might be. The agents of foreign firms replied that the titles to their company buildings were on file with their legations at Peking, or at the home offices in America or Europe, or gave some other plausible answer, and, though copies of them were demanded, these were returned later with the information that they were of no use. Mongols and Russians, however, have in many cases been made communists willy-nilly, and some have already been stripped even of personal property. Those who have been in both places say that interference with peaceful pursuits is worse in Urga than it ever was in Soviet Russia. Merchants are particularly bitter, because while business is growing steadily better in Russia since the decree legalizing it, here it is being taxed to death. It is difficult to get a frank statement from the mistrusting Chinese merchants, who make up a majority of the trading class; but it is hard to believe that they are any more satisfied with the often confiscatory as well as burdensome methods of the “Red” authorities than are the disheartened foreigners. Every import or export, for instance, must pay a very high duty based on the retail selling price. Fines for technicalities and the often unavoidable breaking of some silly rule are the order of the day, while on top of the cost comes the wasted time and effort caused by the inexperience of the Mongols in matters of government. A caravan of sixty camels bringing in or taking out bales of marmot skins must halt for two or three days while every skin is counted and the bales made up again. When an Anglo-American branch got in a shipment of 172cigarettes, every one of the ninety-eight packages in each of the seventy-two cases had to be counted. Why they did not count each cigarette remains a mystery. The same rule applies to bricks of tea, cakes of chocolate, and the most minute of articles.

Not long after their arrival the “Reds” passed a law making the Russian silver ruble legal tender on a par with the “Mex” dollar and requiring every one to accept it as such. When an American firm protested that this meant a loss of 40 per cent on prices, and refused to comply, it was heavily fined. Moreover, the fine was paid, legal rights of extraterritoriality notwithstanding. It is small wonder that foreign stock is scarce in Urga and that important firms are closing their branches there. So far as I was able to find, the “Reds” had introduced only one reform worth while: they had decreed that Mongol women must give up their extravagant head-dress, saying that the silver with which it is heavy could be used to better purpose. Some twoscore head-dresses were seized, but even Bolsheviks learn in time that feminine fashions cannot be decreed by lawmakers; they returned the confiscated contrivances later, and the custom remains. In fact, all the “Reds” in Urga have not done as much for the handful of the human race there as have three brave Swedish girls who are fighting alone the most wide-spread of Mongolia’s physical diseases with missionary zeal and without making any noise about it.

Whatever other forms of violence the Soviet has used in its efforts to make neighboring Mongolia a first convert and a nation after its own heart, it has not dared openly attack the “Living Buddha.” The fanatical Mongols would almost certainly kill all foreigners in the country, irrespective of nationality, if their blind god were molested; though the rumor is rife that the “Reds” have threatened to deal with him as with the former prime minister if he uses his influence against them. Outwardly they try as hard to keep up the fiction that he is the head of the Mongol Government as they do to convince the world that they have no real hand in the latter. The official bulletin, only newspaper in Urga, in announcing the execution of the fifteen alleged conspirators, called attention to the law which decrees that those who try to change the form of government shall be cut up in small pieces, their immediate family banished two thousand versts from the capital, all their property confiscated, and all their relatives sent as slaves to distant princes. There are many such slaves in Mongolia, by the way; Bogda-Han has thousands of them, just as he has of cattle. But, added the official organ, the family and the property of these fifteen were not molested, 173by order of the “Living Buddha!” It is true that the title Bogda-Han means emperor, but he was long since shorn of any temporal power, not to mention the fact that he is said to have no sympathy whatever for the “Reds” or any of their works.

It is common belief that the Chinese will never return to power in Urga. A recent despatch from a Japanese source asserting that Moscow has declared Mongolia a federated state of Russia has not been confirmed, but it might as well be that in name as well as in fact. As I write, a story comes through that the “Living Buddha” is asking China to take charge of the country once more, but that again is from a Chinese source. The hard, cold facts in political matters are difficult to find in such a double-faced realm as the Orient. But the future of Mongolia will be worth watching, as will the apparent tendency of the Soviet to continue the imperialistic thrust toward the south and east which it inherited from the czarist régime.

As if they wished to make up for their earlier harshness, the “Reds” made my departure from Urga extremely easy. Perhaps I should see a less flattering motive in their leniency. In any case my baggage was barely opened and shut again, though most travelers find departing a more trying ordeal than arrival, and ordinarily every line of writing leaving the country is rigidly censored. The only unpleasantness that befell us was the failure of the greasy Mongol holding the official seal to reach the Okhrana before noon, though we had been there ready to start since eight. Booted soldiers again rode with us to the far outskirts of the city, halting us at various yamens, so that the sun was well started on its decline before our papers were examined at the last yourt, and we were free to reach if possible the first distant stopping-place before nightfall. Not until the next afternoon, however, when the frontier outpost of Ude passed us without comment, did that sense of apprehension which seems just now to hang like a cloud over Outer Mongolia give way to one of relief and confidence of the future.

Long caravans that we had passed a fortnight before were still laboriously making their way toward Urga. Men all but unrecognizable as such under their many sheepskin garments still squatted at trenches dug in the desert, coaxing wind-shielded fires to blaze, or bowed their fur-clad heads to the bitterly cold wind sweeping at express speed down out of the north; and we drove for nearly a hundred miles through fields of snow and ice, though September was not yet gone when we stumbled down the pass into Kalgan.

It is obvious that this chapter should be written by the head of the house. But any husband, at least of the United States of America, will understand perfectly what I mean when I say that persuasion is often useless and coercion out of date. The housekeeping sex will have to bear with me, therefore, while I do my masculine best with a subject that is manifestly far beyond my humble qualifications. Whatever the other faults I display in the process, I shall try not to be reticent in such matters as the wages of servants and the price of eggs, which I conceive to be those near the housekeeper’s heart the world over.

Neither of Peking’s modern hotels, not so much as to mention the dozen others which are now and then astonished by the arrival of a foreign client, was the place for a boy just reaching the running, shouting, and breaking age to spend eight or nine months, even if his parents had not grown to abhor the very advantages of hotel life. So we turned our attention to the renting of a house. In Peking one does not simply buy a morning paper, check off a hundred possibilities, and make the rounds of them. There is an English-speaking, more or less daily newspaper, two or three of them, in fact; but very few families could live in the available houses which they call to the reader’s attention. Nor are there renting agents, or many invitations to the houseless, at least recognizable to Westerners, to be seen along the streets. One must depend rather on chance hints, above all on asking one’s friends to ask their friends, which is not wholly satisfactory for new arrivals with at most a few letters of introduction and a foolish, perhaps, but ineradicable tendency to cause the rest of mankind as little annoyance as possible. We soon learned, however, that some things are quite proper in Peking which are deeply frowned upon elsewhere, and vice versa.

But at least house-hunting in the Chinese capital is not at all the physical labor that apartment-hunting is, for instance, in New York. One steps into the nearest of the rickshaws which swoop down like hungry sparrows upon every possible fare and is borne silently away to the very doors of possible dwelling-places. It is almost always a 175disappointment to prospective residents, this first rapid survey of Peking outside the Legation Quarter, yet at the same time fascinating to all but the most querulous. The narrow, unpaved hutungs are so uneven, if not actually muddy or swirling with dust; they offer so many offenses to the eye, and to the nose; unwashed beggars, runny-nosed children, the first close view of one’s future neighbors, are seldom pleasing even to those most avid of local color. Almost any one with American training will be appalled by the lowness and the apparent crowding together of the houses. The thought of living not merely on the ground floor but literally on the ground itself, since Peking houses have no cellars and rarely even a single step to be mounted, may seem unthinkable. The total absence of front yards, of grass, of even the suggestion of a sidewalk, nothing but blank walls of bluish-gray mud bricks, here and there half tumbled in, patched perhaps for the time being with old straw mats or mere rubbish, close on either hand as far as the eye can see, is likely to bring a sinking to the new-comer’s heart.

But he is not long in realizing that China is preëminently the Land of Walls, and that what the streets and the alley-like hutungs lose by being crowded between their mud-made barriers the dwellings along them gain in space and privacy within. Once the heavy door-leaves, bright red in color, with a few big black characters on them calling poetically for blessings upon the inmates, growl shut behind him, he finds the sense of unpleasant proximity was a mere delusion. A short tiled passageway leads, almost certainly at right angles, into the first court, from which another, very likely with a different direction, that evil spirits may be completely nonplussed, opens upon a second, and beyond this, perhaps through a big ornamental gateway with brilliant flare-eared roof, there may be a third and even a fourth courtyard; though this would imply that the ordinary house-hunter might better discreetly withdraw before the matter of price comes up. Usually the brick walls and the tiled roofs of the separate buildings about these courts are of that same blue gray that makes Peking so much more drab than the imagination had pictured it, for all its innumerable palaces, temples, and monuments. But the eaves and the cornices, the doors and the passageways, with their red and green and sky-blue decorations of Chinese motif, the bright blues and reds of the rafter-ends and corbels under the slant of the roofs, the white-papered lattices of the windows, make up for this. Probably, too, there is a venerable old tree rising out of somewhere high above the place; and almost always, winter or summer, there is that bright blue sky overhead which makes Peking so delightful a home. What usually 176troubles the foreigner longest is the lowness of the houses. A child could throw a cat over any of them; they have no basements, no garrets, nothing but the low room or two of each building, generally without even a ceiling, but only the roof-beams, papered or whitewashed, sometimes painted with dragons and other things Chinese.

I have been speaking, of course, of Chinese houses. There are many two- and even three-story dwellings in Peking; there are big compounds full of houses that might have been shipped intact from Massachusetts; but we could see no reason for coming all the way to China just to live inside a little walled-in duplicate of England or America. So we roamed the hutungs. According to treaty all Westerners in Peking still live within the Legation Quarter. But the foreign community has long since outgrown such limited accommodations. Chinese with houses to rent, merchants with goods to sell, every caste and variety of Pekingese who covets some of the contents of foreigners’ plump purses, is glad to overlook this fiction in practice, so that brass name-plates in Roman letters, and flagpoles flaunting various Western colors, are widely scattered within the Tartar City. We found them clustered most thickly in the southeastern, or at least the eastern, part of it, thinning out toward the northwest; but foreigners live even inside the Yellow Wall, as the Chinese call the Imperial City. There seemed to be few if any in the broad Chinese City south of the Tartar Wall, or outside that mighty barrier at all, except for the little suburban community far out at the race-course.

Our home in Peking was close under the great East Wall of the Tartar City

The indispensable staff of Peking housekeeping consists of (left to right) ama, rickshaw man, “boy,” coolie, and cook

A chat with neighbors on the way to the daily stroll on the wall

Street venders were constantly crying their wares in our quarter

177I had gone to Mongolia before we found what we wanted, and therefore can claim no credit either in the quest, the furnishing, or the selection of that numerous personnel without which no foreigner’s household in Peking seems to function. It had been a long search, with certain hitches that would not have occurred across the Pacific. Legally no foreigner can own real estate in Peking unless he is a missionary. Many do, but that is by using Chinese as dummy owners. Some old Chinese houses as yet untouched by foreign hands tempted us to try ours at recreating them in as charming a way as some of our friends had done. But the eight or nine months we could be at home in Peking were already running away, and the process of making livable such old ancestral mansions, where courtyard rambles after courtyard, but where former glories have faded with years of disrepair, would have taken too large a slice out of our time. To rent a house even from the Chinese landlord who had renovated and improved it purposely for the occupancy of foreigners was a complicated process. First of all there was the inevitable bargaining, the landlord starting at perhaps twice what he would accept and the renter at half what he was prepared to pay; for it is still a rare Chinese, even in a city as familiar with foreigners as is Peking, who can honestly name his price at the beginning and stick to it. Nor were these dickerings direct, even though my wife and our prospective landlord might have a language in common. Go-betweens must “save face” on either side in case the deal fell through. The houses for rent by Chinese were never furnished; they usually lacked running water, sewers, bath-tubs, electric light, and similar Western idiosyncrasies, though in cases where the owner had in mind renting to foreigners preparations might have been made to introduce these improvements. But unless he was sure of getting a foreign occupant the landlord did not purpose to go to all this trouble perhaps for nothing; in most cases his proposition was that the renter put in these things at his own expense, with the doubtful probability of having his rent reduced accordingly.

If the two parties did finally come to terms, the inexperienced renter was likely to faint at the revelation of what still lay before him. First he must pay three months’ rent in advance, which did not at all mean that he would not have to pay again before the three months were up. This payment would cover the first and the last months of the occupancy, and the other third of the sum no month at all. It went as cumshaw or “squeeze” to every one concerned in the deal—except of course the man who paid it—to be divided among all those who had in any way taken part—the “boy” of an acquaintance who had pointed out the house, the caretaker who had opened the door, the servant across the street who knew the name of the landlord, the man who had fetched said landlord, on up through all the go-betweens to the landlord himself. Even the most generous of us hesitates to give tips of a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars, though it be only “Mex.” Then the papers in the case must be sent to the legation of the foreigner involved, which in due time would do to them whatever is customarily done, and pass them on to the Chinese police. In Peking some officials work with unusual promptitude (for China), so that the documents might be complete and back in the hands of the landlord with a celerity that would be vertiginous in the interior of the country—that is, with good luck, so every one told us, within three or four months!

Then all at once there appeared a little Chinese house just about our size, which an American missionary had recently civilized and was ready 178to rent in the offhand fashion of our native land. For a week, coolies—bowed under assorted articles of furniture picked up at auction sales, bargained for piece by piece out in the maelstrom of the Chinese City, in shops scattered elsewhere, and as a last resort made to order by Chinese craftsmen of adaptable ability and very reasonable demands—wandered up the little hutung to our new home. A carpenter produced from a scanty suggestion a four-posted crib with brilliant dragons climbing each post; another stray artist covered the face of the nursery wardrobe with a marvelous blue forest through which China’s most famous actor, in his usual rôle of a willowy lady, strolled with a green deer; most of the furnishings were purely Chinese, adapted as far as possible to foreign use, and our chief regret was that this could be only a temporary, and must therefore be an inexpensive, abode, in which we could not indulge in the real beauties of Chinese trappings. As it was, something between seven and eight hundred dollars had melted away before we were done, and still no one would have mistaken the place for a prince’s palace. But they were only “Mex” dollars, as is always the case when one uses the word in China, and there was a chance that some one might give us back a few of them when the time came to abandon Peking and push on. Besides, either of the hotels would have taken the dollars and not left us even the furniture.

By the time I returned from Urga we were ready to move in. Our Peking home is out in the very eastern edge of the Tartar City, so close under the East Wall that sunrise is always a little later with us than in the capital as a whole. It is not easily found, for it opens off a narrow hutung of its own, a nameless little lane running head on into the mighty wall, without another foreigner for several minutes’ walk in any direction, and—since we are to cast aside reticence for the information of other householders—the rent is seventy-five dollars “Mex” a month, with no Oriental jokers in the lease. Before I have occasion to mention them again, let me say that, though their value varies daily, the dollars of China averaged a hundred and eighty-seven to a hundred of our own during our winter in Peking. Wherever the words “dollar” or “cent” appear hereafter in these pages they are of this cheaper variety.

It was a great change from the carefully tended Legation Quarter, with its macadamed streets and tree-bordered sidewalks, its wide gateways with vistas of one great power after another—though one comes to wonder whether in China of to-day these powers are greater than they are impotent—to cross Great Hata-men Street and strike off into the maze of hutungs to the east of it. But there the joy of a real home was 179impressed upon us; we were living as we had long planned, in a Chinese house among Chinese neighbors in Peking, the spell of the old capital, of the real China, weaving itself all about us. Outwardly the place would not be inviting to American tastes. But once a quick, light tapping of the door-ring brings a “boy” to swing back the heavy halves of the poetic red door we enter a very world of our own, completely shut off from all but the sounds, and occasionally the smells, of the teeming Chinese world about us. Its voices may drift over to us, but what does it know of us within?

A Chinese house turned out to be a very pleasant place to live in. There was pleasure even in having no stairs to climb, especially after being on the top floor of a hotel where the elevator too often bore the sign “No currency”; the delightful feeling of being at home as soon as the red doors closed behind us was more real than we had ever felt it in any of our Western abodes. Ours is a simple dwelling, to be sure, as befits mere rolling stones. It has only one court, perhaps thirty feet square, paved with gray mud bricks and surrounded by four separate little low-browed houses of two rooms each, their roofs of curved tile slanting down in a protective way, as if presaging hot summers or bitter winters. Their bare backs are turned to the neighbors who crowd us on every side, and their windows all face the court, take up all four sides of it, in fact, for on the inside there are nothing but windows. At the top these are lattices covered with the flimsy white paper so general in China, easily renewed and much more adequate against heat or cold than one would think; but foreign influence has put real glass in the lower panes. One is not long in discovering that in Peking the main house always faces south. If the compound is on the north side of the street the best rooms are at the far back of it; if it is on the south side they back up against the street wall, and so on. This most important building almost always has a low wide porch, like ours, with a pergola-roof over which plants rooted in the unpaved strips of earth along the sides of the court can clamber. In summer it is the Peking custom to have the courtyard covered by a pêng, a huge reed mat on pole legs, high enough above the whole establishment to shade it without cutting off the breeze—and always rented, by the way, from the pêng-gild, which refuses to sell. But summer was waning when we moved in, and for eight or nine months a year it would be a sacrilege to shut out the brilliant blue sky that tents Peking, often without the tiniest rent in it for weeks at a time. Even when the dry cold of a Peking winter was at its sharpest we never regretted the separation of our little houses 180which necessitated crossing the court and having another glimpse of that unsullied blue sky and a breath of the outdoor air whenever we went from one room to another.

The collecting of the requisite staff of servants was the mildest task of all. In Peking, as in all China, human beings swarm so thickly that the mere rumor of a desire for services is enough to bring many fold of applicants. The wise thing for the new-comer is to hire his servants through the servants of his friends, or in some such linked-up way. They will no doubt have to pay their informants a certain “squeeze” for the job, but one is protected from fly-by-night domestics whose antecedents and family roots are unknown; though compared with the opportunities which Chinese servants have for fleecing foreign employers they are honesty personified. A staff thus recommended to us lined up for inspection. There was an engaging-looking little cook nearing middle life, a round-faced, too youthful “boy,” who, having once served in a Japanese hotel and learned unpleasant habits, soon departed in favor of a man from the interior of the province, and a tall, handsome Shantung coolie. Then there came a wrinkled old rickshaw-man, one of the swiftest runners in Peking for all his age, and finally, after more careful picking, we chose the only feminine member of the staff, an ama for the most important task of all,—pursuing the younger generation. Then, with a dose of interpreted orders, we were off.

For on one point we were adamant: we would not have an English-speaking servant in the house. Chinese domestics who have even a smattering of the language of their employers, we had already noted, are likely to be impudent, to be experts in the matter of “squeeze,” and to demand what in Peking are fabulous wages. Life is much simpler, too, when one can talk freely without being understood by the servants. But the really important motive was that we wished to learn Chinese, above all to have the son who had lost his second birthday in crossing the Pacific learn it, and not the atrocious Pidgin-English which constitutes the linguistic lore of so many “boys” and amas. Looking back upon it we can testify that there is no more direct road to a speaking knowledge of even the Chinese language than living in the unbroken midst of it.

Down in the Legation Quarter people pay their servants two or three times what is customary in the rest of Peking, to say nothing of the “rake-off” which careless auditing and boastful living give them. Our new staff named their own wages, but they named them on an uninflated 181basis, so that both sides were satisfied. All except the ama considered ten dollars a month a suitable return for their services, though the rickshaw-man, of course, had to have eight more for the use of his shining carriage, housed just within the outer door. The woman stood out for fourteen, something more than the average in that quarter, but she proved well worth it, for not only was hers the most responsible job but the many other tasks that fall to an ama’s lot made her specially valuable. Besides their wages, Chinese servants get nothing, legitimately, except the k’ang they sleep on in their cramped quarters, a basket of coal-balls now and then in the colder months, and sometimes a garment used exclusively in their employer’s service. Their food is their own affair. Thus our staff of five cost us sixty-two “Mex,” or, to put it into American money, about thirty-five dollars gold a month. In addition to this they expected cash presents at our Christmas, their New Year, and when we should break up housekeeping, totaling approximately an extra month’s wages.

Chinese servants have their faults, but when these are all summed up I doubt whether they exceed those of domestics even in Europe, to say nothing of our own land. Certainly life runs more smoothly under their ministrations than the most willing and efficient of “hired girls” can make it. Whether it is their natural temperament or merely a pride of their calling, a surly face or manner, the faintest breath of impudence or “back talk,” even when the lady of the house has been alone with them for weeks at a time, have been as unknown in our circle as has a protest against any task assigned them. They have their own ways of doing things, but even these we have succeeded in changing where it was essential to do so. The division of work is left to them, for this is a matter in which one quickly finds it wise not to attempt to interfere. If any of them has ever felt that he was being imposed upon by the others, it was settled among themselves, and the matter never came to our ears. There are no such things as afternoons off among Peking servants; like their fellows, ours work, or at least are on call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Once in a while the “boy” or the coolie interrupts our evening reading for an instant by asking permission to go out, but we have never known them to be missing when next they are wanted. The rickshaw-man asked perhaps three or four times during the winter to go and have something done to his vehicle, but only in a few cases of misunderstanding was he not on hand when we wished him to trot away with us, until with the coming of the Chinese New Year he decided that he had held a steady job long enough. 182The ama has two small daughters, not to mention a husband and the inevitable mother-in-law, at her home not half an hour away, yet though she has never been discouraged in doing so I doubt whether she has gone to see them a dozen times during the winter, and whenever she does she brings back some gay and not always inexpensive Chinese toy to her appreciative charge, as if to make up for the presumption of leaving him. It is really more than that, of course, like the constant kindnesses of all the servants toward him, for nowhere could a small boy be more royally treated than among the child-loving Chinese.

Though we have never gone deeply into the matter, the work of each servant seems to be definitely fixed by custom. The rickshaw-man sweeps the court in the morning, unless he is busy with his chief duty, and keeps an ear on the door-knocker. The “boy” combines the lighter tasks of butler and chambermaid, and in general acts as a buffer between us and the outside world. The coolie does most of the rough labor, including the floors, the stoves, the washing, both of dishes and clothing, and the ironing, producing dress-shirts that would make the best steam-laundries in the United States blush with shame, if they were capable of any such display of emotion, and pressing even feminine evening frills with the deft hand of a French maid. In the time left over from her chief duty the ama does much of the sewing and many of those little odds and ends which in other lands make up the drudgery of a housewife. Since a daughter joined us in the spring she has performed her augmented task with the same ever cheerful efficiency.

The cook is more of a free lance, with very definite duties, including a daily trip to market. In China as a whole the tsoa-fan-ti and the mistress have a frequent meeting over his account-book, but in Peking there is a wide-spread custom euphonistically known as “boarding with the cook.” It simplifies the task of keeping him in hand, especially for a tai-tai speaking a very limited amount of Chinese, to set a fixed price for the day’s food and leave the rest to the Celestial kitchen. We adopted this custom, and have found it not only satisfactory but as economical as our friends report the other method to be. For Rachel and myself we dole out a dollar a day each, and half as much for the youngster. This includes everything that comes to the table except the morning bottle of milk and those nefarious products of France and Italy in similar containers with which I or our guests choose to flout our constitutions and that of our native land. The spenders among the foreign colony of Peking will undoubtedly, if it ever comes to their 183attention, sneer at the paucity of this sum; perhaps those who have deigned to accept our hospitality will say, “I thought so.” But I have promised to be frank. We are simple people, with tastes which do not daily require such viands as are commonly symbolized as quail on toast. As a matter of fact we often do have just that, for there is probably no capital in the world where game is more plentiful and cheaper than in the Peking markets. Certainly we never go hungry, and what that cook can do for a whole day with a sum that would not leave enough for a tip after a single luncheon in a very modest New York restaurant would give an American the false impression that the high cost of living has never come to China.

We live mainly on Chinese products, augmented by such foreign delicacies as cocoa, coffee, canned milk, imported butter, spices, jam, bacon, and the like, all furnished out of the cook’s stipend. Eggs, I believe, reached the height of an American cent each during midwinter; a chicken of moderate size costs from fifty to sixty coppers, which is not more than sixteen cents in real money. The far-famed Peking duck, which dot with white the moat just over the wall from us, would be a more serious acquisition, being in great demand among Chinese epicures; but squab, plump and tender, sells for the equivalent of a nickel each, and the succession of snipe, pigeons, partridge, pheasants, and wild duck that have graced our board would be luxuries to a war profiteer at home. Vegetables are plentiful in Peking, but the choice of meat is limited. Pork, beloved by all Chinese, foreigners eschew as a matter of course; if they have not seen what Chinese pigs feed on they are sure to have heard. Peking beef has the reputation of being the flesh of animals that have outlived their usefulness as beasts of burden rather than of those raised for food. Now and again, as the hungry militarists have boosted octroi duties at the city gates, the sheep butchers have gone on strike, which is particularly a hardship to Peking’s large Mohammedan population. But fowl, wild and tame, is always on hand to make up for any such catastrophe. We found Chinese corn meal and millet and a native brown but excellent cream of wheat preferable to the breakfast cereals from across the Pacific. Chinese pears, and especially the big golden persimmons which last almost all winter, are no poor substitutes for the California oranges sold in at least one foreign-goods grocery at three for a dollar. Now and then “Ta-shih-fu” takes a flier in desserts. Like all Peking chefs he prefers to make a thing which is fearful and wonderful to behold but which is a trial of temper and skill to the guest who has first to cut 184into it. There is that infamous “Peking dust,” a wall of glacéd fruits enclosing a mound of grated chestnuts of exactly the consistency, though by no means the splendid taste, of sawdust, and doted on, unfortunately, by that member of the family with most influence in the kitchen. Sometimes dinner is topped off with a pastry-and-cake basket, handle and all, full of custard and nuts. But all such weaknesses are amply made up for by the fact that pies worthy of the proudest New England housewife often come from the kitchen, usually labeled in the white of an egg with poetic Chinese characters. These literary effusions are seldom missing on any formal dessert, if there is space to get them in; when our first national holiday came there appeared a brave pink and green iced cake with the greeting “Thanksgiver Day” written boldly across it.

Our cook is noteworthy among his tribe in that he can prepare a Chinese as well as a foreign meal, and two or three times a week this wholly different but no less enjoyable repast adorns our table, chop-sticks and all. In general he is given a free rein in selection, so long as he has a certain balance in menu, and using his excellent Chinese judgment he dines us almost too well, and no doubt, in the time-honored Chinese way, pockets the coppers left over. We do not know that our cook “squeezes” a cent, but if he does not he should be drummed out of the Chinese cooks’ union, if there is such a thing. For it is taken for granted by all foreigners in China that their cooks believe a certain legitimate “squeeze” is attached to the job, and though it takes an American housewife some time to reconcile herself to it, old foreign residents would be much put out to find that the rule is not general. Popular tradition has it that all cooks put into their own pockets a certain percentage of all money given them to spend; 5 per cent seems to be the accepted amount among foreigners in Peking, except in the Legation Quarter, where there are no definite limits. There are innumerable anecdotes illustrating this custom. Missionary cooks, boasting themselves Christians, have laid up small fortunes on their eight or ten “Mex” dollars a month. I know of one who, from the day his service began, made it an invariable rule to take six coppers for every person he cooked for during the day, and he now owns two modern houses which he rents to foreigners.

We have often wondered just how much our cook manages to lay aside. There is no way of finding out, for the Chinese market-man is ever faithful to his own people in any controversy with the “outside barbarian,” and the custom is so perfectly legitimate in the cookly mind 185that no pricking of conscience ever sullies the frank and smiling face of the king of our kitchen. In overcrowded China it has been the practice for centuries to fee any one who brings a job or a client, and even if the foreigner went to market himself he would not save the “rake-off”; in fact he would probably lose money. For the market-man does not quote a foreigner the price to which a Chinese cook will finally bring him down, and no grocer is going to tell his client when he pays his monthly bill that 5 per cent of it will go to his cook as soon as he comes in when there are no telltale foreigners looking on. Yet supernatural as the Chinese are in slicing off a “cash” or a copper where even a French eye could not possibly detect any such protuberance, we do not see how our cook can have made a fortune on the leavings. Including his six dollars for kitchen fuel he has eighty-one dollars a month to feed us on when I am at home. When we go out to dinner of course he is not the loser; extra money for invited guests gives him a trifle more leeway; possibly he sells a tin can or a bottle now and then to the constantly passing peddlers, though we have never seen any evidence of stooping to such methods. Yet his wages have never been higher than with us, at least since his youthful days as a retainer in the Manchu court, and, for all that, he has educated two of his four boys into fine, upstanding, well dressed young men with enough English to take important positions with foreign firms; the third is already well along the same road, and no doubt the youngest, who romps about all day in a neighboring hutung, will be similarly provided. We have never quite reconciled those grown sons to our little cook, still well on the sunny side of middle age; but in China, of course, the generations succeed themselves swiftly. We may be wronging him in assuming that he does not spend on us all we give him for that purpose, and if so I apologize. If we are not, he certainly is welcome to all he has kept, for he has served us for eight months in an unobtrusive, efficient, and most agreeable manner.

Chinese of standing have let us into a few of the secrets of life among house servants. Most cooks, at least for foreigners, are not Peking men, it seems, but come in from the country. Having no family to support in the capital, those earning ten dollars a month, eating leftovers—though few Chinese servants care for foreign food—and spending perhaps two dollars a month of their own, can send home about a hundred dollars a year. Those with families in Peking have to devise methods for augmenting their wages; therefore they do not consider those methods dishonest. One might ask, why not pay the man a living 186wage to begin with and then expect him to be honest? Alas, centuries of the other plan have made that contrary to the Chinese way of thinking. The moment you pay a servant more than the market price he takes you for a gullible victim or a millionaire and “squeezes” all the more. It is the Chinese system, and many a foreigner has broken his head against it in vain.

A genuine cook to foreigners owes it to his dignity to have an apprentice assistant, just as he must ride to and from market in a rickshaw. Not long after we settled down, “Ta-shih-fu” asked permission to bring into the kitchen his younger brother, whose profession of torturing a Chinese violin seemed to be in ever decreasing demand. There he has remained month after month, learning the rudiments of foreign cooking, until he has gathered sufficient audacity to go and cook for foreigners himself, thereby making his future secure. But never has it been so much as hinted that we should pay him anything; his wageless standing is perfectly in keeping with the Chinese scheme of things, and no one would be more surprised than he or his brother if we offered him money.

Whatever we can say for our cook we can testify that the “boy” who has been with us since the second month is honest even in the Western sense. He is, we hasten to admit, different from the rank and file of “boys” to foreigners in Peking; no doubt they would dub him “queer.” He comes from somewhere ’way down the province, well off the railroad, and seems deliberately to refuse to learn the tricks of the capital. Down there he has a wife of seventeen, perhaps forced upon him by his parents in the customary Chinese manner; at least he has never shown any desire to go home, not even at New Year’s. But then, he is past forty. His service is so constant that we have sometimes urged him to go out more often, but he replies with a smile that he has few friends in Peking and nowhere to go. Once or twice a month he calls in a passing barber, and perhaps he has stepped out half a dozen times during the winter on a brief personal errand—except that, as regularly as fortnightly pay-day comes round, he goes to send a letter home. The extent to which Chinese families pool their incomes, with some grandfather or mother-in-law as treasurer, would take almost any American’s breath away. We have many a time caught this extraordinary “boy” carefully avoiding chances to “squeeze,” passing on to the other servants buying errands assigned him, lest we suspect him of taking a commission. Once a tourist couple dropped in for tea, and 187having traveled too fast to orientalize the point of view of their native Chicago, surreptitiously slipped a silver dollar into the “boy’s” palm as he opened the door at their departure. He did not faint; hence we might never have known of that social blunder if the “boy” had not rushed back as soon as the door was closed, his outstretched hand offering us the coin. I warned you he was queer; I am not sure but that the normal “boy” of Peking would not consider him downright crazy. But honesty and diligence, alas, are not always sufficient in this miserable world. When we move on we despair of finding this “boy” another place more than any of the others, for his stock of self-confidence is as scanty as his integrity is unusual.

The normal Peking “boy,” particularly if he knows some English, is usually the general factotum of a foreign household. Many foreigners never speak to their other servants but transmit all orders through the “boy,” or, if the staff is large, through “number one boy.” Some of the older and more experienced of these take on the efficiency and the manner of old English butlers; they can arrange anything, from a dinner-party on Christmas to a picnic out at the Temple of Heaven by moonlight, at a mere hint from their socially busy mistresses. But we much prefer our type of “boy.” Though they may succeed in keeping their own employers in ignorance of that fact, the observant guest can hardly fail to see that these efficient head servants grow scornful toward their subordinates and often despise foreigners in general and the family they serve in particular. Obviously their “squeeze” increases with their importance and their opportunities. Some of them make fortunes out of the peddlers and shopkeepers whose patronage they recommend, and positions under them are not had for the mere asking. The “boy” of an American official in Peking came to his mistress one day and insisted on giving her a present worth easily his year’s salary, saying he had become a Christian and hence was “ashamed for the much money” he had been given by those who sold things to the family and to their many tourist guests—and begged her to accept this customary percentage on his winnings. How the t’ing-ch’ai, or topmost “boy” in a foreign legation, makes use of his opportunities is a story worth telling, but that would be trespassing into the realms of high finance.

The long, handsome Shantung coolie, who laundered dress-shirts and pressed georgette evening-gowns with such amazing skill, turned out to be a contrast to the “boy,” and was destined to depart suddenly 188about the middle of January. At first the tai-tai used to “call the coal,” but Wang had gradually taken over the task and was getting it for as low a price as she—I am sure I am not doing Wang an injury by mentioning his name, any more than I should by specifying an American called Smith. The coal, however, seemed to burn up faster and faster, and each alleged ton piled against the wall of the little back court at the front of our compound looked smaller. One day we questioned its size, and Wang promptly guaranteed to make it last the month out. That would have been physically impossible, yet last it did. Other suspicious little things began to gather about the tall handsome coolie. None of them were definite, however, and Wang might be with us yet but for the other servants, though I fancy he would have hanged himself alone in time. A whisper from the ama caused Rachel to “call” the next ton herself, and to borrow scales from an American friend down the hutung. It was a cold evening when the ton arrived, but we persisted in watching it unloaded, weighed, and carried in. But why were there not sixteen sacks, as the silky Chinese dealer just outside Hata-men had promised, and why did twelve sacks total five hundred chin more than a ton? It took us until next day to find out.

The scales, of course, being Chinese, consisted of a mere stick with marks on it; but for the same reason it would have been impossible for them to be as simple and straightforward as they looked. All such scales have two loops by which to suspend them, and Wang assured us that both of these were used at once. That was all. Even the lady down the street who had been using them all winter did not know the difference. When at last we learned the Chinese trick of the scales the missing four bags were easily accounted for; and a little more trouble, mainly for the benefit of foreign residents in general, brought the blackened cart-driver over to confess that Wang had intercepted him just around the corner from us and sold the four bags to a little coal-yard almost behind our bedrooms—the same one, of course, from which he had bought back enough to fulfil his guarantee. The night before, Wang having asked permission to go out and get his hair cut, or something of the sort, we had been startled to have all the other servants irrupt upon us over our evening lamp, smiling nervously, but saying through the cook as spokesman that they could not endure our being misled about the missing man any longer. He was keeping bad company nights, they announced with visible unwillingness; he often brought in friends to sleep on their already crowded k’ang; coppers were sticking 189to his fingers in a way which apparently even a cooks’ union could not approve.

Chinese servants are not in the habit of tattling against one another to their masters, and things must have come to a pretty pass to bring about this unusual scene. But we waited until we had other proof that it was not merely a case of spite; then we spoke gently to Wang as he was stirring the fire in my office next afternoon. There were four bags of coal missing from the ton of the night before, we confided to him, and as we did not wish to have the police mixed up in so small a matter we wondered if perhaps he could trace them. Then we went out to tea. That evening found us without a coolie; he had folded up his bed and departed, and he has never been back to claim the three or four days’ wages due him.

Wang is a handsome youth, to Chinese eyes, and naturally he needed more money than his older stick-at-home colleagues. Besides, he did more hard work than all the others. If he had come to me privately and whispered his troubles, I think I should have been tempted to give him a monthly bonus, if he could have convinced me that the other servants would not hear of it, rather than see him depart; for never again in this imperfect world do I hope to display such gleaming shirt-bosoms as Wang furnished me. The ama promptly introduced her husband as coolie, and he has proved satisfactory, besides being under a watchful eye that completely belies the accepted notions of the position of wives in the Chinese scheme of things. But stiff shirts go to a professional laundry now, and though a new front costs there just one-tenth what it would in New York, they have lost that final touch of perfection, of youth and genius, which Wang put upon them.

But on the whole our Peking servants are good, as human beings the world over go, for all the Wangs among them. I shall have forgotten their faults long before I forget the motherly care they have taken of my family during my long absences, the tasteful little presents they gave my wife on her birthday when I was not there to give her any myself, and the grandfatherly way they have with our small son.

I should be sorry, however, if I have given the false impression that living is on the whole much cheaper for the foreigner in Peking than at home, thereby causing our no doubt overworked State Department to be bombarded with ten-dollar bills and demands for passports. Whether it is because low prices tempt one to spend more than one could if they were high, or that the absurd cost of certain necessary things physically 190or mentally imported from the Western world mount up faster than seems possible, we find that we are spending quite as much in Peking as we did in New York, and we do not play bridge or the races.

The Chinese way of housekeeping, as we have pieced it together from bits of information picked up among our native acquaintances, is quite different from that of foreign residents. According to them, middle-class Chinese families usually have two servants—an ama and a cook. The ama does the washing and all the general housework, at least in the women’s apartments. Obviously the Chinese would be horrified beyond speech at the goings-on in foreigners’ houses; the “boy” of our white-haired compatriot down the hutung, for instance, lays out her most intimate garments when he judges it is time for her to change! Such an ama receives from one to two dollars a month, and a “present” of two or three dollars at each of the four principal Chinese holidays. Servants in native families are also given their rice, the monthly rice allowance for the whole household being fixed and the domestics eating the poorest quality. But they must have more income, and that is where gambling comes in. Much of this goes on in the average Chinese home, even among the women and their feminine guests in the afternoons. For every dollar staked ten cents is set aside by custom as cumshaw for the servants. Cigarettes sold at eight coppers a package around the corner cost the family and its guests ten, and so on. But gambling is the important thing. Servants in wealthy or political families, where high stakes are the rule, may get as much as a hundred dollars a month. A trustworthy Chinese informant told us that the one question always asked him by a prospective servant is some form of, “Is there gambling?” Where there is not, it is hard to get and keep good servants. In these days of comparative poverty in Peking those who cannot find places with foreigners, or have not the courage and adaptability such positions require, often have a hard time of it.

It would not be just, as well as being a sad blow to his pride, to mention Li Hsien-sheng among our servants. Mr. Li is our Chinese teacher. By our own choice he, too, speaks no English, so that our introduction to the language is by the method by which children learn one. He comes for an hour every afternoon, and carries away a ten-dollar bill at the end of each month. Yet he is something of a scholar, even if, like all his colleagues we have so far tried, not much of a teacher. However, I must not be too severe toward those numerous men of Peking who eke out a livelihood by guiding the barbarian within 191its gates into the mysteries of their strange tongue. At least they earn all they are paid, and if one learns to use them mainly as a dictionary, the result may be more worth while than at first seems possible. Nor is this the place to express my opinions, harsh or genial, on the incredible Chinese language. Suffice it for the moment to say that we both soon found ourselves able to express our simple desires to the servants without calling in some more experienced friend, and by midwinter could make ourselves understood to merchants keenly eager to understand us. The more diligent, stay-at-home, and mentally alert member of the family quickly left me in the linguistic background, but even she cannot keep pace with “Ha-li,” as the Chinese call my son and namesake. Though his third birthday is still ahead of him, he is already the family authority on tones and similar bugbears of the adult student of the Celestial vernacular, and I should hesitate to pit myself against him even in a test of vocabulary. I can only plead that it is an unfair advantage in acquiring a new language not to be able to speak any other when the acquisition begins.

Besides, what chance does an overworked father have compared to the opportunities of childhood? When “Ha-li” is not up on the wall discussing with the guardians who live there whatever he and they have in common, or chatting in Chinese with playmates whose mother-tongue may be that of anywhere from Brittany to Odessa, he is listening to the voices of the world outside our compound as they drift over to us. He has already picked up more hawkers’ cries than an adult ear can distinguish, and totes his basket about the courtyard shouting his wares, hand to ear in the Peking venders’ fashion, in tones so exactly those of the original outside that we often wonder what that original thinks of his echo. Daylight brings a never ending succession of these hawkers, from the cereal-man so early in the morning that surely no one could have the appetite to call him in, to the seller of sweetmeats so late at night that none but habitually hungry people could still be thinking of food. Our neighbors probably do some cooking of their own, but they save much fuel by patronizing these itinerant restaurants, the more sumptuous of them push-carts of a very Chinese type, most of them mere baskets oscillating from shoulder-poles. The people about us seem to have no fixed meal-hours, if indeed they keep any track of time at all. They eat one by one as appetite moves them or as coppers are available, and as surely as we leave home we will see a child or two, a woman, or some other solitary member of a large family squatted in the dirty little hutung beside their door engrossed in the contents of a bowl that has 192been rented, chop-sticks and all, from the vender who waits so patiently for the transaction to be completed that he does not seem to realize he is waiting.

Some of the street cries are almost musical, even to our Western ears; some hawkers use instruments to spare their voices. The barber twangs what looks like a gigantic pair of tweezers; the knife- and scissor-sharpener blows a long horn or clashes together half a dozen heavy steel pieces carried only for that purpose; the toy-and-candy man has his gong, the china-riveter his swinging bells, the blind man his reed pipe, or his big brass disk, and his long tapping cane, and the water-seller has, of course, his squeaking wheelbarrow. The croak of the oil-man suggests some superannuated frog; the jolly old fellow who peddles Chinese wine from a beautiful copper urn has a succession of hoarse shouts that never vary; the cabbage-man, the peanut-man, the delicatessen wagon, so to speak, even the rag-picking women, all have their own cries, distinctive, yet unintelligible until one has learned them by rote rather than by meaning, as Peking did generations ago. Even we dull-eared adults know nearly all of them now, and are conscious of something missing if they fail to come at the usual hour, which is a rare lapse indeed. One fellow sings what might almost be a bar from some Italian opera. He is the gramophone-man, carrying his box and his big tin horn, and offering to play his well worn Chinese records for those families that have the coppers to spend on mere entertainment. The seller of fritters also comes near being a singer, with a lilting refrain that stays with one long after he has passed. But all in all the cries are disappointing. Though some start off as music, even though it be of the falsetto kind beloved of the Chinese, they almost invariably bring up somewhere in a sudden raucous shout that spoils them. Perhaps, as even some foreign enthusiasts insist, our Western ears are tuned only to the simplicity of Western music; our scale of eight tones may be crude as compared with the twenty-five gradations of the Chinese. But I doubt it. I have tried to imagine that haunting street-cry which trills through the opera “Louise” ending in a shrill shout. Surely its lyric quality would not thus be improved. Yet all this does not mean that our Peking cries are displeasing. Their fascination is something subtle, and we shall be sorry to move on again out of their orbit.

At Chinese New Year the streets of Peking were gay with all manner of things for sale, such as these brilliantly colored paintings of native artists

A rich man died in our street; and among other things burned at his grave, so that he would have them in after life, were this “automobile” and two “chauffeurs”

A neighbor who gave his birds a daily airing

Just above us on the Tartar Wall were the ancient astronomical instruments looted by the Germans in 1900 and recently returned, in accordance with a clause in the Treaty of Versailles

193There may be a gauntlet a block long of merry but habitually unwashed children, chanting their incessant “Ee mao ch’ien! Ee mao ch’ien!” (“One dime money!”) as often as they catch sight of us, and the daily beggar of our section, with his “Lao yea tai-tai! Lao yea tai-tai!” (“Old gentleman lady!”) that wheezes down the scale in so persuasive a manner, is frequently out-shouted by his poaching rivals; but once the gate of the nearest wall-ramp is locked behind us by the keeper who jogs down at the tinkling of his little bell we are as free from such annoyances as from the dust and the forgotten garbage along the hutungs. For the Chinese are not allowed on the wall. That is, the great rank and file are not, and those of the better class who care that much for physical exercise are few, so that the top of the great Tartar Wall is almost a foreigners’ private promenade. None of our servants, not even those born in Peking, had ever been admitted to it until they appeared at the foot of our ramp with “Ha-li” as a passport. For that matter nearly all those wonderful monuments which even the three-day tourist has visited are closed to them, either by rule or by the high cost of admission. Scandalous, no doubt, from the Western democratic point of view; pathetic when we imbue our servants with our own feelings. But it never seems to have occurred to them that it is unjust—if it is. For to throw open the wall to the general public of Peking for a single week would make it an impassable stretch of filth, sleeping beggars, and jostling coolies; and in a month even what is left of its parapets would have been thrown down for the building of new hovels inside it or out.

When we came at the end of summer the top of the wall was a jungle, in places almost impassable, gay with morning-glories and other flowers, a broad hayfield even in its least fertile portions. By December hay-makers and fuel-gatherers had made it a wind-swept concourse almost fit for an automobile race, half a dozen cars abreast, except for that short piece of it between Hata-men and the gate by which the emperor once came and went, where it is in the hands of the foreign legations below. On the brilliant spring Sunday not long ago that I made the circuit of the wall this autumn’s harvest was already promised in the delicate green that was spreading along it, as it was across the great tree-topped city it encloses. That stroll of twelve or thirteen miles is almost a complete course in Chinese life and history, at least of recent centuries; but what lies outside our immediate neighborhood is another story. From that bit of the wall just above us which is our principal playground there is enough of interest within plain view, from the courtyards of our neighbors below to the distant range of the Western Hills half enclosing the plain of Peking, to make it a loafer’s paradise. The streets down below may seem mere miserable lanes to those of us from 194the West, and the dwelling-places drab and uninspiring; but inside the compounds trees are general, so that Peking from aloft is pleasantly, almost thickly, wooded. Every city, from incessantly grumbling New York to the hillside town with its church- and cow-bells, has a voice of its own, and that of Peking resembles no other I have ever heard. It is made up mainly of street-cries, from venders, rickshaw-men asking right of way, from shouting carriage out-runners, never completely blending together but still retaining a certain individuality, so that from the top of her wall Peking sounds like the tail-end of some great football game, with the victorious rooters still sporadically shouting their pæans of glee as they disperse to the four points of the compass.

There are various ways of getting about Peking, even though it lacks the principal one of most large cities in other lands; but of them all I like best riding “Hwei-Hwei.” He is the robust, shaggy-red little Chinese pony I brought back from one of my trips into the interior, and if he has not yet learned to look with equanimity upon a scrap of paper or a wheedling beggar that suddenly springs up at him, at least he can pass an automobile now without filling the timid hearts of all Chinese within gunshot with speechless panic. “Hwei-Hwei” and I have jogged together all over Peking and its surroundings, nosing our way through the hutungs and prancing down the broad streets of the Chinese as well as the Tartar City, exploring every sunken road and meandering path within reasonable distance outside the walls. I am under the impression that this is improper. Though the élite among the foreign residents play polo on the French drill-field and scamper over the broken landscape about the capital on Sunday afternoon paper-chases, even canter solemnly up and down the new cinder track at the edge of the Legation Quarter, each followed at a respectful distance by the mafu who will presently walk the blanketed and almost shaven native imitations of thoroughbreds slowly up and down before some improvised stable, I gather from the glances that are thrown sharply upon us that mere sight-seeing on horseback is not in accordance with the Peking social code. I am heartbroken, naturally, at the thought of infringing that vital document; but the opportunity of indulging in a luxury I have never before dared even to consider has outweighed even that consideration.

The truth of the matter is that keeping a riding-horse is a luxury even in Peking. “Hwei-Hwei’s” complete care and nourishment cost just twice what one human servant does; yet the reflection that this is, after all, only “Mex” and only relative has so far been sufficient to stifle the grumblings of a troublesome conscience. I suppose, too, there is a certain subconscious complacency in looking down, even from “Hwei-Hwei’s” height, upon the throngs with which we mingle in places 196where perhaps no other foreigner, and surely no Chinese, has ever before intruded on horseback. Certainly I must confess that I find pleasure in watching the continuous succession of acrobatic feats with which Pekingese of all ages and degrees remove themselves from the immediate vicinity the instant it is borne in upon them that they are mingling with an animal that I can guarantee not to hurt an infant thrown under his very hoofs.

Outdoor fairs, seasonal markets, temples without number, corners unknown even to our Chinese teacher, have “Hwei-Hwei” and I explored together. But there is a line beyond which his advantages over Peking’s more common means of transportation cease. Even if it is possible to park him outside those ugly buildings in which China’s Parliament flings ink-wells at itself and refuses to draft a constitution even after it has voted itself a daily bonus for attending the sessions, he can scarcely expect admittance to the Forbidden City, or ask an evening hostess to find accommodations for him. When “Hwei-Hwei” must remain at home there are various substitutes, but only one of them is really feasible. Sedan-chairs, in these modern days, are only for brides and mourners, or the emperor himself; there are jolting Peking-carts which it would be infantile yet exactly descriptive to dub “peek-out” carts; mule-litters like gaily decorated cupboards on shafts come in at least from the northeast; on the moats outside the walls there are boats in summer and sleds in winter—except when the men laying up ice in mat- and mud-covered mounds along them deprive their fellow-coolies of this simple source of income; bicycles are not unknown; curious little one-horse carriages with shutters, and an outrunner who clings on behind whenever a corner or a crowd does not bring him running ahead to lead the horse or to shout the road clear, are still the favorite equipage of old-fashioned families of means. But none of these things ply the streets for hire; if they did they would be beneath the dignity of foreigners, and probably of many Chinese unconsciously under their influence. Ordinary mortals cannot call an automobile every time they wish to go around the corner, even if their nerves are proof against the madness of Chinese chauffeurs. Promoted only yesterday from the abject position of coolies, these conceive that they always have the right of way over anything they could best in a collision—an impression in which they are abetted by the police who, with outstretched hand, gaze only at the machine, like men fascinated, as it dashes drunkenly past through the maelstrom of pedestrians and other helpless forms of traffic—and, evidently gaining “face” thereby, 197they delight to make life a constant misery to the passenger by the incessant use of those atrocious horns that seem especially to be exported to China. So it boils down to the omnipresent rickshaw.

We often wondered how many rickshaws there are in Peking, until at length the metropolitan police reported that they had registered 41,553 such vehicles, of which 4,788 are private. Even if this really includes all those within the gates, there are thousands more in the dozen villages clustered close outside them, whence men run to places many miles distant. We still wonder how Peking got about in the imperial days before an American missionary in Japan, wishing to give his invalid wife a daily airing, invented the rickshaw. As late as the beginning of the present century, old residents tell us, this vehicle was unknown in the capital. To-day it is the most numerous, or at least the most conspicuous, thing in Peking.

Who but a man gone mad on the matter of speed would not prefer the rickshaw to the automobile after all? Silent on its pneumatic tires and the soft-shod feet of the runner, it is the most nearly like sitting at home in an arm-chair of any form of transportation. There is no formality about it; even the man who does not keep one for his exclusive use scarcely needs to call one, for it is a strange corner of Peking where a rickshaw is not already waiting whenever he steps out. Once in a rickshaw one can leave it to the runner to arrive at the right place, and turn the mind to the streets and their doings. It is not merely “Ha-li” who is so fond of “widin’ man,” though he is the only one of us who shouts aloud at each donkey and big stone “pup dog” we pass, especially at the camels as they stride noiselessly by along the wall or through a city gate, whenever we ride hither and yon about busy yet good-natured Peking.

The police go on to say that from sixty to seventy thousand rickshaw coolies earn an average of a hundred coppers a day, of which about seventy are for themselves and their families after deducting the rent of the vehicle. That means a daily income of nearly twenty cents in real money, which is high in Peking. An official inquiry, by the way, reported during the winter that the minimum on which a Chinese adult could support life in the capital is $1.87 “Mex” a month! One particularly cold winter, foreigners, especially women, almost ceased to patronize rickshaws, not so much for their own sake as for that of the poor fellows who sat outside waiting for them, and sometimes froze to death. It devolved upon the police to call their attention to the fact that death by starvation is even more painful, and is likely to include 198the dependents also. I suppose that same omniscient body could say how many persons starve to death in Peking each winter; at any rate they once announced how many hundreds of free coffins they had been called upon to provide since cold weather set in.

Perhaps the constant sight of starvation more or less close upon their heels is the reason that Peking rickshaw-men are such excellent runners. They never slow down to a walk, as the much better paid ones of Japan, for instance, do on the slightest provocation. If the trot from our corner to Hsi-Chi-men station, diagonally across the Tartar City, is too much for one of them he turns his fare over to an unoccupied colleague when he is exhausted rather than disgrace himself by walking. Yet I have almost never seen a well built rickshaw-man in Peking. Their ribs show plainly through their leathery skins, and they are conspicuously flat-chested, in contrast to the men all about China who carry burdens over their shoulders. The belief that rickshaw-runners die young and often is wide-spread, especially in lands that have never seen one. The only personal testimony I can offer on the subject is that during this year in the Orient I have never seen, or heard of, a man dying in the shafts, and that there are many jobs in China that I would quickly refuse in favor of drawing a rickshaw. Certainly many runners, not to mention the vehicles themselves, reach a ripe old age in Peking; and there is evidence that they do not take up the profession late in life.

Some one once wrote asking us to send a copy of the child labor laws of China. When we had recovered from the resultant hysterics I went out to photograph some of the smallest specimens of rickshaw-runners along Great Hata-men Street for the benefit of the inquirer. Unfortunately a good example and photographic conditions never have coincided. I do not wish to be charged with exaggeration, and hence I will not assert that I have seen two boys of six or a single one of eight trotting about town with a big fat sample of the Chinese race lolling at his ease behind them; but I have no hesitancy in reporting that male children of eight and ten respectively may often be seen thus engaged. Perhaps these are house-servants or their offspring, or even members of the family itself, forced into service; more than once I have been sure of a facial resemblance between the perspiring youngsters and the unsoaped old lady who was urging them on. Often a small boy runs behind, pushing, who is hardly as tall as the hub of the wheel, but perhaps that is a form of apprenticeship. Recently there has been some agitation against employing rickshaw pullers under eighteen, 199though apparently only among foreigners. The Chinese of the rank and file bargain for their rides as they stump along, pretending they will walk rather than pay more than they are offering, and naturally they wish to be surrounded by as many clamoring competitors as possible. If the lowest bidder chances to be a child just heavy enough to keep the passenger from toppling over backward, or an old man who looks as if he had been unwisely rescued from the potter’s field, bu yao gin—it does not matter, for the average Chinese hardly distinguishes between real speed and a steady jogging up and down almost in the same spot.

In contrast to these sorry dregs of the profession are the haughty men in the prime of life who run on a monthly wage for foreigners, or for Chinese of wealth and official position, some of them in livery and with clanging bells and blazing lamps that attest their importance. The tall youth who runs with a physically light-weight young lady of our acquaintance always calls a rickshaw when he wishes to go out on a personal errand. Well fed and not overworked, these private human trotters are often marvels of speed and endurance. I would like nothing better than to enter our wrinkled old la-che-ti in an Olympic marathon—though foreigners who have tried that sort of test find that the men cannot run without their vehicle, which is so balanced as to help lift them off the ground. Like the runners, the rickshaws of Peking range all the way from filthy half-wrecks to rickshaw-limousines. The former are due both to the Chinese blindness to uncleanliness and to the fact that, human fares lacking, they are ready to accept any form of freight, be it even the bleeding carcass of a hog. The vehicle looking tolerable, however, most of us pick our rickshaw-men exactly as we would a horse, except that age is fairly apparent without examining the teeth.

Slavery is a dreadful institution, but if millions of the human draft-animals of China were slaves they would at least be sure of a place to sleep and something fit to eat. Yet they are a cheerful, good-hearted, likable lot of fellows, these swarming rickshaw-runners of Peking, amusing in their primitive ways. However much they may arouse sympathy, for instance, there is no surer means of being involved in a noisy dispute than by overpaying them. Find out the legal fare and pay it, and the chances are that your runner will accept it without a word and rate you a person of experience and understanding, for all your strange race. The louder and longer you wish him to dance and shout about you, the more you should overpay him. A soft-hearted old lady arriving in Peking almost directly from America and wishing to 200be just toward the man who drew her from Ch’ien-men Station to the principal hotel handed him a silver dollar. It took three men from the hotel to rescue her from the frenzied runner and kick him dollarless outside the grounds.

The fact is that rickshaws are too numerous in Peking and their fares too low. Even foreign residents grow flabby from so habitually jumping into one rather than walking a block or two, though I confess it is easier to do so than to endure the endless gauntlet of persistent shouting, and even subtle ridicule in the case of “foreign devils” supposedly ignorant of the language, which every well dressed pedestrian must run. Hard-hearted men assert that the oversupply is due to the laziness of the runners also, that coolies would rather wander about with a rickshaw than work all day at some steady labor. What will become of them when the street-cars arrive, for which the French were long ago granted a much-opposed franchise, is a question which men of higher intelligence than the runners themselves cannot answer. Yet they are coming; cement poles are already creeping into the Tartar City from the northwest, and rails are being piled up before the Forbidden City; unless Mukden outstrips her, Peking will be the first to follow foreign-influenced Tientsin and Shanghai by desecrating her streets with the ugliness and clamor of electric tramways. We are glad to have known the inimitable Chinese capital before they came.

The slowness of her man-drawn carriages and the dead flatness of Peking give an exaggerated impression of its size; everything seems farther away than it really is. In my school-days we used to hear wild tales about this being the largest city in the world. Perhaps it has a million inhabitants, though eight hundred and fifty thousand seems nearer the mark. There is no “squeeze” to be had out of a census, however, and guesses will probably continue to be the only available information on that point for years to come. A one-story city with the courtyard habit, to say nothing of enormous palaces and monuments that scarcely shelter a human being each, and of big vacant spaces even inside its principal wall, can hardly vie with New York and London, however like rats many of its people may live. In what we foreigners call the Chinese City there is a maze of shops and dwellings outside the three south gates of the capital proper, human warrens here and there, swarming sidewalk markets by night as well as crowded rows of booths by day; but vast graveyards, cultivated fields, even great unoccupied areas take up much of this secondary enclosure, not to mention 201the huge domains of the Temples of Heaven and of Agriculture, playgrounds now of those with the price of admission, with tea and soda-water and pumpkin seeds served almost on the very spot where the Son of Heaven so long held his annual vigil.

Distressing are many of the noble monuments that make Peking justly famed the world over, not merely because of the ruins they are becoming under an anarchistic republican régime, but by reason of the rabble that is permitted to overrun and defile so many of them. Ragged beggars masquerading as caretakers beset the visitor in almost all of them; foreigners, or Chinese with money but without influence, may still be required to pay their way into Pei-Hai and the Summer Palace, but once inside they find themselves jostled and gaped upon by loafing soldiers and ill-mannered roustabouts whom the gate-keepers have not the power or the moral courage to exclude. How long before imperial Peking will be but another Baalbek or Nineveh, for all the busy streets that surround it, is another subject for guessing.

We found few soldiers in Peking, however, compared with such places as Mukden, and those are still curbed in a way that would bring gasps of astonishment from their fellows in the provinces. Before the Boxer days Peking had no police force in the Western sense; to-day the little stations are as numerous as in Japan, while the white-legginged gendarmes under a Norwegian general stroll the principal streets in pairs, with drawn bayonets and an eye especially to the protection of foreigners. We have tried in vain to impress upon our friends at home that Peking is safer than any city we know of in our own land. A lone woman not even speaking the language, and bespangled with jewels if you like, can go anywhere in Peking, whether on foot or with a rickshaw coolie picked up at random, at any hour of the day or night, without the ghost of a chance of being molested, to say nothing of running any real danger. They are a curious people, the Chinese. They will often starve with riches within easy grasp rather than screw up their courage to an act of violence, as they will display the cheerfulness of contentment far beyond the point where Westerners would have even a transparent mask of it left. There is something uncanny, if we ever paused to think of it, in being so well protected by a police force whose meager wages are many months in arrears; and the petty graft they inflict upon foreign residents may almost be justified. Their task is greatly lightened, of course, by the pacifist temperament of the Chinese; but criminal, even violent, characters cannot be lacking even in Peking. Punishments are still drastic, after the Chinese custom. Out toward 202Tungchow and over beside the outer wall of the Temple of Heaven groups of men are frequently shot, and they are by no means all assassins. When the invasion from beyond the Great Wall was being repelled last spring and bullets were singing across our corner of the city, the police were instructed to punish with summary execution anything suggestive of looting. A Chinese of some standing, friendly with several foreigners of our acquaintance, went up broad Hata-men Street to borrow a few dollars from an exchange-shop that had often favored him with small loans. The proprietor happened to be out, and the youth in charge did not know the client. “Oh, that’s all right,” the borrower assured him; “your master always lets me have small sums when I need them, and I am in a hurry.” He picked up a few dollars, jotted the amount down on a slip of paper, and started away. The youth shouted, the police came running up, and although the proprietor appeared at that moment and identified the prisoner as an old friend who had acted in no way improperly, a headless corpse was left lying in the dust before the shop.

There are incredible contrasts, too, among the scenes past which the pony and I jog on our afternoon jaunts. Legation guards of half a dozen nationalities play their boyish games almost across the street from rag-pickers who are scarcely distinguishable from the garbage-heaps out of which they somehow claw a livelihood. Along “Piccadilly,” as foreigners call what is “Square Handkerchief Alley” to the Chinese, we can easily imagine ourselves in the days of Kublai Khan; and around the corner from it the Wai-chiao-pu is a more modern foreign office, outwardly at least, than London, Washington, or Paris can muster. Beneath the “Four P’ai-lous” motor-cars speed north and south while barbaric funeral processions crawl under them from the west between two long rows of squealing pigs, resenting the cords that bind their four legs together and the discourtesy with which they are tumbled about by sellers and purchasers. City gates like mammoth office buildings tower above long vistas of lowly human dwellings; lotuses bloom on the lake of the Winter Palace, and the visitor thither is pursued by all but naked mendicants—yao-fan-ti (want-rice-ers) the Chinese call them in their kinder language. Sumptuous private cars stand before most modern buildings, and Peking street-sprinklers, consisting of two men and a bucket, with a long-handled wooden dipper, attempt to lay the dust about them. We remember these sprinklers only too well, “Hwei-Hwei” and I, for during the winter the sprinkling turned to ice almost as it fell, and our progress was a kind of equestrian fox-trot. But for them, 203and the water-carriers whose screeching wheelbarrows drip so incessantly, Peking streets would be easy going the year round, for the whole winter’s snow has been but a napkin or two that faded away almost as it fell. Nor have I ever known a genuine Peking dust-storm, though I have seen the air and the heavens, the inmost recesses of my garments and my food, even the contents of locked trunks, filled with those flying particles of her own filth and her surrounding semi-desert which the capital of Kublai Khan has always charged against the distant Gobi. Old residents tell us that this season’s dust-storms have been unusually rare, but my family was vouchsafed one of the first magnitude during my absence. A welcome wind blew all one hot spring night, and only in the morning was it discovered that it had carried volumes of dust with it, so that the sleepers looked as if they had been traveling across Nevada for a week without so much as a wet cloth available, and everything from hair to mattress-covers had to be washed at once, which was particularly difficult with the blowing dust obscuring the sun for several days to come.

Often our way through a city gate or along a narrow street is made disagreeable by passing wheelbarrows filled to over-slopping with the night-soil of the city—sewers being as great a luxury as running water in most Peking households. This is dried along the outside of the city walls and distributed among the vegetable-gardens which, protected from the north by rows of tall reed wind-breaks, take up much of the land immediately outside the city. It goes without saying that the use of chloride of lime is as fixed a habit in the kitchens of foreign residents as boiling our drinking-water. The Chinese cannot understand why Westerners persist in wasting the richest substitute for potash, spending money to have it destroyed instead of gaining money by selling it. Sometimes the foreigners are converted to the Chinese point of view; I know at least one American mission school which supports two of its girls on what it contributes to the fertility of the neighboring fields.

But it is not difficult to forget all such drawbacks when one looks down upon Peking from her mammoth wall or the lonely eminence called Coal Hill. Obviously “Hwei-Hwei” cannot climb Mei-shan; it is bad enough to have outside barbarians of the human kind looking down upon the golden-yellow roofs of the Forbidden City. This is not especially forbidden now, with more than half of it open to the ticket-buyer, and the rest hardly free from intruding politicians and their protégés. But there still hovers an atmosphere of mystery, of something 204mildly akin to the Arabian Nights or the Middle Ages, about the northern end of the enclosure, within the moat in which coolies gather submerged hay and set up fish-traps, and above which tourists shriek their delights from Peking’s lone hill, even from airplanes. For, sadly shrunken as it is, the imperial Manchu dynasty still holds forth within.

China is, I believe, the only republic on earth with an emperor. It was stipulated in the agreement of 1912 between the imperial court and the republican party that the emperor should keep his title, his imperial abode, and certain other privileges, should receive a large annual allowance from the Government for the upkeep of his court and household, and should “always be treated by the Republican Government with the courtesy and respect which would be accorded to a foreign sovereign on Chinese soil.” Thus the young man who, as a child, abdicated the dragon throne can still go and sit on it any afternoon that it pleases his fancy to do so. Perhaps no such caprices come into his head, for if we are to believe his English tutor he is wise, as well as regally polished, beyond his years, and does not really consider himself emperor. He has lived in the imperial palace of the Forbidden City ever since he was actually Manchu sovereign of China, however, and is still accorded imperial honors there. Any one who rises early enough may meet Manchu courtiers in ceremonial dress, a trifle shabby, their red-tassel-covered hats still not entirely out of place in modern Peking, jogging homeward on their lean ponies from an imperial audience at the unearthly hour at which these have been held in China for centuries.

Most Chinese have several different names, and emperors are no exception to this rule. There is a “milk name” during infancy, a hao, or familiar name by which one is afterward known to one’s intimates, a school name, a business name, finally, but not lastly, in the case of an emperor, a throne name or dynastic title. But though the present occupant of the Forbidden City has such a name, to wit: Hsuan T’ung, even this cannot be freely used; you cannot call a man to the billiard-table by his dynastic title. The names by which we know former emperors of China are really their “reign titles” and not personal patronymics. This left the present head of the Ch’ing dynasty handicapped, for, not being a real sovereign in spite of his legally imperial title, and unable to have a reign title at least until he is dead, there was no name by which he could be properly and generally called, whether to dinner or to an audience. Being a sensible young man, of modern rather than reactionary tendencies and by no means hostile to foreign influence, noting moreover that not only do foreigners who remain 205long in China have a Chinese name but that Western sovereigns have personal appellations, he decided to take a foreign name. The fact that his foreign tutor is an Englishman may or may not account for the fact that he has chosen to be called “Henry.”

Those who have seen him describe “Emperor Henry” as a tall, slender young man who is still growing, with the Chinese calligraphy of an artist and some of the poetic gifts of his imperial ancestor known as Ch’ien Lung. Not merely does he wield a wicked brush in both the classic and the modern colloquial Chinese, now and then having a poem published under an assumed name in a Peking paper, but he writes a very legible English with pen or pencil. His English speech is described as slow but correct, with a strong British accent. He reads newspapers voraciously and is said to be unusually well abreast of the times, both at home and abroad, for his years. His greatest single blow to date against tyrannical conservatism, however, and the mightiest example of his progressive tendencies occurred last spring at one fell swoop—he had his cue cut off. The three imperial dowagers and his two distinguished old Chinese or Manchu tutors tore what was left of their own hair in vain. “Henry” was determined to be up-to-date even if he is confined in one end of the once Forbidden City. The result is that for the first time in nearly three hundred years there is hardly a pigtail left within the Purple Wall, though the two old tutors, as a silent protest against what they consider an act of disloyalty to the traditions of “his Majesty’s” house, still wear their cues.

During last winter “Henry” turned sixteen, and it was high time he took unto himself a wife—two of them, in fact. He is reputed not to have wanted two—possibly he is not so ultra-modern as we have been led to suppose—but his retinue insisted. Number one wife would have too many duties to be able to perform them all alone; besides, what would the neighbors say? So they chose him two pretty Manchu girls several months his junior and set the date for the wedding. But “Henry” has a mind of his own, and if he could not go out and pick a bride on his own initiative he could at least exercise the sovereign rights of any citizen of a republic and choose between the two candidates allowed him. Thus it came about that the girl named by the high Manchu officials to be “empress” became merely the first concubine, and vice versa. Some time during the seven weeks of ceremonies between the betrothal rites and the actual marriage “Henry” conferred upon the lady of his choice the name of “Elizabeth.”

The wedding itself took place between the end of November and 206the dawn of December, according to our Western calendar. By republican permission the streets between the lady’s home, out near the Anting-men, and the East Gate of the Forbidden City were covered from curb to curb with “golden sands”—which in Peking means merely the earth we use in a child’s sand-box. At three in the morning the principal bride set out along this in a chair covered with imperial yellow brocade and carried by sixteen bearers, with a body-guard of eunuchs from the palace. The procession was no longer and hardly more elaborate than those that may be seen along Peking streets on any day auspicious for weddings; some of the impoverished Manchu and Mongol nobles, members of the imperial clan, and former officials of the old empire looked, in fact, a trifle more shabby under the specially erected bright lights along the route than do the wedding guests of a wealthy Chinese merchant. But there were some unusual features. The sedan-chair had a golden roof, on each corner of which was a phenix, a design that predominated in all the flags, banners, and mammoth “umbrellas” carried by the hired attendants. Instead of the familiar Chinese wedding “music” produced by long, harsh-voiced trumpets, there were two foreign-style bands, one of them lent by the President of the republic. These played over and over, not in concord one with the other, “Marching through Georgia,” “Suwanee River,” and “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” It was a memorable night for Peking.

The chief escorts sent by the emperor to receive his favorite bride rode horses and wore mandarin costume, including the official cap with a peacock plume and buttons of every former rank. Promptly at four in the morning the Phenix Chair, followed by a series of yellow-covered litters containing the ceremonial robes of its occupant, passed through the Gate of Propitious Destiny into the central and most sacred portion of the imperial precincts. Foreign as well as Chinese guests had been admitted as far as the large open space before this, which is used as a parade-ground for the imperial guard and as a place of reception for the camel caravans which still, even in these republican days, bring “tribute” from beyond the Great Wall to the Manchu emperor. With the moon just dropping out of sight in the west the scene was of a pageantry which has almost disappeared from our modern commonplace world.

What took place beyond the gate that swallowed up the “empress” ordinary people know only by hearsay. This has it that the bride, having been carried over fire—pans filled with glowing coals—as old 207Chinese custom decrees, was set down at the foot of the throne and greeted by the emperor and his first concubine, after which he and all those of the male gender except the eunuchs immediately retired. The concubine had merely walked in without ceremony twenty-four hours before, one of her first duties being to welcome the real bride at her arrival. Gossip has it that she did not make the requisite number of kowtows to her more fortunate rival and that “Elizabeth” took this so to heart that she shut herself up from the emperor for some time. No sane person will vouch for the truth of Peking rumors, however, imperial or otherwise. The fact remains that “Henry” and “Elizabeth” were duly married, the clinching rite being the ceremonial drinking together of the nuptial cup, and the latest report is that they are all three living moderately happily, at least, this long afterward.

An American girl is tutoring the “empress” in English and Western ways, as she did before her marriage, and the emperor continues to grow, mentally if not physically, under his cued and uncued tutelage. Even the first concubine is said to be fond of learning, and the two no doubt comment on their similarity of tastes with “our” husband. There is probably less friction between the two young ladies than their Western sisters may fancy, now that relative grades are inevitably fixed—with reservations depending on the birth of a son; the most powerful woman in Chinese history, the dowager who long ruled the country under the puppets Tung Chih and Kuang Hsii, was, it is well for the two young ladies to remember, only a concubine. Court etiquette prevents conflicts in their demands upon the husband. By a rule said to be centuries old the emperor is entitled to the company of his empress six times a month, of the first concubine ten, and of the second concubine fifteen, in reverse ratio, of course, to the social demands upon them. “Henry” should by the rules of the game have chosen his second concubine before this, but like all those to whom the Chinese owe money he has not been paid his allowance for years, and there may be excellent reason for putting off this addition to his cozy little household. It is what school-girls call “thrilling” to think of him toasting his toes alternately with his two brides, perhaps of dissimilar temperaments as well as mental and physical charms, and still having every other evening left free for the pursuit of his studies.

Misfortune, of course, does not spare even throneless sovereigns. Fire has just destroyed much of that portion of the Forbidden City which the head of the abdicated Manchu dynasty had left him, and has 208given a hint of life within those mysterious precincts. Though the conflagration broke out before midnight nothing worth while was done to curb it until two in the morning. Most of the courtiers have always lived within the Purple Wall and had never seen a disaster of such magnitude, so that when they saw the palace buildings in flames the whole court, including “Henry” and “Elizabeth,” some stories have it, were seized with nothing more effective than frenzied excitement. Partly for fear of looting, partly because no orders were given by their superior officers to break an ancient rule, the guards refused to open the gates to the two Chinese and one foreign fire brigades that offered their assistance. After a lengthy conference these were admitted, but by this time the fire was so far advanced that only by cutting down many old trees and leveling some of the smaller buildings was it finally brought under control at seven in the morning. Even the Chinese admit that almost all the effective work was done by the foreigners; whatever their excellencies the Celestials do not shine during emergencies.

Many priceless treasures, and the portraits of many former emperors, were destroyed. The official report had it first that the fire was caused by the bursting of a boiler in the palace electric-light plant, but the more probable truth has since leaked out. The latest assertion is that it was deliberately set by palace eunuchs, disgruntled over the failure to receive their allowances, or to cover up their thefts of imperial treasures. The time was close drawing near for the annual inspection of these when the conflagration occurred. Looking about the next day “Henry” found many precious things gone even from places which the fire did not reach, and incidentally, the story runs, he discovered a plot against his own life. Cynics wonder that the new régime has not hired some one to do away with him long before this. Various eunuchs were handed over to the police, some with bits of loot upon them, but “unfortunately,” to quote one Chinese paper, “the emperor no longer has the power to order their heads off.” When he demanded the arrest of some of the chief eunuchs, however, he found they were under the protection of two old imperial concubines—of Hsien Feng, consort of the famous dowager, and of Tung Chih, her son, respectively, who have been dead sixty-three and forty-eight years! So “Henry” and his two brides ran away to his father, who has a “palace” outside the west wall of the city, and refused to come back until all the eunuchs were discharged. This may have alarmed the old concubines, as the newspapers put it; certainly it frightened the republicans, with no president in office and the country threshing about for want of a head; pressure came from somewhere, the eunuchs went, and “Henry” came back.

Preparing for a devil-dance at the lama temple in Peking

The devil-dancers are usually Chinese street-urchins hired for the occasion by the languid Mongol lamas of Peking

The street-sprinklers of Peking work in pairs, with a bucket and a wooden dipper. This is the principal street of the Chinese City “outside Ch’ien-men”

The Forbidden City is for the most part no longer that, but open in more than half its extent to the ticket-buying public

209The palace eunuch system has always been pernicious and one of the main causes of the fall of the many imperial houses that have ruled China. These have been served by eunuchs ever since the Chou dynasty, more than three thousand years ago. The dynasty might change, but the eunuchs, who were the palace servants and often the confidants of the other inmates, mainly women, stayed on and carried all the vices of the old court over into the new. Each new dynasty began with a hardy, outdoor ruler, but as his successors, thanks to the silly “Son of Heaven” idea, were practically imprisoned for life within the palace among women and eunuchs, they were bound to become weeds in the enervating atmosphere. Thus almost all dynasties petered out within two or three centuries, and in the closing years the eunuchs often became masters; it is well known that Tzu Hsi, the notorious old “Empress” Dowager, who governed China for forty years, was herself ruled by a favorite eunuch, who started life as a shoemaker’s apprentice—though some doubt has always been expressed about his real eunuchhood. He is believed to be more responsible than any other single person for the Boxer uprising, but the only punishment meted out to him was that his wealth, in gold bars said to be worth several millions, was discovered by the French troops upon the occupation of Peking and—no one has ever heard of it since.

Avarice is the chief weakness of the eunuch tribe; and the official who could afford to get a powerful palace servant on his side was sure of preferment, and in time this system made China officially rotten to the core. Masters of intrigue and selfishness, they had to be “greased” from the outer gate to the throne-room even by those who wished to give the emperor himself a “present.” Each palace occupant was allowed the number of eunuchs which suited his rank, the total number being three thousand. They came mainly from Hokienfu, a small city about two hundred miles due south of Peking, where it was the custom for parents to make eunuchs of many of their boys, just as they bound the feet of their girls, for they could place them to still better advantage than a mere girl and thereby improve their own incomes. When “Henry” made this new break with antiquity, however, it was found that there were but 1430 palace eunuchs left, all, it is said, over thirty years old. Orders were also issued to all Mongol and Manchu nobles and princes forbidding the employment of eunuchs, and it is hoped that hereafter no native of Hokienfu will get himself 210mutilated for the sake of a palace job. Unlike bound feet, the system was, of course, by no means confined to China. The papal choir was made up of eunuchs, long since driven by public opinion from the Italian stage, at least as late as the beginning of the present century, and they are still employed as the keepers of harems in Mohammedan countries, being part and parcel of polygamy. Transportation to their homes, temporary lodgings, and a bit of money was allowed those whom this lad of sixteen at last cleared out of the Forbidden City, and it was a picturesque sight to see them leaving the palace with their tawdry belongings, quarreling to the last with the men sent to pay them off. Perhaps that is the end of them in China; but it is the land of compromise, and already the old and crippled eunuchs have been taken back into the palace until they die.

There are people who believe that “Henry” may again be a real emperor of China, that he has proved himself so strong by some of his recent actions as to suggest that had he been born twenty years earlier China would not now be trying to pose as a republic. Even as modern a young man as our Chinese teacher thinks that a constitutional monarchy is the only feasible relief from the present anarchistic chaos of theoretical republicanism. He puts at ten years, others at from a generation to a century, the time required under such a restraining form of government to prepare for a real republic. Who knows? Perhaps even if the monarchy returns it will not be “Henry” who will head it; soothsayers have been making strange prophecies recently about an entirely new emperor to come out of the provinces. Besides, “Henry” is a Manchu, and China has reverted after nearly three centuries to the misrule of her own people. But he is already on the spot, sitting on the vacant throne as it were, and that is seldom a disadvantage.

One of the first obligations of the foreigner coming to China for any length of time is to get a Chinese name. In other countries the people do the best they can, vocally and stelographically, to reproduce the names we already possess; even Japan, by using one of her modern scripts, can write all the but the more L-ish Western patronymics so that they read noticeably like the original. But the Chinese have always insisted that the outside barbarian adapt himself to Chinese ways, rather than the topsyturvy reverse. Besides, Chinese is a monosyllabic language, and naturally any stranger who comes to the country must be translated into words of one syllable. Unfortunately, even syllables are limited among the ideographs available to the Celestial brush-wielder, 211and names which to our notion are obviously of one become polysyllabic, to say the least, before the Chinese translator gets through with them. The result is that they seldom bear even a family resemblance to the original, and the foreigner who can recognize his own Chinese name, whether written or spoken, is already in a fair way to become an accomplished Oriental philologist.

Let me take my own name as an example. Except that it may be racially misleading, I have always considered it quite a tolerable name, not particularly difficult to pronounce, or to remember, by those who choose to do so, and unquestionably monosyllabic. Yet the Chinese scholar to whom it was submitted divided it at once into three syllables, like an expert taking apart an instrument one had always believed to be of one piece and returned it as “Feh Lan-kuh.” The first character stands for “extravagance,” but all the sting is taken out of that false and unjust start by the other two, which mean “orchid” and “self-control” respectively. Only three names are allowed in Chinese; therefore my given names in my own language were crowded into the discard. To the Chinese I am “Feh Hsien-sheng”—Mr. Extravagance; if they wish to go further and find out what particular form my wastefulness takes they respectfully inquire my honorable ming-tze, and are informed that my unworthy personal names are “Lan-kuh,” the Orchid with Self-control. The trouble is that almost any foreigner whose name begins with an F, or even with a Ph, is also Mr. Feh. There are a dozen of them within gunshot of us, surely a thousand in China, most of whose English names are not in the least like our own.

A few lucky mortals have names that can be put into Chinese just as they stand, not only leaving them audibly recognizable to their compatriots but saving their given names from the scrap-heap. There is Mr. Fay, of course, Mr. Howe and Mr. May, and obviously Mr. Lee is orally at home anywhere in China, whether the scholarly see him as a “pear” or “clear dawn.” On the other hand there are names that cannot possibly be put into Chinese even faintly resembling themselves,—Messrs. Smith and Jones, for instance. It is quite as necessary to know the Chinese name of the friend you wish to find in China as to be able to speak Chinese; more so, in fact, for while the Celestials are the antithesis of their island neighbors in the rapidity with which they grasp an idea from signs and motions, it is difficult, unless some outstanding personal characteristic is involved, to express a proper name by a gesture. You may go up and down a Chinese city in which he has lived for twenty years shouting for your dear old schoolmate Kelly, 212shepherding a flock of Chinese in the general direction of heaven now, and never find a trace of him unless chance puts you on the track of his new appellation. Luckily there are but a hundred or so family names in all China, and as many characters fit to be used as such, so that one may soon become fairly expert at guessing.

One must have a Chinese name, not only because one would otherwise be unmentionable, on respectful occasions, even to one’s own servants, but because a plentiful supply of visiting-cards is absolutely indispensable. Fortunately these can be had in China at a fraction of what they cost at home; because not only are cards exchanged on the slightest provocation, but one of those hastily printed scraps of paper is just as important and just as final anywhere within the once Celestial Empire as in South America. Without a card a millionaire in evening-dress is a mere coolie; with one the most disreputable foreign tramp who ever seeped back into the interior from the treaty-ports is a gentleman fit to dine with a Tuchun.

In the olden days of not so long ago Chinese name-cards were red, the color for happiness. To have a white card meant that one’s father or mother had died within the past three years; those mourning the recent loss of a grandparent had yellow or blue ones. The size of the card determined the importance of the one whose name it bore, or vice versa, so that the card of a viceroy or a generalissimo was of the size of a sheet of foolscap, a blood-red splash that could be seen half a mile away. Colors and size both cost money, however; moreover China has become, in name at least, a republic. White cards are now in quite general use, therefore, and though they still vary in size, I have never been handed one larger than a coat-pocket. Some remain red on one side and white on the other, especially among the formal and the wealthy; the ultra-modern have their English name on one side and Chinese on the other, like foreign residents. The custom of using both sides seems to be an old one. Often the formal or “business” name appears on the front, sometimes with the rank or calling, while on the back, in much smaller characters, are the hao and the yuan-ch’i, the name used only by intimates, and the ancestral birthplace—which even the father of the man represented may never have seen. Not a few Chinese use two different cards. One of them bears the characters meaning, “This is only a friendly exchange-card”; in other words, it has no import in serious or business matters. If a Tuchun graciously gives you his “exchange-card” that does not mean that you can use it 213to give orders to his soldiers or borrow money in his name at a bank, though his official card may still have almost the potency of the signet-ring of a king in the days of ruffles and feathers.

A play modeled more or less on Chinese lines which went the round of the English-speaking world some years ago has familiarized us with some of the peculiarities of the Chinese theater—or, from their point of view, with those of our own. At least those of us who had the pleasure of attending that performance know that on the Chinese stage a banner held aloft by two coolies at opposite ends of it stands for a city gate, and that when a man has been histrionically killed he gets up, wipes his nose, and saunters off the stage, quite as invisible to the audience as are the property-men incessantly wandering about among the actors with the ultra-bored expression of men more completely surfeited with things theatrical than all the first-nighters and dramatic critics of Christendom rolled into one. But the Chinese stage has other points which were not included in that delightful effigy of it, partly because to make it too Chinese would have been the surest way to drive away any Western audience, partly because invention advances day by day. I enjoy the casual, lackadaisical, “invisible” property-men of the Chinese theater, but I find the man with the thermos bottle still more beguiling. For “props,” dressed not in black, as the imported version of Celestial theatrical life would have us believe, but in the hit-or-miss costume of the Chinese laboring-class, with blue denims very much the favorite, is after all at home in the theater and soon becomes even to the foreign eye as natural a part of the decorations as does the omnipresent coolie in or out of doors. I wonder if their property-men are not really invisible to the Chinese, for do they not always have servants and attendants flocking incessantly about them anywhere, everywhere, on the most solemn as well as the most trivial occasions? But I have never quite gotten used to the thermos-bottle man and able to look upon him with complete equanimity. He is no theater employee, but the personal servant of this or that important actor, which actor often does not remain more than an hour or two at a time in one theater; hence, at least in Peking in the winter season, the man who brings his master his indispensable tea at the climax of every histrionic flight wears overcoat, fur or knitted cap, and all the rest of the midwinter equipment, so that, bursting suddenly but casually in upon a court ceremony or a battle scene set in the color-splashed days to which 214Chinese dramas hark back, he suggests an experienced and unexcitable arctic explorer come to succor with the latest contrivance a group of Martians enjoying an equatorial holiday.

The thermos bottle was, of course, unknown to those actors of some generations or centuries back who refused to be deprived even for the length of a scene of the national beverage, and at the same time wished to impress upon the audience, itself engaged in satisfying the inner man quite as freely as if seated at home, that they, for all the low rank of players, were just as important, thereby establishing a custom that is all but universal on the Chinese stage. Old-fashioned actors, or those less generously subsidized by the box-office, also have their tea at the end of every crisis; but it is brought, not in the latest triumph of science and by a personal retainer, but by one of the omnipresent “props,” by a disengaged “super,” or by one of the beggarly loafers that seem always to be hanging about behind the scenes—if they can be called such—of a Chinese theater. They, too, sip the uninebriating cup held up to them while half turning their backs or holding an edge of their always voluminous costumes over a corner of the mouth, a conventional pretense which is supposed to make the act invisible to the audience, and which so far as outward appearances go seems actually to do so. Besides, why should an act as general and almost as continuous among the Chinese as breathing attract the attention of a generation that has probably associated it with every dramatic climax since the oldest man among them first paid an admission fee? If so slight a thing as this brought inattention to the play, what would not the orchestra accomplish in the way of distracting from the plaudits due the actors, scattered as it is about the stage itself, maltreating its strange instruments or refraining therefrom in the most casual manner, to light a cigarette, to scratch itself, to ply a toothpick, or strolling individually on or off, in any garb at any moment of the afternoon or evening that happens to suit the individual fancy.

There is a theater in the heart of the Tartar City completely Westernized in architecture and general arrangements, yet where perfectly Chinese plays are given; but the foreigner who wishes to get the complete atmosphere must go “outside Ch’ien-men” into the Chinese City. For after all it is the audience and what takes place in front of the stage as much as what goes forward upon it that repays the Westerner for visiting a Chinese theater. In this busiest part of Peking, among the blocks where the singsong-girls ply their popular trade, are scattered many genuinely native playhouses, and farther on there are numerous 215makeshift ones hastily thrown together of boards, mats, and sheet-iron, stretching beyond the T’ien-ch’iao, the “Heavenly Bridge” with its swarming outdoor markets, across which emperors were carried for centuries to the near-by Temple of Heaven. Out there one may hear much of the play and more of the “music” than he cares to, while merely riding past in the afternoon—for genuine Peking theaters are in full swing from about noon until long after midnight.

Perhaps on the whole the visitor will get the most for his money at any of those playhouses lost in the maze of narrow streets not far outside Ch’ien-men, without earning the ill will of his rickshaw-man by driving him ’way out to the Heavenly Bridge. Here he will find himself, though perhaps not without Chinese help, entering what looks much like a warehouse or a wholesale establishment, a roofed court overcrowded with crude, narrow, painfully upright benches black with time and the food and drinks that have been spilled upon them for generations from the little shelves protruding along the back of each for the use of the row behind. The foreigner is so far out of the orbit of his kind in one of these establishments that, though the Legation Quarter is barely a hop, skip, and jump away, just beyond the mammoth Tartar wall, and those two of the Peking railway stations out of which emerge almost all foreign visitors to the capital are still nearer, he will probably not be seated before what looks like a coolie comes to ask his name, preferably to get his card, explaining, if there is any common denominator of words in which to do so, that every wai-guo-ren who enters the place must be reported at once, so that a policeman may be sent to protect him. Yet it is years since a foreigner has needed individual police protection anywhere within the Chinese City half as much as the unpaid gendarme who will keep an eye upon him throughout the performance needs the tip which he will not refuse if it is properly forced upon him.

Strictly speaking the foreign visitor does not find himself a seat, any more than he discovers the theater without help. He is, ipso facto, a “possessor of money,” and nowhere that he stirs in China, least of all in a theater, are there lacking men eager to take as much of that commodity away as can be bluffed or wheedled out of him. Hence the conspicuous new-comer is beset from the very entrance by a flock of men in the all too familiar garb of unwashed coolies, each eager to lead him to some different section of the house. If he is easily led he will find himself installed before he knows it in a rickety chair in one of the little pretenses of boxes around the narrow balcony, the only 216part of the house where women spectators may sit. The prices are higher up there, and the inevitable rake-off of his guide correspondingly larger. If he is wise he will insist upon remaining in the pit, not too near the uproarious orchestra and not so close to the back as to interfere with the throwing arms of the towel-men. When at last he has settled down as the protégé of a man who seems suddenly to grow superciliously patronizing toward him the moment he is sure of keeping him in his own section, and has apparently made lifelong enemies of all the others who tried to seat him elsewhere, he becomes at once the prey of the innumerable hawkers of this and that who wallow and shout their way through the audience quite irrespective of a possible interest in the stage. Perhaps it occurs to him that he bought no ticket, and was asked for none at the door. No one does as he enters the purely Chinese theater. By the time each auditor has adjusted himself as well as his bodily bulk will permit to the impossible seats behind the tippy shelves, a man comes to sell him a ticket and to take it up with one and the same motion. Prices are not high, sixty to eighty coppers at most, including the percentage that is almost sure to be added out of respect for his alien condition; even in the Westernized theater within the Tartar City a seat anywhere in the pit or parquet rarely reaches the height of a “Mex” dollar. Then a man who thinks he chose his seat for him must also have his “squeeze,” but this by no means amounts to the sum subtracted by the old ladies who pose as ushers in the theaters of Paris. Long before these formalities are concluded, simultaneously with his sitting down, in fact, the countless dispensers of food and drink are taking his patronage for granted. A tea-cup sadly in need of an hour’s scouring with sand is placed top down on the unwashed seat-back before him, soon to be followed by a tea-pot the spout of which, if he is observant, he has probably seen some unsoaped neighbor sucking a moment before, now refilled with boiling water. Little dishes of shriveled native peanuts, of pumpkin-seeds, of half a dozen similar delicacies which he has often seen along the outdoor markets and in the baskets of street-hawkers without ever having felt a desire to make a closer acquaintance with them, probably also a joint of sugar-cane, will likewise be set in front of him before he can say his Chinese name, unless he waves all these things aside with a very imperative gesture. None of the hawkers catch the meaning of this at once, at least outwardly, and when they finally do their resentment often reaches the point of what sounds unpleasantly like more or less subtle vituperation. Whoever heard of going to a theater without 217sipping tea and cracking pumpkin-seeds? Why does this wealthy barbarian come and occupy a seat if he is going to cheat the men who supply that part of the house out of their rightful and time-honored selling privileges?

By and by one may be able to turn one’s attention to the stage, though one has certainly not been unconscious of it, auricularly at least, since entering the door. The stage is nothing but a raised platform with a low railing on all four sides, such as might have been the auction-place in the days when the building was perhaps the warehouse it looks as if it must have been. Whatever serve as dressing-rooms at the rear, which according to the space there cannot be much, are separated from the stage by an alleyway across which the exiting and entering players hop. The antics on the stage are in no noticeable way different from those at the Westernized Peking theaters regularly patronized by foreigners. The masks and wigs and terrifying costumes are probably cruder, less splendid, and worse adjusted; the lean and bathless coolies who come on at frequent intervals in orderless groups undisguised as soldiers, courtiers, and who-knows-what are if anything a trifle more abject and bovine; there may not appear a single thermos bottle during the whole evening, though there will be as incessant a consumption of what passes for tea among the great mass of the Chinese. Certainly there will be no scenery in the Western sense, though there may be a few curtains half shutting off the inadequate dressing-room space, and some pretenses of city gates, thrones, and the like improvised on the spur of the moment by the bored property-men out of strips of cloth and half-broken chairs. The conventionalized things which take the place of scenery, the strange whips carried by those who are supposed to be mounted, and the something which tells the audience that the bearer is riding in a boat are somewhat the worse for wear, while the cushions which “Props” disdainfully throws out in front of the stars when it is time for them to kneel are almost slippery with the grease of generations. But the tumbling and the juggling which imply that one of the frequent battles is going on will be quite the same, except that it will not be so well done, as inside the main city, and the uproar will be just as constant and if anything a trifle more deafening.

One theater outside Ch’ien-men has only female players; but they appear in the same rôles, in exactly the same time-honored plays, as the all-men casts in other theaters, and act as nearly as possible in the same way, equally dreadful even in the atrocious falsetto which is the Chinese actor’s specialty, as noises from the pit of the stomach are of 218those of Japan. There may be many a guttural “Hao!” from the men in the audience for the juggling feats of the stars, winning their battles thus after the time-honored manner of stage generals or emperors; perhaps even greater signs of approval for some fine point skilfully rounded in the old familiar themes, which escapes the foreigner entirely; but there is never a suggestion of the thought of sex, not a hint, except in their general appearance, that the players are women and not men. Some of the unwashed girls who fill out the cast, looking like nothing so much as kitchen wenches in odds and ends of old finery, are quite as clever acrobats, in battle-scene tumbling at least, as the men at other places, though they get less a month than a Broadway chorus-girl spends on chewinggum in a week.

It will be an imperturbable foreign visitor, however, who can keep his attention fixed on the stage long enough to note all this at once. The goings-on in the audience will probably prove more comprehensible, certainly more amusing. Without going into endless detail it may suffice to say that the climax of all those things which a Chinese audience does and a Western one does not is the demand for hot towels during the performance. One or two towel-men stand over a steaming tub in a far corner; as many as a dozen others are scattered about the hall, though their presence may not be suspected by the inexperienced until the bombardment of towels begins, about the end of the first round of pumpkin-seeds. All at once the air overhead is crisscrossed with flying white objects, which on closer attention prove to be bundles of hot, wet towels tightly rolled together. A man near the tub is throwing them to a colleague somewhere out in the house, who relays them on to others dispersed about, these doling them out along the rows of spectators, collecting them again after they have been used—not to give the ears a respite from the ceaseless uproar but to deceive the face and hands with the ghost of a washing—bundling them together once more to start them hurtling back high over head to the point of origin. The most expert venders of double-jointed Philadelphia peanuts at our national games cannot equal Chinese towel-men in the number of throws and the narrow margins of safety without injury to a spectator. Evidently the towel-service is included in the price of admission, unless the hawkers and the section guards band together to supply their clients this apparent necessity. Therefore the foreigner who gracefully declines this gracious attention, after noting that the returned towels are merely immersed and wrung out again as a bundle and once more sent the rounds, does not win the ill will that would 219accrue to him if there were a copper or two of cumshaw involved, and does no other damage than to block the wheels of progress long enough for information concerning his strange conduct to be relayed back to the tub-men and commented upon at least throughout the section he makes conspicuous by his presence.

The bombardment of towels goes on periodically from early afternoon until early morning, like all the rest of the performance. Where one play ends another begins with barely the interval of a sip of tea, and though some spectators are constantly coming and going, like the casual members of the orchestra and the undisguised “supers,” the endurance of the mass of them is phenomenal. Some time between five and seven o’clock many spectators vary their incessant munching and sipping by ordering a full meal from the runners of the adjoining tea-house, and the click of chop-sticks may now and then be heard above the louder clamor. But the spectacle, both on and off the stage, goes unconcernedly on.

It would require much more Chinese than I can so far understand to catch any of the dialogue—if that is the word for it—of a typical Chinese play. The inexperienced Westerner will seldom have the faintest idea what it is all about, or even who the characters stand for, so unintelligible to him are the signs and symbols by which the native spectator recognizes them and their doings. For that matter the average Chinese would not understand much unless he had imbibed all these old stories almost with his mother’s milk. The old, poetic, and often obsolete words in which the Chinese actor speaks—or rather “sings,” to use the misleading Chinese term—would be obscure enough in a sane and ordinary tone of voice; in his successful imitation of ungreased machinery his actual speech is probably of little more import to the hearers than are the words of an Italian opera to a Chicago audience. Like the Japanese the Chinese prefer to hear the same old historical themes and see the same old pageants over and over again, however, or at most to have new variations upon them, generation after century. Hence even the illiterate can often follow a play word by word without understanding a line of it. We have discovered that by having our teacher tell us the story beforehand we can guess the meaning of a considerable part of the action, thereby finding the Chinese theater much less of a bore than most foreigners report it. To every people its own ways; certainly the attempt to ape Western theatricals which was put on during the winter by a club of native élite, with traveled young Chinese of both sexes prancing about the stage in frock-coats and scanty gowns, 220not to mention bobbed hair, was more terrible than anything genuine Chinese actors ever perpetrate. Personally I have even become reconciled to Chinese “music”—in the olden days plays were given outdoors, hence the deafening quality of this—and in certain moods even to enjoy it, briefly, as one sometimes enjoys a crush in the subway or a rough-and-tumble mingling with the Broadway throng; and we have both grown very fond of seeing, if not of listening to, Mei Lan-fang.

Mr. Mei—whose family character means “peach blossom” and who is related to us to the extent of including an orchid in his given name—is China’s most famous and most popular actor. Like his father and grandfather before him he plays only female rôles, and while even his falsettos may grate on a Western ear, many is the foreigner who pursues him from theater to theater merely to watch his graceful movements, his inimitable dancing or simply the manipulation of his beautiful hands. Scrawl the three characters by which he is known on the bill-board or the newspaper space of any theater, inside Ch’ien-men or out, anywhere in China for that matter, though he has no need to tour the provinces, and the man in the box-office has only to order any suggestion of vacant space filled with chairs and lean back in perfect contentment. Mei Lan-fang carries his own troupe, like a Spanish matador his cuadrilla, even his own orchestra, and the arrangement of Chinese performances is such that he can play in several theaters on the same night, from eleven to midnight inside the Tartar City perhaps, where the doors close ridiculously early, the rest of the night among the better establishments outside the main wall. Seldom does he deign to appear earlier than that, unless at some special matinée in the Forbidden City or at the presidential palace, and he is under no necessity of appearing every night merely to keep the wolf from his door. By Chinese standards his income rivals that of any opera singer.

The Chinese are fond of complications of character in their plays, and some of Mr. Mei’s greatest successes are as a man playing a girl who in turn disguises herself as a man; but there is never a moment in which the basic femininity of the part does not stand clearly forth in the hands of this consummate artist. I had the pleasure of spending an afternoon with him once. His house out in the heart of the Chinese City is outwardly commonplace; but the touch of the genuinely artistic temperament is nowhere missing inside the door. The delicate, almost white-faced man still in his twenties, sometimes looking as if he had barely reached them, proved to be one of the most gracious and at the same time most unobtrusive hosts I have ever met. His manner had 221not a suggestion of the financially successful, the popular idol, as it would manifest itself in the West. He was as simple, as unassuming, as wholly untheatrical as are the objects of Chinese art on which he spends his surplus wealth and time inconspicuous with real distinction. Among his treasures were many thin-paper volumes of classics, of old plays, some of them several centuries old, with annotations in the margins by bygone but not forgotten actors indicating tones, gestures, movements down to the crooking of a little finger. Mr. Mei makes much use of these, though not for slavish imitation. His entourage includes a scholar of standing whose task it is to weave new stories about the old themes, and from them the actor evolves new dances—which is not the word, but let it stand—and new ways of entertaining his crowded audiences without losing touch with the distant centuries to which they prefer to be transported within the theater. Mei Lan-fang does not drink tea on the stage. It is an arrogance of the profession to which his famous family never descended. Nor, one notes, do property-men trip unnecessarily about under his feet when he is performing. I have Mr. Mei’s word for it that the throat does not suffer from the constant unnatural tasks put upon it by his profession; but only from a man of such self-evident truthfulness could I believe it. Certainly there was nothing in his soft home-side speech to belie that surprising statement, as there was nothing in his modest manner to suggest that wherever he plays the streets are filled as far at least as the eye can see by night with waiting rickshaws.

Russians have occupied the extreme northeast corner of the Tartar City for centuries. Away back in the reign of K’ang Hsi, to whom all those of the white race were indeed outside barbarians, an army of the czar was defeated in what is now Siberia, and the captives brought to Peking were made into a defense corps after the style of the Manchu-“bannermen.” Gradually the Manchu warriors disappeared from the enclosure that once housed them only, as they grew weak and flabby and penniless under imperial corruption and sold out family by family to the Chinese, until to-day the Tartar City is that merely in name and in memory. But the Russians remain just where the victorious emperor assigned them. Two garish Greek Orthodox structures thrust their domes and spires aloft from within the large walled area which makes that corner of the city somewhat less of an open space given over to garbage-heaps, rag-pickers, and prowling dogs than are the other three. The Son of Heaven was graciously moved to permit his Russian 222bannermen to have their own religious teachers, and the Orthodox priests sent from Russia became not only missionaries to the surrounding “heathen” but the unofficial diplomatic agents of the czar. In time, when the powers saw fit to disabuse the occupant of the dragon throne of the impression that all the rest of the earth was tributary to him, the Russians also established their official minister in the Legation Quarter, with pompous buildings and another Orthodox church within a big compound. To-day, by consent of the Chinese, representatives of the old czarist régime still informally occupy this, while the unrecognized envoy of the Soviet finds his own accommodations, like any other tourist. But the establishment in the further corner of the city survives, boasting not merely a bishop but an archbishop, and numbering by the hundred the Chinese converts clustered in that section.

A Russian church service with a mainly Chinese congregation is worth going some distance to see. Nowadays the converts hardly outnumber their fellow-worshipers, so many are the destitute Russian refugees who have drifted to that distant northeast corner of Peking. They live thick as prisoners in the stone-walled cells of the old monastery where once only Orthodox monks recited their prayers,—frail women and underfed children as well as men bearing a whole library of strange stories on their gaunt faces. Groups of refugees who came too late or have not influence enough to find room in the cells live packed together in stone cellars, some still wearing the remnants of czarist uniforms, or of the various “White” armies that have gone to pieces before the advancing “Reds,” some still unrecovered from war-time wounds and sundry hardships.

The orchestra which enlivens the nights of the more fortunate foreigners in the frock-coat section of the city huddle together here on improvised beds that would hardly be recognized as such; in these ill smelling dungeons there are men who have not garments enough, even if they had the spirit left, to go forth and look for some possible way out of their present sad dilemma.

But one’s sympathy for the dispossessed Russians in China always soon comes to a frayed edge. Their scorn of manual labor even as an alternative to starvation, the unregenerate selfishness of their exiled fellow-countrymen in more fortunate circumstances, their lack of practicality, of plain common sense from the Western point of view, in a word their Orientalism, so out of keeping with their Caucasian exterior, tend to turn compassion to mere condolences which in time fade out to indifference. Perhaps any of us suddenly come down as 223a nation, like a proud sky-scraper unexpectedly collapsing into a chaotic heap of débris, would find ourselves bewildered out of ordinary human intelligence; but it is hard to avoid the impression that these individual weaknesses were there before the debacle, and that they are incurable, at least in the existing generation. A few such enterprises as printing, binding, and leather tanning have been started in the former monastery, but it was noticeable that almost all the actual work was being done by Chinese. Sturdy, even though possibly hungry, young men loafed about their cells and cellars complaining that they could not hire some one to rebuild their simple brick bathing-vat and cooking-stove. Chinese officials, especially of the petty grade, have not been over-kind to the groups of refugees that have fallen into their hands; but they rank at least on a par with the Russian archbishop of Peking, who considers the northeast corner of the city his personal property and demands the abject servility of the Middle Ages toward his exalted person from those of his fellow-countrymen whom he graciously admits to floor-space there in the shadow of his own spacious episcopal residence.

These ostentatious forms of Christianity seem much more in keeping with the Chinese temperament than the austere Protestantism of innumerable sects, which has dotted Peking, as it has all China, with its schools, churches, hospitals, and missions pure and simple. It is not at all hard to find resemblances between the services of the Russians and those in the lama temple a little west of them, in any joss-burning Chinese place of worship, or for that matter between these and high mass at Pei-t’ang to the northwest of the Forbidden City. The Catholics, too, go back for centuries in the life of Peking, to Verbiest and his fellow-Jesuits who served the Sons of Heaven in secular, as well as their subjects in religious, ways.

In the Boxer days Pei-t’ang was scarcely second to the British legation as a place of refuge against the bloodthirsty besiegers; on Easter Sunday, at least, it rivals even in mere picturesqueness any temple in the capital. Red silk interspersed with Maltese crosses in imperial yellow wrapped the pillars; artificial flowers—where real ones are so cheap and so plentiful—added to the Oriental garishness of the interior; the mingled scent of incense and crowded Chinese made the scene impressive not merely to the sight. Mats on the floor held more worshipers than did the benches. The women sat on one side, the flaring white head-dresses of the nuns forming a broad front border to the sea of smooth, oily Chinese coiffures. Near the center hundreds of “orphan” boys in khaki made a great yellow patch. In front, at the foot of the 224choir-stalls backed by the gorgeous altar, the assemblage was gay with French and Belgian officers in full bemedaled uniform, with a scattering of European women—there are other Catholic churches in Peking that are not so far away for most foreigners—their prie-dieus conspicuous in rich silk covers. Even the raised place at one side, theoretically reserved for Caucasians, was crowded with Chinese, hardly a dozen more of whom could have been driven into the church with knouts or bayonets. Yellow faces, high above any casual glance, peered from behind the pipes of the big organ. Chinese acolytes in red wandered to and fro, swinging censers; the music, while not unendurable, was screechy enough to prove the unseen choir of the same race, boys echoing men, with the organ filling in the interstices. Children ran wild among the rather orderless throng; some of the congregation stood throughout the service; large numbers of Chinese men kept their caps on. But a thousand Chinese fervently crossing themselves at the requisite signals from the altar, where two Chinese priests in colorful robes worthy at least a bishop functioned on either side of the white-haired European in archiepiscopal regalia, had about it something no less striking than anything Buddhism has to offer. On week-days old Chinese women, just such bent, shrouded figures as may be seen in any cathedral of Europe, come from the maze of hutungs about Pei-t’ang to bow their heads in silent prayer in its perpetual twilight, with gaudy saints and images of here and there a somewhat Chinese cast of countenance looking down upon them.

Preparations for the Chinese New Year began on the twenty-third of the twelfth moon with the burning of the kitchen god still to be found in nearly every home. Some of our neighbors, especially those whom lack of a courtyard drove out into the hutung for this ceremony, did it half furtively, as if they were pretending, at least when foreigners looked on, that this was only an ordinary wad of waste-paper. But we knew that before he was torn down incense had been burned before the flimsy, smoke-dulled god, with a little straw or kaoliang for the horse that is shown waiting for him, and even our neighbors admitted that they stuck a bit of something sweet on his lips before sending him to heaven, by the fire route, to report on the actions of the family during the year. A little opium serves this purpose still better, or best of all is to dip the whole half-penny lithograph in native wine just before the burning, that the god may be too drowsy or too drunk to tell the truth when he reaches headquarters.

Mei Lan-fang, most famous of Chinese actors, who, like his father and grandfather before him, plays only female parts

In the vast compound of the Altar of Heaven

Over the wall from our house, boats plied on the moat separating us from the Chinese City

Just outside the Tartar Wall of Peking the night-soil of the city, brought in wheelbarrows, is dried for use as fertilizer

225It is a seven-day journey to the Chinese heaven and back, so that people have a little respite from the irksome surveillance of the god of the kitchen. During that week there was a furor of house-cleaning, as the Chinese misunderstand the term; the well-to-do renewed their paper windows; those who could afford it went so far as to have the wooden parts freshly painted. Especially on the last day of the year much shaving, washing, and bathing went on; the baths outside the southern gates of the Tartar City were crowded as they never are at ordinary times, when a two-to-ten copper bath once a month is considered ample. All that last day, too, the chop-a-chop of food, especially of meat dumplings, being prepared for the many guests of the following days, when such work would be taboo, sounded from every house that was not a poor man’s home indeed. Faded old scraps of paper came down everywhere and bright new ones went up, particularly those long upright red slips opposite each door, bearing the four familiar characters for K’ai men chien hsi—“Open door see happiness.” Some of these were put up by the householders themselves, some by poor neighbors who hoped for a slight remembrance from the inmates. One saw them all over China for months afterward. The most miserable little hovels far outside the walls put up new paper gods that made brilliant splashes on doors and mud façades. Perhaps the saddest thing about the Chinese New Year is that all debts are expected to be paid before it breaks, which was particularly hard on what is still recognized abroad as the Chinese Government, months in arrears with every one except its Tuchuns and high employees of special influence. Two men at least I saw next day wandering about with a lantern, a pretense that it is still night and dunning still permissible.

New Year’s day is everybody’s birthday in China; so there is a double reason for new clothes appearing everywhere. Even beggars and rag-pickers seemed to have them, or at least well washed and mended ones, and the populace presented such a sight of approximate cleanliness as it will not until another year rolls by and compels it to change again. A new kitchen god, gaudy on its thin paper, is put up during the first hours of the new year, with a little shrine, and firecrackers and incense welcome him. Firecrackers, indeed, were the most conspicuous part of the celebration. They boomed all night, close under our back walls and all over the city; even “Ha-li” was restless with the incessant uproar. This was partly in honor of the kitchen gods, but largely to frighten off the evil spirits lurking about to contaminate the new year at the start. Among the Chinese there 226was no attempt to sleep that night; even our ama asked permission to go home, and said that she would sit up all night, eating meat dumplings from about two in the morning until daybreak—yet she is a woman of unusual common sense for China, with the utmost scorn for those who still bind their feet.

For the first five days of the new year women are supposed not to leave home or to enter that of another, though in Peking many disobey at least the first half of this ancient rule. The men, on the other hand, go out early and often, not only on the first but on the succeeding days, to call upon all their friends, particularly on the mother-in-law who reigns over each household, to give greetings, and incidentally to fill themselves beyond nature’s intention with meat dumplings. Our teacher was still weary from this ordeal when he again reported for duty. Rachel, however, was strictly enjoined by the ama not to call on a neighbor at whose house she had attended a wedding during the winter; it would be even worse form than not to have a mother-in-law present to receive those who called upon us. As in France, New Year’s is the time for giving presents; no sooner had we distributed a dozen silver dollars in red envelopes among the servants than they despatched the ama to get us presents,—food dainties for us adults, toys for “Ha-li.” Of all the celebration, however, perhaps the detail that looked strangest was to see the shops closed, long row after row of them blank-faced with board shutters where we had never seen them before. Drums and firecrackers sounded inside—some say that gambling goes on apace—whether to scare off devils or merely for the joy of making a noise; probably both motives existed, depending on the individual temperament. Foreigners sometimes accuse the Chinese of laziness because they take as much as a week’s rest at New Year’s, as if this were anything compared with our fifty-two and more holidays a year. Besides, even the shops are in few cases really closed; trust any Chinese merchant not to miss a possible stroke of business. There is almost always a peep-hole, if you know where to look for it, and one man inside who will make a special exception in favor of any one who finds it. Merchants can send their goods to the fairs, anyway; these spring up everywhere, especially in temple grounds, in and outside the city, where every one comes to burn joss-sticks by the bundle, until many a huge urn before the gods runs over with ashes. These are the gayest of markets, with peep-shows, acrobats, coolies, posing for the day as sword-swallowers, story-tellers, and musicians, with amateur and professional theatrical performances indoors and out, with every 227conceivable gambling device, men, women, and children crowded around them, with all manner of playthings for sale,—singing “diavolo” tops reaching almost the size of drums, pink bottles of chianti-shape which reward the blower with a peculiar noise, clusters of toy windmills on one handle that spin in chorus as the holder rides homeward in his rickshaw or his Peking cart, kites of every description, some fully man-size, of bird, beetle, airplane shape. There are no age-limits among the Chinese in the use of New Year’s toys; even solemn old men fly kites all over the city at this season, among the swirls of pigeons following their whistle-bearing leader about the cloudless heavens.

All this went on for a week or more, though with diminishing ardor; for some soon tire of so long a holiday, and many would starve if they celebrated it all, so that gradually men went back to work, though not a few stuck it out. We hardly noticed a lack of rickshaws even on the first day, and the calls of street-hawkers never completely died out. If our servants went out more than usual we missed none of their usual services, and certainly the cook must have found the markets open. The real New Year’s duty of every Chinese, of course, is to go home, though it be across ten provinces, to put paper “cash,” such as flutter along the route of every funeral, on the graves of his ancestors, and to prepare them special food, preferably duck or chicken, of which they can eat only the “flavor,” leaving three guesses as to what becomes of the rest. Many do go home, but in modern days it is surprising how many find this imperative journey quite impossible. At length the celebration petered out, though crowded carts of people in their best garments could be seen plodding toward the temples outside our East Wall up to the last, and Peking settled down to its industrious seven days a week again.

With the republic, China officially adopted the Western calendar, as Japan did long ago; but the masses cling to the old one, with its animal names for the twelve years that are constantly recurring. Like Christianity, the new calendar is considered something foreign, which is quite enough, even leaving the tenacity of old custom aside, to condemn it among many Chinese; and even in official circles the lunar New Year is celebrated more thoroughly than the other. The result is that no government employee has to come to office on the foreign New Year, and no one does on the old one, when even cabinet members go to their ancestral homes or on a spree to Tientsin or Shanghai. Nor is the cult of cyclical animals by any means dead among the Chinese. Almost over our head on the East Wall stand the famous astronomical instruments, 228some of them made by Verbiest himself, which the Germans carried off in 1900 and very recently returned in accordance with a clause in the Treaty of Versailles; and just beyond them is an old temple, the occupants of which include among their duties the annual task of compiling the popular almanac. One may see original or reprinted copies of this everywhere in China, for it is indispensable to the fortuneteller, the geomancer, and all their innumerable ilk, if not to the mass of the people themselves. Here are set forth the lucky and unlucky days for marriages or funerals, for washing the hair, for beginning a new building, for every act of importance in the Chinese daily life. Without it how could match-makers know whether or not the birth-years of possible brides and grooms conflict? Obviously if one was born in the year of the rabbit and the other in that of the dog, or in the years of the tiger and the sheep respectively, the result of an alliance would be a sorry household.

This year the almanac concocted by our priestly neighbors has a pig as “running title” from cover to cover, as well as the frequent recurrence of this motif throughout its pages. For this is the Year of the Pig, which began on our own February 16, and for twelve moons—this year there does not happen to be an intercalary thirteenth—the millions of Mohammedan Chinese must express themselves on that subject by using some such subterfuge as “Black Sheep.” Moreover, it is the end of a cycle of Cathay, the pig being the last of the twelve cyclical animals which pass five times to make such a cycle. This, it seems, presages the worst year of the whole sixty, and the soothsayers enlivened this New Year’s with the most pessimistic predictions. According to the street-side necromancers, who make their livelihood, such as it is, by telling the fortunes of individuals or of nations, much calamity is due China before this Year of the Pig is done. Millions, perhaps, will die of war, pestilence, or famine, or a combination of these—one fellow went so far as to assure his listeners that three fourths of the population of Peking will be wiped out. Great disasters are promised all over the country, particularly in the province of Shensi, which must suffer especially for the privilege of being the birthplace of the next emperor, whom the necromancers assert is already approaching man’s estate there. It is hopeless, therefore, runs the gossip, to expect a settlement of China’s crying difficulties during the twelvemonth of the Pig—some of us wonder if the foreign legations have been imbued with the same spirit. That is the evil of superstitions particularly in a land where the majority is still influenced by 229them; the mere fact that large numbers of people believe all this market-stall nonsense causes at least a psychological depression, and probably increases the likelihood of the beliefs being realized.

However, these popular oracles go on, after this year conditions will rapidly improve, and it is almost certain that with the new cycle will come a return to order and prosperity. Every friend of China sincerely hopes so, for she certainly needs just that very badly, whether she deserves it or not. No doubt the next cycle of sixty years will bring something of the sort, even though it is difficult to think of China’s calamities abruptly ceasing with this inauspicious porcine year.

There are good as well as unkind things to be said of the Chinese lunar calendar. It is easy, for instance, to tell the time of their month merely by glancing at the sky on any unclouded evening, and no one need ask what day the moon will be full. By the old system of reckoning the Chinese have a whole list of dates fixing changes of weather, and if one year’s experience is a fair test these are more accurate than the prophecies of our highest salaried weather men. Some weeks after the lunar New Year comes the “Stirring of the Insects”; the “Corn Rain” is set for one of the first days of the third moon—that is, late in our April; there are the fixed days of “Sprouting Seeds,” the “Small Heat” and the “Great Heat,” the “Hoar Frost,” the “Cold Dew,” the “Slight Snow” and the “Great Snow”—though the last rarely reaches Peking—and so on around the eternal cycle again. But “Pure Brightness,” otherwise known as Arbor day now, on which the president himself came to plant trees almost next door to us, has come and gone; pengs are springing up everywhere, shading the courtyards, forming whole new roofs and fronts over the better shops, and implying that it is time we were moving on, for the “Great Heat” is no misnomer in Peking.

The Great Wall at its greatest, thirty-odd miles northwest of Peking, with the Ming Tombs thrown in, is well worth the journey, both by train and foot and by airplane—the one in two days and the other in as many hours. There is a Trappist monastery within reach of the capital, and the Western Hills are full of interest to the tramper; in fact merely to name the excursions which the visitor to Peking should not on any reasonable account miss would be to draw up a long list. But there is one of these that had a particular attraction, because it is farther away, over a difficult road devoid of any of the aids of modern times, so ill of repute that certainly not one foreigner in a thousand who comes to Peking ever dreams of really attempting that journey. To cap the climax the Wai-chiao-pu gave official notice just as I was preparing to start that no more permissions to visit that area would be given to foreigners, because it was overrun with bandits. Obviously the antidote of too much comfort and civilization in Peking was the trip to Jehol.

Those who are wise make the outward journey by way of Tung Ling, the Eastern Tombs, thereby doubling the reward. This means that the first stage is to Tungchow, by train or almost any known form of transportation, twelve miles east of the capital, of which it was for centuries the “port.” For it lies on the river that joins the Grand Canal at Tientsin, and the tribute grain from the south was transferred here to narrower canals that brought it to the imperial granaries now falling into ruin almost within a stone’s throw of our Peking home. I might have been disappointed to find the donkeys that had been engaged for me unavailable until next morning if it had not been my good fortune to spend the intervening time with the venerable author of “Chinese Characteristics” and “Village Life in China.” Tungchow itself has nothing unusual to show the visitor of to-day, unless it is that rounded corner of its half-ruined wall. This is a sign of infamy, for it means that some one within was once guilty of the, particularly 231in China, unpardonable crime of patricide. The city which merits four such corners was by imperial law razed to the ground.

Long before dawn, early as that is on the first day of May, the three donkeys reported for duty. They were smaller and leaner than I had hoped, of course, but their owner and driver, deeply pock-marked and already showing the cataract that will in time blind his remaining eye, turned out to be all that a much more exacting traveler could have asked, and a real companion to boot. I wish I could say as much for the “boy” I brought with me from Peking; truth must prevail, however, at all costs. My journey to Jehol was made at a later date than those longer ones subsequently to be chronicled; I had already been eight months in China, entertaining a teacher an hour a day during nearly half that period, and it seemed high time to depend on my own meager knowledge of Mandarin, to make this a kind of test for similar, but more extensive, experiences to come. I had deliberately refused those applicants with a smattering of English, therefore, and hired this single servant for his alleged familiarity with foreign ways, particularly of the kitchen. He might have known even less of what we understand by the word “cleanliness,” for the depths of ignorance in that respect are bottomless in China, and his familiarity was rather of the sort which too indulgent missionaries produce among Chinese of his class. Were the trip to be repeated I would depend upon k’an-lü-di, my companionable “watch-donkey-er” from Tungchow, to do the swearing and bring me boiled water at the inns, and do the rest myself. But at least the “boy” spoke only the tongue of Peking, and from Tungchow back to the capital I had the advantage of hearing not a word of any other except from the two British families in Jehol itself.

We were crossing the river by chaotic poled ferry by the time the sun was fully up, and jogging away across a floor-flat, fertile plain, intensely cultivated yet almost desert brown, like so much of northern China except at the height of summer, before the first of the many towns along the way was fully astir. It was manure strewing time, and the season when the peasants of Chihli patiently break up the too dry clods of earth covering their little fields by beating them with the back of a Homeric hoe or dragging a stone roller over them by boy-, man-, or donkey-power. Others were hoeing the winter wheat, growing in rows two feet apart, but with kaoliang already sprouting like beans or radishes between them, which it was hard to realize would be above a horseman’s head by August. Green onions enough to have fed a modern army went balancing by from the shoulder-poles of coolies 232passing in both directions. It is as incomprehensible to the mere Westerner why identical produce must change places all over China as it was to understand why onions grown at least to boy’s estate would not be better in a perpetually hungry land than these tiny bulbless ones. But the scent of young onions was seldom absent during our first two days, on which we ran the gauntlet every few hours of a market-town green from end to end with them. Next in number were the coolies carrying two low flat baskets with open-work covers through which could be seen hundreds of fluffy, peeping chicks being peddled about the country. The rare trees were decked out in new leaves; far as the eye could strain itself the brown, sea-flat earth was being prodded to do its best for countless, already sun-browned tillers.

At the unprepossessing country town where we spent the night my “boy” came in with a horrified look on his face to report that the innkeeper wanted sixty coppers, which is fully fifteen cents in real money, for the two good-sized rooms, new and well papered, extraordinarily clean for China, which the three of us occupied. A chicken, too, cost a hundred coppers, whereas in Peking it was only seventy! I gave outward evidence of horror at this incredible state of affairs, lest the opposite bring the impression that the customary “squeeze” might be doubled with impunity, and then advised payment rather than a dispute on this, our first day out. Perhaps it was the painful price of chickens that made the town willing to consume some of the things it does, though I believe the same omnivorous tendency prevails throughout this overpeopled country. The squeamish, by the way, should skip the next few lines; but one cannot always be nice and still tell the truth about China.

A camel bound to Peking with a train of his fellows had died just in front of our inn. The townsman to whom the carcass had evidently been sold made a deep cut in the throat and then with his several helpers proceeded to dismember it. When I stepped out into the street again soon after dark everything except the head, the tail, and the four great padded feet, cut off at the knees, had been sold as food to the villagers. The hide and these odds and ends were evidently to yield their portion of nourishment also, for they were carried into a neighboring kitchen, while two other men went on disentangling the heaped-up intestines, carefully preserving their contents as fertilizer and to all appearances planning to use the entrails themselves as food.

There was double excitement in the town that evening, triple, counting the foreigner, a date to be long remembered. Down the road a 233little way from the disgusting front of the inn there was a theatrical performance, not of flesh-and-blood actors, but what might be called a shadow-show. Stage “music” in the Chinese sense was drawing the whole town, less the camel carvers, thither; women hurried slowly through the dust on their crippled feet; the younger generation, with the usual Chinese redundancy of boys, swarmed; staid old men took their own chairs—that is, wooden saw-horses six inches wide—with them. The theater, which had been thrown up that afternoon in a corner of the highway, was little more than a crude platform on poles, partly walled and roofed with pieces of cloth. But it was a complete stage, almost better than a real one, in fact, for there was about it a certain hazy atmosphere of romance that is impossible in the matter-of-fact presence of mere human actors. There were even actual fights on horseback, which the real stage can only pretend by symbols to give; thrones, city gates, battles, petitioners, men shaking their spears and themselves with rage at one another, all the scenes with which the theater-goer in Peking is familiar, and more, were there. Nor was speech lacking; these shadowy personages expressed themselves in the same classical falsetto as do Mei Lan-fang and his colleagues.

When I had mingled for a time with the audience that crowded a whole section of the moon-flooded roadway, interspersed with the inevitable hawkers of everything consumable under the circumstances, I went around behind the scenes to see how these results were achieved with such slight apparatus. You can always look behind the scenes in China without arousing a protest, though you may not be any the wiser for doing so. A flock of boys were hanging about on the pole structure, wholly open at the back, the three showmen appearing to be quite unconscious of them so long as they did not physically cramp their elbows. These men produced their results with a black curtain, three kerosene lamps a foot or more back of it, and a confusion of little colored figures hanging on either side in what might be called the wings. Wearing as bored an expression as any property-man on a real Chinese stage, the showmen picked these figures down as they were needed and flourished them along between the lights and the curtain. To each figure was attached a handle long enough to keep the hand of the holder out of sight from the audience, and as the gaudy, flimsy little manikins dashed and pranced and waddled to and fro, according to their individual temperaments and their momentary emotions, the bored manipulators poured forth the story in the awful voice of the Chinese actor. That was all; yet the whole town stood or sat enthralled 234by the performance, and I could hear the falsetto far away in the moonlight until I fell asleep.

Beyond Manchow next afternoon cultivation thinned out and bare mountains grew up on the horizon, while round stones of all sizes became incessant underfoot. Walking had really been easier than bestriding my little white donkey, but I had soon found it sympathy wasted to try to make life easier for him. Your Chinese donkeyteer does not believe in letting his animals grow fat with ease, and never did I look around a moment after slipping off the padded back of my hip-high mount that his owner was not already swinging his toes along one or the other side of him. The other two donkeys, bearing our belongings and my “boy” respectively, had, of course, even less respite. Incredible little beasts! Subsisting on a little of nothing and still able to jog incessantly and indefinitely on under loads of almost their own weight, they are the true helpmeets of the industrious, ill fed Chinese countryman.

The usual time from Tungchow to Malanyü is three days, but we had gotten an excellent start each morning and a bit of pressure induced the k’an-lü-di to push on past what most travelers to the Eastern Tombs make their second stopping-place. A gate in the mountains that might almost have been cut by hand rather than by the river that even in this dry season filled all of it except a stony bank, crowded now with cattle and flocks of goats making their way westward, let us out at sunset upon an enormous plain completely enclosed in an amphitheater of high hills. Across this, through the evergreen trees that thickened farther on into an immense forest, we saw far ahead the first tomb of Tung Ling, a golden-yellow roof standing well above the highest tree-tops. For nearly two hours we plodded on among venerable pines that in China at least were thick enough to merit the name of forest, amid scents that are all too rare in that denuded land, foot-travelers to and from the various tomb-guarding villages growing numerous and then thinning out again before we sighted at last the dim lights and aroused the barking dogs of Malanyü. The yard of its best inn was noisy with eating animals, tinkling mule-bells, and the drivers, dogs, and roosters that always make night hideous in such a place, while the best room facing it would hardly be mistaken in any Western land for a human habitation. But that is what the traveler in China expects in almost any town off the railroads where there are no foreigners to offer him 235hospitality. At least, if accommodations are not princely, neither are the charges.

While the donkeys drowsed through a well earned but unexpected holiday, I spent half the morning, with the “boy” trailing me, chasing the man who could open the tomb doors for me. Even with two tissue-paper documents daubed with red characters from men of standing in Peking local permission was not easily forthcoming. First there was a hot and dusty ten-li walk to the little garrison town of Malanchen on the very edge of intramural China, where the commander commonly reputed to be stationed in Malanyü read and retained my letters, offered tea, and at length sent a soldier back to the city with us with orders to run to earth the chief keeper of the tombs. He was not easily found and he in turn had to run to earth several subordinates, each of whom lived far up labyrinthian alleyways in the utmost corners of town, and when at length we shook off the throng that kicks up the dust at the heels of any foreigner so bold as to step off the beaten path of his fellows in China, there was still an hour’s tramp back through the thin evergreen forest to the tombs themselves.

Though it should be funereal, Tung Ling is one of the most delightful spots in North China, almost atoning for the wastefulness of its two hundred square miles given over to nine tombs. The soughing of the breeze and the singing of the few birds in the scattered but extensive evergreen forest were joys that one almost forgets in this bare land; for China there were comparatively few people within the enclosure, though trail-roads wandered away in all directions among the trees, with donkey-bells tinkling off into the distance; it was particularly a joy to leave even the trails and walk on grass again, strolling at random on and on, to climb the hills, though this is technically forbidden, since the living commonalty should not look down upon the illustrious dead. Whatever they may not have done for their subjects the Sons of Heaven were experts in choosing their last resting-places.

There was no roaming at will, however, until I had shaken off the procession of keepers and hangers-on whose duty, curiosity, or suspicion did not begin to flag until well on in the afternoon. It is a serious matter to protect an emperor and his consorts even centuries after their death. Every one of the nine tombs of Tung Ling has a walled town in which its guardians and their families, all Manchus, of course, live to the number certainly of several hundred each, if not of more than a thousand. Their support devolves upon the Chinese people, 236through the Government which guarantees, even though it does not fulfil its promises, the upkeep of the tombs, as well as of the survivors, of the Ch’ing dynasty. Before each tomb, which is no mere mausoleum in the Occidental sense but an enclosure many acres in extent, quite aside from the great wooded tract surrounding it, where half a dozen great buildings and a flock of small ones have ample elbow-room, stands a keepers’ lodge. From this, blackened with the smoke of generations of cooking and tea-brewing, emerge as many as a dozen idlers whose sole duty in life is to see that no unauthorized disturbance troubles the royal dead within. No one of these guards is intrusted with power enough to open the tomb alone; there are things inside that would bring pilferers several Chinese fortunes. When the authorized visitor—or, one very strongly suspects, any other capable of clinking silver—appears, shouts arise in the lodge and its vicinity until at length men enough are awakened from their perpetual siestas to make entrance possible. This requires from four to six, sometimes more, bunches of mammoth keys, each of which is in the personal keeping of a single individual or, since man must sleep, a pair of them. When at length the whole unshaven group is assembled, a pair of ordinary coolies is also needed to bring a step-ladder, since the tomb doors are trebly secured with enormous padlocks at top and bottom in addition to the great bolts operated through the ordinary keyholes. The keys of Chinese tombs, by the way, do not turn; they merely push open the crude yet complicated locks. There are often several such doors to be passed, so that the time required to gain admission is much more than the average visitor cares to spend inside.

Fortunately there is really nothing to be gained by having oneself let into more than two of the nine tombs of Tung Ling. The others are so much like these that a passing glimpse is enough. After all, it is the great wooded amphitheater itself, backed by the magnificent sky-line of mountains, and the exterior vista of the tombs, towering in imperial yellow high above not only the towns of their guardians but the enclosing forest itself, that is worth coming so far to see. Besides, by the time one has distributed fees among all the hangers-on of two tombs, and satisfied the flock of attendants who have insisted on coming all the way from town with him, there is another good reason for being content with the exteriors of the others.

The oldest and the newest are most worth admission, the beginning and the end of the Manchu dynasty as far as Lung Ling is concerned. K’ang Hsi, second of the Ch’ing line, has a fitting mausoleum, its 237approach flanked by mammoth stone figures not unlike those of the Mings, and the softening hand of time has added much, for it is just two centuries since the occupant went in quest of his ancestors. But the most magnificent of the Eastern Tombs, perhaps the finest one in all tomb-ridden China, is more than the world at large would have awarded the notorious old lady who lives within, for she is none other than Tsu Hsi or Tai Ho, known to the West as the Empress Dowager, moving spirit of the Boxer uprising and the greatest single cause of the downfall of the Manchu dynasty. Within the spirit chamber of K’ang Hsi there are five chairs draped in imperial yellow silk, for his four concubines stick by him even in death; but it is quite what one would expect to find the famous Dowager alone in all her glory. For while she had a husband once, who is also buried at Tung Ling, he was of small importance by the time she relieved China of her earthly presence, three years before the downfall of the Manchus, whatever he may have been as Emperor half a century before. Even starting as a mere concubine, Tsu Hsi needed no husband to make herself an empress in fact if not in name. An identical tomb, which the caretakers asserted is that of her sister, stands close beside that of Tai Ho, with a low wall between them; but in her magnificent throne-room there is no suggestion of rivalry. Of the richness of this interior, its walls and ceilings decorated in many colors with innumerable figures large and tiny of the most intricate form, great bronze dragons climbing the huge pillars; of a thousand details, artistic withal, which mean nothing to us of the West but much to the Chinese, words would give but little impression.

I had a note of introduction to the head-man of the Manchu village that watches over the Dowager’s tomb. Within its brick wall the populous hamlet was much like any other Chinese town of like size, rather overrun with pigs and children, crumbling away here and there with poverty or inattention, careless in sanitary matters. Few heads of many times greater cities of the Occident, however, could have received a chance visitor with the perfect grace, the prodigal-son cordiality quite devoid of any hint of dissimulation, of the Manchu with whom I was soon sitting at a little foot-high k’ang table laden with Chinese dainties, sipping tea and struggling to express in my scanty mandarin a few thoughts above the eating and sleeping level. As luck would have it the family, which with its ramifications seemed to number at least a hundred, with children for every month as far back as months go, was celebrating the birthday of the mother-in-law. In China only those 238who have reached a respectful old age commemorate their individual birthdays—and they receive many toys among their presents. Over the outer entrance to the rambling collection of houses hung two immense flags, not the dragon banner of the Manchus but the five-bar one of the Chinese Republic. Back in the innermost courtyard the old lady, of a charming yet authoritative manner which attested to long years of efficient rule over the household, was surrounded by all the female members of the family, decked out in their holiday best. The finest silks covered them from neck to ankles—trousers, like bound feet, are for Chinese women—the elaborate Manchu head-dress was made more so by immense and tiny flowers added to it in honor of the occasion, and the faces of the young women were painted with white and red, as formal occasions demand, until they looked like enameled masks. Several of these were evidently the wives of my polished host, and when I asked permission to photograph one of them alone for the details of the gala costume there was no hesitation as to which one it should be: though she was probably the youngest of them all, and for that reason almost obsequious toward the others, she had born her master a son, who must also be included in the picture. Women and men were constantly coming to bend the knee or kowtow to the lady of the occasion, according to their rank. The men with few exceptions wore the complete Manchu court costume, including the inverted-bowl straw hat covered with loose red cords, with various individual decorations. When I at last succeeded in taking my leave without causing a sense of discourtesy, my host insisted that my “boy” carry away for me, in honor of the felicitous occasion, a big box of dien-hsin, assorted Chinese cakes that lasted all three of us the rest of the outward journey.

There seems to be no ill feeling between the two peoples populating Tung Ling and the vicinity, if indeed they themselves recognize any real dividing-line. In large numbers congregated together one could see a difference between the Manchus and the Chinese; the keepers of the Eastern Tombs were slightly larger, stronger-looking men, a trifle less abject in their manner, than the people about them, a kind of half-way type between the Chinese and the Mongols. The older and poorer of them still wore their cues; the rest had sacrificed to the republic a badge of nationality the origin of which is lost in the prehistoric mists, as the subjected Chinese adopted it three centuries ago at the behest of their Manchu conquerors.

239Early next morning we left the inn laboring under the impression that we were returning to Peking, skirted the garrison town by unfrequented paths, and were soon outside the Great Wall, one of the passes of which Malanchen straddles and guards. I had warned my companions not to mention the final goal of our journey, lest the newly promulgated order be cited as an excuse for turning me back, which would also mean the abrupt ending of their jobs. Apparently they succeeded in performing the un-Chinese feat of keeping their mouths shut, for no one came to interfere with my plans. The wall at Malanchen was grass-grown, smaller, and in greater disrepair than at Nankow Pass, where most foreigners see it, even less imposing than where it descends to the sea at Shanhaikwan. Geographically we had passed from China proper into Inner Mongolia, and as if to mark the change the soft level going turned almost instantly to stony uplands that became foot-hills, swelling into veritable mountains so suddenly that all six of us were panting for breath on all but perpendicular slopes scarcely an hour after setting out across the plain now far below. For centuries these mountain ranges behind Tung Ling were an imperial reserve, densely forested and inviolate, meant to preserve the feng-shui of the Eastern Tombs, to protect them from evil influences, which in China always come from the north. The republic, however, opened this great uninhabited region to settlers, with the result that here there may still be seen sights utterly unknown in the rest of China, pioneering conditions completely out of place in that densely populated, intensively cultivated land, and at the same time a demonstration of what must have happened many centuries ago on an infinitely larger scale to make North China the dust-blown, denuded area it is to-day.

Settlers poured in from the overpopulated country to the south as air rushes to fill a vacuum. An efficient Government would have seen that the windfall was exploited to the best advantage; in the absence of one it was ruthlessly looted. Precious as are trees and wood in China these great forests hardly a hundred miles from Peking were wiped out as wantonly as those of southern Brazil, as those of virgin Cuba lying in the path of advancing cane-fields. Half-burned trunks littered the hillsides; acres of fire-blackened stumps, wood that might have been turned into lumber enough to supply several provinces felled and left to rot or burn where it lay, men grubbing at slopes that had never before known the hoe were things that could not be reconciled with China. Alpine valleys filled with pink blossoms, of which cued coolies wore a 240cluster behind each ear, untainted mountain streams purling down across the trail, provided here and there with solid timber bridges instead of mats and branches sagging under their covering of loose earth, seemed as out of place in this part of the world as did the pungent scent of burning woodland that carried me back to a rural childhood. It was the most delightful day’s tramp in North China, and hardly once did I think of evicting my one-eyed companion from the white donkey.

But it was China after all, with many of its national characteristics. Streams of friendly, cheerful coolies climbed the defiles with their earthly possessions, consisting of a grub-ax and a few rags, ready for any task offered them, or in lieu of it prepared to gather a bundle of brush and carry it to a market many miles away; they realized that already this new land is so thickly peopled that it has no real openings for them. To see a line of men and boys, elbow to elbow, scratching one of these stony, thin-soiled, more than half-perpendicular hillsides, made the crowding of population a more living problem than a shelf of books could. There were a few pioneer shacks of split rails, but with unlimited logs and mighty boulders everywhere this imported generation of mountaineers built their huts mainly of mud, at best of unshaped stones and sticks. Burnt-log stockades surrounded many of these new homes, for you cannot break the Chinese of their habit of building walls merely by transplanting them to where walls are entirely unneeded. The Chinese birthright of the most laborious forms of labor still prevailed. Plows were home-made affairs drawn by a boy, a woman, or a donkey, and were so crude and small that the man who held them was bent double as he shuffled along. Thousands of roughly squared timbers nearly twice the size of a railroad-tie lay blackening and rotting along the trail, and every little while we met a man with two of these roped to his back picking his way down slopes rougher and steeper than any stairway disrupted by an earthquake. Goiter was more prevalent and reached more loathsome proportions in all this region than I have ever seen it elsewhere. New territory, new homes, new opportunities, all was as new as a new world, except the people, as soil- and custom-incrusted as if they had lived here a thousand years. The thought persisted that these beautiful mountains should have been left clothed in their magnificent forests instead of being enslaved to what can scarcely be called agriculture. At most they offer steep little strips of very stony patches, and the population these support is hardly worth the trees it has displaced. Human beings grubbing out an existence which hardly seems worth the effort may be seen anywhere in China; such primeval forests as have so recklessly been reduced to charred rubbish and clumps of trees only on the most inaccessible peaks and ridges behind Tung Ling are rare and precious there.

For three thousand miles the Great Wall clambers over the mountains between China and Mongolia

One of the mammoth stone figures flanking the road to the Ming Tombs of North China, each of a single piece of granite

Another glimpse of the Great Wall

The twin pagodas of Taiyüan, capital of Shansi Province

241Toward the end of the afternoon a kind of cart-road grew up underfoot and carried us over the steepest and last ridge of the day to Hsin Lung Shan. “New Dragon Mountain” is a brand-new pioneer city in the heart of the former reserve, Chinese in its main features, but so fresh and even clean that one might easily have doubted its nationality. The inn itself had not found time to convert its yard into a slough or a dust-bin or its rooms into crumbling, musty mud dens. Imposing shops lined the principal streets; the chief official, with whom I exchanged calls of respect, was a man of culture as well as authority—and he seemed to have had no special orders concerning foreigners.

Great masses of white clouds drifted through the streets when we set out next morning along the stony river that gives Hsin Lung Shan its setting, and were responsible for a curious illusion. The sun had evidently just topped the mountain ridge close above the town, and the single irregular row of trees that had survived at the crest showed one after the other through a little rift in the moving fog that covered everything else, so that it looked exactly as if the sun itself were having a procession of trees across its surface. A fairly broad valley of palpably fertile virgin soil lasted all the morning and somewhat reconciled one to the destruction of the forests. Here it was less stony, or better picked up, and supported rather a numerous population in reasonable style. The mist continued to play queer pranks until it had been burned away by what remained a blazing, despotic sun. Field boundaries of stone, also of single logs laid end to end, warned the road against trespassing. There were stone-heaps in great number, but no graves to interfere with the husbandman. Four prisoners tied together with ropes and flanked by two policemen in the usual black uniform plodded past toward the new city, implying that this virgin region is after all no sinless Eden. Twice that morning we met strings of camels stepping softly westward, though how they crossed the ranges that shut in the valley on all sides was a mystery which their surly drivers, so unlike the simple, almost obsequious settlers, except in their avoidance of soap and water, would not pause to answer. Many a camel-train stalking with supercilious mien past our Peking home goes on to Jehol, but they take the direct route worn deep with centuries of traffic. In 242this May-time the beasts were ugly with the loss of great wads of hair which made them much worse than moth-eaten, and the drivers had tied networks of string about their necks to keep them from dropping, or being pilfered of, this most valuable of their fur.

The valley narrowed at last and pushed us up over another high range, the third stiff climb of the trip, from the top of which labyrinthian views blue with haze but brilliant with sunshine spread to infinity in both directions. But the land had evidently been reclaimed earlier here, so that there were fewer and fewer pioneering conditions, which on the third day died out entirely. A miserable mountain inn offered me its principal room that evening, though it took up more than half the building reserved for travelers, a flock of evicted coolies picking up their soiled packs and crowding together somewhere else without the hint of a protest. I do not know how much they paid for lodging, but it could not have been any fortune, since the landlord was so eager to replace a dozen of them, with prospects of more to come, by a lone foreigner whose bill hardly amounted to twelve American cents. Woven cornstalk fences increased as the smell of newly cleared land diminished. Twenty-four hours of valley brought us to another steep ling, from the top of which rows of blue ranges faded away on the distant horizon behind. The population had been longer established here and was made up of born mountaineers, simple yet self-sufficient, like mountaineers the world over. Goiter was almost universal, and nearly every one was deeply pitted with smallpox, so that there was rarely a good-looking face of either sex. Round granaries made of wickerwork, of the height of a tall man, lined with mud plaster and thatched with straw, sat in every yard. All memories of the royal forest had disappeared by the third afternoon, and the familiar old China, stony, bare, blowing with dust or reeking with mud, again surrounded us, though ranges of jagged peaks kept us fairly close company.

Rain began to fall, putting terror into the heart of my “boy,” convinced like most Chinese, at least of the north, that he was merely a pillar of salt—or is it sugar? But the donkey-man was made of sterner stuff. A positive word was always enough to make him push on, and it was quite immaterial whether the “boy” followed or flung himself over a precipice. This time, however, the shower became a deluge that showed no signs of abating. All the region had fled for shelter. One wrinkled coolie had monopolized a little wayside shrine, in which he sat in the cramped posture of the Buddha, literally in the lap of the gods, serenely smoking his pipe until they chose to let him go on again. 243By the time we were soaked through it was evident that we also must take refuge, and give up the hope of cutting the record from Malanyü to Jehol down to three days.

The only stopping-place available was a peasant home that offered accommodations to passing coolies. It boasted the name of Hsiao Pai Shu, but then, every spot in China where human beings dwell has a name, and this one after all meant nothing more than “Little White Tree.” If it had been called “Unworthy Human Pigsty” there would have been less reason to quarrel with the man who named it. There was a kind of k’ang in one of the three mud stables, but to have demanded that would have been to drive even my own men out and leave nothing but the bare earth for a score of fellow-refugees to sleep on. I won the whole race of outside barbarians a new reputation, therefore, by setting my cot on the ground at the foot of the k’ang and leaving that free for all the coolies who could crowd upon it. But I paid for my heroism through other senses than those of smell and hearing, for not the slightest movement did I make, not a possession did I withdraw from my baggage, that half a hundred eyes did not delve into the utmost depths of my personal privacy. No Westerner who has not himself had the experience can conceive of the ingenuous meddling which a crowd of low-caste Chinese can inflict upon him; but it is ingenuous after all, and those few naïve remarks of which I caught the meaning made me deeply regret that I was incapable of understanding the respectful chatter that constantly called attention to my innumerable extraordinary idiosyncrasies.

At Hsi-nan-tze, still sixty li from Jehol, a police soldier was sent running for more than a mile after me to ask for my card. It was early, and evidently the town had been slow in waking up to the fact that a foreigner was passing through. Plainly this was an unusual occurrence, but there was no suggestion of detaining me, either here or at the village where we made the usual breakfast-lunch stop from ten to eleven, in which a similar courteous request was made. A visiting-card, as I have said before, has a weight in China out of all keeping with the ease with which any one can have it printed. The fourth hard climb of the trip, up a trench-like trail slippery as new ice from the rain of the day before and almost impassable with pack-animals sprawling and sliding under ungainly burdens, uncovered such a panorama of wrinkled blue mountain ranges entirely around the horizon as even the perpetual wanderer seldom sees equaled. Then we descended among bare foot-hills and plodded the last half-day down 244a wide sandy and stony river valley, with one poled ferry and several wadings across the swollen yellow rivulet which wandered along it. Several earth-and-branch bridges had been partly carried away and were being repaired in the same time-honored, inadequate style; that is, the huge baskets filled with stones that served as almost continuous pillars were having more branches and kaoliang-stalks laid across them and covered with treacherous loose earth. No other nation has the genius of the Chinese for doing some things in the worst way. There was a continual procession, for instance, of carts heavily loaded with grain and drawn by five to seven mules each, the wickedly exhausted animals staggering through the deep sand and the deeper rivulet panting as if they were in the final throes. The Lwan Ho on which the grain is shipped to the coast washes the edge of Jehol, and the boats could as easily tie up at the very foot of the warehouses; but the carters’ gild required them to anchor twenty-five li down the stream! Not even our own labor-unions could exhibit anything to outrival this sacrificing of the general good to the selfishness of a group.

Jehol is a compact, unwalled town lying prettily up the slope of a hollow between two foot-hills, brightened by a few spring-green trees here and there above its low gray roofs and surrounded on all sides by beautiful broken ranges. The region is famous for curious natural features, the most striking of which is the “Clothes’ Beater,” a mammoth rock looking precisely like that aid to the Chinese washerwomen who squat at the edges of streams or mud-holes, or an Irishman’s shillalah, standing bolt upright on its smaller, handle end, and visible more than a day’s travel away in almost any direction. But while the scenery is magnificent and the town busy and prosperous, the fame of Jehol is due to the imperial summer palaces and the lama temples that grew up about them, as did the town itself. This whole territory, originally Mongol, was given as the dowry of a Mongol wife to a Manchu emperor of China. K’ang Hsi, who died just two hundred years ago, was the first of the Ch’ing dynasty to visit the region, of which he grew very fond. He hunted throughout it, riding also on an ass—the cost of keeping which is said to have been paid regularly out of the imperial treasury until the revolution! Yung Cheng, who succeeded him, met here the mother of his own successor, the famous Ch’ien Lung, who was born at Jehol. Perhaps I should say the alleged mother, for there has always been a strong suspicion that the brilliant Ch’ien Lung was really a Chinese boy switched at birth for a girl born 245to the empress or concubine in question. At any rate the bare, half-ruined cottage in which he is recorded to have been born is still standing in the wooded hills beyond the imperial summer palace.

This is enclosed within a great wall on a minor scale which clambers over the hills as easily as it stalks across broad flatlands, several miles in extent and still in almost perfect repair. The same can by no means be said, however, of the former palaces inside it. Time, the elements, and particularly the wanton hand of man have reduced them to the saddest state among all the decaying remains of imperial China. The simpler structures near the gates, no doubt built for minor retainers and servants, are occupied by the “Tartar General” and his far-famed “I-Chün” troops, semi-autonomous rulers of this “special area,” and have been more or less kept up accordingly. But the erstwhile palaces scattered beyond the immense half-wooded meadows behind these, to which a soldier guide conducts the few “distinguished visitors” who have credentials, influence, or assurance enough to pass the gates, are synonymous with the word “dilapidation.” A single building has remained comparatively intact, because it is made of solid bronze. Structures that must in their heyday have equaled except in size anything in Peking are mere tumbled ruins of rotten timbers, collapsed roofs, and broken tiles still bearing their glorious Chinese colors. Some of the mammoth gods with which the place seems once to have been overpopulated have survived almost intact in more durable shelters, like the remnants of a fallen dynasty that had their refuges carefully chosen long before the catastrophe came. Others were less fortunate, or foresighted, and, left out in the open by fallen roofs, they are gruesome testimonials that the most brilliant and the most terrifying alike of Chinese gods are but statues of mud. A striking pagoda still stands high above all else except the higher hills within the enclosure, but only the foolhardy climb it now, and the great cluster of temples which seem once to have risen among the venerable evergreens about it have corrupted almost beyond the possibility of identification. A carved stone, in the front rank among Chinese tablets, one whole face of it covered with a Tibetan text, is the only thing that stands erect and defiant against the forces of destruction.

Great numbers of the magnificent old trees that once made the parks a forest have been recklessly destroyed, but the velvety stretches of grass survive, and on this graze the descendants of deer brought here long before America had thought of throwing off European allegiance. No one was agreed on the number that dot the enclosure, for statistics 246are not at home in China; but the average of the guesses was about seven hundred, of which I certainly saw half in my stroll through the grounds. There must surely be some powerful superstition as well as mere orders against their destruction, in a land where even dead camels are consumed with such apparent relish. There is a shallow lake within the palace wall, on which some of the sturdier emperors are reputed to have tried their amateur skill at paddling and poling, but one suspects that they spent more time on the little island with its artificial rock hillocks and soughing pine-trees overlooking it. There is a warm spot in this lake which never freezes over, it is said, whence the name Jehol, which means “Hot River,” and, thanks to the often inexplicable Romanization of Chinese which has come down to us from an earlier generation of foreign residents, is pronounced “Jay-hole” by tourists and uncorrected bookworms; others do their best to approximate two guttural Chinese noises which might somewhat better have been spelled “Ruh-Hur.”

The dozen or more great temples scattered along the valley across the river from the palace grounds are still occupied by a few lamas and are in a somewhat better state of preservation. Ch’ien Lung built most of them, beginning just beneath his birthplace and stretching on into the hills, whence delightful views of Jehol and all its region may be had for the climbing. The emperors who summered out here beyond the Great Wall were Manchus, kin to the race of Kublai Khan, and the temples are not Chinese but Mongol, which means a world of difference in spite of many similarities. Lamas who still claim to be Mongol, and who certainly are not purely Chinese either in features or manner, dawdle through their useless lives in them, making out as best they can without the imperial aid that disappeared with the revolution, including such sums as they can wheedle or bluff out of the baker’s half-dozen of foreign visitors a year, including anything, in fact, this side of actual work. In their halcyon days these temples must have been more than impressive; they are still that in their decline. In the “Temple of the 508 Buddhas” that number of life-size wooden images gilded to look like well aged golden statues stretch away down dark aisle after dim musty passageway to approximate infinity. There are fat and merry, thin and esthetic, sour and licentious, imposing and silly Buddhas among these 508 yellow-robed figures seated with their spirit-tablets and incense-bowls before them; every vice and virtue, every mental, moral, and physical characteristic of the human race is 247depicted here as exactly as the art and the breadth of experience with mankind of the Oriental artificers made possible. There is a temple filled with similar figures near Peking, but it is small compared with that of Jehol. Mammoth gold dragons gambol up and down the golden roof of another sanctuary; one entire building is taken up by a gigantic female Buddha riding a dog-like monster; figures that would terrify a nervous child out of its wits glare out from many a half-lighted interior; a man whose tastes and training ran that way could easily find material for a whole fat volume on Tibetan-Mongol art and lamaism within this stretch of a mile or two along the Lwan Ho. The tallest of the temples contains a standing Buddha several stories high, with forty-two hands, each bearing a different gift—whether for mankind as a whole or merely for the lamas was not clear. The figure, said to be made of a single tree-trunk, is larger than that which so often startles tourists at the Lama Temple in Peking, and it is identical, according to the reasonably intelligent chief guardian, with those of Urga and Lhasa. The face is of the same maidenly simplicity as that in the Mongol capital, but the edifice was much less filled to semi-suffocation with the almost gruesome paraphernalia which makes the ascent of Ganden like a peep into the barbaric heart of the Tibetan-Mongol religion.

The climax, however, of the sights about Jehol, at least to the average Westerner, is the Potalá, said to be an exact copy, on a smaller scale, of that great heap of buildings in Lhasa which so few white men have seen. It stands just over the river from the palace grounds, a striking feature in a notable landscape. There must be a dozen structures in all, so close one above another as to seem, until one is among them, joined together into one mammoth pile covering a whole hillock. In general color they are pinkish, except where the plaster has fallen off, with the huge square structure at the top a dull, weather-worn red. This is in appearance five stories high, with as many large superimposed shrines and long rows of false windows on the face of it; and, the visitor finds at last, when a dozen lamas with as many bunches of medieval keys have escorted him to the summit of the long climb, it is roofless, a mere wall surrounding the most sacred of the temples. Within, if the seekers after cumshaw who constantly surrounded and kept their eyes upon me are truthful, two services a day have been held without a break since Ch’ien Lung built the Potalá a century and a half ago. Two of the older, half-dignified lamas claimed to have been in Lhasa, and they asserted that even in its minor decorations this was 248an exact replica of the chief temple of the Dalai Lama, pointing out the spots where he stood or sat during ceremonies in the original. The holy of holies, which opened at the gleam of small silver, may indeed be the equal, except in size, to anything in Lhasa; with its remarkable tapestries, its enamel pagoda, golden Buddhas of every size, and all the sacred paraphernalia of lamaism, there is an impressiveness about it that is in keeping with what the imagination pictures the mysterious Tibetan capital to be.

Two emperors of China died at Jehol, and the court fled here when the Allies entered Peking in 1860, as that of the Dowager and her favorite eunuch did to Sian-fu in 1900. Hsien Feng, half-forgotten husband of that notorious old virago of Boxer days, was the second Hoang-ti to die here, just as our Civil War was beginning, and no emperor has ever come to Jehol since the son who succeeded him at four years of age fled a place of such sad memories and evil spirits. Thus the once favorite summer home of the Manchu emperors, tossed aside like a plaything of a petulant child with too many toys, has fallen into the decay in which the rare visitor of to-day finds it.

If there is one thing more than another that arouses my ire it is to be mistaken for a person of importance; yet that is exactly what happened to me in Jehol. Perhaps any foreigner so far off the foreign trail, particularly after he and his kind had been specifically warned to keep away, would have been considered somebody, but to make matters worse I had been officially requested, just as I was leaving Peking, to allow myself to be called a special investigator of the antiopium league. I should not be expected, it was explained, to do anything more than bear the title; no one would dare actually to investigate the mountain recesses beyond Jehol in which every one knows the stuff is grown, let alone a new-comer who could not tell a poppy-sprout from a radish. But the League of Nations wanted to be told that a foreigner had been sent to visit each suspected district, and as no one else seemed to be going that way my name would fill the dotted line as well as any other.

The three p’ai-lous of Hsi Ling, the Western Tombs

In Shansi four men often work at as many windlasses over a single well to irrigate the fields

Prisoners grinding grain in the “model prison” of Taiyüan

249That would have been the end of the matter if Peking had not notified Jehol that the honorable investigator was coming. When I arrived, therefore, long after my mind had purged itself of any thought of my putative official capacity, I was startled to find that Jehol insisted on taking me seriously, even in the face of the scantiness of my wardrobe and the donkeyness of my escort. A day or two before, the official Chinese investigator also had come, by the direct route, with a fat English-speaking secretary and suitable retinue, in chaotze gay with red pompoms between mules important with jingling bells. He would remain a month or so, though also taking care not to be caught by the inhospitable poppy-growing peasants or their military beneficiaries and protectors up in the hills. We could both make our reports just as well without risking our lives, without ever coming to China, for that matter, so far as any real results through the League of Nations is concerned, so long as one of the nations bulking largest in that league continues to supply China with opium from her principal colony by a roundabout, oval-eyed route, though every poppy-plant in the erstwhile Middle Kingdom were uprooted.

But there is centuries-old precedent for feasting all “censors” or special investigators sent out from Peking, and this serious part of the affair Jehol did not overlook. My distinguished Chinese colleague and I had already met across the board before blood-red invitations a foot long confirmed the verbal rumor that we were to be honored with a feast by the “Tartar General” himself. Delightful little Mi Ta-shuai, with his chin-tickling mustache-ends and the inherent good nature that bubbles out even through his formal demeanor, is no more a Tartar than I am a Turk; he is an exact picture of a Chinese mandarin of the T’ang dynasty, in somewhat modernized garb. But the ruler of the special extramural district of Jehol has borne that title for centuries, just as his troops continue to be considered the native I-Chün, though they come chiefly now from Anhwei and Honan. Three of the four brand-new rickshaws that had just introduced that innovation into Jehol delivered the three male foreigners in town at the gate of honor of the former summer palace, more jolted than seriously hurt after all, and the eight or ten most distinguished Chinese officials joined us in one of the score of long low buildings through which the entrance to almost any yamen of importance stretches on and on, like a half-lighted tunnel.

The feast—but why go into unnecessary details? A Chinese feast is just what the name implies, with variations of no importance according to the latitude and the ability of the feaster’s cooks to give it such hints of foreign ways as their master may be able to specify. Suffice it to say that we gathered soon after four in the afternoon and were gone again by seven, that much more food was carried out again than was consumed by a company that did not rise needing a bedtime snack, and that I had no assistance whatever from the other two representatives of the Western world in replying to the toasts that were incessantly 250poured into our slender glasses, though they hailed respectively from Ireland and Scotland. There were several men worth talking with in the general’s suite, too, and all in all my official capacity was more endurable than it might have been suspected as we jolted homeward between unbroken lines of peering yellow faces eager for a closer glimpse of Jehol’s distinguished foreign guest.

The “Tartar General” insisted on sending two mounted troopers of the I-Chün with me on the way back to Peking. There was something in the bandit stories, it seemed, and though they were operating well to the north, the scent of a possible foreign hostage might give their legs double speed. No doubt the general knew as well as I that two lone Chinese soldiers, even of his unusually soldierly I-Chün, would be more likely to add two rifles to the arsenal of any respectable gang of brigands than to protect me from them, and he certainly knew that such escorts expect to live on the traveler’s bounty for at least twice as many days as they accompany him; but it would have been unseemly, of course, to let a special agent of the League of Nations, nebulous as that body may be to the mind of a Chinese militarist, depart without suitable honors.

The best way back to Peking would have been to float down the Lwan Ho, with its striking cliffs and gorges, to the railway, well north of Tientsin. But low waters made this trip uncertain, and boatmen were too busy with grain to give a lone traveler much attention. I turned regretfully back, therefore, along the direct main route, worn with centuries of travel, by the feet of man and his beasts, though never aided by his hands. The scent of lilacs, white and of the more usual color, filled the air as we left the city. Inconspicuous on the white donkey or on foot beside the troopers astride good horses and beneath their big straw hats, I scarcely caught the eye of travelers drowsing in the mule-litters that passed so often, to say nothing of attracting bandits out of the north. We crossed two passes and forded the Lwan Ho on the first day and on the morning of the second sighted a high cragged range stretching from infinity to infinity across the horizon ahead, with little unnatural-looking promontories, like knobs on a casting, dotting it at frequent intervals. They were the towers of the Great Wall, it turned out, climbing like a chamois from one lofty peak to another, but it was blazing noon before we passed through it at the much-walled town of Kupehkow. Coolies carrying down to Jehol brushwood and even roots had passed us all the first day; naked children were everywhere; 251men, and once or twice, unless my eyes deceived me, women, stripped to the waist toiled in the dry fields, sometimes waded knee-deep in the liquid mud of little patches that in another month would be pale green with rice. Graves grew numerous again inside the Great Wall; half-ruined yentai, “smoke-platforms” from the tops of which news was sent from the capital in olden days, towered above us at regular intervals; the peddlers of fluffy chicks and coolies carrying green onions to market once more appeared; and the caricature of a road became almost a procession of travelers in both directions.

It was an atrocious road nearly all the way, plodding along sandy, stony river-beds except where it clambered laboriously over another mountain ridge, the sun beating ruthlessly down upon us from its rising to its setting. Babies with shaved heads apparently impervious to its rays rooted in the dirt with the black pigs, or stood on sturdy legs suckling even more soil-incrusted mothers. There ought to be very few weeds in China; the whole family is incessantly after them, just as every usable form of filth is promptly gathered. The most common sight in China is of men and boys, sometimes women and girls, wandering the roads and trails with a fork or shovel with which to toss the droppings of animals into a basket over their shoulders, whence it will later be spread on the fields. Each night we put into an inn-yard, where the best available room was quickly assigned me; my cot and a foot-high table were set on the oiled cloth with which I covered the k’ang, and after as nearly a bath as can be had in a basin of hot water there was nothing left to do but to wait patiently for whatever supper my not too adaptable “boy” chose to serve me. The escort had reduced itself to one soldier at the first relief, and at noon on the third day it disappeared entirely. At length the stony sand changed to the fertile plain of Peking, though the road was nothing to boast of up to the last, and while rain and two splittings of my little party at forks of the route all but spoiled my schedule, the afternoon of the fourth day saw us filing through one of the eastern gates of the Tartar City.

It is a simple matter to visit Hsi Ling, the Western Tomb, where all the Manchu emperors not at Tung Ling are buried. A short branch of the Peking-Hankow line sets the traveler down, four leisurely hours from the capital, within strolling distance of the newest of them, housing the remains of the hapless Kuang Hsü. This is quite as extensive and sumptuous as if the imprisoned puppet had been a real ruler, but it is still glaringly new, the trees that will some day form a forest about it barely head-high, for it is only fifteen years since this effigy of an emperor and the powerful Dowager who manipulated him simultaneously made way for the present occupant of the Forbidden City. No doubt he is glad to be so far away from the oppressive old lady at last.

Bare hills lie between the older tombs, their roofs of imperial yellow hidden in venerable evergreen forests that seem to know nothing of bustling modern times. Yung Cheng, third Manchu emperor of China, sent men to choose this spot for him in 1730. When his successor, Ch’ien Lung, came to die, however, he expressed a preference for the Eastern Tombs, saying that if he, too, were buried in the west it might become a habit and the first two emperors of the dynasty would remain in gloomy solitude. He instructed his successors to alternate between the two places, and all of them did so except Tao Kuang, who refused to be separated from his father even in death. Five emperors, three dowager-empresses, many fei, or imperial concubines—whose tombs are blue rather than yellow, because they never had royal title—and a host of princesses in clusters within single tombs, lie scattered through the forests of Hsi Ling. Like all royal burial-places in China the site backs up against the mountains, here the Hsi Shan, the Western Hills, which stretch far to the north and south in rugged, clear-cut ranges close behind the tombs. Delightful paths wander through the evergreen woods, where here and there ill fed Manchus forage for firewood to keep the kettles boiling in their dilapidated caretakers’ villages. There are crowds of loafers guarding each tomb, as at Tung 253Ling, quick enough to offer a visitor the ceremonious cup of tea under conditions, invisible to them, which force him to decline it, but too lazy to open all the doors even when their unsoaped palms are crossed with silver, to say nothing of lifting a hand to repair the ravages of time or to cut the weeds and grass that grow everywhere between the flagstones. After all, it is better that way; any suggestion of real care would be out of keeping with the pastoral Chinese setting, and there are sheep and goats enough to keep the places from becoming impassable jungles.

One may spend all day roaming from forest-buried tomb to mountain-backed mausoleum; the most mammoth solid stone monuments on turtle bases I have ever seen in China stand side by side in the main entrance pavilion—the exit of most visitors; and the other sides of this square are formed by three p’ai-lous, any of which is almost the equal of the famous single one at the Ming Tombs. But I prefer Tung Ling to its more accessible alternative, if only because its caretakers see too few tourists to acquire the manner of street-urchins.

I stopped off at Paoting, long the capital of Chihli Province and recently the unofficial capital of North China, to see Tsao Kun. But his secretary brought word that the problems of China had given him a headache which had sent him to bed—it was at the height of one of the bandit outrages against foreigners. Those who know this illiterate sword-shaker and how much he cares about China as distinguished from his own gains, will appreciate the unconscious humor of the answer. Before his yamen stood viceregal poles, of cement instead of wood, a hint perhaps of the fancied permanence of his position. Besides this manipulator of the puppets of Peking there is nothing especially worth seeing in Paoting. A few superficial improvements, such as a new garden for the town to stroll and gamble in, to impress the people with their lord’s importance and his love for them, are all that distinguish this from any large old Chinese walled city.

The chief impression of the broad flatlands of Chihli in May is the windlassing of water for irrigation out of wells dotting the landscape everywhere, by a man or two with bare brown torso or by a blindfolded mule. The railway cuts ruthlessly across graveyards, perhaps because if it did not it could find no place to run at all; old sunken roads have been turned into gardens, and new ones are wearing themselves down into the pulverous soil. The narrow-gage line that strikes westward from Shihkiachuang into Shansi climbs all morning the bed 254of a clear little river harnessed for work in many little straw-built mills on the banks or astride the channels into which the crowded people have divided it. There is plenty of stone here. Whole towns are made entirely of it; little fields that can produce at most a peck of wheat are held up by stone walls at least as extensive as they. Crows and other destructive birds are as numerous and ravenous as the human population, who paint scarecrows crudely on the stone walls of the terraces, and hang up straw ones that look ludicrously like Taoist priests. Perhaps these are more effective over such evil spirits than laymen scarecrows. In the mountains well-sweeps instead of windlasses aid the irrigators. Seen on a level these terraced hills looked horribly dry and arid, a dreary yellow and brown. But that is the face of the terraces; from above, the fields are countless patches of spring green, so that the effect from the constantly rising train was like those street-signs that change face completely when they are seen at a new angle.

No longer ago than the time of the Mings, history says, the mountains between Chihli and Shansi were so covered with trees that “birds could not fly through them.” To-day there is not a sprig of wood left, and the patient peasants till every terraced peak to the very top. Faintly the passenger can make out to the north, through occasional openings in the ranges close at hand, one of the five sacred mountains of China, the Wu-t’ai-shan. The whole cluster is shaped like a maple-leaf and resembles the Diamond Mountains of Korea, if not in scenic splendors at least in the temples and monasteries scattered among them. For many centuries that region has been a Buddhist sanctuary, both of the black-robed Chinese monks and the yellow-robed lamas, even the latter more often natives of Chihli or Shansi than Mongols or Tibetans. Emperors used to come to Wu-t’ai-shan, and the Dalai Lama himself was once there.

Beyond the summit of the line, one of the famous passes of China, the narrow but efficient train snaked its way downward through many tunnels, past busy villages and towns of stone, between long irregular rows of cave-dwellings dug in the porous hills, with many a striking view up terraced gorges which unwooded centuries have given fantastic formations. On the whole it was a dreary landscape, but the train was good. These side-lines are better than the principal railroads of China because they are still under foreign management. Frenchmen and Belgians operate this one to the Shansi capital, not merely by giving 255orders from a central office but by riding the trains to see that these orders are obeyed. No dead-heads escaped the sharp eyes of the European inspectors who examined tickets at frequent intervals; the Chinese employees took care not to honor the rules in the breach instead of in the observance. One third-class coach had a compartment marked “Dames seules.” On the main lines this would have been filled with anything but members of the sex for which it was reserved; here the man who dared sit down in it was speedily invited to move on.

A Chinese train, on the trunk-lines subject to the Ministry of Communications, is China in petto,—crowded confusion in the third class that makes up nearly all of it, the second only fairly filled, the first almost empty, except for the pass-holders, influential loafers, and important nonentities who congregate there. Petty anarchy reigns, and “squeeze” rears its slimy head everywhere. The passenger is taxed for the loading of his checked baggage, and then virtually required to tip the porters who load it. It is common knowledge that station-masters consider their salaries their least important source of income. Particularly are the trains, like the country, overrun with useless soldiers. They pack the better coaches until the legitimate traveler often can barely find standing-room; they stretch out everywhere, like a Chinese type of hobo, on the floors of the passageways as well as of the compartments; they fill the so-called dining-car to impassability, lying among their noisome bundles on the tables, the seats, the floors, even about the kitchen stove, like sewage that has seeped in through every opening. In theory they have their generals’ permission to travel, and pay half-fare; in practice the soldier who has a ticket at all, let alone one of the class in which he is traveling, is the exception. They not only ride on their uniforms but rent these out to hucksters and coolies who wish to make a journey. Whole flocks of railway officials in pompous garb come through the trains, but exert themselves only against the uninfluential. Soldiers without tickets are sometimes gently instructed to go back into third class, but no one has the moral courage to insist that they do so, and they ride on hour after hour, sometimes day after day. Police with a brass wheel on their arms are in constant evidence, yet control at the stations is almost unknown. Those getting on, and swarms of coolies hoping for a job of carrying baggage, sweep like a tidal wave into the trains before those getting off can escape; the battle for places is a screaming riot. In winter a car never gets comfortably warm before the overdressed Chinese throw open the windows. The cheap joker who mutilated the 256standardized sign to read, “Passengers are requested to report to the Traffic Manager any cases of cleanliness that come to their notice,” replaced an impossible task by a very easy one. The train that is on time is something to write home about, though now and then one sticks surprisingly close to schedule.

At Peking and the principal terminals the traveler often finds every compartment “Reserved.” Officially this cannot in most cases be done, but any one who knows the ropes can “fix it up,” merely for a tip to the fixer. Door after door down the corridor bears such signs as “Chi Wan-tao and Party,” or “Reserved, Member of Parliament,” and even foreign women may be left to stand in the passageway. Later, if the traveler is sharp eyed enough to see one of these doors unlocked, he will find one or two fat Chinese stretched out in the two seats which placards announce “shall be occupied by eight persons,” and unless he is by nature aggressive this condition may continue during the whole twenty-four-hour journey. At the end of the overcrowded train there is very likely to be a private car surrounded by a respectful throng of soldiers and railway police, which one learns upon inquiry is occupied, to give a single example, by a “minister” to some provincial city, who is “more higher than a station-master.” A sample of the Chinese way of doing things is the announcement in a time-table in French that has appeared in the foreign-language newspapers daily for years that certain “expresses” on one of the most important lines carry first-class, sleeping-, and dining-cars, whereas the best accommodations the unsuspecting traveler who takes this statement seriously can discover is two or three second-class compartments with two bare wooden benches and not a suggestion of heat. The only salvation of the civilized traveler is the daily and biweekly expresses respectively on the two lines between Peking and central China, on which, thanks to foreign pressure, neither passes, uniforms, nor influence can take the place of tickets. Even on these, rumor has it, the militarist overlords have of late found ways to accommodate their henchmen without producing actual money.

It is a relief, therefore, to get off on one of these side-lines which the Chinese do not yet pretend to have taken over, and which are still run like railroads. Shansi has her soldiers, too, but they do not spend their time riding in and out of the province. The simple expedient of requiring every coolie baggage-carrier to pay six coppers for a platform-ticket before he can pass the gates makes an astonishing improvement in the life of the traveler on this sprightly Taiyüanfu line; at the frontier two of the governor’s “model police” board the train in spotless khaki and with soldierly bearing escort it on into the capital.

A few of the 508 Buddhas in one of the lama temples of Jehol

The youngest, but most important—since she has borne him a son—of the wives of a Manchu chief of one of the tomb-tending towns of Tung Ling

Interior of the notorious Empress Dowager’s tomb at Tung Ling, with her cloth-covered chair of state and colors to dazzle the stoutest eye

The Potalá of Jehol, said to be a copy, even in details, of that of Lhasa; the windows are false and the great building at the top is merely a roofless one enclosing the chief temple

257Long before the end of the journey the traveler is reminded that Shansi is one of the world’s greatest deposits of coal, perhaps of iron. From the train could be seen coal-mines, mere surface diggings, but producing splendid anthracite in big chunks large as a strong man could lift. One of these broken in two made a donkey-load, two gave a mule his quota, and long trains of these animals picked their ways down the treeless defiles. Here and there a string of coolies, each with a lump of coal on his back, trailed over the steeper hills. A European who made a diligent investigation of the question reported that the province of Shansi alone has coal enough to supply the world for a thousand years. Thus far it has scarcely begun to be exploited, in the real sense of the word, like so many of the great natural resources, other than agricultural, of China. For one thing, some of the old superstitions that made delving in the earth so unpopular still prevail. Evil spirits guarding these hidden treasures will wreak vengeance on the men who dare to disturb them—and, what is worse, on the entire community. Dragons are still known to spit death-dealing fire upon those who dig too deeply for coal; in other words, there have been cases of fire-damp explosions. According to popular Chinese fancy, dragons, snakes, and tortoises produce pearls, and many of the miners themselves still think that coal will grow again in an empty shaft within thirty years, and iron and gold in longer periods.

We came out in mid-afternoon upon the broad plain of Shansi, “West of the Mountains,” two or three thousand feet above sea-level and thickly dotted everywhere with toiling peasants. Here the windlassing of water for irrigation again seemed to be the chief occupation, and this time there were often four men at as many handles over a single well-drum. Yütze swarmed with travelers, for there nearly all the traffic for the south of the province leaves the train, or enters it to return to the capital, toward which the railroad turns as much north as westward. Less than an hour later the twin pagodas of Taiyüanfu rose close at hand on the ridged landscape, and we were set down well outside the walls of the Shansi capital.

The police stopped every traveler at the city gate to ask his name, his errand, and other pertinent questions. But there was a courteous atmosphere about the interrogatory which made it seem the precaution of a careful ruler rather than the espionage of a tyrant. Inside, the 258streets were on the whole in better condition, modern improvements in general more numerous, than in most provincial capitals. Yet somehow this was not yet the model city much hearing about it had caused the imagination to picture. The pace of life, too, was noticeably slow, surprisingly so for the capital of one of China’s most important provinces, almost the cradle of the Chinese race and for centuries the home of its great bankers. What was perhaps most exasperating of all to the passing traveler was to find the rickshaw-men the poorest in China, so slow and so untrained for their tasks that it was almost faster and certainly more comfortable to walk. Possibly the altitude of nearly three thousand feet was the explanation, though not the excuse, of their snail-like habits, and their awkwardness could be largely due to the fact that many of them are peasants from the surrounding villages who make rickshaw-pulling a slack-time avocation instead of a profession. But the impression survived that they were merely outstanding examples of the provincial leisureliness of life back here behind the mountains. Residents did not seem to realize that their rickshaw-runners resemble lame turtles, any more than they were aware of the incessant unnecessary racket they create. Custom or some local ordinance has fitted the right shaft of all Taiyüan rickshaws with a kind of automobile horn, and not merely do the runners blow these beyond all reason when in action but amuse themselves like the adult children they are by constant honking while waiting or wandering for fares, so that night and day are an unbroken charivari.

Taiyüan—its name means “great plain,” and the “fu” so often tacked on to the names of second-grade Chinese cities is as out-of-date now as the word “yamen,” though both survive in popular speech—and the province it governs still retain some of the traits and customs of olden times, long ago abandoned, if not forgotten, in other provinces. Though there is a good modern police force, night-watchmen of the old régime go their rounds every two hours beating a gong to warn thieves of their coming. Surely the origin of this aged custom, whatever tradition may allege, is rooted in the inherent timidity, not to call it cowardice, of the Chinese. Pushed beyond a certain point they can die more easily than Westerners; but the fear of a mere slap, the sight of a stick that would not frighten a normal American boy, is terrifying to the great mass of them. Naturally the night-watchman would rather warn the thieves to move on, or to lay aside their activities until he has passed, than to come to blows with them. A thousand Chinese staring fixedly with their little monkey-like eyes were likely to surround 259the foreigner who does, or has about him, anything suggestive of the unusual, though foreign residents are neither rare nor new. No one has ever succeeded in sounding the depths of Chinese curiosity. When I called inopportunely on the fellow-countryman who was destined to become my host in Taiyüan, he left a class of Y. M. C. A. students of university age, long used to foreigners and their ways, in charge of one of their number while he stepped out to have a word with me; and seven of the fifteen young men left the class and followed him down-stairs to see what he was doing.

The foreign atmosphere of Taiyüan is almost entirely British. Such American missionaries as work in this province are not stationed in the capital, and England assigned the indemnity exacted for the killing of a large group of her nationals here in Boxer days to education in the province, as we did for the whole country. For ten years Shansi youths were distributed among English universities and technical schools, and now that the preparatory school in which they were groomed for the journey has reverted to the Chinese and become the University of Taiyüan, there are many returned students among the faculty and in important official positions, some of them with English wives. The good and the trivial points of British university life came back with them. They seem to have lost, for instance, the Chinese virtue of early rising. Taiyüan labors under the handicap of three kinds of time,—“railway,” “gun,” and “university” time. The last is considerably slower than either the station clock or the governor’s noon-gun, and rumor has it that it gradually became so because the curriculum included a number of eight-o’clock classes which certain of the most influential faculty members could never quite reach.

Yen Hsi-shan, both military and civil governor of Shansi, is known in China as the “model governor.” The mere fact that he has held his position ever since the revolution, while the rest of the country has been like a seething mass, a boiling kettle, of officials of all grades, in which the scum has all too often come to the top, is enough to have given him that title. But he has done more than that to warrant it. Under his rule a number of motor roads have radiated from the capital, and now carry a considerable motor-bus traffic. It is true that these roads are largely due to American famine relief funds under missionary management, and that the principal highway runs about two hundred li northward exactly to the governor’s native village. But they are unusually well kept roads for China, with guards enough to keep the 260sharp-wheeled carts off them, and a species of peon caminero at regular distances whose permanent task it is to keep them in repair. Besides, a branch of that north road goes on, as a kind of afterthought, to a gate of the inner Great Wall, which crosses northern Shansi. Governor Yen has done much toward the establishment of village schools, with the accent wisely on primary and general instead of higher and class education; he has made a certain amount of schooling compulsory for both sexes, though even he would scarcely assert that such an innovation is already effective throughout the province, for after all Shansi is still China. He has actually and visibly taken the beggars off the streets of Taiyüan; and has established a school of trades for them. He has improved outdoor recreation facilities for the people, and has had erected in conspicuous places about town, and in the province, long boards bearing the thousand characters which he thinks every one should learn to read and, if possible, to write. Bandits have been unknown in Shansi for years; the opium which it used to grow more widely than any other province has almost if not completely disappeared. Both these curses of China have been chased over the provincial boundaries. Taiyüan boasts a beginning of an opium-consumers’ refuge, with free keep and treatment for the indigent. Just beyond it, to be sure, there is what the Japanese call a yoshiwara, an officially protected restricted district two by four blocks large, with five hundred women; but every one of the identical courtyards within is in a condition to suggest unusually good sanitary conditions, and a high wall surrounds the entire district, so that no one can be in doubt as to what he is entering. The governor, by the way, was a student in Japan for four years, and both he and his policies bear various reminders of that fact.

Behind Tung Ling the great forest reserve which once “protected” the tombs from the evil spirits that always come from the north was recently opened to settlers, and frontier conditions long since forgotten in the rest of China prevail

Much of the plowing in the newly opened tract is done in this primitive fashion

The face of the mammoth Buddha of Jehol, forty-three feet high and with forty-two hands. It fills a four-story building, and is the largest in China proper, being identical, according to the lamas, with those of Urga and Lhasa

A Chinese inn, with its heated k’ang, may not be the last word in comfort, but it is many degrees in advance of the earth floors of Indian huts along the Andes

261The governor received me one Sunday morning, with his civil secretary, the British-educated dean of the engineering department of the university, as interpreter. It seemed almost strange to walk so peacefully into his yamen through the same now rather tumble-down entrance at which more than twoscore foreigners were massacred by Boxer-influenced mobs in 1900. The governor prides himself on being a plain man and does not believe in surrounding himself with magnificence or formality. With the single exception of the “Christian General,” Feng Yü-hsiang, he has retained, at least in his audiences with foreigners, fewer of the useless, time-squandering forms of old-fashioned Chinese etiquette than any of the high officials I have met in China. Yet the essential Chinese courtesies were still there; there was no suggestion of a general surrender to Western bruskness. A solid-looking man, in physical as well as the other sense, with a somewhat genial face sunburned with evidence of his personal attention to his outdoor activities, met us with no appreciable delay in a semi-private part of the yamen that was tasteful in the Chinese sense, yet which made no efforts at magnificence in the hope of increasing the impression of the occupant’s importance. Rather a man of plain common sense and perseverance than of brilliancy, a brief acquaintance with the governor suggested; and Heaven knows China needs this type just now much more than the other. His garments were of cotton, not silk, and the simplicity of life this symbolizes has its effect upon his subordinates, at least in his presence. Officials having an audience with him usually also put on cotton clothing for the occasion, lest the governor say, as he has more than once: “Ah, I see you are making lots of money out of your post. Now, there is a famine down in the southwest corner of the province, and ...” He talked freely, yet certainly not boastfully, of his various policies, plain, common-sense policies, like the man himself, but which do not suggest themselves to the Chinese as readily as one might expect. Later I had opportunity to compare actual results with verbal intentions.

His laws against opium and bound feet would be better enforced, Yen Hsi-shan’s friendly critics agree, if the officials under him were really in favor of such reforms. One man alone cannot cure a whole province, larger than most of our States, of the bad habits of generations. At first the governor was very assiduous on these points. Traffickers in, as well as growers of, the drug were fined and imprisoned, and life made as miserable as possible for those who persisted in consuming it. Inspectors examined the feet of women and assessed a fine of five dollars a year against those who had not unbound them, or who bound those of their daughters. Not a severe penalty from the Western point of view; but this is much money to the average Chinese countryman, and bound feet are most persistent in the rural districts. But the governor’s lee high (severity) is dying out, the people say, and little girls with bound feet may be seen near and even in Taiyüan. The stoutest reformer would be likely to lose heart before the unrivaled passive resistance of the Chinese against even their own best welfare; it needs unbroken generations of radicals to get permanent results. At least the pigtail has virtually disappeared from Shansi!

The “model governor” comes fairly near being a practical man in 262the Occidental sense. The forty automobiles in the government garages include huge streetcar-like buses that make good use of his new roads, and trucks that are run mainly by steam. Gasolene is expensive in Shansi, and coal is cheap. Much of the city is taken up by what resembles immense barracks, and the public is chased many blocks roundabout by the long mud walls enclosing them. But if this gives the appearance of a ruler who considers the capital his private property, it makes possible a great normal school for all the province, where handcrafts are given proper attention, up-to-date soldiers’ workshops, in which everything needed by the army is made, a model prison, and other spacious institutions on quite modern lines. Besides, there was evidently ample room inside the city. The old wall of Taiyüan is in a ruinous state, and any one can climb it, almost anywhere inside and with no great difficulty from without, as if the governor realized that such picturesque defenses are useless against modern attacks, and feels able to cope in the open with the bandits against which city walls still offer a certain amount of protection in many parts of China. There are lakes and broad sheep pastures, and many acres of cultivated fields, within the walls, and only one suburb of any size outside them, without a single smoking chimney except those of the big extramural arsenal standing forth against the distant low hills that half surround Taiyüan. In fact, one whole corner of the city is used as a rifle-range, with the ruined wall as a back-stop, and the soldiers still find plenty of room to throw their dummy hand-grenades and practise their modified goose-step. All this hardly means a prosperous city, were it not for the practical activities of a good governor. His soldiers, by the way, get six “Mex” dollars a month, which is the rate throughout most of China, and his “snappy” model police nine; but unlike so many of his colleagues Governor Yen actually pays his troops, which is one of the great secrets of his success. Unpaid soldiers not only do not drive brigands over the frontier, but they are prone to sell them ammunition and even to join them.

It was evident that the governor’s progressive administration includes one particular pet scheme, which he is working out as rapidly as possible, quite ready to admit that it takes time to make changes in China. He is gradually introducing a village military system, a kind of National Guard on a provincial scale. Instead of having military parasites from other provinces come to exploit the people or turn bandits among them, he is organizing militia companies for local protection. The chief advantages he expects are that it will thus be easier to maintain 263peace and repel outside invaders, as village soldiers will naturally do their best to protect their own homes; it should eliminate the danger of becoming an offensive force against neighboring provinces, since these soldiers are not riffraff and loafers recruited wherever they can be had but ordinary citizens with proper occupations, who will not care to sacrifice their peaceful living for the sake of a few ambitious militarists; and it does not take them away from their fields or their usual tasks, except for brief periods of training each year. It is not exactly an original plan, at least to the world at large, but self-evident things are not always so to the Chinese, and Governor Yen may be on the track of the very thing to wipe out rapacious militarism and its twin sister, banditry.

The mass of the people of Shansi are convinced that the governor loves them like a father, which is a very essential thing in China even for a virtual dictator, if he wishes to hold out. Yet Yen is a rich man, one of the richest men in China, some say, and he was not born that way. Only the uninformed masses think that he sacrifices everything to their welfare. Any land with China’s pressure of population, family system, and centuries-old, almost universal political corruption from top to bottom would need at least a demigod of which to make a ruler who actually thought of nothing but the public good. Yen Hsi-shan, it is said almost openly, has kept his position so long largely by preserving a strict neutrality even in the payment of “squeeze” toward those high up who might have taken his job away from him. It is almost publicly known that he gave one million two hundred thousand dollars each to Chang Tso-lin and Tsao Kun in the “Anfu” days as “military assistance.” But at least he has made the province he has ruled for twelve unbroken years a better place to live in; his worst enemies do not hesitate to admit that. Perhaps he is, as many Chinese who use their minds assert, a great governor only as a small hill is a mountain on a flat plain; the fact remains that he has some ideas and the will to carry them out, ideas which, if introduced into the other provinces would put the people of China in a much better position to solve some of those pressing problems that seem to be driving them to national destruction. With a score of Governors Yen the dismantled old Celestial Empire might still be no paradise, but the anxious visitor can sweep the country almost in vain for a glimpse of any other force that promises prompt and effectual resistance to the misfortunes that threaten to overwhelm her entirely.

All up and down the province the happy results of good rule are 264apparent. Village girls, like the boys who come to the various barrack-institutions in the capital, are taught what they are really likely to need in the life that in all probability lies before them, not the often useless stuff of an ideal but imaginary life, to which even American mission schools are somewhat prone. There are still such adversities as famine in Shansi Province, and numbers of its men migrate northward to Mongolia and Manchuria in search of the livelihood their ancestral homes deny them. But even a civil and military governor combined cannot make rain fall. More than one Tuchun of other provinces still thinks he can, and leads his people in processions to the temples of the god of rain, or helps them to plant that delinquent deity, in a brand-new coat of paint as a counter-inducement, out in the blazing sunshine, in the hope that he will think better of the cruel neglect of his duties. One suspects, however, that Governor Yen’s more up-to-date methods are likelier in the end to bring real results. But, alas! safety and modern improvements are not what most beguile the random wanderer with a strong penchant for the picturesque, and a longer stay in the “model province” promised little to make up for the exciting things that might still be in store for me in other parts of the country.

The chief impression of the long all-day journey from Peking to Tzinan in early spring is of graves. All sizes of them, from mere haycocks to veritable haystacks, take up almost more of the fields than they leave to cultivation, so that the deadly flat landscape, drearily dry brown at this season, looks as if it were broken out with smallpox. In Chihli Province there had been no real snow all winter; but from about the time we entered Shantung onward the shrinking remnants of a recent modest fall of it varied slightly the bare yellowish monotony spread out under a cloudless sky.

The old walled city of Teh-chow was the first place of importance over the boundary, and there was nothing visibly different about that from a hundred other walled cities of China. At one end of the long graveled station platform sat an old coffin, and lying on top of it was the stone that had marked its first grave and was needed now for the new one somewhere else. The Chinese are coming to be more easily persuaded by the clink of silver that their ancestors will endure removal, when a railway or a growing mission station or an industrial plant finds it imperative to have more room. A policeman quite as up to date as those of Peking was driving up and down the platform two men who seemed to have known some prosperity before this misfortune overtook them. Ropes tied to their outside arms furnished the driver his reins, and about their necks hung by cords big wooden placards detailing their crimes. The officer saw to it that they forced their way into every group, so that there could be no excuse for any one, in or outside the long crowded train, not to recognize them as rascals, before he drove them back to wherever they waited until the next train called them forth again. It was an anachronism, this ancient mode of punishment amid such modern surroundings; but what would be the effect if our own absconding bankers and sneak-thieves were similarly paraded from suburbs to railroad station, pausing for any one who cared to read? It would at least make their faces more familiar to those who might 266benefit in future by such knowledge. But on second thought our press serves us the same purpose, without physical exertion to criminals or policemen.

At Teh-chow the ancient and the modern means of transportation between the Yang Tse and Peking part company. All the way from Tientsin, the railroad which, about a decade back, brought Shanghai within thirty-six hours of the capital is within rifle-shot of the Grand Canal that Kublai Khan merely reconstructed six hundred and fifty years ago. Before we realized that maps and modern conditions are not counterparts in the China of to-day, we had a pleasant dream of houseboating from Peking to the Yang Tse, when it came time for us to move southward. Intuition should have sufficed, but we only learned from inquiry that, since the tribute grain which once came yearly to Peking by hundreds of junks could now come by other means, if any one still gave Peking tribute, the Grand Canal has silted up for long distances, to say nothing of the bandit nests through which it runs in these days of the self-styled republic. Once the railroad meets and crosses it again, at the southern boundary of the province; otherwise the two routes are never in agreement below Teh-chow.

The capital of Shantung Province announces itself by its smokestacks about the time the rumbling of the long German-built bridge across the Yellow River awakens the traveler to the fact that the day’s ordeal is over. Flour-mills account for most of these spirals of smoke where ten or fifteen years ago little more than graves grew. Tzinan is an exception to the general rule of Chinese treaty-ports, in that it was opened to foreign trade in 1906 by desire from within rather than pressure from without. The Germans, and after them the Japanese, have built up a fore-city of broad, almost-paved streets, lined by modern buildings that here and there approach the imposing, on the space turned over to the growth of foreign enterprise by the Chinese themselves. Japanese hospitals and schools, buildings that carry the thoughts back to the bridge-heads on the Rhine, here and there a contribution by some other nationality, give quite a manly air to this modern section of Shang-Pu, with its railway stations. But if one’s mind has that queer and no doubt reprehensible quirk which makes the picturesque more interesting than standardized efficiency, the wheelbarrows are strong competitors for the attention. In Peking and the north these are less used, and not at all for passengers. In Tzinan they carry a much larger proportion of the population than do the rickshaws. For while the latter are numerous also, their capacity is limited, and there seems 267to be no exact high-water mark to the number of persons a barrow-man can crowd upon the two cushions flanking his high wooden wheel, with its guards doing duty as seat-backs. Especially when the factory workers are going to or from their mud huts, eight or ten, and even twelve, pairs of little misshapen feet hang over the sides of these patient vehicles, still barely bending the sturdy back of the human packhorse in the shafts. Men ride in them, too, sometimes a pair or a group of coolies whom it would be impossible to distinguish from the man whom they are, one must assume, paying to do their walking for them. A wheelbarrow trip costs but a half or two thirds as much as the same journey by rickshaw; the mere matter of greater speed or comfort is not, of course, of any importance to the rank-and-file Chinese; and the invariable ungreased squeaking of the conveyance, which announces its coming as far off as could a trolley-bell, may easily be soothing music to a people who enter Chinese theaters without compulsion.

The main stream of squeaks ambles its way into the old native city, doubly surrounded by two rambling walls. There the recent snow had left what passes for streets ankle-deep in mud, except perhaps for a few short stretches paved centuries ago with huge slabs of stone so rounded off now that a rickshaw can scarcely make wheelbarrow speed over them, and which at best are only somewhat less thickly covered with paste-like slime. Foreigners who have lived there half a century say they can see improvements in the native life of old Tzinan, but the new-comer will have to take most of this on faith, and is not likely to carry off many impressions essentially different from those he has had or will have inside the walls of any well populated Chinese city. Merchants in black lounge in skullcaps in constantly repeated little booth-shops on either hand, outwardly indifferent to custom as they sip their tea from handleless cups, smoke their tiny pipes with the often yard-long stems, play chess, checkers, cards, or dice, all of an Oriental kind. Immediate attention comes, however, when a possible client pauses in what would be the doorway if there were a front wall, quadrupled, quintupled if the pauser is astonishingly a foreigner. Here and there several people stand before a counter, and two or three times as many behind it. Street venders paddle through the mud, stridently announcing themselves. Roofless shops on the corners, and everywhere else that there is a bit of space to crowd in, sell steaming balls of dough, bowls of watery chopped-up meat, China’s kind of macaroni, served with worn chop-sticks and accompanied, perhaps, by a constant refrain designed to draw, rather than to drive off, more customers. Beggars in 268costumes which could not have possibly reached such a state without deliberate aid splash along beside the stranger’s rickshaw at a speed to prove health and strength, crying incessantly, “Ta Lao Yea! Ta Lao Yea!” “Great Old Excellency!” in the vain hope that the Chinese compliment of granting old age where it is still not physically due will bring perhaps even silver from the outside barbarian who is in reality still disgustingly youthful. Glimpses at irregular intervals down side streets that are merely poorer examples of the same thing, with more makeshift booths and fewer large shops, more strident venders and fewer hopeful beggars. Once or twice the big weather-beaten gateway to a yamen, with coolies made into soldiers by the superimposing of a faded uniform padded with cotton leaning on their rifles and eying the passing throng with the air of bad boys who are far too seldom spanked. Less shopkeeping and more miserable dwelling farther out, women and girls standing or hobbling about in the mud on their little deformed feet, everywhere a plethora of boys, nowhere a person who could be called clean, almost everything and every one dirty as a pigsty. Then the street shifts a block before it passes out the farther gate—for evil spirits would make short shrift of a city with a straight passage clear through it—and the stranger finds himself in the outskirts, between the great and the outer wall, with a picturesque glimpse along the former of women washing clothes in the tree-lined moat, and ragged boys are pushing his rickshaw from behind over a bridging hump in the stone and mud-slough road in the hope of being tossed a copper.

The upper half of the ascent of Tai-shan is by a stone stairway which ends at the “South Gate of Heaven,” here seen in the upper right-hand corner

One of the countless beggar women who squat in the center of the stairway to Tai-shan, expecting every pilgrim to drop at least a “cash” into each basket

Wash-day in the moat outside the city wall of Tzinan, capital of Shantung

A traveler by chair nearing the top of Tai-shan, most sacred of the five holy peaks of China

269With the example of decent dwellings and habits in plain sight about them in as well as outside the walls, this plodding through filthy streets between dismal mud dens seems to remain wholly satisfactory even to those visibly able to improve their conditions if they chose. Rows of modern two-story stone houses of the missionaries stand on two sides of the city, and with all the efforts of these enigmatical men and women from across the Pacific to jounce China out of her old ruts, it would have been curious to find how slight effect such patent examples have on the daily living of those in constant contact with them, even to the extent of a little increased effort for cleanliness and convenience—if one had not already seen China elsewhere. Just around the corner from the well equipped hospital manned by Americans and English, the Chinese medicine-shops continue to sell powdered fossils for curing diseased eyes, dried frog’s liver for kidney troubles, deer horns ground up into remedies for other ailments, and to send inquirers to native medicine-men who know the hundred and some spots on the human body where sickness can be let out by puncturing with a needle. The mission university with its big campus backed by a splendid landscape and reached by a hole cut specially for it in the main city wall continues to look utterly incongruous in its setting of ignorance and filth. The turnstile of a mission museum filled with graphic illustrations of China’s errors and the simple cures for them records hundreds of thousands of visitors from all the surrounding region and beyond during the pilgrim season alone, yet the callers seem to carry nothing home with them except the honor of having climbed the sacred mountain and worshiped at the shrine of the famous sage a little farther southward. Graphic proofs that deforestation has brought in its train devastating floods, that it contributes to the aridity of the soil on which even the snow, for lack of shade, evaporates before it sinks in, that it is mainly responsible for the locusts which birds might make way with if there were trees for birds to live in, has barely caused the planting of a few shrubs here and there on the mountains that roll up at the edge of the plain on which Tzinan is built—and these will be hacked down and carried off for fuel at the first good opportunity. The people of Shantung’s capital seem to regard as their chief civic asset the big spring that boils up in three mounds of water in the heart of the city and forms a great lake within the walls, through the reedy channels of which they are poled on pleasure-barges, set with tables for their favorite sport of eating, out to island temples where gaudy gods still gaze down upon worshipers unable to recognize the sardonic smirks on their color-daubed wooden faces.

South of Tzinan there are low mountains or high hills, bare except for temples and patches of snow that glistened in the moonlight. These culminate in fame, if not in height, in Tai-shan, most sacred of the holy peaks of China, two hours below the provincial capital. I had purposely timed my journey to Shantung so that I could climb Tai-shan with the pilgrims who flock to it during the fortnight following the Chinese New Year. Though he might have been extremely nasty at that season, the weather god evidently approved my plans, for it would be impossible to picture more perfect conditions for making this far-famed excursion than that brilliant first day of March according to our Western calendar.

Even in Peking those who should have been better informed had led me to expect strenuous opposition to my refusal of chair-bearers. There was nothing of the kind, though I seemed to feel an atmosphere of 270mingled surprise and prophecy that I should deeply regret it before the day was done, when I asked merely for a coolie to carry my odds and ends. The ability of almost any foreigner in China to afford servants for all his menial tasks gives the great mass of the Chinese the impression that he has no physical endurance of his own, but only untold riches. The coolie who set off with me at sunrise was well chosen, for not only was he all that a coolie and a guide and “boy” combined should be, but he was so quick-witted and so free from the worst crudities of the Shantung dialect that we conversed almost freely on almost any subject in spite of the scantiness of my Mandarin vocabulary.

The way lay first across a stony plain sloping gently upward, with the compact mass of rocky mountains so close in the cloudless atmosphere that one might easily have been deceived about the exertions that lay ahead, had not common fame more than corrected any such error. Pilgrims were already converging from both directions upon the partly stone-paved route leading out of the north gate of Taianfu, surrounded by its time-blackened walls, and within an hour we were all passing in a single stream through the first great archway. I-T’ien-Men—“First Heaven Gate”—the Chinese call it, and over it hangs an inscription announcing in the brevity of Chinese characters that Confucius took this path when he climbed Tai-shan—enough to make it the accepted one even if there were other feasible ascents. Stone steps soon begin to hint at the obstacle race ahead, though this early they are merely in isolated half-dozens scattered up the gradually more sloping road floored with big irregular stones worn smooth by uncounted millions of feet. Already the beggars who decorate the entire ascent were raising their insistent clamor, and shops and temples and tea-houses and itinerant venders formed an almost unbroken wall on either side. Higher up there were increasingly open stretches looking off across the steep tumbled gorge we were climbing, to the swift rocky mountain-sides that shut us in. Here and there a cluster of rugged, misshapen pines gave as dainty a retreat as if we had been in Japan, but the general lack of cleanliness alone distinctly informed us that we were not. These clumps were rare, too, even on China’s most sacred mountain, otherwise almost entirely of stone, with hardly a patch of earth big enough for the planting of a flower-bed.

This did not make it infertile for its inhabitants, however; rather the contrary. My coolie companion, to whom the ascent was an old, old story, put the number of beggars that lined it at one thousand; but that certainly was over-modest. Surely there were several times that 271number from bottom to top, and just as many from top to bottom. They sat in the center of the great stairs, so that chair-bearers passed one on either side of them, and those who were carried up passed directly over their heads. The top of each little cluster of stairs seemed to be the exclusive territory of one mendicant, or, in the great majority of cases, of one whole family of them, and not one did I see poaching even for an instant on his fellows’ preserves. Just as often as the half-dozen steps were surmounted a beggar was certain to be found squatting in the middle of the topmost, his woven-reed scoop lying invitingly beside him. Where the merely sloping stretches between these steps were more than ten or twelve feet long other beggars were regularly spaced along them; and higher up, where the ascent was all stairs, there was one, or a family group, about every sixth step.

Sleeker, fatter, more contented-looking beggars I cannot recall having seen anywhere on earth. Red-cheeked children, boys seeming to predominate, were the chief stock in trade, though there were a few adults who were visibly in sad states of health. During the pilgrim season, I was told, hundreds of peasants leave their little farms in charge of one member of the family and the rest establish themselves somewhere along the ascent to Tai-shan, until the spring grows so warm that their other occupation requires their presence at home again. On one side or the other of the climb, seldom more than a few feet from their squatting-place, each group had a makeshift dwelling,—a hut of rocks and grass-mats, sometimes a natural grotto covered over with whatever was available, generally only high enough for the adults on all fours, but carpeted with mountain hay and better than the average homes along Peking hutungs. Mountain water, magnificent air, a far-reaching view across the plain below, if that means anything to them, made the dismal mud dwellings of most Chinese, within the reeking gloom of city, town, or compound walls, nothing to be compared with this life of perfect leisure in such a vantage-place.

There might have been one serious drawback to all this,—like the “horrible example” of the temperance lecturer, the exhibits could not be kept in proper condition to make the best appeal. The whole mendicant army on Tai-shan, except the small minority that was really ailing, looked so well fed and well slept that only an unusually charitable or exceedingly unobserving Westerner would have yielded to their pleas. He might have been inclined instead to thump the well padded ribs of the woman who here and there, at his approach, stripped suddenly naked the plump youngster she held in her lap, hastily trying to hide its 272thick warm i-shang behind her—for there was still a distinct bite in the air even on this southern slope of the mountain with a brilliant sun beating down upon it. But the visible prosperity of the mendicants seemed to matter little, for the Chinese pilgrims who made up the now almost constant stream of humanity toiling skyward had evidently some superstition that their pilgrimage would not be effective if they did not succor all who needed it along the way, and most of them were taking no chances on passing by a deserving case merely because it looked better nourished and housed than they did themselves. Those who gave confined their gifts almost exclusively to brass “cash”; but there were many scoops an inch or two deep in these cheap coins, occasionally with a real copper standing conspicuously out among them, though the recipients sneaked off to their lairs now and then to hide their gleanings. A whole scoopful of “cash” would not resemble riches to an American “panhandler”; to Chinese of the lower class, however, the pickings of most of the mendicants on Tai-shan, if that day was an average, would seem almost an income of luxury.

About nine o’clock the descending peasants and coolies had also grown to a constant stream, so that rules of the road—or, more exactly by this time, of the stairway—had to be more or less strictly obeyed if progress was to be made either up or down. There were no pilgrim costumes, such as the Japanese climbing Koya-san, for instance, so commonly wear, though frequent groups of coolies carried triangular flags bearing a few characters, touches of color that livened somewhat the almost invariable blue of the every-day garments of the masses. Unfailingly good-natured, the coolie pilgrims had neither a suggestion of the rowdiness of our popular excursions nor of the rather belligerent self-complacency of their island neighbors to the east. Except for two little Japanese professors from Manchuria, who conversed with me in English and German respectively and with the Chinese by characters scrawled on scraps of paper, I was the only foreigner making the ascent that day. The sight of me on foot did not arouse more than the usual gaping to which any Westerner outside the restricted orbits of his kind is subject anywhere in China—until my coolie made one of his often repeated answers to the question as to what had become of my chair. Even the little Japanese climbed on foot for an hour or more, their chairs trailing behind them, and only a few of the haughtiest and fattest Chinese declined to get out and stretch their legs at all. But that a man not only ostensibly of the wealthy class, but a weak “outside barbarian” into the bargain, should be so foolish as to risk getting himself stranded by undertaking a journey which naturally he could not finish unassisted, changed the mere gaping to excitement. It was all very well, I gathered from such of their remarks and gestures as I could understand, for even a foreigner to win whatever merit was given such beings by making as much of the journey as he could on foot, but he most certainly should have brought along a chair to rescue him when he could no longer climb.

A priest of the Temple of Confucius

The grave of Confucius is noted for its simplicity

The sanctum of the Temple of Confucius, with the statue and spirit-tablet of the sage, before which millions of Chinese burn joss-sticks annually

273The chairs, by the way, were really not worthy of that name. Instead of the sentry-box-like sedan used in many parts of China to this day, with a carrier or two, or even three, in front and as many behind, these were merely a kind of pole-and-rope hammock, mildly resembling a crude, low rustic arm-chair, in which the carried sat facing forward with his feet hanging over before him, grazing the heads of the incessant beggars in the middle of the ascent, while his rarely more than two carriers walked on either side of him, bearing the contrivance sidewise. Every little distance, when the straps over their outside shoulders became painful, they shifted simultaneously by swinging themselves and the chair around with a swift, almost automatic motion, and continued to toil upward. This was as near as the facts corresponded to the tales so often told of the breath-taking dangers of chairing it up Tai-shan, where, according to the most imaginative tellers, the carriers “just toss you off into space” whenever they change positions. Ever since I first heard this yarn I had pictured thousands of feet of sheer abyss directly beneath the trembling chair-rider, whereas I doubt if he would at any time have dropped more than six or eight feet, exclusive of what he might have rolled, in the unheard-of event of the bearers’ spilling him.

A little spill would have served the riders right anyway, for most of them were larger and better nourished than the coolies who bore them, needed in fact just such reducing exercises as walking up Tai-shan; and any really two-legged mortal can make the ascent considerably sooner on foot than by chair. On this day at least the carried were decidedly the aristocratic minority, for there was by no means one of them to each hundred of the foot-travelers who shuttled past in two often long unbroken lines. To win full merit for the pilgrimage, evidently, it should be made under the pilgrim’s own steam, though there seems to be no harm in getting a little assistance by the way. Thus most of the women who were painfully toiling upward on their bound feet had each a coolie walking beside her to sustain her faltering 274steps and give her a boost every now and then by the hand in one of her armpits.

One by one we came to “Flying Clouds Hall,” to the “Ten Thousand Genii Hall,” where the Emperor Kao-Tsu paused to receive homage during his ascent in 595 A.D., to the “Horse Stopping Place,” and finally to Hui-Ma-Ling, the “Horse Turning Back Peak,” where even an emperor was forced to dismount and resort to some other means of locomotion. All these “halls” were Chinese temples, quite commonplace except for their location, filled with dusty, gaudy wooden gods before whom pilgrims burned joss-sticks by the bundle, heaping the big iron urns with ashes, and with the clamor of begging priests, beating gongs, shrieking their demands, calling upon all passers-by to try their fortune-telling or invest in their tissue-paper prayers. In the courtyards of many of them, too, and on the landing outside all, were venders of tea and dough-balls and other delicacies of the Chinese cuisine, some having permanent establishments with home-made tables and sawhorse benches, most of them men who carried their stock in trade on a pole over their shoulders. The general stoniness of the mountain broke out here and there in mighty boulders and rock-faced cliffs, on which inscriptions had been carved centuries ago in characters sometimes the height of a man. There were fixed resting-places at which not only chair-coolies but my own companion insisted on stopping, though his load was next to nothing. It had only been a lunch-basket and some extra clothing to begin with, and at the bottom of the first cluster of stairs he had hired a boy to carry most of that. At Ch’ung T’ien Men, for instance, approximately half-way up, as its name suggests, there were two or three temples and as many tea-houses, a terrace from which one could gloat over the ascent that already lay below, and a view of the flat plain stretching away interminably from the foot of the mountain; and my failure to stop there for refreshments caused as great astonishment among the custom-shackled throng as did my strange Western garb.

At this point the road descends rather sharply for a furlong or more through a ravine, across which the rest of the climb stands in plainest sight, like a stairway to the sky, a ladder rather, for it seems almost perpendicular, and disappearing high above through the archway of a big red structure famed throughout China as the Nan-T’ien-Men—the “South Gate of Heaven.” This furlong is a relief, not only from incessant climbing but from beggars, none of whom are so needy as to choose a station on this damp and shaded slope. They soon began 275again, however, interminable and insistent as before, at the bottom of the remaining ascent. Some one with more taste for statistics than for scenery has computed that there are six thousand steps on this final stairway to Tai-shan, and no one who has made this upper half of the journey by his own exertions will accuse him of exaggeration. But it is not, as common repute would have it, impossible on foot, either because of the steepness of the stairs, the precarious steps, or the danger that beggars or carriers will push one off into space for not contributing the orthodox amount—all of which one may hear from the lips of educated Chinese as well as foreigners even in Peking. The stone steps are uneven, from six inches to a foot wide, the average perhaps eight inches, and some of them are worn to a distinct slope. When they are wet with melting snow, as many things were that day on the upper part of the mountain, only the foolish would set their feet down carelessly upon them, but that could not constitute a worthy reason for intrusting one’s health to a pair of panting coolies who would double the time of the ascent. The beggars, I had gravely been told by a Chinese lady who had lived abroad in several embassies, would simply not allow me to pass if I did not contribute, and as a last resort they would take my offerings by force, so commanding do they become on the mountain at New Year’s time. They were certainly numerous and sturdy enough to have named their own contributions, and there was no visible force that might have curbed them. But they were Chinese—in other words, timid, passive, submissive, in spite of their blustering manner. In regular succession as often as half a dozen steps were surmounted they raised their voices in what might have been mistaken for demands that could not be refused; but just as often their seeming ferocity oozed quickly away into a meek and helpless, and withal a cheerful, resignation as soon as I passed without contributing. One or two, who were women, snatched at my coat-tail or legs, but the hint of a menacing gesture quickly freed me from their noisome attentions, and most of them seemed to be too well fed and contented to rise and run beside me, wailing the “Great Old Excellency!” so familiar in Peking and most other cities of the North. From the plain to the Gate of Heaven the adult mendicants at least seemed to think it exertion enough to squat beside the little fire almost every group had built in the center of its step, and depend on voice and manner—and of course, most valuable of all, ancient custom—for their gleanings. Indeed, one wise old fellow had resorted to absent treatment, remaining in his kennel across the rocky ravine nearly a hundred yards from his scoop on the stairway, 276beating a gong and shouting to attract attention, and no doubt strolling over now and then to carry home the wealth that rained upon him, which his colleagues made no attempt to appropriate.

The “Clouds Stepping Bridge” was the last break in the sheer ascent, which thereafter marched straight up to the southern Gate of Heaven, dense blue from top to bottom with cautious coolies picking their way up or down. Sometimes there was a very old man, half carried by his sons; now and then a limp, white-faced fellow whose exertions had been too much for him came down in the chair he had scorned to take, or could not afford, when he set out. Even on this upper stretch of the journey the stairway was broken by landings, and on these even the sturdiest paused for breath more and more frequently as the red archway slowly descended to meet us. Youths loitered about the steepest places and lent a hand to those who looked likely to reward their efforts, unless one drove them off with scornful gestures. Near the top a great iron chain was set in the rock as a kind of hand-rail but was hardly needed by any whose legs had not deserted them. When at last, a trifle more than four hours after setting out from the railway station, I marched in through the archway, it occurred to me that, beggars, pilgrims, and stairs aside, the climb had been very similar to that up the steeper side of Mount Washington, in New Hampshire, both in the amount of exertion required and the rockiness of the landscape.

A cold wind swept across the summit, in disconcerting contrast to the burning sunshine below the gateway, calling instantly for all the garments my two carriers had brought for me. The climbing was not yet done; in fact it is a good half-mile from the Nan-T’ien-Men to the Taoist temple which crowns the mountain. But this is by a winding, leisurely road passing through several temples in which pilgrims were performing the feats for which they had come. The courtyards of these, neglected by the sun, were littered with heaps of dirty snow, with the ashes of myriad sticks of incense, with the débris of firecrackers and tissue-paper prayers, and as temples they were nothing out of the ordinary, duplicated by hundreds all over China, but famous for their location and the special potencies their gods derive from it. Coolies and peasants made up at least three fourths of the throng kowtowing here, faces touching the ground, burning incense there, lighting big bunches of firecrackers for the edification of some sleepy-eyed god over yonder, rubbing a glass-smooth stone monument from which some form of blessing seems to be extracted by friction; but there were many men 277of the well-to-do and the ostensibly educated classes among them. The scarcity of women and children made each temple compound seem a congress of adult males, and the mixture of Fourth of July boyishness and fishwife credulity with which these men solemnly carried out their superstitious antics would have seemed even more out of place but for their girlish cues and their generally simple, almost childlike manners.

Out on the rock knoll before the highest temple, marked with a stone shaft here and there and swept now by wintry winds out of keeping with the unbroken brilliancy of the day, a few stone-cut characters announce that “Confucius stood here and felt the smallness of the world below.” A wide expanse unfolds on every side, with only the heavens above. One can make out Tzinan, and faintly the Hoang Ho, then a lake of considerable size, and the railway stretching like a hair on the glass into infinity in either direction—a brown world rolling away in a myriad of peaks and knobs and salients of what looks like a boiling landscape suddenly struck solid. I have nowhere been able to find why Tai-shan is a sacred mountain, but it was already so twenty-five hundred years before the Christian era began; perhaps its great sanctity had its start among the largely plain-dwelling Chinese simply because of the comprehensive view of the world below from its summit when there is nowhere the hint of a rag of cloud and only the haziness of great distances limits the power of the eye.

There was a surprising change in the human element of the scene when I descended early in the afternoon. Where there had been crowd after crowd two hours before, in every temple courtyard, in every refreshment-shop, where the great stairway had seemed carpeted from top to bottom with shimmering dark-blue, there were now only scattered individuals, and most of these were lolling or squatting inside the buildings. What had become of the vast throng so suddenly was a mystery; as nearly as I could make out from my guide’s answer they had gone home again. Taoist priests in their black bonnet-caps were enjoying siestas along the stone verandas on the sunny side of their courtyards; worshipers, in so far as they remained at all, were sipping tea and wielding chop-sticks, or doing nothing whatever, in the den-like places where their patronage had been so vociferously solicited in the morning. The completest change of all had come over the beggars. Their shallow baskets, barely sprinkled now with “cash,” lay in constant succession in the center of the stairway as before, but in the whole descent I doubt whether as many as a dozen mendicants were there in person to make a vocal appeal. Perhaps the rules of their union 278forbade labor at this hour—which reminds me that the medical mission school in Tzinan can rarely get the bodies of beggars for dissection, numerous as they are in life, because the beggars’ gild insists on giving them honorable burial—and the corpses of criminals, readily furnished by the Government, are useless in the study of the brain, because the modern substitute for the headsman’s sword in China is an officer who steps up and blows the back of the culprit’s head off with a revolver. The general desertion of their stations looked, however, more like the contented retirement of craftsmen whose wants were amply satisfied by a part-day’s exertion. They sat off the trail against sunny rocks or beneath an occasional evergreen, or about the mouths of their huts and caves, gossiping, quarreling, scratching, and otherwise heartily enjoying themselves, especially sleeping in their grass-floored nests, scorning to exert themselves even to the extent of a pleading word or glance at likely passers-by. Their untended baskets were plea enough, if charity was still abroad—and evidently honor is no less among beggars than among thieves, for no one seemed in the least concerned lest some one else appropriate the coins meant for him.

We passed now and then a few descending pedestrians, and two or three going down in chairs. Those who have tried it say that there is the exhilaration of dancing in the descent of Tai-shan in these misnamed contrivances, especially down this upper half of it. For though the stairway is continuous here, it is frequently and regularly broken by landings, and the technique of the chair-bearers, handed down perhaps from remote antiquity, is to trot down each cluster of stairs, then saunter slowly across the landing, perhaps shifting shoulders upon it, before jogging suddenly down the next flight. So the descent is like a rhythmic dropping through space, something suggestive of waltzing by airplane, soothing or terrifying, according to the nerve adjustment of the rider. A few belated pilgrims, mainly women on their pitiful feet, were still laboring upward; but the way was almost clear, and two hours below the summit found us strolling away down the last gentle slope between old cypresses. Once, before we entered the square-walled town of Taian, my companion dragged me aside into a temple to “see something good see,” and one of those mixtures of rowdy and beggar which so many Chinese priests become unlocked a kind of chapel containing an ugly gilded statue that pretended to have human arms and legs, the latter crossed in Buddhist repose. The story has it that a monk sat on this table until he starved himself to death as a short cut to Nirvana, but the thing was a mere dressed-up mummified corpse 279arranged to mulct credulous coolies of their precious coppers. It was an outbreak of barbarism worthy the Catholicism of Latin America and many times more surprising in a land which, whatever else it has to be ashamed of, is not particularly given to this form of savagery.

Inside the walled city, too, I came upon the first deliberate obscenities I had so far seen in the Middle Kingdom. A great fair was in full swing in the grounds of a temple, and among the large colored photographs which several story-tellers inserted in the double-panel screens they had set up to illustrate their chanted tales, were quite a number depicting such things as women nude to the waist. A slight breach indeed in many another land; but in China, where the subject of sex so rarely receives public recognition, it meant almost an open parading of immorality. But New Year’s season seems to bring a relaxation even of morals, and especially does gambling, quite publicly and without distinction as to age or sex, rage throughout China during that fortnight, as it did not at scores of places within these temple grounds. They were vast, and shaded by magnificent old trees, with a wall as mighty as that of the city itself surrounding them, and still with room to spare, though all the hawkers, traders, and money-changers for many li roundabout seemed to be gathered there. At one end stood a mighty hall, famed for its four colossal wooden statues, which still did not reach the lofty beams of the roof nor seem cramped within the walls on which ancient frescos were still moderately well preserved. Here, as everywhere that a wooden god is housed in this holy land of China, stood begging priests and a receptacle heaped with “cash” and coppers flung at it by passing pilgrims. The latter are no doubt the principal source of income of Taianfu, yet prosperity seemed more at home there than in the great majority of China’s smaller cities. Time was when the people knew prosperity would depart at the building of the American Methodist Mission just outside the walls, but both the mission and the prosperity seem to increase rather than to languish.

When the Germans, something more than a decade ago, built that portion of the Tientsin-Pukow Railway which runs through Shantung, they naturally planned to have it touch Chufou, sacred to Confucius. But their surveyors insisted that the line must cut across the long cypress avenue between his temple and his grave, and rather than permit such a desecration Chufou did without the railroad. Perhaps it is fitting, anyway, that those who come to honor the great sage should bump by “Peking cart” the twenty li between the station, a short two 280hours south of Tai-shan, and the town; for did not Confucius himself suffer in some such contraption while vainly hawking his wisdom to and fro through the land we now know as China? At least, sinologues assure us that the cart antedates Confucius, and certainly there has been no notable improvement in it since its first appearance, for that would be un-Chinese. Tucked away inside by a solicitous seeker after gratuities who had furnished several pillows by the simple method of stripping a few hotel beds, one expects a “Peking cart” to ride rather well—until the first jolt disabuses him. There may be roads smooth enough to make such traveling comfortable, but they do not grow in China. How many times one side or the other of the vehicle deliberately reached over and severely thumped me here, there, or elsewhere during that six miles across a fertile sea-flat plain which should have been as easy-riding as the labyrinthian road should have been direct I have no means of computing. I do recall, however, wishing a thousand times that the mule who tossed with me would be a little less deliberate and have it over with, only to thank fortune a second later when something, anything brought him to a momentary halt.

If Confucius could return to the old town he would certainly be disappointed—or am I imbuing him with a modern point of view to which he could not attain even by reincarnation? Judging by the effect several hundred centuries of his philosophy have had on his countrymen, I doubt on second thought whether he would lose any sleep over the insignificant fact that before he could reach his own compound he would have to wade at least calf-deep in oozy black mud for a mile or so, between mud hovels at which our pigs would curl their tails in wrath, stared upon by a redundancy of people to whom his native soil seems preferred as covering to cotton or wool. At worst he would probably quickly forget it, once inside his own private domain, especially if the thought of the streets and of “Peking carts” were not embittered by the necessity of returning to the station. The wall of Chufou has a circuit of four miles, and a third of the area within is taken up by the temple of Confucius and the residence of his lineal descendant. One steps directly from an unspeakable street into the vast enclosure, broken up by wall behind wall and building behind building in the style common to Chinese construction. First comes a forest of tile roofs, each covering a single turtle-supported stone shaft set up by this or that Chinese emperor. There are several rows of these, with perhaps a dozen in a row, larger and many times better built than the home of the 281average living Chinese. Above them, as through all the subdivisions of the great enclosure, rise old cypress-trees affording the sylvan pleasures of shade, the singing of birds, and the murmur of swaying branches. In the principal courtyard the stump of a pagoda-tree reputed to have been planted by the sage himself is preserved under a little glass-sided temple, a miniature of those in the outer yard. This is popularly believed to take on new life through another sprout as often as one dies, thus bridging all the centuries between the planter and present-day China, and certainly a large old tree of the same variety now leans forth from what seems to be the same root. Beyond is an open temple of kiosk shape where Confucius sat under a plum-tree and taught—even in winter no doubt, for he was probably as impervious to cold and discomfort as are the Chinese of to-day in their cotton-padded garments.

The great main temple about which all else centers has often been described in detail, so that all who read of such things should know that it is a hundred and thirty-five by eighty-four feet in area and seventy-eight high, with a portico upheld by nine far-famed stone pillars intricately carved with dragons. What seems to be less widely known is the impressive simplicity of that great structure, especially of the interior, dimly yet amply lighted through paper windows, and as strikingly free from the cluttering of painted idols which crowd most Chinese temples as is the whole enclosure from beggars and sycophant priests. A seated statue of the sage, ten feet high, occupies an alcove in the center of the room, facing the great doors. He wears the ancient scholar costume, culminating in a head-dress from which our mortarboard cap might have been derived, being a flat thing some two feet long, with ropes strung with beads, hanging well down over his face, which greatly resemble the warnings that our railroads hang on either side of low bridges as a caution to their brakemen to duck their heads. Above the alcove a slab of wood bearing four characters boldly announces Confucius the “Master Exemplar of All Ages”; before it stands the spirit tablet, the table on which sacrificial food is offered, and a great iron urn filled with the ashes of countless joss-sticks. On the right and left are the images of the “twelve disciples” of Confucius, a number which seems to have been purposely reached, by including the “boob” among his pupils and the commentator on his Classics who lived during the Sung dynasty—something like adorning the tombstone of Shakspere with the name of some professor who had edited a school 282edition of his works. Yet spaciousness on either hand, and upward to the old painted beams supporting the tile roof, is the impression likely to stay longest with the visitor from the West.

The original temple was built on this spot in 478 B.C., and to realize how slightly Chinese worship of the illustrious dead has changed during all the centuries since, one has only to drop into the former home of Li Hung-chang in Tientsin and note how similar in all its details is the temple in which his spirit tablet is enthroned. With each renovation there came an increase in size, until the shrine of Confucius became the vast cypress-shaded enclosure it is to-day. Many priests are attached to it, but they spend their time in learning the elaborate ritual and intricate forms of ceremony used during the spring and autumn festivals, so that regular and frequent worship, as we who live in Christian lands understand it, is scarcely practised. At stated periods the lineal descendant of Confucius comes to burn incense and offer food before the statue, as every Chinese son is expected to do before the graves of his ancestors. Pilgrims, too, come in great numbers, especially at certain seasons; but there is nothing similar to the daily mass or the weekly service of our churches.

Behind this main temple—which means on the cold north side of it, since every properly constructed Chinese temple faces south—is a smaller, much more severely simple hall containing the spirit tablet of Mrs. Confucius, though just which one is not specified. A spirit tablet, by the way, is a varnished or painted piece of wood a foot or two high, narrow and thin, bearing in three carved and usually gilded characters the posthumous name under which the deceased is honored, and set upright in the place sacred to him. At one side are two other temples, of the parents of Confucius, identically arranged. That is, the father is represented by a statue, in scholar’s costume, and the mother by a mere tablet, in a building following as meekly after that of her lord and master as does the Chinese wife in the flesh to this day. Why not statues of the wife and mother also, I asked the first man of learning willing to strain his understanding to catch my mispronounced meaning, though almost certain what the answer would be. It would be improper, he explained, politely, as to one with the ignorance of a new-born child, indecent, to speak plainly, to have a female statue, particularly in a sacred place. Given the ramshackle, filthy condition of a very large number of Chinese temples, the care with which all these were kept up was striking. But even these were not fleckless, especially those of the wife and the mother, where everything was covered with dust and the 283bare resounding chambers had a lonely air, as if very few ever took the trouble to come and burn incense to mere females.

I might, with a little effort or foresight, have come to Chufou properly introduced to meet the present head of the Kung family, which is the one we know by the name Confucius. But he is a mere boy—the prince who long held that position having recently died—and was certain to be in no manner different from a million other Chinese youths of the well-to-do class. Besides, though he passes as the seventy-fourth descendant in direct male line from the sage, he is in plain fact nothing of the sort. For the Confucius family, like many others in China, illustrious or commonplace, has now and then been forced to adopt a son to keep the line unbroken; even if a generation is not entirely sterile mere daughters are wasted effort in preserving a Chinese lineage. T’ai Tsung, nearly fifteen centuries after the death of the sage, bestowed posthumous honors upon the descendants of Confucius for the past forty-four generations, and exempted those to come from taxation, a privilege they still enjoy.

It is some two miles from the town itself to the grave of Confucius, by a worn-out avenue of ancient and bedraggled cypresses. “Those with letters of introduction, or persons of distinction,” explains the nearest approach to a guide-book of this region that is to be had, “are the only ones admitted; but others may be by tipping the guardian.” As if any one could possibly have gotten this far afield in China without knowing as much! The custodian was an unsoaped, one-eyed coolie who lay in wait just inside the first ornamental gateway, before which a pair of stone tigers, two lin (sacred animals unknown to natural history), and stone statues of two gigantic gentlemen known as Weng and Chung, stood on guard. A tablet over this, or one of the other several entrances we passed on the half-mile walk that remained to the grave itself, announced it the “Tomb of the All-Accomplished and Most Saintly Prince Wen Hsüan,” a posthumous title by which the sage would scarcely recognize himself. There were fields to be crossed, sometimes along ways lined by trees, a landscape covered far and wide with ordinary graves, a small stream, finally a locked and bolted gateway through a temple-like building, before our walk ended. But when it did it was at a last resting-place that even the Western world would have approved, perhaps have envied. Venerable old trees whispering with last year’s dead leaves rose above the secluded spot, yet not so thickly as to cut off the arch of the blue heavens or to more than filter the brilliant sunshine. Birds flitted here and there. It was such a spot 284as could scarcely be found in any Occidental cemetery, for not even the formality of granite tombstones or graveled walks between the graves was there to mar the sylvan charm. Stones there were, a single plain slab before each of the three mounds, but with only three characters in the old rounded script on each of them, and the softening hand of time, perhaps of centuries, to bring them into harmony with the scene, they seemed as naturally in place as did the old trees stretching their arms above them. Cone-shaped, as is the custom in China, but many times larger than the graves strewn by millions throughout the land, the mounds were simple hillocks, covered now with winter-brown grass. The slightly larger one, the characters on its stone in gold instead of red, was of the sage himself; that on the east covered the remains of his only son, while before the main mound rose a third that caused dispute among the several hangers-on who had accompanied me, so that I have no certain means of knowing whether it is that of the sage’s brother, his father, or his grandson.

Kung Fu-tze, as he is known in his native land, was born some twelve miles eastward from Chufou, in the village of Ni-San, now under the rule of bandits, and has been dead only a little more than twenty-four hundred years. In those days the small states that eventually coagulated into what we know as China were separate principalities, of which modern Shantung alone contained four, Confucius being a native of the one called Lu. He was already teaching at twenty-two, and studied much history. It is hard to avoid the suspicion that there was not much of anything more exciting to do for a young man wading the streets of Chufou twenty-five centuries ago; hence undue credit should not be given this particular youth for frequenting libraries rather than pool-rooms. A few decades of his life seem to have passed without anything particularly worth recording; but what are a few decades in China? Whatever else he passed this time at, there is no question that the studious young man was doing everything in his power, short of overstepping the easy marital laws of Lu, to beget him a son, in which he eventually succeeded. At length he emerges again from obscurity “at the early age of fifty-five,” as a chief city magistrate. The elections seem to have run his way, for we behold him soon afterward the acting minister of state—that unsatisfactory prefix probably being due to the fact, if one may judge by the politics of present-day China, that his appointment was not confirmed by Parliament. As such he “put an end to all crime,” evidently a simple little matter in those days, perhaps because “squeeze” was not included. But the old prince of Lu died 285and the new one abandoned himself to sensual pleasures, and at length Confucius quit the job and went on the road. Once it broke out, he seems to have had as serious a case of wanderlust as any ordinary mortal, for he rambled for thirteen years, looking in vain—so at least he told the story to sympathetic listeners—for a prince who would follow his advice and set up a model administration. The briefest reflection will remind the most thoughtless how times have changed in this matter of reformers since then.

If it were not improper to be critical toward so venerable an old gentleman, one might voice the suspicion that Confucius did not suffer severely from lack of self-confidence, for he repeatedly stated that he would produce a faultless administration and do away with all crime within three years in the domain of any prince who would hire him. Alas, if only he were back, be it only in the principality of Lu! No present member of the human race, unless perhaps a “practical politician,” will have the cynicism to suppose that the offer of this wandering Luluite was not eagerly competed for from the eight points of the Chinese compass. Yet the truth is far worse than that: he found no takers whatever! What was left for him, then, but to come back home and write a book? In fact, during those last three years of his life in Chufou he wrote five books, bringing himself unquestionably into the class with almost any of our modern novelists, though he succeeded in gathering about him only three thousand disciples. Population was scarcer in China twenty-five hundred years ago, of course, and publicity hardly a science at all. However, whatever he lacked in numbers he made up in quality, for no fewer than seventy-two of this handful became “proficient in the six departments of learning.” From these he chose ten as “master disciples,” granting them whatever passed for sheepskins in those days “for attainment in Virtue, Literature, Eloquence, and—and Politics!”

It is chiefly through these chosen followers, who wrote his “Discourses and Dialogues,” that Confucius became famous—and, like Christ, greatly misconstrued—and laid the foundation of China’s ethical and political life. But he could scarcely have had more than an inkling of the fame that was to accrue to him in later centuries, for his honors have been mainly posthumous, and it was not until twelve hundred and seventeen years after his death that he was made the “Prince of Literary Enlightenment!” Why, then, this hectic eagerness of modern man to attain to fame even before the sod has closed over him? I wonder, too, if the great sage would swell with pride at his achievements 286if he could come back and wander again through the grave-strewn, soiled and hungry, wickedly overpopulated, politically chaotic China of to-day. Surely he could not plead innocence of helping to bring about her present woes, for one of the most famous of his dictums, which have had so much influence on Chinese life for many centuries, runs “He who is not in office has no concerns with plans for the administration of its duties.” Where can be found, in so few words, the explanation of what is mainly wrong with the ancient empire which so erroneously now calls itself a republic?

Personally I should have preferred to Chufou the birthplace of Mencius, some thirty miles still farther southward, for there hills rise above the plain, growing larger beyond. Tsowhsien is a more enterprising town, too, with an electric light plant that had just been installed by an American company, and less of the air of making an easy living out of pilgrims than either Taianfu or the home of Confucius. Perhaps it has to thank the lesser fame of Mencius for this more manly attitude, for though he is reckoned second, or at worst third, among China’s sages, not one person in ten, even in his native province of Shantung, seemed to know where he lived and died. Pilgrims do come to Tsowhsien, for it is on the direct line of places of pilgrimage through this holy land of China; but Mencius has only dozens or scores of visitors where Confucius has thousands.

The green roof of his chief temple rises among the trees within easy sight from the railway. If the rest of the land somewhat neglects him, his native town bears him constantly in mind, and any street urchin can point out the monument marking the spot where he traded his shoes for a book, or where other typical escapades are immortalized in stone slabs, in spite of the fact that centuries of a swarming population have left them sad, slum-like spots. Chinese celebrities have, of course, an advantage over those of the Occident in being kept before the attention of posterity. Public monuments and dwelling-house museums are all very well, but how much more certain of constant attention Shakspere or Washington would be had they direct male descendants, overlooking an adoption now and then, whose main business in life it would be, generation after generation, to worship at the shrine of these illustrious ancestors and see to it that the things sacred to their memories grow and prosper.

The present head of the Meng family—for the name of the chief successor of Confucius was really Meng Tse—is a man in middle life, who dwells inside a big high-walled compound across the street from 287that enclosing the temples; and he evidently bears a striking resemblance to less fame-pursued Chinese of his class, for information reached us that he was just then busily engaged in feasting some friends. Except that it is considerably smaller and less imposing, the temple grounds of Mencius are quite similar to those of his more famous forerunner. Aged cypresses and the marks of time give it dignity and a certain charm; the statue of the sage wears the same bead-veiled scholar’s head-dress, and a costume as exactly similar as if it had been copied by a Chinese tailor; behind him is the meeker temple of his consort, containing only her spirit tablet; at one side are the smaller but almost identical shrines of his parents. If there is anything unique about the place it must be the birds nesting in the tall trees in the unoccupied back of the compound, beautifully graceful white birds that resemble both cranes and herons, yet do not seem to be exactly either. The information that they are found nowhere else in China was disputed by some of those who heard it.

The day was delightful, fleckless and summery as if it had been three months later, and we should willingly have lingered longer among the cypress-sighing shades of Mencius, had it not been beyond the power of man to shake off the influx of childish soldiers, street urchins of all ages, and every inquisitive male of Tsowhsien who caught sight of us in time, that had burst through the opened gate and swirled about us like molten scoriæ wherever we moved. My companion, I have neglected to mention, was a robust American missionary with headquarters away down in the southern corner of Shantung, who was kind enough to initiate me into the devout sport of “itinerating.” From the home of Mencius we were to strike out across country by wheelbarrow. To the man who, before the present century began, had already grown to recognize that as his chief means of locomotion, there was far less thrill in the thought of wheelbarrowing than there would have been in the unusual experience of taking a street-car; but to me it was something entirely new in the field of travel. The passenger wheelbarrows of Shantung are of two kinds,—small and large, city and country, short or long distance, according to the individual choice of dividing line. In town they are merely two cushioned, straight-backed benches on either side of the high wooden wheel, on which six or eight crippled women may ride comfortably, sitting sidewise. But for cross-country work a larger, sturdier breed is used, with room for several hundredweight of baggage and a pair of the owners thereof stretched out upon it, feet forward, like a sultan on his divan. In town one man usually bears the whole burden; out in the country there must be at least another tugging at a rope ahead—unless one be wealthy enough to replace him with a donkey or an ox—besides the fellow gasping between the back handles, with the woven strap between them over his shoulders. For a very long trip, say twenty to thirty miles in a day, it is considered more humane, or at least more certain, to have a third man between the front shafts or handles which the country variety possesses.

Making two Chinese elders of a Shantung village over into Presbyterians

Messrs. Kung and Meng, two of the many descendants of Confucius in Shantung flanking one of those of Mencius

Some of the worst cases still out of bed in the American leper-home of Tenghsien, Shantung, were still full of laughter

Off on an “itinerating” trip with an American missionary in Shantung, by a conveyance long in vogue there. Behind, one of the towers by which messages were sent, by smoke or fire, to all corners of the old Celestial Empire

289In the good old days, only a few years ago, in fact, the usual wages for a barrow-man in rural Shantung were five cents a day—and he saved money on that. Now things have reached a pretty pass, for each man may expect as much as thirty cents, though actually to demand that would almost rank him among the profiteers, the radicals, the undesirable element of the working-classes, and to pitch one’s demands too high in China is likely apt to result in losing one’s job to the three hundred and sixty-five other men who are eagerly waiting to snatch it. To be sure, these wages are not so dreadful as they seem, for they are in “Mex,” and nowadays the use of the wheelbarrow is included.

Perhaps it was because we generously paid this highest price that our two men bowled along as rapidly as a “Peking cart,” and many times more smoothly, so evenly in spite of the broken foot-path along the pretense of a road we followed that one could read as easily as on any train. But their best possible speed seems to be a characteristic of most of the barrow-men of Shantung, as does a constant cheerfulness that is always breaking out in broad smiles or laughter at the slightest provocation, as if their joy at having another chance to exercise their magnificent calling could not be contained. Unless the passenger is so inexperienced and squeamish that the gasping of his human draft-animal just behind him prickles his conscience, the wheelbarrow of the country variety comes close to being China’s most comfortable form of land travel. It has little of the cruel bumping and vicious jolting of a two-wheeled cart; there is far less labor involved in reclining on an improvised divan than in bestriding an animal; even a rubber-tired rickshaw is given to sudden protests at the inequalities of the surface of China. Besides, two rickshaws can rarely travel side by side, whereas the men stretched out on either flank of a barrow-wheel may discuss religion, philosophy, and the natural equality of man without once straining the ears or losing a word. One might go further and praise the exclusiveness, the sense of Cleopatran luxury, the freedom of route which makes the barrow so much preferable to a train packed with undisciplined soldiers and as many of the common, ticket-buying variety of unbathed Celestials as can crowd into the space these putative defenders of the country graciously leave unoccupied. The train makes more speed, perhaps; but what is so out of keeping with the spirit of China as haste? The minor circumstance that there must be mutual agreement between the two passengers on a wheelbarrow as to when to ride and when to walk might conceivably be a disadvantage, but there is no reason it should be if the one more given to walking will bear in 290mind the plumpness of his companion and its proper preservation. From the distance of the Western world the impression may arise that the barrow-men must consider these fellows, whom they wheel about like the latest pair of twins, rather weak and sorry members of the human family. But this is merely another way of saying that the Occidental can quickly lose his way in the labyrinth of the Chinese mind. The reaction of the sweating coolies seemed to be, not, “I wish this overfed pair of loafers would get off and walk a while,” but a kind of pride at being associated with men of such wealth and standing, mingled with the feeling, built up through many generations, that naturally persons of finer clay should not bemean themselves by tramping like a coolie, and topped off with the impression that if the gentlemen call a halt and take to their feet it is because the wheeling is not entirely satisfactory, which quickly brings in its train the dread that one of those three hundred and sixty-five other men eagerly waiting for such a job will get it next time.

We passed two of the “telegraph” towers of old-time China that afternoon, square-cut stone and mud structures large as a two-story house, from the now crumbling and grass-grown tops of which news and orders were sent from end to end of the Middle Kingdom. Fires were the signals by night and a dense black column of smoke from burning wolf’s dung by day. Particularly were they used when more troops were needed at the capital, and the story runs that one emperor who flashed forth the call for a general mobilization just because his favorite concubine wished to see the discomfiture on the faces of the exasperated soldiers shortly afterward found his rôle in the hands of one of the eager understudies. Cues are still no abnormality in China as a whole, but one is struck by their almost universal retention in Shantung. The Manchus, it is said, ordered cues to be worn not so much because they had worn them for centuries themselves as in order to be able to tell a man from a woman, if some of their rather effeminate new subjects chose to disguise themselves, for both sexes had long hair up to that time. It seems that when orders were given, after the overthrow of the Ch’ing dynasty, that this badge of Manchu servitude be removed, the execution depended largely upon the provincial and local authorities. In some places men were given the choice between losing their pigtails or their heads, and they had less difficulty in deciding upon the relative value of these two adornments than might have been the case had the question been left to an impartial committee. But the military ruler of Shantung during the first years of the republic was a 291monarchist who had no use for this new republican stuff, and who did what he could to return the emperor to the throne; therefore the people under him dared in few cases to remove what amounted to a badge of loyalty. Now that a decade has passed and the making of hair-nets has become one of the principal industries of the province, when even the boy “emperor” in Peking has adopted the Western hair-cut, one would think that the masculine braid would disappear. But personal beauty is a matter of taste, and the Chinese mind is famous for the number of cogs in that section of it devoted to the preserving of established customs—as China goes, the wearing of a cue can scarcely be called an old one—and on the subject of barbering the country seems at present to be about at a status quo.

It was the sixteenth day of the first moon, our March 3, the last big holiday of the Chinese New Year’s season. Thus, though we had seen endless streams of people, the men as nearly spotless as they would ever be during this Year of the Pig, the women in their gayest garments, which in most cases meant blue or red silk jackets above bright red trousers tapering down to tiny white baby-shoes, ears and glossy oiled hair adorned with their most precious trinkets, the children dolled up like the principal actors in a Chinese drama—though, I say, we had seen many thousand of these pouring into Tenghsien for one of the chief celebrations of the year, there were no people whatever working in the fields, which this far south were quite ready for the first spring tilling. Besides, much of the land in this region is given over to winter wheat, planted in October and now just beginning to tinge with green the vast yellowish brown of the typical North China landscape. When at length we had been wheeled, like a load of bricks, to the gateway of Chung-Hsin-Tien, we paused and dismounted, for it is a gross breach of Chinese etiquette to ride into or through a town where you have friends—or to speak from a vehicle or the back of an animal to a friend on foot. A remnant of this point of view, members of the A.E.F. will recall, survives in American army regulations.

“Middle-Heart-Inn” was for centuries a place of great importance, being the half-way stopping-place of all travel on the old Peking-to-Shanghai route. Then the railroad came, a decade ago, passing it by without even naming a station in its honor, and it sank to the large miserable village within a long, rambling, broken mud wall which we found it. Moreover, it had been struck by hail the autumn before and the crops just outside its wall had suffered more severely than anywhere 292else in the devastated area. One was in luck, I gathered, not to have been caught out in that storm without an umbrella. The country people of all that region solemnly assert that the hailstones were as large as tea-pots, and American missionaries bravely run the risk of being charged with perjury by asserting that they saw with their own eyes some as big as grape-fruit. One of the stork-heron birds from the compound of Mencius was struck dead, and several severe injuries to people were reported.

My companion still had left a few hundred dollars from what had been given him for distribution among famine sufferers, and our first act after installing ourselves in the mud hut that served as a mission station and partaking of the heavy repast which a few of the faithful had insisted on providing—and on clashing chop-sticks with us over—was to set out on a visiting tour among those pointed out by the chief local Christians as in urgent need of assistance. I was struck with the thoroughness with which my companion prepared for the coming distribution. He refused to give any aid whatever to cases which he could not personally inspect, and he had lived in China long enough to know most of the tricks of the unworthy. Anywhere in the United States, not even excluding the “poor white” and negro communities of the South, the entire population of Chung-Hsin-Tien would have seemed at a glance to need the assistance of charity. But in China one must be ragged and dirty and possessionless and hungry-looking indeed to stand out visibly from the millions always more or less in the same predicament. Hut after hut we entered to find not a Mexican dollar’s worth of anything within it. A bit of crumpled straw or a few rags of what had once been cotton-padded garments served in most cases as bed, sometimes on a small k’ang that could be heated—had there been anything to heat it with—more often on the earth floor itself. Then there might be from two to half a dozen mud-ware jars and shallow baskets in which the family habitually kept its possessions, and possibly one or two peasant’s tools. That was all, in sight at least; and the people had had no warning that a benefactor was coming. It seemed to be taken for granted that my companion would consider every one a deceptive rascal until he had personally proved himself to the contrary, and not only were there no protests against our entering every hovel, but invitations to do so, in spite of the breach in Chinese domestic customs involved.

We felt into every jar and basket, prodded into every corner and nest of rags, to make sure that the family did not have more than the 293handful of grain they admitted. In no case, I believe, was any deception discovered, but my conscientious companion not only continued until darkness fell that Saturday evening, but violated his religious scruples by spending much of the Sabbath afternoon at the same task. Sometimes it was an old man living alone, with literally nothing but a few handfuls of chaff and the hulls of beans to feed upon. More often there was a wife and several children to share such splendid provisions. Not a few lived in yin-tse instead of huts,—holes cut in the ground and roofed over with sticks, straw, and mud, with a crude ladder or notched pole by which we descended through a small opening to the dark interior. The missionary was particularly scrupulous in entering all of these, for they often serve as the rendezvous of gamblers, and he trusted to his experienced eyes to make fairly sure that a cave was not this, but actually a poor man’s dwelling. There was a similar hole in the ground, though uncovered and with earth steps leading down to it, in the yard of the local “mission,” for in the winter it is more comfortable to hold school or gossip in such a place, out of reach of the wind, yet in the sunshine, than in the dreary, unheated mud huts.

Sometimes only the woman and the children were at home, and the only decent way to inquire of her about her husband, according to Chinese etiquette, was to refer to him indirectly as her wai-tou or nan-ren, her “outside” or her “male person.” Perhaps he had gone to Manchuria, with the millions of coolies who set out for there soon after the Chinese New Year, their belongings in a soiled quilt roll. Compared with densely populated Shantung, where ten villages within five square miles is nothing unusual, the “Eastern Three Provinces” are sparsely peopled and wages are correspondingly high. From Chefoo to Dairen the poorest steamers cross in a day, and the railroads offer reduced rates to migrating coolies—furnishing them open freight-cars for their journeys. But there is more snow than work in Manchuria during the winter; moreover, any Chinese with a proper respect for his ancestors will return to his home among their graves at least for the beginning of the new year, so that much time and some wages are lost in traveling to and fro. Sometimes the “outside” was working in another part of the province. There is, of course, no slavery in China; so long-civilized a land would not tolerate such an institution. But many of the “gentry” and landowners of Shantung, and of other provinces, no doubt, profit by the excess of population by paying a man five “Mex” dollars a year and his food for his labor, and making no provision whatever for his family.

294But there was no real famine in Chung-Hsin-Tien, my companion concluded. No one was actually starving—though how some of them kept from doing so on their visible means of support was beyond me. Under-nourishment was common; the only plentiful thing in town was children, especially boys, perhaps because of the custom of even the poorest of keeping the girls out of sight. For nature seems to take revenge on the Chinese for their ardent desire for male offspring. How often the traveler who has the audacity to pursue his questions far enough—for Chinese friends do not greet one another with inquiries as to the health of their respective families—will finally unearth the shamefaced answer, “All girls.” Some had sold their land—a mou, or about the sixth of an acre, at fourteen dollars “Mex” perhaps—to carry them over the winter, some their last household goods that would bring a copper; one man who was so far above the lower level as to have no hope of outside assistance answered my joking query as to the price of the most likable of his small sons with a quick, “Take him along!” But none had been reduced to the final necessity of tearing down their miserable houses in order to sell the few sticks of wood in them; hence there were deserving, but not urgent, cases.

The native helper had filled a huge sheet of red paper with the names and particulars of each family visited, to the dictation of my companion, who divided them into first-, second-, and third-class cases. The first were the most needy—the utterly possessionless, they would have seemed to Americans at home—who would be given “full assistance,” that is, a “Mex” dollar or two a month per person until the next harvest began to come in. Second class were those who still had something left—a few pounds of corn meal, a chair that might be sold, a job at a few coppers a day—and they would be helped accordingly. To be inscribed third was proof of comparative affluence; it meant that the family had a goat or a pig, perhaps even a donkey; that one of their jars was still half full of corn or millet or kaoliang, or that they had been caught in the act of smoking tobacco or of having a little handful of the weed in the house, prima facie evidence that they were really not suffering from hunger. To these, small distributions would be made if there was anything left over from the more needy cases. The two impressions, aside from the definition of the word “poverty” in China, which this canvassing left with me were, first, the unfailing cheerfulness, the hair-trigger smile and ready laughter, of even the most miserably destitute, and their tenacious clinging to custom in spite of misfortunes. It seemed never to have suggested itself to the poorest 295family in town that it might be well to limit the number of children it brought into the world to share its perpetual nothing; and mothers who did not have a pot or a whole garment to their names still somehow found cloths with which to bind their daughters’ feet. From their point of view of course this last effort was genuine parental sacrifice; for to leave the girl with whole feet would mean almost certain starvation without a husband instead of only partial starvation with one.

Itinerating missionaries in China can scarcely avoid living up to the biblical injunction to “suffer little children to come unto” them. For their first appearance at the edge of town is the signal for a flocking from all directions, not merely of all the boys and as many of the girls as are not restrained, but of a generous collection of men of all ages, and even some of the boldest women. Chinese and Western courtesy are diametrically opposed in some of their characteristics, and perhaps there is no wider gulf between them than the conception of proper behavior toward strangers. We consider it rude to stare; the Chinese consider it almost an insult not to stare. Like the young ladies of Spanish America, who would take it as much more than a slight on their beauty not to be ogled so brazenly that it becomes almost indecency by the young men lined up on either side of their promenade, so the Chinese high official or man of wealth would be seriously hurt by a failure of the populace to flock about him wherever he appears in public. Simple villagers cannot of course be expected to know that Westerners do not consider this attention so essential, and to that is added the most inquisitive temperament among the races of mankind, a curiosity which, though it is no exaggeration to dub it monkey-like, is probably proof of a higher grade of intelligence than that of more stolid and indifferent peoples. But it is a form of intelligence with which most travelers from the West, I believe, would very willingly dispense, for to be stared at unbrokenly hour after hour by a motionless throng becomes at times the most exasperating of experiences.

It is not of course to the advantage of a missionary to drive off the crowds that gather about him, for he has come to China mainly for the purpose of addressing crowds, and every tendency toward exclusiveness is so much set-back in his chosen work. Naturally, too, it is not fitting in the guest of an itinerating missionary to throw cups of tea or mud bricks in the faces of the compact mob through which may be scattered some of his host’s converts, however strong the temptation may become. During all our stay in Chung-Hsin-Tien, therefore, we 296were like kings at a levée—if we are to believe that kings were ever so thickly attended during the exchanging of their nighties for their breeches. There was a gate to the mission yard, and a padlock that fitted it; but the picking of that even from the outside seemed to be the easiest thing the town did. Besides, the yard was invaded so closely on our heels that nothing would have been gained by locking the gate. The door of the mud house that usually served as church, as well as for the sleeping-room of the local pastor and ourselves, was no barrier to the advance. Long before the preliminary tea was poured for us there was a compact wall of humanity drawn so tightly about us that we could barely move our elbows, and the sea of fixedly staring faces stretched away to infinity out through the yard. Now and then an undercurrent of discontent at inequality of proximity surged through the multitude, to break against our ribs or toss smaller urchins in between our legs and over our knees. When at length it came time to open our cots and sleeping-bags, there was still a large audience to such disrobing as we cared to do under such conditions, and it was an hour or two afterward before the most privileged characters had been convinced that they, too, should retire. Nor were we by any means out of bed next morning when there appeared the vanguard of the throng that was to wall us in all that day. It was hard somehow to understand just why a town which often saw foreigners still came to stand by the hour watching with the fixed eyes of a statue our every slightest movement, be it only the tying of a shoe-lace or the buttoning of a coat.

A large number of those about us bore famous names. Many a Chinese village is made up almost exclusively of persons having the same surname and the same ancestors, and Chung-Hsin-Tien, being no great distance from the birthplace of either, contains many descendants of both Confucius and Mencius. There was Meng the shopkeeper and Kung the cook, both Christians, right within the mission compound, and it was easy to find in any small crowd others bearing those illustrious names. Once I came upon a Mencius squatting in the dirt at the corner nearest the gate, shoveling away with worn chop-sticks a cracked bowlful of some uninviting food, and so ignorant that he fled in dismay when I suggested a photograph, refusing to have his soul thus taken from him. A little farther up the street a Confucius sold peanuts in little heaps at a copper each. Missionaries in this region say that those bearing the two famous names are so numerous that the difficulty of making converts is increased, because they are so proud of their ancestry that 297they will seldom risk the stigma attached to changing to a “foreign” faith. Yet there was a Confucius from this very town who was now a Presbyterian preacher, and the two names appear rather frequently on the church registers of southern Shantung.

Of late years at least it is not unduly easy to become an accepted Christian there. My companion spent half that Sunday morning in putting a dozen candidates through a long catechism, and permitted only two of them to join the church at once, baptizing them—from a tea-cup—at the morning service. It was fully as easy, too, to get out of the church as to get into it; one of the hardest and most important tasks of the missionaries is to see that backsliders are dropped from membership. Almost before we had entered the hole in the mud wall that passed for a city gate a rather addle-pated old man had appeared, hugging his well-worn Bible under his arm; and as long as we remained he hovered close about us, grinning at us upon the slightest provocation, as if to say, “We are brethren, far above this common herd.” He was about the first convert in the region—and one of the chief thorns in the flesh of the itinerator. For the latter had been forced to drop him from the church rolls years before because he had taken a concubine, and there was still no prospect of his being granted forgiveness, even though he had advanced the ingenious argument that he had been compelled to the act by his mother, lest the family graveyards be left without attendants. Yet he continued his church-going as religiously as if he were one of the principal deacons. Perhaps it was just retribution that he still had no son, in spite of his lapse from the tight missionary way. I confess that I did not quite follow the reasoning which made it quite all right to admit the concubine herself to church membership, but I have always been dense on theological niceties.

The day was delightful, and services were held out in the yard. Perhaps twoscore men and half as many women, not to mention a veritable flock of children, crowded together on the narrow little benches taken from the mud-hut church, or stood behind them. I could not but admire the endurance of the missionary, and silently congratulate him on the sturdiness inherited from his “Pennsylvania Dutch” ancestors. For it can scarcely be a mere mental relaxation to talk incessantly, earnestly, and energetically for an hour in a tongue as foreign as the southern Shantung dialect, while Chinese urchins by the dozen, from seatless-trousered infancy to devilish early youth, seemed to be doing their utmost to make life about them unbearable; and when even the adults frequently displayed habits that are not usual in our own church 298gatherings. Or, if this is not enough to try any man’s strength and patience, there was the frequent torture of listening to the horrible imitation of our hymns perpetrated, with missionary connivance, by the congregation. Evidently no Chinese can “hold” a tune, but he can do almost anything else to it which a vivid imagination can picture. Why their own “music” cannot be adapted to religious purposes to better advantage is one of those innumerable questions which flock about the traveler in China like mosquitos in a swamp.

Evening services of almost as strenuous a nature, and many personal conferences on religious or financial matters, plumply filled out the day, and early next morning, when the last clinging convert had been shaken off without the suggestion of violence that would have planted a little nucleus of discontent in the community, we were away again by wheelbarrow. I am in no position to testify as to how strictly the few Christians of Chung-Hsin-Tien lived up to their faith in every-day life, but they, and no small number of their as unwashed and ragged fellow-townsmen, missed mighty little of the vaudeville performance which the appearance of a foreigner or two in almost any Chinese town seems to be considered by the inhabitants. This time we had three barrow-men, one of them a first-class candidate for famine relief funds, whose insistent smile at this unexpected windfall of a job was less surprising than the mulish endurance he somehow got out of a chaff and bean-hull diet. Less brute strength is required, however, in the handling of a Chinese wheelbarrow than appearances suggest. During the afternoon I changed places for a bit with the coolie between the front handles, and while I would not care to adopt barrowing as a profession while some less confining source of livelihood remains to me, the thing ran, on the level at least, more like a perambulator than the most optimistic could have imagined. The Chinese are adepts in the art of balancing, and the wheelbarrow, like the rickshaw and the “Peking cart,” is so adjusted as to call for less exertion than the sight of it suggests. Ups and downs, sand or soft earth, sheer edges of “road,” and the passing of many similar vehicles where there is no room to pass, however, make an all-day journey no mere excursion even to a team of three barrow-men.

Women and children were scratching about here and there in the fields; the men were bringing manure in two big baskets fixed on a barrow, such as carry the night-soil of Peking out through the city gates, and were piling it in little mounds differing from the myriad 299graves only in size. The New Year season was visibly over, and the incessant working-days had come again. Somehow the name “Shantung” had always called up the picture of a half-wild region, in spite of the protests of reason; I found it instead very thoroughly tamed, as befits one of the most populous regions on the globe—tamed at least in the agricultural sense. When it came to such afflictions as bandits, officials, and the Yellow River there is still much taming to be done in the province of Confucius.

We passed almost incessantly through villages. High on the tops of the smooth, bare hills that grew up as we advanced were rings of what seemed to be stone, refuges built at the time of the Taiping Rebellion, which came to a standstill in this very region. They were only walls, with perhaps still a well inside, though the suspicion was growing that bandits were finding a new use for them. Once we passed close on the left an isolated stony peak that is as sacred as Tai-Shan, though much less famous. Thousands of country people climb it, especially in the New Year season, either as their only penance excursion, or as a part of their pilgrimage through all the holy land of China. It is a rough and uninviting climb, but nowhere is filial devotion more generously rewarded, if we are to believe the faithful. Therefore one may on almost any day see the son of an ailing father, dressed only in his Chinese trousers, holding his hands with palms together in front of him, a stick of burning incense between them, marching to the top of the mountain without once taking his eyes off the rising thread of smoke before him. A crowd follows close behind, and one of these carries the clothing of the devotee, whose father is certain to recover under this treatment—unless one of several hundred little incidents occur to make the penance useless.

That night, in the mission-owned mud hut of another unlaundered town, my companion preached a long sermon full of energy to a congregation of five, one of whom was part-witted, two often asleep, and another merely one of our barrow-men. Only the village “doctor,” whose training consisted of a year as coolie in a mission hospital, kept his attention strictly on the business in hand, as should be expected of the chief, even though somewhat fragile, pillar of Christendom in the region. There had been an audience of goodly size for such a locality in the early part of the evening. Not only was the hut crowded with the score it would hold, but at least twice as many more blocked the open door or flattened their noses against the single dirty window. But a few rifle-shots had suddenly sounded somewhere off toward the hills. 300Bandits had raided, looted, and kidnapped in this town several times during the year just over; and though there was no sudden exodus—for the Chinese must “save face” under all circumstances—the audience melted steadily away until only the five remained. The itinerating missionary, however, must never let outside influences affect even the tone of the message he is ever seeking to deliver. Whatever his benefits to the field he is cultivating—and a wide experience is needed to acquire any certain knowledge on this subject—he at least still has some of the hardships of early missionary days, which his thousands of well housed colleagues, even in China, only know by hearsay.

Tenghsien seemed to be far enough south to be tinged with the problems and customs of southern China. Its dialect was audibly at variance with that of Peking, even to an ear of slight Chinese training. On the wall of the vault-like passage through the southern city gate hung several time-blackened wooden crates containing the shoes of former magistrates. It is one of the politenesses of the region to stop a departing magistrate at the gate and remove his footwear, as a way of saying, “We hate so badly to see you leave that we will do everything within our power to prevent your going.” How careful such an official may be to make sure that the ceremony is not omitted in his case, even though he has to detail the shoe-pilferers, or whether or not he slips on the oldest footwear in his possession that morning, are of course unauthorized peeps behind the scenery such as tend to take all the poetry out of life. We dropped in at the local pawnshop, with which my host was on good terms rather out of policy than necessity, but it was nothing now but a huge compound of empty buildings, crowded together in almost labyrinthian turmoil. The pawnshop is one of the most important institutions in any Chinese community, with many curious little idiosyncrasies unknown to our own displayers of the golden balls, but it can scarcely be expected to continue to function where, between grasping officials and bandits frequently sweeping in from the hills, neither the ticketed articles nor the cash on hand can be kept from disappearing.

The throwing out of sick babies seemed to be a fixed habit in Tenghsien, though one seldom hears of such cases farther north. Millions of Chinese parents believe that if a child dies before the age of six or seven it is because it was really no child at all, but only an evil spirit masquerading as one; and unless it is gotten rid of in time, woe betide the other children of the family, already born or to come. It is preferable apparently that it be eaten by dogs, but above all it 301must not die in the house. The missionaries of Tenghsien have grown to take this custom as a matter of course. If in their movements about town they came upon a discarded baby still alive, they did what they could to relieve its sufferings, but they did not “register” surprise. The Chinese merely passed by on the farther side of the street. To touch an abandoned child would be to invite the evil spirit to your own house, unless it proved, by getting well, to be merely a sick child, and no Chinese is brave enough to run any such risk as that. Not long before my arrival, the mission “Bible woman” had found a girl of two thrown out on a pile of filth, and even she had dared do nothing more than sit and fan the flies off it, until it died. The missionaries, however, have come to be looked upon as immune from these evil spirits. More than one garbage-heap baby graces the mission kindergarten, and a man of some standing now in the town carries on his face the teeth-marks of the dog to which he was abandoned. It is not all mere superstition either, the missionaries assert, but dread of responsibility, hatred of initiative, often mere selfishness, masquerading as such. Many Chinese may actually fear that the river spirit will get them if they save a drowning person, but many others are merely afraid of wetting their clothes.

The Western and the Chinese mind may be similar in construction, but they certainly do not work alike. Let the missionaries take a girl for a year’s training, for instance, or for the temporary relief of her parents, and they are sure to be informed when the period is over that it is their duty to care for her the rest of her life. As it is contrary to the Chinese idea of politeness to mind one’s own business, so their gratitude seems to be of a different brand from ours. Something akin to that feeling is no doubt now and then felt, in otherwise unoccupied moments, for the men and women from overseas who spend their lives trying to instil into Chinese youth such wisdom and right living as they themselves possess; yet rarely does the passing visitor get a hint of anything more than superficial politeness toward the benefactors, and the assumption that they are somehow making a fine thing, financially or materially, out of their labors—otherwise why would they continue them?

Sometimes Tenghsien buries its children, like those of its paupers who do not belong to the beggars’ gild, in such shallow, careless graves that the dogs habitually dig them up again. These surly brutes sat licking their chops here and there on the outskirts of town, among discolored rags of what had once been cotton-padded clothing scattered 302about little mussed-up holes in the ground. Lepers were treated with a similar policy of abandonment, or “let the foreigners do something about it if they must.” The same American woman who had the highest record for rescuing babies from the garbage-heap had built the only leper-home in Shantung, if not in northwest China, a mile or two outside Tenghsien. As far as the Chinese are concerned lepers run about the country as freely as any one else. They may not be exactly popular—for the people know the horrors of the disease and easily recognize its symptoms—but they can scarcely be avoided. The thirty or more men and boys, who had been gathered together in a two-story brick building many times more splendid than the homes any of them had known before, had that same cheerful, seldom complaining, easily smiling demeanor of the Chinese coolie under any misfortune. Only a few were bedridden, for the greater resistance to disease for which the Chinese are famous seems to spare them some of the more horrible ravages of leprosy. But on one point they were losing their cheery patience. For months they had submitted weekly to injections of chaulmugra oil without any visible signs of improvement. The treatment is painful; they all admitted it, and one fat-faced boy of fourteen was pointed out as “tearing the walls apart with his screams” when it was administered to him. But his quick retort to the charge seemed to be the consensus of opinion: “Oh, please let us live without the needle and go to heaven in peace when our time comes!” Such efforts were being made to build a similar refuge for women—who of course always come second in China—that even the men sufferers were asked to contribute the few coppers they could live without—and when it is finally built, through missionary effort, it will pay taxes to the local authorities, like many other mission institutions.

Under more auspicious circumstances I should have struck off into that labyrinth of mountains occupying the southeastern part of Shantung. But it might have meant a very much longer stay than I cared to make. For years now the mountainous parts of the province have been overrun more or less continuously by what we call bandits. The Chinese call them “hung-hu-tze” (“red beards,” a term evidently originating in Manchuria, where bearded men from the north seem to have been the first raiders, and to have suggested a clever disguise for native rascals) or “tu-fei” (which means something like “local badness coming out of the ground”). But under any name they are a thorn in the side of their fellow-men. In Peking, where the so-called Central Government 303still decorates foreign passports with separate visés for each province, five at a time, even though the provincial authorities rarely look at them, conditions were admitted with a frankness which other Governments might copy to advantage. I had been given permission to travel freely in Shantung—“except in the areas of Tungchowfu, Linchengchow, Tsaochowfu, Yenchowfu, and the regions controlled by the Kiao Taoyin.” In other words, one could go anywhere, so long as one kept within sprinting distance of the two railway lines. As a matter of fact, much of the information of the Central Government was out of date; places it excepted were now peaceful, and others it did not mention were infested with brigands. Yenchowfu, for instance, showed no more ominous signs when I passed through it than any other sleepy old walled town; and the world at large knows how safe the railways themselves were just about this season. Had there been any good reason to run the risk, the chances are that I could have gone anywhere in Shantung without anything serious happening to me; on the other hand, I might have been carried off before I got well into the foot-hills.

The mountainous sections in which the brigands were operating most freely are merely poorer, less populous parts of the crowded province, where there is little to be seen except smaller editions of what may be found within easier reach elsewhere. Now and then they had entered Tenghsien, the station of my “itinerating” companion; only recently they had posted a warning on the mission gate in Yihsien, reached by a branch-line a little farther south, that unless some large sum of cash was forthcoming within a hundred days the place would be burned. The women and children had been sent to safer stations, and outposts of agricultural and evangelistic work had been temporarily abandoned. It was near Lincheng, the very junction of the Yihsien line, and the next large town south of Tenghsien, that a score of foreign passengers were to be taken from the most important express in China a few weeks later and carried off into these same hills. The brigands, in fact, hard pressed for a way out of their difficulties, debated the wisdom of taking the missionaries of Tenghsien and neighboring stations as the lever they needed against the authorities. It is more in keeping with justice that they finally decided to hold up the express instead and be sure of hostages with wealth and influence enough to assure the world’s taking notice of them, for the missionaries have lived for years in constant danger of such a raid, while most of the passengers were well fed individuals who had left home mainly in quest of experience.

When Tenghsien came to be altogether too closely pressed by 304bandits, the authorities fell back upon a scheme to drive them away without bloodshed. The Boxers, it will be recalled, had their origin in southern Shantung, and the method by which they fancied they made themselves immune to injury by their foes is still widely believed there. The authorities therefore, or private individuals with the initiative needed, called in some countrymen with stout faith in the efficacy of this form of protection and paid magicians two dollars each to make them “immune.” This is accomplished by various forms of hocus-pocus, in which the swallowing of bits of paper with certain characters written on them, and the wearing of similar charms, are the chief features. Not only did the countrymen believe that this made them proof against bullets, swords, and bayonets, but, what made the investment really useful, the brigands also believe it. When care had been taken to have word of the ceremonies reach the bandit camps, the “immune” persons were placed in front of the government troops, who moved slowly but steadily out into the hills. The outlaws knew the futility of wasting precious ammunition on men whom it would be impossible to injure; hence they gracefully retreated as far from town as the authorities chose to drive them. There was, of course, the slight danger that some skeptic among the bandits would doubt the efficacy of the charm. But the Chinese are much more given to swallowing their popular beliefs whole than to investigating their worth, and in the case of an unforeseen accident the evidence would be plain, not that the hocus-pocus is ineffectual, but that it was badly performed.

Not far below Tenghsien the railway crosses the old bed of the Yellow River, that greatest of Chinese vagrants. As far back as history is recorded this has changed its mind every few centuries and decided to go somewhere else. It is not a believer in the old adage that as you make your bed so you should lie in it, for the Hoang Ho has the custom, not usual even among rivers, of piling up its course until it flows some twenty feet above the surrounding country, puny mankind meanwhile striving feverishly to confine it by dikes which cannot in the end keep pace with the growth of silt between them. No Chinese can be expected to be comfortable on so elevated a bed, much less a river, and when things become altogether too unbearable the Hoang Ho suddenly abandons its course and makes a new one overnight. The last great change of this kind was in the middle of the past century, when, swinging on a pivot near Kaifeng, one of China’s many old-time capitals, it struck northeastward across Shantung to the gulf of Chihli, though it had formerly emptied into the Yellow Sea hundreds of miles farther south, barely touching Shantung at all. Shantung did not want it, but it had no choice in the matter. The provinces which had been so suddenly relieved of so violent an enemy, and at the same time presented with a large strip of land where land is so badly needed, certainly were not going to help, nor even permit, if it could be avoided, restoration to the old bed. Besides, there are both historical and visible evidences that Shantung had harbored the unwelcome visitor more than once before, that the two mountainous parts of the province were probably once islands, and that the Yellow River, washing back and forth between them, has built up the level and more fertile parts of the country. Similar things happened in many parts of the world, but in most cases the job was finished before man appeared, whereas in China it is still going on. The result is that man finds himself very much in the way during the process.

On the way home I changed places with one of our three wheelbarrow coolies, and found that the contrivance did not run so hard as I might otherwise have believed

The men who use the roads of China make no protest at their being dug up every spring and turned into fields

Sons are a great asset to the wheelbarrowing coolies of Shantung

305Chinese history is full of accounts of the struggle to keep the Hoang Ho within limits. Some emperors are famous chiefly for their struggles against it. For centuries the “squeeze” connected with the building of dikes, or even their maintenance, has been one of the richest perquisites of certain official positions. Perhaps this is why the latest task of wrestling with the Yellow River has been given to an American firm established in China. Two years ago the river broke through its dikes again, though this time within a hundred miles of its mouth, and inundated what to crowded Shantung is an immense area, destroying many villages and withdrawing the land about them from cultivation. Several walled cities, too, were in great peril, particularly Litsing, situated in a bend of the river, and below it; for here as in its former course to the south the stream has gradually silted itself higher and higher, until one crossing it anywhere along its lower reaches must climb thirty or forty feet to the top of the dike from the land side, to descend only ten or twelve to the river. In flood season the waters washed at the walls of Litsing, which in time they must have undermined and broken, drowning out the city. Famine relief funds improved the lot of those who had been driven from their homes, some of whom built new shelters on the broad tops of the dikes, while others scattered, particularly to Manchuria. The dead and the living between them so crowd the land in Shantung that if one patch is taken away there is no other room for those who live upon it. Bids were asked for the task of retaming the river, to be paid for jointly from relief funds and by the province; the American firm offered to do the work at just one 306fourth the price asked by Chinese contractors, and having secured itself against the common misfortune of those working for Chinese Governments by insisting on monthly prepayments, tackled a job that was old when Confucius was a boy.

Clumsy native boats, bringing down rock for the work, as well as coolies and supplies, will carry one from Tzinan to the scene of operations in a day or two; but the more hasty American way is by automobile from Choutsun, two hours east of the capital on the Shantung railway. What is known in China as a motor-road, that is, a raised causeway made entirely of soft yellowish earth, which cuts up into ever deeper ruts, growing impassable with much rain, its steep sides gradually crumbling away until the barely two-car width is reduced to the point when passing is impossible for much of the distance, runs northward to the river, where cars take to the top of the dike. The workmen, strange as it may seem, are not so numerous as the company would like, and recruiting has to be carried on at considerable distances. The proverbial Chinese distrust of the “outside barbarian” has something to do with this; perhaps fear of bringing down upon their heads the wrath of the river gods for interfering with him may deter others; naturally in this season of the lunar New Year many had gone back to their ancestral graves. To put into American dollars and cents the wages paid would be to give a false impression of penuriousness on the part of the company; suffice it to say, therefore, that they are much higher than the average of wages in Shantung, that millet and rice and other essentials are furnished at cost to the employees, thereby saving them from heartless exploitation by their fellow-countrymen of the merchant class, and that reeds and other materials are supplied for covering their lodging-places. These are neither more nor less than holes dug in the earth; but mud dwellings, whether above or below the ground, have been the lot of Chinese coolies for many centuries, at least since the forests were turned into fuel and coffins, and these have the advantage that they can be moved in a few hours with a shovel as the work advances.

Here several thousand coolies already, with two or three times as many to come, it is expected, are engaged in straightening out a great crook in the river. The methods are of course those of the Orient, where many men with shovels and baskets, swarming like trains of leaf-cutting ants over the scene of activities, are more economical than snorting steam-shovels and endless strings of rattling freight-cars. In the early spring, when mountains of broken ice from up the river joined that which had covered the flooded region during the short winter, the 307sight was one worth coming many li to see. But that was gone now, even in the middle of March, and the task of taking a kink out of “China’s Sorrow” is on the high road to completion. The plan is to teach the river the way it should go, and then let it scour out its own channel. Western initiative and ingenuity, however, probably can no more cure permanently the vagrancy of the Hoang Ho than did the ancient emperors, and corrective measures will have to be applied to the incorrigible vagabond among rivers at least for centuries to come.

A splendid task for some scholar of unlimited patience and a mathematical turn of mind would be to count the graves in China and compute how many sadly needed acres they withdraw from cultivation. He might offer a thesis on the subject, in exchange for the right to wear the letters “Ph.D.” Unfortunately he could not complete the task in a mere lifetime, or just a century or two, but the undertaking might be handed down, Chinese fashion, from father to son, until data were forthcoming that might in time make an impression even on the Celestial mind. This worshiping of ancestors is all very well, if only the living could also be given a fair deal. The constant sight of undernourished multitudes grubbing out a scant escape from starvation in the interstices between the sacred mounds of earth littering almost every Chinese landscape recalls the story of Bridget tearfully refusing Pat a taste before he died of the roasting pork that smelled so good to him, because it was all needed for the wake.

Reflections of this simple nature were inclined to crowd out all other impressions during another of my cross-country jaunts in Shantung, this time northward to an ancient city still popularly called Loa-An. For the way led through Lin-tze, also walled, aged, and dreaming of the past, which in the days of Confucius was in the heart of the kingdom of Chi, as the home of the sage was in that of the neighboring one of Lu. For miles about it, therefore, the princes of Chi lie buried, not under the mere cones of earth of ordinary ancestors, but beneath hillocks and hills, and what sometimes seem across the floor-flat country to be almost mountains. Some are still so respected that the groves of mainly evergreen trees about them, beautifying the usual bare nudity of Chinese graves, have survived to this day, and one or two are guarded at a respectful distance by a standing stone giant who recalls those of Egypt or of the southern shores of Lake Titicaca. Then there are many lesser lights, such as always cluster about a court, and innumerable areas are sacred to other ancient families, the mounds graduated in size and state of repair from the principal one of the collection at the back to 309the small ones so far out in front that the peasants dare to cultivate close about them. Remnants of tissue-paper “money” donated to the dead all over China at the New Year still fluttered from the peak of many a mound, some of which dated so far back, perhaps, that live servants and domestic animals were buried in them, instead of the flimsy paper substitutes for these that are burned at modern funerals, along with papier-mâché automobiles containing a pair of painted chauffeurs and a concubine or two; but more than anything else, even of the sense of antiquity, one was impressed by the endlessness, the uncountability of the grave-mounds of all sizes.

Draft-animals, if only a cow or a donkey, or the two hitched together, were drawing crude but effective plows and what American farmers call a “drag,” on which the driver stands, raising clouds of dust behind him. But the dodging of graves seemed to be the most serious task of all, far as we rode northward, and one could fancy the undernourished peasants, suddenly struck with Western seeing in place of blind custom, deciding that it is high time these aged mounds are leveled off, or at least planted over. Possibly that miracle will some day come to pass, and China will by a turn of her hand increase her productive land by several provinces, without extending her boundaries or robbing her neighbors of an acre.

This time I used still another of Shantung’s many modes of locomotion,—a bicycle. It has its advantages in a flat country where the roads are often narrow paths, and where a vehicle that cannot be lifted about by hand now and then is limited in its range. But when it chances that a raging head wind blows both going and coming, and the contrivance between one’s aching legs emanates from a Chicago mail-order house, there are certain things to envy the traveler by wheelbarrow. In a way the season was poorly chosen, too, for though the day was cloudless and warm, plowing was on, and while the Chinese peasant leaves unmolested the graves that dot his little field, he often plows up the road. Thus a route which at best was an alternating between the bottom of a ditch deep in dust and a precariously narrow and by no means continuous path often on the sheer edge of it, frequently became a trackless field, plowed by draft-animals or chopped up with the clumsy, sledge-heavy adz-hoe still used in China. Rye and barley, and above all peanuts, were to be the principal crops wherever winter wheat was not already showing its tender green. One does not at first thought closely associate the two, but peanuts and missionaries are likely to lie side by side on the floor of the Chinese coolie’s mental granary. 310The Chinese had a peanut before the missionaries came, and still cultivate it to a certain extent. But it is so tiny and dry that it looks more like the end of a pea-pod, with a pea or two left in it, that has survived several winters in a very dry place—and the taste does not dispel this illusion. American missionaries brought the much more profitable variety from Georgia in an effort to improve the conditions of Shantung, and to-day the American peanuts grown in China probably run into millions of bushels, dotting every market-place and producing oil enough to supply the world with peanut-butter.

Loa-An is no longer officially known by that name, and thereby hangs a typically Chinese tale. Soon after the establishment of what passes in the outside world for a republic, it was decreed that deeds of land-holdings must be registered again, though this had been done quite recently under the Manchus. The registry fee was to be a dollar and twenty cents, of which 70 per cent was to go to the Government and the rest to the local magistrate. Now, a dollar and twenty cents, even in “Mex,” is a lot of money to a Shantung peasant, with the tiny parcel of land which the custom of dividing among the sons of each generation has left him, and a decade ago it was still more so. Moreover, the magistrate should have known that in China government decrees are not necessarily meant to be carried out, at least beyond the point of individual discretion. But he was of the aggressive type of official, sadly needed perhaps but not always successful in China, and his insistence on having the order obeyed to the letter reached the point where he helped to carry it out in person. The wrath of the country-side increased. One day when the magistrate was some forty li out of town in the interest of thorough collections and an honest return of them from his constables, a band of peasants fell upon him and chopped him to death with their hoe-hooks.

Soldiers were hurried to Loa-An, where they oppressed the population for months in the time-honored Chinese way, and finally lopped off eight heads. None of these had been the leading spirits in the assassination, nor perhaps had any real part in it at all, but they had been the easiest to catch; and, their duty ended, according to Chinese lights, the soldiers withdrew. But the Government saw fit to inflict a heinous punishment on the city of Loa-An itself, for the crime of permitting such a crime within its district. Loa-An means “Rejoicing and Peace,” as nearly as it can be translated; it was ordered henceforth to call itself Gwang-Rao. Does this mean “Bunch of Rascals,” or something of the sort, as we of the West might suppose? It does not; it means FarReaching 311Forgiveness, for, as I have already had occasion to remark, the Chinese mind may have been originally built on the same specifications as our own, but its manner of functioning has grown quite different during the many centuries that separate us. For one thing, it refuses to jar itself by sudden readjustments, and Gwang-Rao is still spoken of as Lao-An in ninety cases out of a hundred.

As is so often the case throughout China, much of the population and the business of Lao-An have gathered outside the city walls, where there are certain advantages which the American suburbanite will understand. Inside, there is that atmosphere of an old ladies’ home which one feels in an aged New England village off the trail of modern progress—though certainly in outward appearance there are no two things more dissimilar than a New England village and a Chinese walled town. An immense pond or lake takes up a whole corner of the enclosure, licking away at the inner base of the crumbling wall. In its prime this was almost majestic, higher than anything within it, broad enough for a “Peking cart” to drive comfortably upon it, the crenelated parapets armed with small cannon of curious casting which now lie rusting away wherever chance has rolled them. There are other open spaces within the walls, some cultivated, some merely idle, but the town itself is compact enough, with one long trough of dust or mud as a main street, lined by baked-earth houses of one form or another, enlivened only by an occasional hawker marking his leisurely progress by some Chinese species of noise, or a long unlaundered family group enjoying the brilliant sunshine of early spring.

Outside it is different,—movement, crowding, an uproar of wide-open shops and transient venders, all noisily contending for patronage, dwellings that are almost imposing in their milieu, and, in the outskirts, a large Presbyterian school and mission under an unusually trusted Chinese pastor. His board beds may not have been the last word in comfort, but they were many times nearer that than a passing guest could have found in all the rest of the district. The auditing, counseling, and moral sustenance for which the white-haired missionary I had accompanied made his annual visit to Lao-An, with a brief service by the honored visitor and a few moments in the unheated school-rooms, where full outdoor garb was in order, left us time to go to prison before we faced the head wind again. It was typical probably of most local limbos in Shantung, unless the weekly services which the pastor had been allowed to give there for a year now had remodeled the moral outlook of the prisoners as completely as he believed: cells that were 312larger than the average inmate had at home, and not overcrowded, by Chinese standards, tolerable food and plenty of sunshine, a certain semi-freedom at times in the yards, and in contrast iron fetters about the neck, waist, and ankles in most cases, with clanking chains connecting them. The prisoners got five coppers a day to feed themselves—more than a whole American cent! Yet they lived well, according to the pastor, and could save money. Three coppers paid for a catty (a pound and a third) of millet, and the grain hong saw to it that they got good measure. What average Shantung countryman is sure of a catty of millet a day? Besides, they were paid for their work. The young and spry could earn as much as ten coppers daily making hair-nets, and the older ones, with their more clumsy fingers, half as much weaving dee-tze—girdles, I suppose we would call them, though the Chinese use twice as many of them about their ankles as around their waists. Then Loa-An gets great quantities of a rush the size of a lead-pencil from nearer the mouth of the Yellow River, and from these are fashioned baskets and scoops, and shallow basins for the feeding of animals, buckets for use at wells, winnowing pans, and, strangest of all, a thick winter shoe that looks like an infant Roman galley.

All the romance of hair-nets is not limited to the tresses they confine. Shantung, and to a lesser degree some neighboring provinces, has known some of it. Until Europe went mad, hair-nets were made mainly in France. America, callous upstart, continued to demand them even though the guns were thundering. Some of the materials had always come from China, though the French were much given to the use of horsehair; now it occurred to some genius that the Chinese might be taught to make them on the spot. A small town in Shantung became the center of the new industry; later it gravitated naturally to Chefoo. Every one took to turning discarded cues and combings into nets; children learned to tie them; coolies forced their clumsy fingers to it when nothing else offered; in mission churches women pinned the things to one another’s backs and went on tying the little knots while they listened to the sermon. The making of hair-nets kept many from starvation in famine days, even though the wholesalers took advantage of the situation and paid the hungry toilers as little as possible. Even in the best of times the workers make no fortune. They are paid by the gross of nets; women and children working at odd times can earn from five to ten coppers a day; those who are skilled and put in all their time at it make from thirty-five to fifty coppers—ten to thirteen cents 313gold—when the nets are selling at their highest, five to seven dollars “Mex” a gross. Just now they were down to half that, and with a great oversupply of nets on the market and fashion turning toward the double-strand net, the makers were getting hardly three American cents a dozen.

Many wholesalers, on the other hand, have quickly gotten rich out of hair-nets. There is a barber, for instance, who is known to have laid up ten thousand dollars in three or four years, a great fortune in China even to men far above the lowly barber caste. But the newly rich are not so kindly treated where class lines are still rather sharply drawn and precedent especially tenacious. His envious neighbors overwhelmed their former hair-cutter with lawsuits, the most common and effective form of Chinese community persecution; though he turned his money into land he can neither live on nor rent it, so virulent is the prejudice against him. With the coming of hair-nets the bicycle trade boomed. This was the only quick way of getting about the country, and the buyers could carry thousands of nets back with them. The Germans of Tsingtao had good Fahrräder to offer at reasonable prices, and made the most of their opportunity. Then came a slump in the trade, hints of the reasons for which in time reached the wholesalers, if not the makers. American girls had taken to bobbing their hair! But this fad had begun to die out again, and already the people of overcrowded Shantung were feeling the effect of this in fuller bowls of rice.

In wandering about Shantung I was constantly coming across coolies who had been to France. One could generally tell them at a glance, from some remnant of uniform, or their way of wearing what they had chosen when that wore out, perhaps by a certain air of something that was not exactly what we popularly dub “freshness,” yet which was more or less distantly related to it. Besides, they seldom waited long on the chance of recognition, but greeted the foreigner with the self-confidence of familiarity and proceeded to impress their fellow-countrymen who had been denied their advantages, and who never failed to gather about in as great a circle as the community afforded.

The British and, to some extent, the French, took large numbers of coolies overseas for work behind the lines, mainly from Shantung and southern China. Some three hundred thousand went from this northern province, at first slowly and with misgivings, then more eagerly, as propaganda and the reports of those who had gone ahead filtered out through the villages. The French made some arrangement whereby their recruits seem to have been much lower paid, yet to have come home more contented, than those with the British. The latter offered 314them ten Chinese dollars a month in France and an equal amount to their families at home, with of course transportation, food, and clothing. This was so high that at first the coolies would not believe it; these wily foreigners must have something else up their sleeves, they told one another, putting them out in front of the soldiers perhaps, for it was a rare coolie who had ever earned half the amount so glibly offered. But the incredible turned out to be true. Several towns were designated as district headquarters; foreign residents, usually missionaries, were asked to take charge in them, and once a month the nearest of kin of the absent workmen came in and got their ten dollars, in coin. At Weihsien ninety thousand were paid monthly for several years, for the coolies of the labor battalions were not returned until 1920, after the carrying of troops had been completed. Up to that time the Chinese with the British had been quite satisfied. But when they came to draw what they had saved during their years abroad there was an uproar. In the contract made with them “Mex” dollars were specified; there was no mention of francs. But in France they were of course paid in the money of the country, and the amounts they chose to lay aside were credited to them in francs. By the time they came to draw their savings the franc had crashed. Being from China they should have been wiser on the vagaries of exchange than the American “doughboy”; but they insisted that the British had promised to pay them in the dollars of their home-land, and raised such a hullabaloo that the matter reached the honor of being discussed in Parliament, though that was its loftiest attainment. The resentment at what was considered a raw deal by tricky foreigners has somewhat died out in Shantung now, and many a man would willingly go abroad for the British again; but the few wise or lucky coolies who turned their francs back into dollars as they saved them, and then meddled with the exchange in those glorious days when the gold dollar went down to about eighty cents “Mex,” are still the envy of their comrades. In an almost entirely illiterate throng, thousands of miles from home and all its exchange-shops and customs, and filled from childhood with suspicion of their fellow-men, it is easy to guess about how many took advantage of this opportunity.

One suspects that it was from the highest point of honor attained by this painful subject that there originated an attempt to soften the resentment that only resulted in increasing it. Legislative bodies the world over have a reputation for bone-headedness. One day word was sent out over Shantung and beyond that if coolies who had been to France for the British would report back to the centers where they 315had been discharged and paid they would learn something to their advantage. Aha, ting hao! they are going to give us all the money they promised after all, said the coolies, and began to flock in from all directions, often from considerable distances. Some came overland all the way from Tientsin, not being able to afford the railroad. When they arrived they were each given a nice brass medal to hang about their necks, with a likeness of their grateful ex-employer, King Georgie, on one side and words of similar sentiment on the other. Any one with thirty cents’ worth of understanding of the psychology of the Chinese coolie could have told the thoughtful originators of this idea that an extra cumshaw of a dollar or two would have won his everlasting gratitude far more than a medal graced with the vapid faces of all the kings of Christendom—and probably have cost less money. But textbooks on psychology, particularly of far-off “heathen” lands, are not required in a politician’s education. At first some of the coolies thought the things were gold, and raced to the exchange-shops accordingly. When these reported that the gaudy gifts were not even coin at all, men drifted out to mission compounds to inquire what they were good for.... “Is it worth anything?” “Well, I’ll give it to you for fifteen coppers.”

Coppers, by the way, are the general medium of exchange in Shantung. Silver dollars pass, though silver fractions of them do not, and bank-notes even of the province have only a limited acceptance. Except in large towns or transactions, every one pays in coppers, the division being the diao. In olden days this meant a thousand “cash” on a string. Now it means forty-nine coppers in most regions. How this decided change came about is only another of the queer stories with which monetary matters bristle in China. One day the Manchu dynasty decided it could get plenty of money to pay its grumbling troops merely by decreeing that thenceforth a diao would be five hundred, not a thousand, “cash.” Every one would be compelled to accept the new rating, on penalty of severe punishment, and the surplus five hundred “cash” would accrue to the Government. As late as the beginning of the present century the brass “cash” was the only money used in the interior of Shantung; in those days my missionary friends had taken an extra wheelbarrow with them to carry their change. Then in 1902 the copper began to be minted. Ten “cash” make a copper; fifty coppers therefore should make a modern diao; but in most places one of them goes to some one, identity unknown but strongly suspected, as the inevitable “squeeze” of all Chinese transactions.

316Probably a majority of the third-class tickets sold on the Tientsin-Pukow line in Shantung are paid for from clothfuls of coppers handed in at the window, the cloth and any excess coins being returned with the ticket. The foreigner who produces a silver dollar when only a few cents are needed will be deluged with a shower of huge coppers sufficient to fill an overcoat pocket. The general run of prices and wages in Shantung is suggested by some of those paid by my missionary companion. Master masons were receiving fifty-four coppers a day, their helpers thirty-six—a copper being approximately half a farthing or the fourth of an American cent. In the good old days of a decade or more back they were satisfied with fifteen and ten respectively, though the copper was then worth 50 per cent more than at present. Country pastors are paid twenty Chinese dollars a month, those in towns all the way from that to forty, “Bible women” eight dollars, “evangelists” (unordained preachers who also work on their farms) receive eleven, teachers from eighteen to forty, and native doctors fifty.

At Weihsien “Peking carts” are the almost exclusive means of transportation, though forty miles west a similar town has only wheelbarrows. This important half-way station between Tzinan and Tsingtao lies in the heart of what was thirty centuries ago the kingdom of Wei, and the landscape on either side of it is littered with monuments and graves. Shantung is much given to elaborately carved stone p’ai-lous, or p’ai-fangs, as they are more often called in that province, and these imposing memorial arches to virtuous widows or officials more or less willingly honored naturally outlast the mainly wooden ones in Peking and vicinity. Stone horses completely saddled and bridled, stirrups hanging ready for instant use, stood with other less familiar animals before some of the graves, awaiting their riders these many centuries; and groves of evergreens, some of them overtopped by the four reddish upright poles bearing a kind of ship’s crow’s-nest which means that the principal deceased of the group some time in the bygone ages passed the examinations for the highest rank of Chinese scholar, were a little more frequent about them than is general in northern China, though there were still far too many of the one and too few of the other.

Weihsien is really two distinct cities, each surrounded by a massive stone wall, with a sandy-bedded river between them. But the farther one was not walled until the days of the Taiping Rebellion, and it is still regarded as a suburb of the other. Thanks to spring rain and water-carriers, the streets of both were rivers of mud in which a mule-cart 317was almost indispensable even for the shortest distance, and an ordeal into the bargain. Weihsien had indeed recently imported her first rickshaws, but all three of them were without rubber tires or experienced runners, which made the first jaunts in them by a few of the town dandies an experience to be remembered rather than to be repeated or recommended, and the fear was expressed that these evidences of modern progress would be withdrawn for lack of appreciation. However, the new autobus line to Chefoo starts from Weihsien, and motor-cars have become almost familiar sights to those who have come out to see them at the edge of the suburb, beyond which they cannot penetrate. There should long since have been a branch railway to Chefoo. Ocean communication with that important silk and hair-net center is irregular and uncertain—except from Dairen over in Japanese-controlled Manchuria. But so long as they held the Shantung Railway the Japanese would not permit this extension, lest Chefoo become a serious rival to their beloved Dairen. So the usual raised dirt highway has been built, with frequent guarded barriers to keep others off it, and along this the few still movable contrivances of all sizes and makes which were bought second-hand from the Japanese before they evacuated Shantung stagger in a daily service scheduled to make the journey in a day and a half, with the brick bed of a Chinese inn to break it. The line is under railway management, but one glimpse of the once gasolene-driven wrecks that litter the yard at Weihsien should convince the most foolhardy that to ride behind a Chinese chauffeur is more risky than behind the worst locomotive driver in the Orient. Chefoo, by the way, is unknown to the Chinese; they call it Yentai. Just what misunderstanding on the part of early sailors led to the name by which it is known to all foreigners, including the Japanese, seems never to have been fully cleared up.

When Tzinan was voluntarily opened to trade in 1906, Weihsien, as well as Choutsun farther west, was also designated as a “port”; but though the Chinese laid out “foreign settlements” in them no one came to settle. A stray German or two is all that the city has to offer in this line, except the missionaries. The Catholics have an imposing church building just outside the walls, and there is an important mission school established by one of the pioneers among American Presbyterians in China, far outside the town, where the bitter hostility of those earlier days drove him. When the school was first founded, pupils had to be paid to attend; to-day there are waiting lists at fifty-eight dollars a year—a great deal of money, let it be kept in mind, in Shantung—of which 318twenty-five dollars pays a year’s board. Millet or kaoliang in a kind of gruel seemed to be the chief diet. Then there was the pickled tuber resembling a turnip that is constantly munched all over Shantung, and which does away with any desire to salt the other food. There were flocks of timid high-school girls in their neat trousers, though missionary influence tends to introduce the skirt, which is surely mistaken zeal for mere change. The trousers are more convenient, more becoming, and certainly many times more modest than the unstable garb of our modern maidens of the West. Formerly many Shantung women of the better class, influenced perhaps by the Manchus, who once had walled towns of bannermen in all this region, wore a skirt over their trousers when they appeared in public, and older missionary ladies can still remember the polite greeting when they reached the home of a Chinese hostess: “Well, take off your skirt and stay a while.”

The large church of the Weihsien mission was well filled at Thursday evening prayer-meeting and packed at the principal Sunday service. Chinese pastors officiated on both occasions. Though the weather was still distinctly cold, no provision for heating the building was made, and one could only guess what it must be in midwinter. Gradually the stone floor congealed the feet and removed them completely from the realms of sensation, but the Chinese, in their full outdoor garb, caps and all, seemed to be as comfortable as they ever have any need to be. Uncovering the head had become so nearly a dead letter that even the two or three American missionaries in their overcoats usually kept their hats on, even when they rose to pray in fluent Chinese. The feminine portion of the congregation occupied the back part of the church, the boys the front and center, graduating back to youths and men behind and on either side; when prayers were offered all rose to their feet instead of kneeling, and the less said of the bold and stentorian “singing” of hymns the better.

A few weeks before my visit the Shantung Railway had been turned over to the Chinese, in accordance with the agreement reached at the Washington Conference. But to go back to the beginning: you will recall that two German missionaries were killed in Shantung in 1897 and that Germany quickly made this a pretext for demanding the lease of Kiaochow Bay, and the concession for a railroad from there to the capital of the province. Though it was a generation since the Chinese Government had been able to still popular uproar against such diabolic contrivances only by buying out the first railway in China, running a 319few miles out of Shanghai, and shipping it over to Formosa, there was bitter opposition to this one, ostensibly from the superstitious masses, though it is known now that officials and some of the gentry urged the people on. In fact, the building of the Shantung Railway was very largely responsible for the “Boxer” uprising, which had its beginning, as I have said before, in mountainous southern Shantung. The exasperation was partly due to pure superstition, partly to real grievances which the Germans unwittingly perpetrated. They cut through the hill south of Weihsien which had brought the town all its good luck for centuries, and thereby destroyed its beneficence. This matter of feng-shui, of placating the spirits of wind and water, is of the highest importance, and there seems to be no fixed rule in dealing with them. For instance, there is another peak, west of Weihsien, through the top of which a slot quite like a railway cutting was gashed centuries ago at great labor, in order to neutralize the bad luck it brought the town. When they first came the Germans had to depend upon interpreters, and these of course were true Chinese. They would stroll out when they were off duty, or when no one was watching, and drive a survey stake in the top of a grave, perhaps miles from the projected route of the railroad; and a day or two later they would offer to get the stake removed and leave the grave unmolested if the descendants could raise money enough to “bribe the Germans.” When a railroad is surveyed its proposed turns are marked as sharp angles first and the curve is traced inside this later. The interpreters collected handsomely also from farmers for getting the Germans to remove stakes on the points of these angles—where the railroad had never thought of trespassing. In spite of both passive and active opposition the Germans pushed the line rapidly inland; many Chinese Christians free from the popular superstitions or sustained by the missionaries took contracts to prepare the way by sections, and early in the present century locomotives snorted into Tzinanfu.

The line still bears many marks of its original nationality. It is a direct descendant of the railways of Germany—excellently built, with stone ballast in exact military alignment along flanking paths of exactly such a width, iron ties of the reversed trough shape, light rails and fourteen-ton bridges—European rolling stock is not heavy by our standards—well-built stations, service buildings, and grade-markers, still here and there bearing a German name, in spite of eight years of Japanese occupancy, the whole railway still lined for much of its length by the quick-growing acacia-trees which the Germans expected to furnish 320supports for their mines. Now that the Chinese have returned, one frequently runs across a station-master who speaks German but no English.

It is said that there was more graft under the Germans than under their successors. German inspectors were conspicuous; Japanese ones blended more or less into the general racial landscape. In German days unrecorded telegrams sped along from station to station, “Inspector coming to-day,” and certain customs were temporarily suspended. On other days passengers often got on without tickets, crossed the hand of the Chinese guard with silver, and the latter gave the high sign to the gateman at the disembarking station, dividing the spoils with him at the first convenient opportunity. Whatever their other faults, the Japanese know how to run a railroad, and under them this sort of thing is reputed to have disappeared. Their influence was still distinctly in evidence. The people are said to have liked the Germans better than their successors because, among other things, they were not so strict—which speaks loudly indeed for Japanese sternness. Part of this strictness was the insistence on order instead of the free-for-all methods so loved by the Chinese. The Germans allowed huckstering at the trains; the Japanese licensed and curbed it. They introduced the innovation of standing in line for tickets, instead of the riot in vogue on all purely Chinese railways. It is said that it took the butt of many a rifle and the flat of many a sword to convince the coolies that they should drop back to the end of a cue when there was plenty of room at the front, but as they became more familiar with the language the Japanese, like the Germans before them, got their results with less violence. Foreigners, especially their somewhat kindred island neighbors, can discipline the Chinese as they never could themselves. The weakest thing in China is discipline, and there is not moral fiber enough in the country—or there is too much gentleness in the Chinese temperament, whichever way you choose to put it—to cure such things from within.

A private carriage, Shantung style

Shackled prisoners of Lao-an making hair nets for the American market

School-girls in the American mission school at Weihsien, Shantung

The governor’s mansion at Tsingtao, among hills carefully reforested by the Germans, followed by the Japanese, has now been returned to the Chinese after a quarter of a century of foreign rule

321Foreign residents, including some missionaries, were already complaining of a deterioration of the Shantung Railway under Chinese management. To one who had just come from the other railways of China this seemed rather exaggerated cynicism, for it certainly was superior to those others in many ways, though possibly these were relics of German and Japanese times, which were gradually dying out under the new régime. The almost praiseworthy cleanliness of at least the higher class cars may have been merely a memento of earlier days; also perhaps the brief, businesslike stops at stations. There were “red-caps” instead of the tidal wave of ragged ruffians who fight pitched battles for one’s baggage elsewhere; and the platforms were free from loafers, stragglers, beggars, and false passengers among whom the actual traveler is so completely swallowed up at the average Chinese station that he often despairs of getting on board at all. But with more than half the new personnel in the higher grades graduates of American colleges, some of them with real railroad experience, it hardly seems that the line can go entirely to rack and ruin, nor that it is being made the complete pawn of hungry politicians utterly devoid of ability which some rumors have it.

Until the line is paid for, five to fifteen years hence, there will be a Japanese traffic manager and chief accountant. But there has been sent down to Tsingtao from the Ministry of Communications in Peking an English-speaking superintendent who is notably fitted for the post, and one is struck by the above-the-average of the personnel all along the line. All its telegrams, by the way, are sent in English, which is a hardship on station-masters who spent years learning German. But for telegraphic purposes Chinese characters have to be reduced to numbers which often run into four, if not five, figures, and it is much simpler to wire “Hold six at Fangtze” than to beat out on the keys “5674 8762 9085 4356,” and run the added risk of the code-book being misplaced at either end. It can scarcely be expected that the change from Japanese to Chinese management will be made without a hitch; for one thing, men had to be brought from all the five government railways of China, on all of which, having been first built and operated under different nationalities, rules and practices vary. We would scarcely expect the theoretical “All-American” football team to display perfect team-work if suddenly brought together for a game. Then there is the usual percentage of bone-headedness to be reckoned. On the eve of the Chinese New Year an engineer eager to spend that day at home, but having no orders which gave him a right of way, coupled his locomotive in front of another drawing a freight-train and double-headed westward. Now the folly of running thirty-five-ton American locomotives across fourteen-ton bridges is bad enough; when two of them dash madly out upon one it is not strange if something serious happens. What was left of the two fine big engines still lay on either side of the central pier when we crept across a temporary bridge nearly a month later; but that particular driver will probably prove of much more use to the line as an example to his fellows than he ever was at a throttle.

322Foreigners in general, as is widely known, have long been called by Chinese in ugly moods “yang gwei,” which we have more or less correctly translated as “foreign devil.” This particular “yang” really means ocean, and a “gwei” is a spirit of the dead, quite possibly, though not necessarily, a devil in the Western sense. Thus small Chinese are not so far amiss as they sound to the uninformed when they run after foreigners shouting, “Yang Gwei! Yang Gwei! Give me money!” For the spirit of the dead is sometimes benevolent, and even small urchins would scarcely expect charity in return for knowingly uncomplimentary titles. But there is no doubt what the people of Shantung mean by their popular expression for the Japanese, “hsiao gwei,” or “little devil.” Nor need one inquire often or listen hard to get hints of why there is much actual hatred of the efficient islanders, quite aside from the theoretical dislike built up by rumor and propaganda. When the Japanese held it one could not buy tickets on the Shantung Railway with Chinese money; there were exchange-shops on the road to all stations of importance, where it took a “Mex” dollar, and sometimes some coppers in addition, to buy a yen, though the honest exchange was always considerably in favor of the dollar. Shippers may not have had to bribe the station-master to get a car for which they had already paid the official fees, as often happens on Chinese railroads, but they might be perfectly sure that Japanese shippers would always get cars first. It is against Chinese law to melt up current money; the Japanese bought and melted all the brass “cash” in Shantung. There has been much outcry from them in recent years about race equality, yet the Japanese look down upon the Chinese far more than any Californian does upon the sons of Nippon, more than any American does upon our negroes; and apparently the more military and brutal part of the occupation in Shantung was always on the lookout for opportunities to show this supposed superiority forcibly. It may be that the better class, or the non-militaristic party, or the Japanese people in general, thoroughly agreed with the terms of the Washington agreement and were glad to prove the national good will by evacuating Shantung; but if so they should have made greater efforts to curb the spirit of bad boys driven out of the playground which prevailed on the spot. Before they left, the disgruntled among the Japanese occupants slashed up the velvet seat-cushions of first-class coaches, just as the Germans did in the cars they were forced to turn over to the Allies; they carried off indispensable fittings; they left cars and locomotives as far as possible from where they were most needed; during the last months they avoided making 323even imperative repairs. They deliberately flooded the mines at Fangtze; they turned on the faucets in buildings belonging to the railroad, so that they were swimming-pools by the time the Chinese occupants appeared; they carried away, ruined, or wantonly destroyed furnishings, walls, windows; out at the agricultural experiment station on the flanks of Lao-shan they carefully mixed into one useless mess the several kinds of cotton-seed that were to be planted in the spring. An American-trained expert who drifted into my compartment as we neared Tsingtao asserted that more than a dozen bridges had already been found with serious cracks in them filled with putty and painted over. In Japanese days, even those unfriendly to them admit, trains were so exactly on time that clocks could be set by them. The new superintendent explained the growing tendency to be late as due to these wanton hamperings and the necessity of crawling across bridges in bad condition, or too light for the present rolling-stock, and he was preparing a slower schedule to be used until the line had been strengthened throughout. This English-speaking, straightforward official would probably strike any fair-minded observer as an unusually trustworthy Chinese, but he did not mention also the difficulties of making his people believe in the importance of keeping to any exact schedule.

Gradually, as it approaches Kiaochow Bay, the train picks up more and more Japanese, the women and children, and a few of the men, in their chilly national dress, with scraping wooden getas and blue noses. The country continues flat and fertile, given over mainly to graves, as far as the old walled town of Kiaochow, forty-five miles by rail from Tsingtao just across the bay. Though this ancient city was well within the hundred li periphery beyond high tide that was leased to the Germans, it remained under Chinese rule, much like the cities of Colon and Panama within the Canal Zone. Then hills grow up on the horizon, and soon rise to a labyrinth of low mountains, the most striking of them across the bay, distant ones to the southeast capped with snow. Wild geese and bustards within easy reach tempt the sportsman. The train more than half encircles the big bay, close on the left, visibly a magnificent harbor, even though larger ships must wait at the entrance for high tide. Bit by bit the many little things which mark a Chinese landscape die out; factories, warehouses, big modern buildings, many of them still flying the rising sun, grow more continuous on either hand, and by the time one’s journey is ended, whether he descend at the Harbor Station or at the terminal, there is little left to remind him that he is still in China.

324In the days of the Germans Tsingtao was generally admitted to be the model city of the Far East. The Japanese have greatly extended and in certain ways improved it. There could scarcely be a greater contrast within one country than that between this modern European city, with broad macadamized streets and ample sidewalks, block after block of two- and three-story buildings of brick and stone, rolling away over a series of small hills which subside at last along waterfronts that would not be out of place on the Mediterranean, and the flat, low, heavily walled, dismal collections of baked-mud hovels, broken by narrow, reeking lanes, which are typical of China. For even the Japanese have built in their conception of the European model, rather than in the frail style of their home-land, so that one may wander through street after street and get few hints of the Orient except the people who pass to and fro in them. Least Chinese of all, perhaps, are the splendid motor-roads darting off into the country in all directions, and the wide-spread growth of trees upon the hills as far as the eye can see.

It is said that Germans are gradually returning now to Tsingtao, but the little cloven-footed people from the east are much more in evidence. The largely Japanese shops are a trifle mean and small in comparison with the general scheme of things, and boldly demand Japanese money still, as though there had been no change in the status of Tsingtao merely because their troops and officials have sailed away. On the other hand, one might travel far to see another institution as splendid as the Japanese Middle School out among the hills below the governor’s residence, and many another of their establishments is equally as near what it should be. By the terms of the treaty the Japanese are permitted to retain their educational, mission, and similar institutions, and naturally their nationals retain full rights of residence and commerce. Other residents charge them with a certain underhandedness in stretching these rights, and point to block after block of big new residences that have never been occupied, asserting they were built merely that the Japanese might hold that much more land.

The coming of the Japanese in 1914 seems to have brought much the same advantages and misfortunes which they carried to Korea and Manchuria. Under the Germans life had been comfortable, a trifle strict perhaps, sharply divided by caste lines that made it impossible for the wife of an officer to meet the wife of a merchant; but the fact is that the German penetration into Shantung was more of a commercial than of a military nature. Though there are still mighty guns pointing seaward above the concrete underground forts which they dug in the 325surrounding hills, and which show vivid evidences of the Japanese bombardment, Tsingtao was never a Port Arthur or a Gibraltar. The Germans strove rather for the good will of the Chinese, that they might above all sell them more goods. Yet their national efficiency never failed them, and reforms which they felt essential were carried through with as nice a balance as could be preserved between complacency and insistence. There was the matter of squeaking wheelbarrows, for instance. No barrow-man of Shantung would feel that his apparatus was functioning properly unless it emitted a constant screech that can be heard at least a furlong away; to have it cease would give him much the same sensation as the motorist has when he hears a knocking under the hood of his engine. But the incessant screaking got on the nerves of the Germans in general and on those of the governor’s wife in particular. Sein Excellenz, her husband, gave orders that, beginning on the morning of September 16, wheelbarrows should no longer squeak within German leased territory. Old residents, American missionaries among them, held their sides; who ever heard of changing a time-honored custom of the Chinese, especially by a mere proclamation? But the Germans did more than command; they sent out inconspicuous propaganda, giving reasons, appealing to common sense and good will. On the morning of the sixteenth a missionary group was sitting at breakfast, vaguely conscious that something had happened, that things were not exactly what they hitherto always had been. One of them finally stepped to the window, then raised her hands to her ears. The others quickly followed suit. Had they all suddenly gone deaf? The same endless line of wheelbarrows was trundling along the street outside, but not the smallest infant of a squeak was sounding; they passed as silently as a company of wheelbarrowing ghosts; and to this day Shantung’s principal means of transportation is mute within the territory just returned to China after a quarter of a century of alien adoption.

The methods of the Japanese were quite as coercive, without the softening propaganda. The military party was in full control, and not even Western missionaries were permitted for a moment to forget it. The Japanese closed the American Presbyterian mission school on the charge of “spreading propaganda”; and they continued to collect taxes on it during all the years they used it as a police station. They built several blocks of semi-official brothels under the very eaves of the native church established by this same mission, and by the terms of the treaty of evacuation these are allowed to remain, for Japanese “enterprises” 326in Tsingtao must not be molested. If it were an isolated case, one might believe that the site was chosen merely for its convenient situation; but the yoshiwaras of Korea and Manchuria also show a strong tendency to elbow mission property and American residences with what looks much like the cynicism of the military clique. Japanese gendarmes and soldiers pursued mission “Bible women” until in many cases they had to give up their labors; they made it unsafe for Chinese school-girls to remain in the mission dormitories; they showed the same barbarian disrespect for privacy which one so often heard charged against them in Korea. Let the wife of a missionary neglect to lock the kitchen door, even at noon, and she would probably find a pair of Japanese gendarmes standing in her bedroom when she looked up. They never gave any reasons for their intrusions; they merely implied by their attitude that they were the rulers of Tsingtao and that it was no one’s business where they went, or when. The Japanese—or the Germans either, for that matter—would not allow American physicians to practise within the territory, not even to attend fellow-Americans who were of the same mission or might be in the same house with them. The missionaries, and even their wives, were summoned to court on every possible pretext, and allowed to stand two or three hours among beggars and prostitutes before they were called upon to stand at attention before the haughty judge and testify. The American consul never officially admitted the right of the Japanese to bring Americans before their courts, contending that they enjoyed extraterritoriality in Tsingtao quite as well as in the rest of China; but for some reason he personally advised his countrymen to obey Japanese summonses. Multiply these few and restricted cases of petty persecution by some very large number and it will be clearer why the residents of the Kiaochow territory, except the Japanese themselves, were so pleased to see the rising sun replaced one morning in December by the five-color banner of China, even though they are ready to admit that many excellent things came from Japan.

From the distance of Peking we had heard that Tsingtao was virtually in the hands of bandits; on the ground, there proved to be no truth in this rumor. Things had been really much worse in that respect under Japanese occupation, though they need not have been. There seems to be little doubt that the Japanese tolerated bandits in Shantung, perhaps helped to recruit them and sold them arms. Scores of little hints to this effect reached the ears of even the least suspicious 327residents of the occupied zone. They appear to be able to cite indefinitely cases similar to that of the mission cook, trustworthy beyond all question, who was approached by a Japanese with the promise of an easy life and a large income if he would turn bandit. Guns could be rented, I was assured, from Japanese gendarmes at two dollars a night by any one who wished to create a little disorder; the bandits were often allowed to wear red hat-bands (the distinguishing mark of Japanese soldiers and gendarmes everywhere) and to take refuge in railway or other Japanese property where Chinese soldiers could not pursue them. Whether or not they were actually in the pay of the nation to whom disorder in China is always an advantage, there is little room for doubt that they were unofficially aided and abetted.

The military part of the occupation left Shantung in an angry mood; the Japanese hoped to the last that complications would arise that would give them an excuse to remain, and they were not beyond doing their bit to create them. It is the old story of the two opposing factors in the political life of Japan, which her apologists make the most of when they have to explain actions strangely at variance with professions. The ministers of war and the navy are responsible directly to the mikado, not to the premier, as in other lands; hence the Foreign Office may be openly flouted by the military clique. Moreover, these ministers must be a general and an admiral respectively; in other words, there is not the soothing effect of civilian control over the war-dogs which is quite general elsewhere. A bulldog is an excellent defense, but it is an unwise home which allows the bulldog to take command of things.

Conditions became fantastic during the last few weeks of Japanese occupation. The bandits had their headquarters only twenty miles from Tsingtao, by excellent motor-road, up in the foot-hills of the beautiful Lao-Shan range. They raided the neighborhood at will, and went to town to see the movies whenever the spirit moved them. All they had to do was to stroll down to the Japanese police-box at the edge of the leased territory and telephone a garage in Tsingtao to send them a car. They rode or strutted through the streets like the proverbial walking arsenal; what was worse, they wore uniforms which made them indistinguishable from Chinese soldiers. Once they invited the Chamber of Commerce to ask them to dinner, the Japanese knowing so well about it in advance that they had their secret police among the first arrivals, and instructed that body that the payment of one hundred thousand dollars, the appointment of their chief as garrison commander 328and of one thousand of their number as a police force, were essential to the immunity of Tsingtao from their devastations. Then they picked up the local deputy of the provincial Tuchun and the president of the Chamber of Commerce as hostages and motored back to their headquarters with them.

In the end, apparently, they were given a certain sum of money and more or less official standing, as is the custom in China, the land of compromise. But by the time I reached Tsingtao they had been moved to Fangtze, far outside the former leasehold, and the city was well policed by the men in black uniforms and white leggings with which Peking is so familiar. Hand-picked and trained by a European, these constitute one of the best bodies in China, and they had been scattered along the entire line of the Shantung Railway, poorly equipped at first, but armed now, one and all, with brand-new rifles from China’s government arsenals. The ordinary cotton-clad, ill disciplined Chinese soldier was very little in evidence. Now and then a group of them try to board the trains without tickets to the great detriment of this line also; but station-masters have a way of appealing to their good nature, if not to their patriotism, with the strong argument that unless the line pays for itself within five years the Japanese will come back, and then....

Bismarck Strasse became Ryojun Machi and in its turn will no doubt be this or that Ta Chieh, perhaps without even the concession of naming it in Roman letters which the Japanese granted to the West. The contrast between the blue sea and the clean red roofs may grow more and more dim under slack Chinese rule, and Tsingtao may sink back into the slough from which Germany rescued it. But it is not likely, for the Chinese are on their metal. True, there is already the curse of useless politicians and military pressure in the highest offices, but a Yale graduate in forestry is in charge of continuing the good work of the Germans and the Japanese in spreading the gospel of reforestation, and other branches of the new Government are in equally competent and progressive hands. There is great need in China for officials to take up economics as a part of government, especially to establish some continuity of plan which will carry on in spite of the disruptions of political changes; and ready-made Tsingtao is an excellent place for them to begin to practise. The people may reassert their centuries of training and pilfer all the trees, as some were already beginning to carry off the brushwood contrary to rules, as they cut even the trees about their graves when hard pressed, for only their 329Confucianism stands guard over the few groves that are left in the land. Or they may, as some of the enthusiastic young officials of the former leased territory announce, make Tsingtao more important than either Tientsin or Shanghai, by pushing new railways back into the interior beyond Tzinan and draining even the Yang Tze of its natural carrying-power. More likely the future will be somewhere between these two extremes, with a certain Chinese indifference to small comforts and strict cleanliness somewhat marring in the eyes of the West a port which in the main will retain much that it has learned during its quarter of a century of sterner foreign tutelage.

One of our military attachés at Peking purposed to see China’s Far West before the cycle of duties called him home to a regiment, and he consented to have company. At least if it chanced to please the bandits who were just then using that means to coerce the incoherent Government to add us to their growing collection of foreign hostages, there would be some advantage in companionship.

The major had business in Honan before I could leave Peking, and took the newly captured cook with him, leaving the “boy,” Chang, who maltreated considerable English and was to be our most important link with the outside world, to wait with me for the next biweekly express. Below the junction for Shansi, where daylight overtook us, the landscape was still as flat as about Peking; but there were more trees, bushy as the mango, though thinner of foliage, many trees, indeed, for China. Though it was already late October, the leaves had hardly begun to turn, and that brilliant sunshine and utter cloudlessness which is one of the greatest charms of dry, denuded North China so many days each year made it seem still almost midsummer. The broad, fenceless fields swarmed with people, mainly engaged, as far as a passing glimpse could tell, in picking cotton and threshing peanuts. The cotton was in some places so thin that even the frugal Chinese apparently did not find it worth gathering, while the best of it, on plants scarcely knee-high, was nothing to exhibit at a fair. Women gone cotton-picking had the advantage of trousers, but this was more than offset by the bound feet on which they hobbled from bush to bush. In contrast to those long two-bushel bags the negroes drag behind them through the fertile cotton-fields of our South, a kind of newsboy’s sack at the waist, or a pocketed apron, seemed to be quite large enough here.

It was hard to distinguish the many heaps of peanuts from the still more numerous graves. With enough of this baseball and circus delicacy within one sweep of the eye to satisfy a ravenous city on the Fourth of July, there came back to mind the touching story of the fond American 331mother who sent her dear son in China a box of peanuts for Christmas, so that he might for a little while be reminded of home. Even small children were helping to pull them, and to pile the nuts in grave-like mounds of careless cone shape. Of the graves themselves there was literally no end, until the landscape for long stretches seemed to grow nothing else. Yet the land was a veritable market-garden, so great is the individual care of Chinese fields in all their processes. Here and there, in place of the far more common tilling by hand, was a plow, drawn by two or three mules; but naturally you cannot plow to advantage if you must dodge grandfather’s grave every trip across a short field, after that great-grandfather’s, and then that of the father before him, back to more than remote generations. If only the old gentlemen would consent to lie in a row, or even in a companionable cluster, or to be laid away in a real graveyard where the little cones of earth might perhaps be kept green even in China, instead of being rare, rain-gashed heaps of dried mud as hallowed as a pile of peanuts!

Yet sometimes there is a hint of reverence, rather than of mere superstition, about a collection of half a dozen of these untended mounds drifting through the centuries with no other evidence of care than the slender shade of a single tree bent over them, like some faithful old servant still respectfully waiting to do their bidding. A suggestion of this comes now and then even to the disapproving foreigner, aghast at the wicked wastefulness of China’s burial methods; and certainly the peasant himself, the only one after all whom it greatly concerns, develops no spirit of criticism, no thought of revolt. A plow being in most cases inconvenient among his ancestral mounds, he digs away about them by hand year after year, generation after generation, as those same ancestors did century after century. Naked to the waist even in these late autumn days, his body burned to the hue of old polished mahogany, he never disturbs them, and rarely if ever mends them.

There were still reminders of the summer’s crops,—sweet potatoes, onions, lettuce, cabbages, carrots; but there was little if any evidence of the house-high kaoliang that stretches for unbroken miles across more northern China, all the north, indeed, of this province of Chihli. Country-women hobbling slowly and painfully about on their crippled feet were everywhere, even the most ugly, weather-beaten, and work-worn of them boasting this fancied form of beauty. Blindfolded donkeys and mules marched patiently round and round hither and yon across the landscape, some about ancient well-curbs, lifting by great 332wooden wheels water for the irrigation ditches that are so widely needed in this deforested, rain-stingy land, others rotating big stone rollers for the hulling or grinding of wheat. Brick-kilns, which the Chinese seal up for long periods with their contents, stood forth like rudely chiseled monuments or artificial hillocks. The earth was worn away around everything, walls, trees, roadsides, monuments, those great slabs of stone, top-heavy with carved dragons, that may be seen anywhere; for great portions of China are half-desert, dry as dust, of a moistureless brown soil ready to wash or blow away at the least provocation, and slavishly dependent upon irrigation. Chinese farming methods, too, increase this erosion. Everywhere men were cutting off the top layer of soil and screening the earth into many little mounds that stretched in long rows across the sunken fields. Later they “spread this between the wheat,” if I understood Chang’s laborious explanation; that is, they use it as a kind of fertilizer, sometimes mixed with the droppings of animals gleaned along the roads, as well as for the building of the many little low field-dikes.

Barely over the boundary of Honan, where it thrusts itself in a point that recalls the “gerrymandering” of the West into the two provinces bounding it on the north, is Changte, burial-place of Yuan Shih-kai. A tomb evidently rivaling those of the most powerful emperors, certainly larger and more sumptuous than that of Mencius not far east of here in Shantung, rises among great trees within easy sight from the train. But it is not covered in imperial yellow, for the new dynasty that the occupant hoped to found, and which, if numerous examples in Chinese history still mean anything, would have been the more natural development, failed to materialize, less because of wide-spread republican sentiment, one suspects, than for lack of tact, among the virtues of political sagacity, in the make-up of what might have been the founder.

Yuan Shih-kai is the father, so to speak, of the curse of swarming soldiers that now overrun China. For it was he who first saw in Korea, when he was a mere officer of the Manchus, the first Western-style soldiers, and who coaxed the Government to start what has become the present military misfortune of China. There were “soldiers” everywhere now—in China one must use the word with a grain of salt, for to put a simple country youth or a mere coolie into a faded gray cotton uniform and hand him something resembling a weapon does not make a real warrior, as the sight of rows of men standing at “present arms” 333and at the same time staring back over their shoulders at a strolling foreigner suggested. These artless, slouch-shouldered fellows lounged with fixed bayonets along the graveled platform of every station; they packed the trains to overflowing; they were drilling in companies and battalions, once or twice, it seemed, in whole regiments, on bare, dusty fields along the way. Had the half of them been genuine soldiers there should not have been a bandit within a month’s march in any direction.

At Chengchow next morning the head of a man, his long hair carefully wrapped about it, as if that were much more precious than what had been his neck, lay a yard from his trunk, hands and feet rudely tied with ropes, out on the bare space before the station. Perhaps he had really deserved this frequent, casual Chinese fate, and was not the simple coolie substituted for influential or unattainable criminals which his appearance somehow suggested. The curious strolled over to see him, but the eating-stalls just in front lost none of their custom or their cheerfulness; by noon the body was gone, and dogs had licked up the great patch of blood that had spread between head and trunk.

The major had already gone westward, and it was not until months later that I visited Kaifeng, capital of Honan, long after the “Christian General” had been transferred from there to Peking. Fu Hsi lived there a little matter of 4775 years ago and not only ruled the Chinese but, if we are to believe all we hear, taught them to fish with nets—the Yellow River being but a supernatural stone’s throw away—to rear domestic animals, to use the lute and lyre, in a way, one suspects, that has not changed since, and spent the leisure time left him in instituting laws of marriage and inventing a system of writing by using pictures as symbols. No doubt he played some antediluvian species of golf and lectured on the necessity of large families also, but early history is often careless in preserving “human interest” details. What we do know is that Kaifeng was the capital of China under the Sung dynasty, from 960 A.D. until the court was captured by the Kins nearly two centuries later, a brother of the emperor escaping to Nanking and setting himself up in his place, and remained a kind of capital of the Kins until they were finally overthrown by their fellow-Tartars, the Mongols. Since then the city has apparently been content with its provincial status.

Its wall encloses a mammoth space, much greater than that of Taiyüan, for instance, but with great open spaces within it. Lakes before the “dragon throne” in the center of the enclosure, though in the West they would more probably be called ponds, give the site mildly a suggestion of Peking. In a far corner the tieh-tah, or “iron pagoda,” 334is worth coming to see, though the only iron visible about it is the Buddhas in relief peering out of each opening up its thirteen stories. Of a beautiful glazed color of reddish brown with imperial yellow specking it, one might also call it the world’s largest porcelain. The keeper insisted that it was two thousand years old, but I fear tradition uncorrected by the printed page had deceived him as to the date of the Buddhist invasion of China, to which her pagodas are due.

There was a busy, almost a pleasant atmosphere about Kaifeng, with its moderately wide streets, and rickshaw-men almost as fast as those of Peking; though squeaking wheelbarrows for all manner of freight, with women on tiny feet sometimes straining in front of them, were numerous. Feng Yü-hsiang, China’s far-famed Methodist, cleaned up Kaifeng in the Christian sense during the six months he was ruler of Honan there. He drove out prostitutes; the extraordinary sight of soldiers sprinkling chloride of lime with their own fair hands wherever it was needed was but one of many such during his days. The only scandal that seemed to hover about his memory was an inordinate love for ice-cream, which reduced him to the point of sending a soldier for his share on those Sundays when he could not dine with the American missionaries in person. But Feng was evidently too good a Tuchun of Honan to suit his master Wu Pei-fu. The fellow who has taken his place has merely the outward honors of the office; Wu gives him his orders in everything of importance, and has his own auditors on the spot. Meanwhile the figurehead enjoys his opium, his singsong-girls, and his prestige, while the city slips back into the habits of which Feng attempted to cure it, and soldiers now and then run amuck in it. A thousand mere boys drill a month or two in compounds recently walled for them in the very outskirt where the missionaries built in the hope of an un-Chinese bit of quiet now and then, and pass on into the ever-swelling armies to make room for as many of their fellows. Bugles blare seven days a week long before the June hour of dawn, and all day long the recruits do their worst to sing scraps of Western music as they march.

The chief interest in Kaifeng to the traveler in quest of the unusual, however, is its Jews. The Chinese call them “Yu-t’ai,” which undoubtedly is derived from “Judea,” though whether by word of mouth or merely geographically is not clear. They came many generations ago, just when or why neither their neighbors nor they themselves seem to know. To-day they consist of “seven names and eight families”; that is, there are eight Jewish families who have between them seven family 335names, every one, as I have mentioned before, being compelled by circumstances over which he has no control to adopt one of the hundred and some Chinese surnames when he settles in China. Some doubt whether there are a hundred individuals left; the present head of the clan put the number at “one or two hundred.” They seem to have lost every vestige of Jewish identity, except the name they are all known by, which persistently survives. All those I saw looked less Jewish than do some of the Chinese; certainly their features would not definitely distinguish them from their neighbors, though the “head Jew” boasts that several persons have come to take his photograph “because he has such a big nose.” I ran this man Chao to earth for a somewhat similar purpose, and found him and his son keeping a little shop in a slovenly part of town, stripped to the waist and otherwise conducting themselves quite like Chinese a bit above the coolie class. Their home behind had not an un-Chinese hint about it—unless it was a large photograph of the father and son with a very Russian Jew from New York between them, which occupied a conspicuous place. But they were if anything more friendly, more bubbling over with excitement at a visit from a foreigner and the awe this inspired among their crowding neighbors, than pure Chinese of their class would have been. The merry little father, it seems, has twice been in jail charged with murder, if that really means anything concerning a man’s character in China; the fact that he had gotten out again suggested that there could scarcely have been much evidence against him, for the Jews of Kaifeng are not wealthy.

They intermarry with the Chinese, and some have even taken up Chinese idol-worship; the rite most insisted upon by orthodox Jewry has not been practised for generations. Formerly they had what they called a synagogue, but about fifty years ago this was completely destroyed, and does not seem to have been kept in repair even until then. There has been no attempt to restore it, and a stone tablet that stood within it is all that is left. On this last relic is engraved a sketch of Hebrew history and the names of the patriarchs. Once it bore also the names of the principal Jewish families in Kaifeng, but these were obliterated in order to throw off the scent those who tried some decades ago to persecute them. This tablet, by the way, is now in the compound of the Kaifeng mission of the Canadian Episcopal Church. No one in Kaifeng, as far as is known, can read Hebrew, and the clan seems long ago to have lost any interest in Judaism. Several portions of Hebrew scriptures have been found on the streets for sale, evidently 336as mere curios. The chief Jew proposed one day, in a talkative mood, that he order all the Jews to become Christian and join the church of the American missionary with whom he was speaking—because he had had a quarrel with the pastor of the other church.

The father of two likely-looking Jewish lads who attend the American mission school is a silversmith and has some means, but as a group the Jews of Kaifeng have not yet developed any Chinese Rothschilds or Guggenheims; nor is the wealth of the city in their control. In other words they seem to have become completely “un-Jewed,” if the expression be allowed, which is their chief claim to interest. For the Chinese, I believe, are the only people in the world who have completely broken the racial tradition of the Jews for remaining a distinct race. The slow and patient sons of Han have blotted out the marks that have identified the sons of Abraham for thousands of years, as they have pacifically assimilated race after race that has come into close contact with them, and it should occasion no great surprise if the Jewish colony of Kaifeng were entirely lost within another generation.

Soldiers were particularly numerous on the “Lunghai” line west from Chengchow, for this led to the headquarters of China’s just then most powerful general, Wu Pei-fu. Chang and I fell to talking with some of them in the crowded third-class coach. They were all volunteers—except perhaps as hunger and its allies coerce—enlisted for three years, new soldiers drawing, in theory, six “Mex” dollars a month, old ones, for what our own call a “second hitch,” eight. But in practice none of those with whom we spoke had ever been paid more than three such dollars during a single “moon,” at least, as they put it, “in time of peace.” It would be no great wonder if some of those off now on a furlough to their homes with only that amount to their names should be cogitating some violent means of improving that penurious condition of affairs.

One might become an officer within a year, they said, if one proved to be a good soldier, particularly if one were a friend of some friend of the general, or had money to scatter in the right quarter. Company officers seemed to receive about as much as our enlisted men do, with the privilege of buying their own food and clothing; but there are, as every one who has passed a bit of time in present-day China knows, other means by which they, and to a large extent the soldiers under them, often appreciably increase their official stipend.

Chinese farming methods include a stone roller, drawn by man, boy, or beast, to break up the clods of dry earth

Kaifeng, capital of Honan Province, has among its population some two hundred Chinese Jews, descendants of immigrants of centuries ago

A cave-built blacksmith and carpenter shop in Kwanyintang, where the Lunghai railway ends at present in favor of more laborious means of transportation

An illustrated lecture in China takes place outdoors in a village street, two men pushing brightly colored pictures along a two-row panel while they chant some ancient story

337Disarmament, I reflected, is like those long and complicated cures for virulent diseases that are so easily caught. When what we somewhat mistakenly call the most civilized nations of the world set the example of war, of mighty military forces, the infection cannot but spread to what seem to us the more backward races. Like a pebble tossed into a pool, the bright idea is taken up by race after race, country after province, until by the time the advanced nations are on the verge of bankruptcy and ready to quit for a while they must keep the thing up as a protection against the peoples of color and of strange faiths who have been stirred up by their example. In China there is an added complication. Soldiery, and banditry, too, are there largely a phase of the problem of unemployment. If China has the four hundred million inhabitants popularly attributed to her, any one who has traveled even in the less crowded northern provinces has seen that at least a hundred million of them must be perpetually hovering about the brink of starvation. An ambitious politician, or a general who refuses to lose his perquisites as such, himself imbued with the centuries-old dread of becoming one of the hungry, inarticulate masses, gathers about him all the soldiers he can recruit and find any means of keeping in his service. Most of these are simple, boyish fellows gleaned from the farms and villages before they have really taken root in the complicated society and industry of China. If they are discharged, if they are not paid, if the overthrow of their leader makes them fugitives, there is nothing much left for them to do but to turn bandits. Many have served alternately as soldiers and as brigands for years; many know no other trade, and, though they did, it is little less difficult to find an opening in the crowded, ill paid ranks of China’s workmen than to perform the venerable trick of passing a camel through the eye of a needle.

Thus the same men who, as soldiers, force helpless villagers to make up their arrears in pay, find it no great leap, as bandits, to the torturing of rich Chinese who fall into their hands, until their victims have subscribed enough to drive starvation once more into the background. Raids on towns, invitations to chambers of commerce to save the community from the torch and looting by raising so many thousands of dollars, are the order of the day in many parts of China; and testimony is almost unanimous that most Chinese soldiers are as bad as the bandits. In fact, there are towns which pay the tu-fei fixed sums not only for promising not to loot them but to keep the soldiers from doing so. After all, is there any great difference between the flock of generals or provincial dictators misgoverning various regions 338of China as they see fit, by the use of their private armies, and another leader, who in his day may also have been a general and quite possibly will be one again, whose followers are referred to as bandits rather than soldiers? Often the only real distinction is that the one is strong enough to force recognition from the so-called Central Government, and the other is not, though they may be equally scornful of its commands and desires. How faint is the line of demarcation, even in the minds of the most successful Chinese generals, is shown by the opinion of almost all of them that when a force is defeated in one of the skirmishes of China’s almost constant, if unacknowledged, civil war the victor should take over most of the defeated troops and save himself the job of having later to clear them out of his region as bandits.

China, it is evident, will never get rid of her bandits until she has industries to absorb them, and her excess soldiers also. The latter are commonly “disbanded” merely by some other force coming into the territory they have been holding and driving them out, instead of surrounding and disarming them. Thus when they are forced to turn to brigandage they retain guns, ammunition, and uniforms; and they are helped by every one, including the soldiers. Understandings grow up between the two forces; the bandits bury money exacted from their victims and pass the word on to the soldiers, who pretend to have a great battle against the outlaws, but really dig up the money and bury ammunition in place of it. One can scarcely expect Chinese coolies to risk their lives, or even their skins, merely because they have been enlisted as soldiers. Moreover, banditry has been more or less continuous in China for many centuries. It is a rare play on the Chinese stage in which there is not some reference to the danger of falling into the hands of bandits; brigand chiefs are the heroes of many an old tale, just as they are in the popular legends of Spain; more than one dynasty was founded by some powerful outlaw who outfought his rivals. With industries to absorb the rank and file, who can say how many of the generals and chieftains themselves would not find a better field for their abilities, and a better way to free themselves from the dread of falling below the hunger line, as “captains of industry”?

I overtook the major at the headquarters of Wu Pei-fu, with whom he had been an observer during his struggle against the lord of Manchuria a few months before. It took an hour by rickshaw to reach the place from the station, along the most atrocious caricatures of roads I had yet seen, even in China. The route lay through the walled town 339of Honanfu, better known to history as Loyang. Kuang Wu Ti made Loyang his capital shortly before the Christian era, when rebels drove him out of its predecessor, Changan, in what is to-day Shansi. It is a neglected part of China that has not been the capital at one time or another. This one was still the real seat of power not only of Honan Province but of a large portion of the putative republic. Inconsistently it was more miserably unkempt, more overrun with visible human misery, than any Chinese city I had yet come across, possibly because it was thus far the most southerly. Dust and the beggars squatting and rolling in it were all but indistinguishable until the latter were cringing almost under the runner’s feet, beggars as covered with filth as any in India, exhibiting great open sores, men so diseased that they spent their unoccupied moments in picking themselves to pieces.

We came at length through clouds of swirling dust to a score of great modern barracks, housing the division with which its now powerful commander has served since his lieutenant days. A formidable series of sentries and functionaries admitted me gradually through a massive gate, across a much flower-bedecked courtyard, through a voluminous anteroom, and finally into the official waiting-room. Three foreigners, who happened all to be Americans, and a baker’s dozen of Chinese were waiting. The major and a politically-minded youth temporarily released from Harvard, who was to accompany us on the outward journey, had just returned from the manœuvers at which the general spends his days on horseback, riding off daily at seven and returning at five, without taking food during that time. But many of the Chinese had been in the waiting-room since morning; indeed, it would have been easy to suspect that callers sometimes have the privilege of waiting overnight, for in the four corners stood as many large beds, canopied, but wooden-floored in the hard Chinese style. A long table occupied the center of the room; several more or less easy-chairs leaned against the wall. Nothing is more discourteous in China than to fail to keep a caller supplied with tea, and several orderlies, taking the leaves out of a familiar tin can in a corner behind a bed and transferring them to the pot in hands that showed no visible signs of recent soaping, kept the little handleless cup before each of us constantly filled and steaming.

Toward sunset there was a stir among the retainers about the anteroom and court yard, half-whispers of “Ta-ren lai-la” (the great man has come) from the Chinese visitors, and a few moments later we foreigners were asked to lead the way across another flowery court to 340a somewhat more sumptuous apartment. A young man in a gown of beautifully figured gray silk, of handsome and strikingly alert features, and speaking almost perfect English, had taken charge of details with the air of an accomplished, yet exceedingly cautious, master of ceremony. At least a score of persons drifted in, all Chinese except the four of us, but from all points of the compass,—politicians down from Peking for a conference, or looking for a chance to get there; correspondents of half a dozen native papers and foreign news services, some widely traveled and speaking English or French fluently; one or two from far southern China who could only converse with their fellow-countrymen through an interpreter or a mutually familiar foreign tongue; and a scattering of men of purely Chinese manners to whom a polyglot gathering was evidently a new experience. The assemblage suggested a king’s levée, with the added touch of costumes ranging all the way from the entirely Occidental to the very Oriental.

While we chatted, Wu Pei Fu slipped in among us almost unnoticed—for an instant,—until the silence of respect of the Chinese for any one who has reached power fell with a suddenness that was startling. The general had laid off his uncomfortable uniform and leather footwear, and was dressed in the long silken gown and cloth shoes of his native land. Small almost to the point of being tiny, he had undoubtedly “personality”; there was something about his vivacious manner and quite evident mental alertness which quickly set him above many of the larger and more stately men in the room. Even the “peanut” shape of his close-cropped head, so frequent in China, seemed to be but an added touch of slenderness; the hands, ladylike yet with closely trimmed nails, were an index to his whole appearance, which might have been summed up in the words “dapper yet strong.” His face was unusually vivid for a Chinese of his type, perhaps because he spends so much time out in the sun, particularly because of the extraordinary brilliance of his eyes, which fairly radiated during the frequent smiles that disclosed a small fortune in gold. Nothing, unless it was the rather stringy black mustache that fell untrimmed over the corners of a firm and slightly sensuous mouth, resembled in the least the oily enigmatical Chinese of our popular fiction. Though we knew him to be fifty, he could more easily have passed for thirty-five, and he spoke with what even I could recognize as the rather slovenly Shantung accent.

At a slight wave of his hand the gathering sat down at two large round tables set for a Chinese meal, the general apologizing to us foreigners for not placing us at his table, with the explanation that he had 341serious business to talk over with other visitors, evidently the politicians down from Peking. Politics, say those who know Wu as well as an Occidental can know a Chinese, partly bore and partly perplex him; he feels wholly at home only in military matters, but the plane to which his success as a general has raised him makes escape from political affairs impossible. They may be right, or they may never have plumbed below the surface of an unquestionably clever Oriental. The meal progressed like any informal Chinese dinner. Flocks of servants in and out of uniform brought bowl after bowl of the favorite foods of China, from which we fished with our carved ivory chop-sticks in competition with the rest of the circle. As one of the favorite sports of Japanese and Russians, as well as of the Chinese, waxed stronger and left us from the West completely outdistanced, even the staid gentlemen from rural parts, quite evidently unaccustomed to “outside barbarians,” mellowed and grew chatty, in an improvised language made up of gestures, monosyllables, and occasional appeals to the correspondents who spoke English or French. That sport is known in China as gam-bay, and consists of nothing more than tossing off at a gulp, whenever the head of the table gives the signal for a toast, the little porcelain cupful of samshu, sake, or vodka, as the case may be, which servants constantly replenish, then showing the empty inverted cup to one’s fellow-guests about the table. It may be a simple little pastime for those whose gullet has been galvanized by suitable training. But, for a simple person who has never outgrown in some matters a rather puritanical boyhood, it is apt quickly to result in embarrassment at the impossibility of proving enjoyment of hospitality in a way that will be fully understood. From time to time, of course, wet hot towels were passed to the guests, and when appetites flagged at last there came the bowls of lukewarm water in which the Chinese all too audibly rinse their mouths after eating. Our declining both these forms of ablution caused more or less wonder among the swarming servants and orderlies, according to their previous acquaintance with Westerners. Low as most prices are in China, this presumably daily hospitality to his flocks of visitors must make an impression on the never too plentiful funds of any Chinese general in these penurious days. But nothing is so dear to the Chinese heart as food, nothing rated really genuine without a feast attached; and to fail in the first rule of deportment would be a proof of waning fortune and a serious loss of “face.”

It was out in the waiting-room again that we had anything like a 342personal chat with the general. His tenacious fellow-countrymen having been deftly shaken off one by one, he joined us four Americans about the long, green baize table on which so many hundred gallons of tea a year are impersonally dispensed. His manner was a mingled hint of relief at having at last reduced his callers to those who certainly could not have come to buttonhole him for political preferment, of that respectful cordiality which Chinese in high places usually show toward any and all Westerners, whatever they may really feel toward the West, and of a suggestion of expansiveness apparently due to that fondness for gam-bay-ing which his friends sometimes fear may eventually be his undoing. Through his polished and cautious young interpreter he explained that he had come to us last that he might give us more time and attention, and from this auspicious beginning the conversation ran on through the fixed cycle of Chinese courtesies, we assuring him that we had come expressly to pay him our respects, he replying something to the effect that America has always been China’s greatest and most sincere friend, and so on for many rounds. But there was never a moment in which it was not evident that the general took all this buncombe and froth no more seriously than we; he was not only “democratic” in the way that has become so widely the fashion of late years, but he was plainly supplied with a reasonable fund of common sense, even though it might have Oriental trimmings. Wu Pei Fu is a man of larger background than many of those who have forced their way to the front in modern China, being what corresponds there to a bachelor of arts, as well as a military graduate with a long practical experience in military service. But the powers of evasion inborn in all Chinese do not seem to have suffered seriously from these rude contacts. Though we chatted for some time, nothing really worth recalling issued from the general’s lips, parted through it all by a toothpick, except the astonishing statement that there will be no more civil war in China and that the country will probably be unified within three years, after which he expects to be sent to the United States as an official representative. It may easily be that he considered these remarks mere after-dinner chat and expected us to take them as such. As we bumped back to our lodgings on the other side of the walled city in an asthmatic Ford which the general insisted on furnishing us, I regretted that some of us had not had the courage to ask some direct questions on the subject which just then could not but have troubled his dreams.

343Briefly, banditry had about reached its pinnacle in this very province where the super-Tuchun held forth—under his very nose, so to speak. Two nights before, a large force of outlaws had entered the walled city of Honanfu, barely two miles from the great barracks housing his division, and, after warning the four thousand soldiers in town not to attempt resistance, had killed one of the principal merchants, evidently because he had refused to pay them tribute, and then had thoroughly looted his establishment and calmly returned to their rendezvous. On the very day of our visit the Protestant missionaries living and working in a great compound outside the walls had received unofficial, indirect word from Wu that they must thenceforth live within the walled town, as he could not otherwise guarantee their safety.

But these were local matters. What was threatening the general with complete loss of “face,” throughout China and even abroad, was the kidnapping of foreigners from his very region of the country. The bandits seemed to show somewhat of a preference for missionaries, perhaps because they were most available, possibly, as one of them assured his worried friends, because the Lord was purposely offering the apostles this splendid opportunity to convert the wicked. There was no robbery involved, no demand for a money ransom, no more hardships for the captives than were naturally unavoidable in the circumstances. They were allowed to communicate frankly with their friends at frequent intervals; they were made as comfortable as the circumstances of being dragged from hiding-place to hiding-place permitted, though this did not spare them the acquisition of such ills as dysentery and pneumonia during their forced wanderings. The bandits presented one demand and one only,—that Wu Pei-fu, of the Central Government, should enlist them as a part of the army and give them a section of the country to garrison, and to tax! In other words, foreigners whom duty or pleasure took into the interior of China were to be made the pawns in a local political quarrel in which they had neither part nor interest. With all the grievances that exist between different factions in the troubled republic, there would be ample opportunity for every Occidental venturing beyond the sea-coast to get an intimate acquaintance with bandits and their lairs, particularly if this clever little scheme succeeded and won imitators.

There were strong suspicions that high officers of the Honan armies, if not Wu Pei-fu himself, were winking at the bandits and their activities, either because these paid in a share of their loot or for other reasons 344too intricate for the simple Western mind to follow. But this impression, while justly taking the super-Tuchun to task for not adopting a vigorous policy against the bandits, for using his influence to coerce Peking while failing lamentably to rule that portion of the country within gunshot of his barracks’ door, it did not, generally for lack of personal knowledge, take due account of the territory in which the brigands were operating. In the pell-mell, tumbled mountains of western Honan they might circle in and out while a whole modern army rarely caught a glimpse of them. Bombing airplanes might be an effective argument, but Chinese armies are poorly supplied with such modern luxuries, and there was the safety of the foreign captives to be considered. In other words, the bandits held the best hand, and about all even a virtual dictator to the Central Government could do was to enter into negotiations with them as if they were a legal and responsible opposing faction.

This, at last, is precisely what Wu did. Though it was not until weeks after our visit to his headquarters, the loss of “face” involved when nearly a dozen foreigners of half as many nationalities, including women and children, had been carried off in his own province, added to slow but moderately stern and concerted measures by the legations involved, not merely toward the fictional Central Government but against Wu Pei-fu himself, forced him at last into effective action. One of the main troubles is that Wu and all his ilk, thanks largely to the supineness of foreign governments which should impress the opposite point of view upon the hit-or-miss rulers of present-day China, have on hand a bigger game, too often of a personal nature, than the rescuing of a few foreigners serving the brigands as pawns in their own little schemes. A loud and certain voice from abroad, as was proved in this case, would probably greatly reduce banditry even in Honan, the centuries-old home of outlawry, and certainly would make the carrying off of innocent foreigners as hostages a less simple and commonplace matter. Government, however, even when it is not ludicrously misinformed on the simplest phases of the situation in China, seems to be much more interested in issuing ten-dollar passports and collecting income taxes from its nationals abroad than of lending them the protection these should involve.

In the Protestant mission compound of Honanfu the missionaries had tied up this thief to stew in the sun for a few days, rather than turn him over to the authorities, who would have lopped off his head

Over a city gate in western Honan two crated heads of bandits were festering in the sun and feeding swarms of flies

A village in the loess country, which breaks up into fantastic formations as the stoneless soil is worn away by the rains and blown away by the winds

345In this case all the foreign captives were released, gradually, within a week after the legations began to show real signs of life, not greatly the worse for wear, and with an absorbing after-dinner topic to last them for years to come. But it was easy to guess what splendid arguments stray foreigners are to prove in domestic Chinese controversies, of which they may be as supremely ignorant as uninterested, during perhaps years to come, now that this little scheme of the bandits had been crowned with such signal success. It is easier still to see how much bolder they will grow in gathering such arguments, how much rougher, when it serves their purposes, in the use of them, and how much the self-seeking militarists of China will care how far the acknowledged outlaws go in the matter, so long as a wishy-washy policy, supremely ignorant of the first rules of Chinese psychology, continues to represent the Western world in this matter.

Just what argument had been brought to bear on the brigands remained for several days a more or less profound secret; but the “old China hand” had his suspicions, which turned out to be fully justified. He suspected that temporizing, compromising, and weakly yielding had been the consecutive orders of the moves, for long experience has taught him the more outstanding features of the Chinese character. When it could no longer be concealed, word seeped up out of Honan that virtually all the demands of the bandits had been granted in full. Their chieftains were given high rank and official titles, and the men themselves were incorporated into the “national army,” whatever that means, any world agreements toward disarmament notwithstanding. Not only that, but their organizations had been left intact and given a corner of the province to rule, particularly to “tax,” instead of at least being split up among other organizations in which some slight curb might be put upon their activities. The Chinese populations involved protested, in so far as they dared, but of course in vain. That is another misfortune of the supine policy of foreign governments, that the law-abiding Chinese masses suffer all the more accordingly. But, after all, perhaps they are more or less responsible for the low state of authority in present-day China, and subject to a corresponding discount of sympathy.

Months later down in Yencheng, the center of the foreigner-capturing brigandage of Honan, I picked up a few details of their calling. Though the outside world hears much more of it, there is hardly, so far, one foreigner carried off by bandits to a thousand Chinese. The usual method is to attack a village and take a man of standing, or his son of fifteen or so, for ransom; but rather than run the dangers of dragging the captive about with them, the outlaws often hand him over to some resident of a neighboring village, perhaps only a woman, with the threat to burn the house and kill its occupants if the hostage is not there when they return for him. Many a helpless family 346is thus left stranded between the devil and the deep sea. Occasionally girls are taken, but the girl or woman who is kept overnight loses her reputation and is not worth ransoming. Therefore they are either returned after negotiations lasting a few hours, or are kept as camp property. When they are after money or material advancement, Chinese brigands do not mistreat women; these suffer more when soldiers run amuck and loot a town. Like banditry, this is old Chinese history; in the days of Kublai Khan, of whom we hear such romantic stories, Mongol Buddhist priests or lamas were given an iron ticket from the emperor which gave them the right to enter any house in China, drive out the men, and install themselves in their place. For a fortnight a year during the Mongol dynasty, popular Chinese history records that the country was given over to promiscuous debauchery; bearing these things in mind one is surprised at the comparative lack of abuse of women by Chinese malefactors.

On the way from the Peking-Hankow main line to Honanfu there had been much of that clay-sandy earth called loess, and in the rambling half-day from there to the rail-head there was more of it. Cultivation, rain, wind breaking this down to varying levels, leave fantastic forms of earth as striking as the rocks of Namur, precarious cliffs in which are cut cave-dwellings, shrines, even temples; indeed, for long stretches there were few other kinds of buildings. Hundreds of little fields, one could see even from the jolting train, were gradually but irretrievably wearing away to a common level that would eventually make cultivation out of the question. A doubly uncertain world this, where one’s home is a hole in the cliff-side that may any day slough off, where one must always walk cautiously along the edge of either field or veranda, lest it at any moment drop from under. We passed through many tunnels, always thankful to find them stone-faced. How this soil ever succeeds in holding together even as long as it does was one of the mysteries that beguiled all that morning’s journey.

At the scattered town of Kwanyintang the railway abandoned us to our own devices. Fortunately the Tuchun of Honan Province, China’s far-famed “Christian General,” did not. All the way from Kaifeng, where the major had gone to visit him, he had sent one of his aides to smooth the way for us. This handsome and intelligent fellow, still in his quilted silky-gray uniform, had once been a lieutenant-colonel but had given up his rank in order to work for social welfare among the soldiers. He carried several bundles of Chinese pamphlets in hectic 347covers, which turned out to be translations of various books of the Bible, to be distributed among the country people. What distinguished him still more from the mass of China’s swarming soldiers was the fact that he insisted on paying his fare. Had not this idiosyncrasy of the “Christian General’s” troops already been familiar to the officials of the Lunghai Railway, it is quite possible that we should have seen a pair of them faint away with astonishment at the door of our unupholstered compartment.

In the far reaches of China there is a comradeship among all foreigners—perhaps the word “European” or “Caucasian” would be more exact—stronger than that between fellow-countrymen in many parts of the world. Let a rumor drift to a traveler’s ears that there is a wai-guo-ren in town, or indeed within reasonable striking distance of his route, and he feels it as much his duty to call, quite irrespective of the stranger’s particular nationality, as the latter does immediately to offer him hospitality. There was nothing unusual, therefore, in the fact that we were met at the present end of the line by an Armenian, a Greek, and a Rumanian, all members of this Belgian-French railway concession, who at once turned their office over to us as a lodging. Nor was there any reason to be surprised when a Russian Jew, who had just ridden down from Chinese Turkestan in record time, turned up there hoping to sell us his horses. He was true to his race, however, when the question of price came up, and we were not seriously tempted to alter our original plan to leave Kwanyintang in mule-litters.

It is proof that our aide from Kaifeng was something more than Christian that he had the expedition we required gathered, signed, and sealed before nightfall. The usual system in such cases is to leave the whole matter to some responsible innkeeper. He sets the price, engages mules and whatever conveyances are necessary, and assumes responsibility for the proper carrying out of the contract. In this case, as is also usual, he came bringing a great sheet of flimsy paper daubed with Chinese characters in red—the contract in question—and decorated with several red “chops,” the personal seals of responsible residents of the town, which serve as a cross between recommendations and sureties. He had also come to ask for three fourths of the sum agreed upon, which was sixteen “Mex” dollars per litter for the journey of 280 li to the first town over the Honan-Shensi border. Ten Chinese li, it may be as well to specify once for all, make approximately three miles, though in practice there are “small li” and “large li,” in mountainous country two or three times as many li going as coming, or vice versa, 348and occasionally a complete unintelligence as to road measurements. The innkeeper must have expected that we had taken the trouble to inform ourselves and were aware that at most only half the amount involved is advanced, but the Chinese never risk losing an opportunity to profit by the possible ignorance of a foreigner. When we declined even to pay the customary half until we could inspect the mules next morning, we ran some risk of undoing all the labor of our more than Christian aide; for the sons of Han hate even more to make the slightest rebate on custom than they do not to be able to overreach it a few points. Had we been Chinese, probably negotiations would have halted then and there until the money was forthcoming; but foreigners still have some of their old prestige and reputation in the Chinese Republic.

Our precaution really was hardly worth the trouble, for the night was too black when we began to load to tell a mule from a corpse or a litter from a lumber-pile. A Chinese mule-litter consists of two pieces of telegraph-pole some ten feet long, which are fastened together at either end with a crosspiece that sets into a pack-saddle, and beneath which are two straddling wooden legs to keep the contrivance high enough off the ground when the two animals are taken from beneath it. Between the two poles is looped a network of ropes covered with a straw mat, with sag enough in them to hold the traveler’s baggage and leave him room to spread his bedding and to sit or stretch out at full length upon it. Over all this there is an arched roof of straw matting, not dissimilar in appearance to that of a “prairie-schooner.” My own custom of living on the country during my travels had become so fixed that I had still not adjusted myself to the major’s notions of a proper equipment. We had two army-trunks, one of them very full of canned foods. Folding cots, bedding-rolls, spare garments sufficient even for the wintry weather we expected before the journey was over, and a small mule-load of merely personal conveniences were enough to render speechless a wanderer long accustomed to carry all his possessions on his own back. When to all this was added a “boy” and a cook, and all the equipment necessary for them to function in a fitting manner, I felt more as if I had again joined the army than as though we were merely setting off on a little personal jaunt. It will not be unduly anticipating, perhaps, if I mention now that, while my companion sometimes realized he was not living at home, and solicitous persons back in Peking fancied we were roughing it, memory of many another cross-country tramp made this one seem to me like traveling in extreme luxury; and the worst of it is that I thoroughly enjoyed the change.

We were off at six, with the night still black about us. But that did not mean that we actually got started so early, for it would be a strange Chinese journey that began without a hitch. This time it was one of the mules which we had been unable to examine in the darkness. He turned out to be small, gaunt, and ratty, and long before we had passed through straggling Kwanyintang he became so lame and wabbly that there seemed no possibility of his even lasting out the day. Fortunately we were in a position to have our desires heeded. By order of his chief, our aide from Kaifeng had instructed the local commander to furnish us an escort of ten soldiers. We were quite familiar with the ancient jest that having a guard of Chinese soldiers is worse than falling into the hands of bandits; but at least, if they did not succeed in outsprinting the brigands in case of an attack, they could assure them that we were not worth the robbing or holding for ransom. Besides, were we not out ma