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      Project Gutenberg eBook of The Siberian Overland Route from Peking to Petersburg, by Alexander Michie.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45167 ***</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 417px;">
<img src="images/title-page.jpg" width="417" height="600" alt="title-page" />
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 414px;"><a name="Frontispiece" id="Frontispiece"></a>
<img src="images/i-001.jpg" width="414" height="550" alt="Pagoda" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">Photo. by Beato.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(<i>Frontispiece.</i>)<br />

PAGODA AND GARDENS OF THE EMPEROR'S SUMMER PALACE,<br />
YUEN-MIN-YUEN.</p>
</div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />


<h1>
<span class="s05">THE</span><br />
SIBERIAN OVERLAND ROUTE<br />
<small>FROM PEKING TO PETERSBURG</small>,</h1>

<p class="center"><b>THROUGH THE DESERTS AND STEPPES OF MONGOLIA,<br />
TARTARY, &amp;c.</b></p>

<h3>BY ALEXANDER MICHIE.</h3>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"><a name="Vignette" id="Vignette"></a>
<img src="images/tomb.jpg" width="450" height="413" alt="tomb" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">TOMB AT THE DEPOT, PEKING.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class="center space-above">LONDON:<br />
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.<br />
<small>1864</small>.
</p>


<hr class="chap" />

<h2>PREFACE.</h2>


<p>The following work has but moderate claims, I fear, to
public attention; and it would probably not have seen the
light at all but for the urgent request of friends, who think
better of it than the author does. It has no pretensions to
any higher merit than that of being a plain narrative of the
journey, and an impartial record of my own impressions of
the people among whom I travelled.</p>

<p>Although some portions of the route have been eloquently
described by Huc and others, I am not aware that any continuous
account of the whole journey between the capitals
of China and Russia has appeared in the English language
for nearly a century and a half. Important changes have
occurred in that period; and, if I may judge of others by
myself, I suspect that many erroneous notions are afloat
respecting the conditions of life in these far-off regions, and
more especially in Siberia. Observation has modified my
own pre-conceived opinions on many of the subjects touched
on in the following pages, and I am not without a hope that
they will be found to contain some information which may
be new to many people in this country.</p>

<p>If I have indulged in irrelevant digressions, I can only say
that I have limited myself to those reflections which naturally
suggested themselves in the course of my travels; and the
subjects I have given most prominence to are simply those
which happened to be the most interesting to myself.</p>

<p>My thanks are due to various friends for useful hints, confirming
and correcting my own observations; but I am
especially indebted for some valuable notes on Siberia, its
social phenomena, gold mines, &amp;c., to Edwin E. Bishop, Esq.,
whose long residence in the country, and perfect acquaintance
with the language and customs of the people, constitute
him an authority on all matters connected with that part of
the world.</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">22, Berkeley Square</span>,<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<em>October 28th, 1864</em>.
</p>



<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="contents">
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER I.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Shanghai to Tientsin.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">John Bell&mdash;"Overland" routes&mdash;Peking a sealed book&mdash;Jesuits&mdash;Opening of China&mdash;Chinese jealousy of Mongolia&mdash;Errors of British policy&mdash;Their results&mdash;Preparations for journey&mdash;Leave Shanghae&mdash;Yang-tse-kiang&mdash;Changes in its channel&mdash;Elevation of the delta&mdash;Chinese records of inundations&mdash;The Nanzing&mdash;Shantung promontory in a fog&mdash;Chinese coasters&mdash;Advantages of steam&mdash;Our fellow-passengers&mdash;Peiho river&mdash;Intricate navigation&mdash;Sailors in China&mdash;Tientsin&mdash;New settlement&mdash;Municipal council&mdash;Improvements&mdash;Trade&mdash;Beggars&mdash;Health&mdash;Sand-storms&mdash;Gambling</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER II.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Tientsin to Peking.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Modes of travelling&mdash;Carts, horses, boats&mdash;Filthy banks of the Peiho&mdash;Voyage to Tungchow&mdash;Our boat's crew&mdash;Chinese distances&mdash;Traffic on the Peiho&mdash;Temple at Tungchow&mdash;Mercantile priests&mdash;Ride to Peking&mdash;Millet&mdash;Eight-mile bridge&mdash;Resting place&mdash;Tombs&mdash;Filial piety&mdash;Cemeteries&mdash;Old statues&mdash;Water communication into Peking&mdash;Grain supply</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER III.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Peking.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Walls of Peking&mdash;Dust and dirt&mdash;Street obstructions&mdash;The model inn&mdash;Restaurant&mdash;Our boon companions&mdash;Peking customs&mdash;Rule of thumb&mdash;British legation&mdash;Confucian temple&mdash;Kienloong's pavilion&mdash;Lama temple&mdash;Mongol chants&mdash;Roman and Bhuddist analogies&mdash;Mongols and Chinese&mdash;Hospitality of lay brother&mdash;Observatory&mdash;Street cries&mdash;Temple of Heaven&mdash;Theatres&mdash;European residents&mdash;Medical mission under Dr. Lockhart&mdash;Chinese jealousy of Mongolia&mdash;Russian diplomacy&mdash;Reckoning with our host&mdash;Ice&mdash;Paper-money</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span>CHAPTER IV.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Peking to Chan-kia-kow.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Return to Tungchow&mdash;Disappointment&mdash;Priest conciliated by Russian language&mdash;Back to Peking&mdash;Negotiations&mdash;Ma-foo's peculation&mdash;Chinese honesty and knavery&mdash;Loading the caravan&mdash;Mule-litters&mdash;Leave Peking&mdash;Sha-ho&mdash;Cotton plant&mdash;Nankow&mdash;Crowded inn&mdash;Difficult pass&mdash;Inner "great wall"&mdash;Cha-tow&mdash;Chinese Mahommedans&mdash;Religious toleration&mdash;Christians in disfavour&mdash;Change of scene&mdash;Hwai-lai&mdash;Ruins of bridge&mdash;Bed of old river&mdash;Road traffic&mdash;Watch-towers&mdash;Chi-ming-i&mdash;Legend of monastery&mdash;the Yang-ho&mdash;Pass&mdash;Shan-shui-pu&mdash;Coal&mdash;Suen-wha-fu&mdash;Ride to Chan-kia-kow</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER V.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Chan-kia-kow.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Arrival at Chan-kia-kow&mdash;Focus of Trade&mdash;Mixed population&mdash;Wealth&mdash;Mongols&mdash;Russians&mdash;Name of Kalgan&mdash;Chinese friends&mdash;Russian hospitality&mdash;Disappointment&mdash;Proposed excursion to Bain-tolochoi&mdash;Camels at last procured&mdash;Noetzli returns to Tientsin&mdash;The pass&mdash;Mountains&mdash;Great Wall&mdash;The horse-fair&mdash;Dealers&mdash;Ox-carts&mdash;Transport of wood from Urga&mdash;Shoeing smiths&mdash;Our Russian host arrives&mdash;The "Samovar"&mdash;Tea-drinking in Russia&mdash;Change of temperature&mdash;Elevation of Chan-kia-kow&mdash;Preparations for the desert&mdash;Cabbages&mdash;Warm boots&mdash;Camels arrive&mdash;Leave Chan-kia-kow&mdash;The pass&mdash;Superiority of mules, &amp;c., over camels</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER VI.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Mongolia.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Leave China&mdash;Mishap in the pass&mdash;Steep ascent&mdash;Chinese perseverance&mdash;Agricultural invasion&mdash;Our first encampment&mdash;Cold night&mdash;Pastoral scene&mdash;Introduction to the Mongols&mdash;The land of tents&mdash;Our conductors&mdash;Order of march&mdash;Mongol chants&mdash;The lama&mdash;Slow travelling&mdash;Pony "Dolonor"&mdash;Night travelling&mdash;Our Mongols' tent&mdash;Argols&mdash;Visitors&mdash;Mongol instinct&mdash;Camels quick feeders&mdash;Sport&mdash;Antelopes&mdash;Lame camels&mdash;Scant pastures&mdash;Endurance of Mongols&mdash;Disturbed sleep&mdash;Optical illusions&mdash;"Yourt," Mongol tent&mdash;Domestic arrangements&mdash;Etiquette&mdash;Mongol furniture&mdash;Sand-grouse&mdash;Track&mdash;Wind and rain&mdash;A wretched night&mdash;Comfortless encampment&mdash;Camels breaking down&mdash;The camel seasons&mdash;No population&mdash;No grass&mdash;Mingan</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span>CHAPTER VII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Mongolia</span>&mdash;<em>continued</em>.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Visitors at Mingan&mdash;Trading&mdash;Scene with a drunken Mongol&mdash;Good horsemen&mdash;Bad on foot&mdash;Knowledge of money&mdash;Runaway pony&mdash;A polite shepherd&mdash;Gunshandak&mdash;Wild onions&mdash;Halt&mdash;Expert butcher&mdash;Mongol sheep, extraordinary tails&mdash;A Mongol feast&mdash;Effects of diet&mdash;Taste for fat explained&mdash;Mongol fasts&mdash;Our cooking arrangements&mdash;Camel ailings&mdash;Maggots&mdash;Rough treatment&mdash;Ponies falling off&mdash;Live in hopes&mdash;Dogs&mdash;The harvest moon&mdash;Waiting for Kitat&mdash;Lamas and their inhabitants&mdash;Resume the march&mdash;Meet caravan&mdash;Stony roads&mdash;Disturbed sleep&mdash;Gurush&mdash;Negotiations at Kutul-usu&mdash;Salt plains&mdash;Sporting lama&mdash;Ulan-Khada&mdash;Trees&mdash;Reach Tsagan-tuguruk&mdash;Lamas and black men&mdash;Small temple&mdash;Musical failure&mdash;Our new acquaintances&mdash;Horse-dealing&mdash;Greed of Mongols&mdash;Fond of drink&mdash;A theft&mdash;The incantation&mdash;Kitat returns&mdash;Camel lost&mdash;Vexatious delay&mdash;Start from Tsagan-tuguruk</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER VIII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Mongolia</span>&mdash;<em>continued</em>.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Marshes&mdash;Camels dislike water&mdash;Chinese caravan&mdash;Travellers' tales&mdash;Taryagi&mdash;Looking for cattle in the dark&mdash;Butyn-tala&mdash;An addition to our party&mdash;Russian courier&mdash;Water-fowl&mdash;Bad water&mdash;Kicking camel&mdash;Pass of Ulin-dhabha&mdash;Mongols shifting quarters&mdash;Slip 'tween the cup and the lip&mdash;Mountains&mdash;The north wind&mdash;Guntu-gulu&mdash;An accident&mdash;Medical treatment&mdash;Protuberant ears&mdash;Marmots&mdash;Ice&mdash;Dark night&mdash;Bain-ula&mdash;Living, not travelling&mdash;Charm of desert life&mdash;Young pilgrim&mdash;Grand scenery&mdash;Steep descent&mdash;Obon&mdash;Horror of evil spirits&mdash;Mongol and Chinese notions of devils&mdash;Dread of rain&mdash;A wet encampment&mdash;Snow&mdash;The White Mountains&mdash;The Bactrian camel&mdash;Capability of enduring cold&mdash;Job's comforters&mdash;Woods appear&mdash;The yak&mdash;Change of fuel</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER IX.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Urga to Kiachta.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Maimachin in sight&mdash;A snow storm&mdash;Hasty encampment&mdash;Tolla in flood&mdash;Delay&mdash;Intercourse with Mongols&mdash;The night watches&mdash;Tellig's family&mdash;Rough night&mdash;Scene at the Tolla&mdash;Crossing the river&mdash;the "Kitat" redivivus&mdash;His hospitality&mdash;How Mongols clean their cups&mdash;Maimachin&mdash;The Russian consulate&mdash;Russian ambition&mdash;Its prospects&mdash;The Urga, or camp&mdash;Kuren&mdash;Fine situation&mdash;Buildings&mdash;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span>Horse-shoeing&mdash;Hawkers&mdash;The lamaseries&mdash;An ascetic&mdash;The Lama-king&mdash;Relations between Chinese emperors and the Lama power&mdash;Urga and Kara Korum&mdash;Historical associations&mdash;Prester John and Genghis Khan&mdash;Leave Urga&mdash;Slippery paths&mdash;More delays&mdash;The pass&mdash;A snow storm&mdash;Fine scenery&mdash;Rich country&mdash;Another bugbear&mdash;The Boro valley&mdash;Cultivation&mdash;Khara-gol&mdash;The pass&mdash;Lama courier&mdash;Shara-gol&mdash;Winter quarters&mdash;The transmigration&mdash;Iro-gol&mdash;Forced march&mdash;Kiachta in sight</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER X.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Mongols&mdash;Historical Notes.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Early history of Huns&mdash;Wars with China&mdash;Dispersion&mdash;Appear in Europe&mdash;Attila&mdash;His career&mdash;And death&mdash;Turks&mdash;Mixture of races&mdash;Consanguinity of Huns and Mongols&mdash;Genghis&mdash;His conquests&mdash;Divisions of his empire&mdash;Timour&mdash;A Mahommedan&mdash;His wars&mdash;And cruelties&mdash;Baber&mdash;The Great Mogul in India&mdash;Dispersion of tribes&mdash;Modern divisions of the Mongols&mdash;Warlike habits&mdash;Religions&mdash;The causes of their success in war considered&mdash;Their heroes&mdash;Their characters&mdash;And military talents&mdash;Superstition&mdash;Use of omens&mdash;Destructiveness and butcheries of the Huns and Mongols&mdash;Antagonistic traits of character&mdash;Depraved moral instincts&mdash;Necessity of culture to develop human feelings&mdash;Flesh-eating not brutalising&mdash;Dehumanising tendency of war&mdash;Military qualities of pastoral peoples&mdash;Dormant enthusiasm of the Mongols</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XI.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Mongols&mdash;Physical and Mental Characteristics.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Physical characteristics&mdash;Meanness&mdash;Indolence&mdash;Failure in agriculture&mdash;Hospitality&mdash;Its origin&mdash;Pilfering&mdash;Honesty&mdash;Drunkenness&mdash;Smoking&mdash;Ir'chi or Kumiss&mdash;Morality&mdash;Of lamas&mdash;Women fond of ornaments&mdash;Decency of dress&mdash;Physique&mdash;Low muscular energy&mdash;A wrestling match&mdash;Bad legs&mdash;Bow-legged&mdash;Its causes&mdash;Complexions&mdash;Eyes&mdash;Absence of beard&mdash;Comparison with Chinese and Japanese&mdash;Effect of habits on physical development&mdash;Animal instincts in nomads&mdash;Supply the place of artificial appliances&mdash;Permanence of types of character&mdash;Uniformity in primitive peoples&mdash;Causes that influence colour of skin&mdash;Mongol powers of endurance&mdash;Low mental capacity&mdash;Its causes&mdash;Superstition produced by their habits&mdash;Predisposed to spiritual thraldom&mdash;The lamas and their practices&mdash;Prayers&mdash;Knaveries of lamas&mdash;Vagabond lamas&mdash;The spread of Bhuddism&mdash;Superior to Shamanism&mdash;Shaman rites&mdash;Political result of Bhuddism&mdash;The Mongol kings&mdash;Serfs</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span>CHAPTER XII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Kiachta.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Approach Kiachta&mdash;Maimachin&mdash;Chinese elegance&mdash;The frontier&mdash;Russian eagle&mdash;The commissary of the frontier&mdash;"Times" newspaper&mdash;Kiachta&mdash;Troitskosarfsk&mdash;Meet a countryman&mdash;Part from our Mongols&mdash;Their programme&mdash;A Russian bath&mdash;Siberian refinement&mdash;Streets and pavement&mdash;Russian conveyances&mdash;Aversion to exercise&mdash;Semi-civilisation&mdash;Etiquette&mdash;Mixture of peoples&mdash;Wealth of Russian merchants&mdash;Narrow commercial views&mdash;The Chinese of Maimachin&mdash;Domestic habits&mdash;Russian and Chinese characters compared&mdash;Chinese more civilised than the Russians&mdash;The Custom-house&mdash;Liberal measures&mdash;Our droshky&mdash;Situation of Kiachta&mdash;Supplies&mdash;Population&mdash;Hay-market&mdash;Fish&mdash;The garden&mdash;Domestic gardening&mdash;Climate salubrious&mdash;Construction of houses&mdash;Stoves&mdash;Russian meals&mdash;Commercial importance of Kiachta&mdash;Inundation of the Selenga&mdash;Travelling impracticable&mdash;Money-changing&mdash;New travelling appointments&mdash;Tarantass&mdash;Passports&mdash;Danger of delay&mdash;Prepare to start&mdash;First difficulty&mdash;Siberian horses&mdash;Post-bell</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XIII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Kiachta to the Baikal.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Leave Troitskosarfsk&mdash;Hilly roads&mdash;Bouriats&mdash;The first post-station&mdash;Agreeable surprise&mdash;Another stoppage&mdash;A night on the hill-side&mdash;Hire another carriage&mdash;Reach the Selenga&mdash;The ferry&mdash;Selenginsk&mdash;A gallery of art&mdash;Cultivation&mdash;Verchne Udinsk&mdash;Effects of the inundation&mdash;Slough of despond&mdash;Fine scenery&mdash;A dangerous road&mdash;A press of travellers&mdash;Favour shown us&mdash;Angry Poles&mdash;Ilyensk&mdash;An obsequious postmaster&mdash;Tidy post-house&mdash;A night at Ilyensk&mdash;Treachery suspected&mdash;Roads destroyed&mdash;Difficult travelling&mdash;An old Pole&mdash;Baikal lake&mdash;Station at Pasoilské&mdash;A night scene&mdash;The Selenga river&mdash;And valley&mdash;Agriculture&mdash;Cattle, sheep, pigs, dogs</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XIV.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Lake Baikal to Irkutsk.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Morning scene at Pasoilské&mdash;Better late than never&mdash;Victimised&mdash;Russian junks&mdash;Primitive navigators&mdash;Storms on the Baikal&mdash;Scene at the shipping port&mdash;Religious ceremony&mdash;A polite officer&mdash;Inconvenience of the Baikal route&mdash;Engineering enterprise&mdash;More delay&mdash;Fares by the Baikal steamer&mdash;Crowing and crouching&mdash;The embarkation&mdash;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span>The General Karsakof&mdash;A naval curiosity&mdash;The lake&mdash;Its depth&mdash;And area&mdash;The "Holy Sea"&mdash;The passage&mdash;Terra firma&mdash;Custom-house delay&mdash;Fine country&mdash;Good roads&mdash;Hotels Amoor and Metzgyr</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_234">234</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XV.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Irkutsk.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">In sight of Irkutsk&mdash;Handsome town&mdash;Wrong hotel&mdash;Bad accommodation&mdash;Suffocation&mdash;Bad attendance&mdash;The cuisine&mdash;Venerable eggs&mdash;Billiards&mdash;Meet a friend&mdash;Beauties of Irkutsk&mdash;Milliners&mdash;Bakers&mdash;Tobacconists&mdash;Prison&mdash;Convicts&mdash;Benevolence of old ladies&mdash;Equipages&mdash;Libraries&mdash;Theatre&mdash;Population&mdash;Governor&mdash;Generalship&mdash;The levée&mdash;Governing responsibilities&mdash;Importance of commerce&mdash;Manufactures insignificant&mdash;Education&mdash;Attractions of Siberia&mdash;Society&mdash;Polish exiles&mdash;The Decembrists&mdash;The sentence of banishment&mdash;Its hereditary effect&mdash;Low standing of merchants&mdash;Discomforts of travelling&mdash;Engage a servant&mdash;The prodigal&mdash;A mistake&mdash;Early winter&mdash;The Angara&mdash;Floating-bridge&mdash;Parting view of Irkutsk</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XVI.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Irkutsk to Krasnoyarsk.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Leave Irkutsk&mdash;Roads and rivers&mdash;Capacity for sleep&mdash;Bridges&mdash;Break-neck travelling&mdash;Endurance of Russian ponies&mdash;Verst-posts&mdash;Appalling distances&mdash;Irregular feeding&mdash;Tea <em>versus</em> grog&mdash;River Birusa&mdash;Boundary of Irkutsk and Yenisei&mdash;Stoppage&mdash;The telegraph wires&mdash;Improved roads&mdash;River Kan&mdash;The ferrymen&mdash;Kansk&mdash;A new companion&mdash;Prisoner of war&mdash;Advantages and disadvantages of travelling in company&mdash;Improved cultivation&mdash;A snow-storm&mdash;Cold wind&mdash;Absurd arrangement of stations&mdash;The river Yenisei&mdash;Mishap at the ferry&mdash;The approach to Krasnoyarsk&mdash;The town&mdash;Population&mdash;Hotel&mdash;Travellers' accounts&mdash;Confusion at the station&mdash;The black-book&mdash;The courier service</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XVII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Krasnoyarsk to Tomsk.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Sledges&mdash;Sulky yemschiks&mdash;Progress to Achinsk&mdash;Limit of Eastern Siberia&mdash;Game&mdash;The Chulim&mdash;Difficult ferry&mdash;Government of Tomsk&mdash;Bad roads again&mdash;Job's comforters&mdash;Mariinsk&mdash;An accident&mdash;And another&mdash;Resources of a yemschik&mdash;A drive through a forest&mdash;Ishimskaya&mdash;A day too late&mdash;A sporting Pole&mdash;Disappointment&mdash;Annoying delay&mdash;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span>Freezing river&mdash;A cold bath&mdash;Sledge travelling&mdash;A night scene&mdash;Early birds&mdash;Arrive in Tomsk&mdash;Our lodging&mdash;Religion of Russians&mdash;Scruples of a murderer&mdash;Population and situation of Tomsk&mdash;Fire Insurance&mdash;Climate of Tomsk&mdash;Supply of water&mdash;Carefulness and hardiness&mdash;Skating&mdash;Demure little boys&mdash;An extinct species&mdash;The gold diggings&mdash;The Siberian tribes</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_273">273</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XVIII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Tomsk to Omsk.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Refitting&mdash;The optician&mdash;The feather-pillow question&mdash;A friend in need&mdash;A dilemma&mdash;Schwartz's folly&mdash;Old Barnaul leaves us&mdash;We leave Tomsk&mdash;A weary night&mdash;A Russian dormitory&mdash;Construction of houses&mdash;Cross the Tom&mdash;And the Ob&mdash;Enter the Baraba steppe&mdash;Kolivan&mdash;The telegraph&mdash;The ladies of Baraba&mdash;Game&mdash;Windmills&mdash;A frozen marsh&mdash;Kainsk&mdash;Reach Oms&mdash;Outbreaks on the Kirghis steppe&mdash;Russian aggression&mdash;Its effects on different tribes</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_290">290</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XIX.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Omsk to Ochansk.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Leave Omsk&mdash;Recruiting&mdash;Cross the Irtish&mdash;Tukalinsk&mdash;Yalootorofsk&mdash;Reach Tumen&mdash;Improved posting&mdash;Snowroads&mdash;Ekaterineburg&mdash;Mint&mdash;Precious stones&mdash;Iron works&mdash;Englishmen in Siberia&mdash;Iron mines&mdash;Fish trade&mdash;A recruiting scene&mdash;Temperature rising&mdash;Game&mdash;The Urals&mdash;Disappointing&mdash;A new companion&mdash;The boundary between Europe and Asia&mdash;Yermak the Cossack&mdash;Discovery and conquest of Siberia&mdash;Reach Perm&mdash;Too late again&mdash;Progress of inland navigation&mdash;Facilities for application of steam&mdash;Water routes of Siberia&mdash;Railways&mdash;Tatars&mdash;Cross the Kama to Ochansk&mdash;Dissolving view of snow roads</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_305">305</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XX.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Russian and Siberian Peasantry.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Siberian and Russian peasantry&mdash;The contrast&mdash;Freedom and slavery&mdash;Origin of Siberian peasants&mdash;Their means of advancement&mdash;Exiles&mdash;Two classes&mdash;Their offences and punishments&mdash;Privileges after release&mdash;Liberality of the government&mdash;Its object&mdash;Extent of forest&mdash;One serf-proprietor in Siberia&mdash;Exemptions from conscription&mdash;Rigour of the climate on the Lena and Yenisei&mdash;Settlers on Angara exempted from taxes&mdash;Improvement of Siberian peasants&mdash;A bright future&mdash;Amalgamation of classes&mdash;Slavery demoralising to masters&mdash;The emancipation of the serfs&mdash;Its results</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_320">320</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span>CHAPTER XXI.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Kazan.&mdash;Polish Exiles.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Road to Kazan&mdash;Polish prisoners&mdash;Arrive at Kazan&mdash;More croaking&mdash;Temptations to delay&mdash;Sell our sledge&mdash;View of Kazan&mdash;The ferry at the Volga&mdash;Ice-boats and icebergs&mdash;The military&mdash;Tatars&mdash;Polish exiles&mdash;Kindly treated by their escort&mdash;Erroneous ideas on this subject&mdash;The distribution of exiles in Siberia&mdash;Their life there&mdash;The Polish insurrection&mdash;Its objects&mdash;Imprudence&mdash;Consequences&mdash;Success would have been a second failure</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_331">331</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XXII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Kazan to Petersburg.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">A day lost&mdash;The moujik's opportunity&mdash;Return to Kazan&mdash;Hotel "Ryazin"&mdash;Grease and butter&mdash;Evening entertainment&mdash;Try again&mdash;The ferry&mdash;A term of endearment&mdash;Ferrymen's devotions&mdash;A Jew publican&mdash;"Pour boire"&mdash;Villages and churches&mdash;The road to Nijni&mdash;Penance&mdash;A savage&mdash;A miserable night&mdash;Reach Nijni&mdash;"Sweet is pleasure after pain"&mdash;The great fair&mdash;Nijni under a cloud&mdash;Delights of railway travelling&mdash;A contrast&mdash;Reach Moscow&mdash;Portable gas&mdash;Foundling hospital&mdash;The Moscow and Petersburg railway&mdash;Grandeur of Petersburg&mdash;Late season&mdash;Current topics&mdash;Iron-clads&mdash;The currency&mdash;Effects of Crimean war&mdash;Russian loyalty&mdash;Alexander II. as a reformer&mdash;Leave Petersburg</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_343">343</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAPTER XXIII.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Russia and China.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><p class="hanging">Earlier intercourse&mdash;Analogies and contrasts&mdash;Progress of Russia and decadence of China&mdash;Permanence of Chinese institutions&mdash;Arrogance justified&mdash;Not really bigoted&mdash;Changes enforced by recent events&mdash;The rebellion&mdash;Fallacious views in parliament&mdash;British interest in China&mdash;A bright future&mdash;Railways&mdash;Telegraphs&mdash;Machinery and other improvements&mdash;Resources to be developed&mdash;Free cities</p></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_357">357</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Postscript</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_401">401</a></td></tr>
</table></div>


<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>



<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="illustrations">
<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><span class="smcap"><small>page</small></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Pagoda and Gardens of the Emperor's Summer Palace, Yuen-Min-Yuen.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#Frontispiece"><i>Frontispiece.</i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Tomb at the Depot. Peking.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#Vignette"><i>Vignette.</i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Tung Chow Pagoda.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#pagoda">27</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Walls of Peking.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#walls">32</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Pavilion of the Summer Palace of Yuen-Min-Yuen.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#pavilion">37</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Thibetian Monument in Lama Temple. Peking.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#lama">42</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Great Temple of Heaven. Peking.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#heaven">48</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Part of the Emperor's Palace, Yuen-Min-Yuen. Destroyed 1860.</span> (From a Photograph by Beato)</td><td align="right"><a href="#emporer">55</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Nankow Pass</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#pass">63</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Halt in the Desert of Gobi</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#halt">104</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Fording the Tolla near Urga</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#fording">147</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">View of Ekaterinburg. Siberia.</span> (From a Russian Photograph).</td><td align="right"><a href="#view">307</a></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 600px;"><a name="asia" id="asia"></a>
<img src="images/i-017.jpg" width="600" height="392" alt="asia" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">A GENERAL MAP OF NORTHERN ASIA.<br />

<em>M<sup>r.</sup> Michie's route coloured.</em><br />
<em>London John Murray, Albemarle S<sup>t</sup></em></p></div>
</div>


<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">&nbsp;</a></span></p>

<h2>THE
SIBERIAN OVERLAND ROUTE FROM
PEKING TO PETERSBURG.</h2>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>

<h3>SHANGHAE TO TIENTSIN.</h3>


<p>The charming narrative of John Bell, of Antermony, who,
in the reign of Peter the Great, travelled from Petersburg to
Peking in the suite of a Russian ambassador, inspired me
with a longing desire to visit Siberia and other little-known
regions through which he passed. Having occasion to return
to England, after a somewhat protracted residence on the
coast of China, an opportunity presented itself of travelling
through the north of China, Mongolia, and Siberia, on my
homeward journey. This is, indeed, the real "overland
route" from China, and it may as properly be styled "maritime,"
as the mail route per P. &amp; O. steamers "overland."
The so-called overland route has, however, strong temptations
for a person eager to get home. There is a pleasing
simplicity about the manner of it which is a powerful attraction
to one who is worn out with sleepless nights in a hot
climate. It is but to embark on a steamer; attend as regularly
at meal times as your constitution will permit; sleep, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
what is the same thing, read, during the intervals; and fill
up the blanks by counting the passing hours and surveying
your fellow passengers steeped in apoplectic slumbers under
the enervating influence of the tropics. The sea route has,
moreover, a decided advantage in point of time. In forty-five
or fifty days I could have reached England from
Shanghae by steamer: the land journey viâ Siberia I could
not hope to accomplish in less than ninety days.</p>

<p>But the northern route had strong attractions for me in
the kind of vague mystery that invests the geography of
strange countries, and the character, manners, and customs of
their inhabitants. Ever-recurring novelties might be expected
to keep the mind alive; and active travelling would
in a great measure relieve the tedium of a long and arduous
journey. Of the two, therefore, I preferred the prospect of
being frozen in Siberia to being stewed in the Red Sea.
The heat of Shanghae in the summer was intense and almost
unprecedented, the supply of ice was fast undergoing dissolution,
and an escape into colder regions at such a time was
more than usually desirable.</p>

<p>A few years ago it would have been about as feasible to
travel from China to England by way of the moon as
through Peking and Mongolia. Peking was a sealed book,
jealously guarded by an arrogant, because an ignorant,
government. Little was known of the city of the khans
except what the Jesuits had communicated in the last
century, and what that prince of travellers, Marco Polo, had
handed down from the middle ages. No foreigner dared
show his face there, except in the guise of a native, and even
then at the risk of being detected and subjected to the
greatest indignities. The Jesuits, it is true, in the face of
the prohibition, continued to smuggle themselves into China,
and even into Peking itself, and their perseverance and
tenacity of purpose are entitled to all praise. But they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
occasionally paid dearly for their temerity, and not unfrequently
got themselves and their "Christians" into hot
water with the authorities. This received the high-sounding
name of "persecution;" and if any one lost his life for
meddling in other people's affairs, or interfering with the
prerogative of the government, he was honoured with the
name of a "martyr." The Jesuits had their day of power in
China, and if they had but used it modestly they might still
have stood at the elbow of the Emperor. They were tried
and found wanting, expelled from Peking, and China was
closed against foreigners, not, it must be confessed, without
some reason.</p>

<p>All that has been changed again. The curtain has risen
once more; foreigners are free to traverse the length and
breadth of China, and to spy out the nakedness of the land.
The treaty of Tientsin and convention of Peking, ratified in
November, 1860, which opened up China to travellers for
"business or pleasure," was largely taken advantage of in the
following year. In 1861, foreign steamers penetrated by the
great river Yang-tsze into the heart of China. Four enterprising
foreigners explored the river to a distance of 1800
miles from the sea, and many other excursions were set on
foot by foreigners, in regions previously known only through
the accounts of Chinese geographers or the partial, imperfect,
and in some instances obsolete, descriptions of the older
Jesuits.</p>

<p>Mongolia, being within the dominions of the Emperor of
China, was included in the passport system; and although
the Chinese government has made a feeble attempt to
impose restrictions on foreign travellers in that region on the
ground that, although Chinese, it is not China, up to the
present time no serious obstacles have been placed in the
way of free intercourse in Mongolia; nor can the plain
language of the treaty be limited in its interpretation, unless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
the ministers of the treaty powers should voluntarily abandon
the privilege now enjoyed. It is devoutly to be hoped
that no envoy of Great Britain will again commit the error
of waiving rights once granted by the Chinese. However
unimportant such abandoned rights may appear, experience
has shown that the results are not so. Sir Michael Seymour's
war at Canton in 1856-7 could never have occurred
if our undoubted right to reside in that city had been
insisted on some years previously. Our disaster at the Taku
forts in 1859 would have been prevented if the right of our
minister to reside in Peking had not, in a weak moment,
been waived. What complications have not arisen in Japan,
from our consenting to undo half Lord Elgin's treaty and
allowing the port of Osaca to remain closed to our merchantmen!
We cannot afford to make concessions to Asiatic
powers. Give them an inch and they will take an ell: then
fleets and armies must be brought into play to recover
ground we have lost through sheer wantonness.</p>

<p>Too late to join a party who preceded me, I had some
difficulty in finding a companion for the journey, but had
the good fortune to make the acquaintance of a young gentleman
from Lyons, who purposed going to France by the
Siberian route with or without a companion. We at once
arranged matters to our mutual satisfaction, and proceeded
with the preparations necessary for the journey. Having
the advantage of excellent practical advice on this head from
gentlemen who had already gone over the ground, we had
little difficulty in getting up our outfit. A tent was indispensable
for Mongolia, and we got a very commodious one
from a French officer. A military cork mattress, with
waterproof sheets, proved invaluable in the desert. Our
clothing department was inconveniently bulky, because we
had to provide both for very hot and very cold weather.
The commissariat was liberally supplied, rather overdone, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
it turned out, but that was a fault on the safe side. The
accounts we heard of the "hungry desert," where nothing
grows but mutton, induced us to lay in supplies not only for
an ordinary journey across, but for any unforeseen delay we
might encounter on the way.</p>

<p>We had first to get to Tientsin, six hundred miles from
Shanghae, and two steamers were under despatch for that
port. I embarked on board the <em>Nanzing</em>, Captain Morrison,
about midnight on the 28th July, 1863. Taking advantage
of the bright moon, we steamed cautiously down the
river Wong-poo for fourteen miles, past the village of Woosung,
"outside the marks," and into the great river Yang-tsze,
where we cast anchor for the night. It would be
hazardous to attempt the navigation of the estuary of the
Yang-tsze, even in bright moonlight. Its banks are so flat
as to afford no marks to steer by. The estuary is very wide,
but the deep water channel is narrow, with extensive shallows
on either side. The upper parts of the Yang-tsze-kiang,
where the river narrows to a mile or two in breadth, and
flows through a bolder country, are more easy of navigation.
In the broad part of the river, near its mouth, the deep
water channels have a tendency to shift their positions. The
surveys of the river from its mouth to Nanking, made in
1842, were found inapplicable in 1861. Where shallows
were marked in 1842, deep water was found in 1861, and
dry patches were found where the navigable channels were
before. The delta of this noble river is rapidly growing into
dry land; the "banks" are fast rising into islands, and the
channels of the river becoming more circumscribed. The
rapidity with which this process is going on is most remarkable.
From a point nearly fifty miles from the mouth of the
river it is divided into two great branches, called by hydrographers
the north and the south entrances. Twenty years
ago extensive shallows lay between, and many a good ship<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
found a final resting-place on these treacherous banks. The
most dangerous of these are now above water, and are visible
from a distance sufficient to enable the pilot to keep clear of
them. In the small river Wang-poo also, at and below the
town of Shanghae, the land is gaining considerably on the
water. An island has formed and is still growing near the
mouth of the Wang-poo, known to pilots as the "middle-ground."
Until a very few years ago it was entirely under
water. In the year 1855 I was aground on the top of it in a
schooner near low water, and the rising tide floated us off
easily. The island is now so high as to remain uncovered in
the highest spring tides. Thus, in the space of eight years,
this island has risen more than twelve, and probably not less
than eighteen feet. The formation is extending itself downwards;
the tail of the island stretching away under water
brought up many vessels in 1862 and 1863, where there was
plenty of water a year or two before. On the south shore of
the Yang-tsze-kiang the lines of embankment mark the different
stages of the aggression of the land on the water.
When a dry flat was formed liable to inundations in high
tides, an embankment of mud was built for the protection of
the inhabitants who settled on the reclaimed land. In process
of time more land was made, and another embankment
formed. Thus three distinct lines of embankment, several
miles inland from the present water line, are to be traced
from below Woosung towards Hang-chow Bay, and a very
large tract of good arable land has been reclaimed from the
river, or, as the Chinese call it, the sea, within comparatively
modern times. From the causes we see now in active operation,
it is easy to trace the formation of the vast alluvial plain
which now supports so many millions of inhabitants.</p>

<p>There are, indeed, intimations in the Chinese records of
some of these changes. Islands in the sea are mentioned
but a few centuries back, which are now hills in inhabited<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
districts. In the dawn of Chinese history allusions are made
to a great flood which desolated the land, and the Emperor
Yaou has been immortalised for his achievements in subduing
and regulating the waters. Yaou reigned about 2200 B.C.,
and the rising of the waters in his time has been referred by
some to the Noachian deluge. But the Chinese empire at
that time extended as far south as the Great River, and included
three great valleys. It is not an improbable conjecture
therefore that there was a large circumference of debateable
land barely reclaimed from the sea. With the imperfect
means then at command for keeping out the water it is easy
to suppose that an unusually high tide would break down
the defences and overflow the flat country. It may also be,
of course, that then, as now, the Yellow River caused trouble
by arbitrarily changing its course, and the patriotic labours
of Yaou may have been limited to damming up that wayward
stream, which has been called "China's sorrow." But
the chronicles of the great inundation do not appear to have
been satisfactorily explained, and it may be said of the annals
of the reigns of Yaou and Shun, that the interest which
attaches to them is in direct proportion to their obscurity.</p>

<p>A few hours' steaming on the 29th took us out of the
turbid waters of the Yang-tsze-kiang, but during the whole
of that day we continued in shallow water of a very light
sea-green colour. The weather was fine, and though still extremely
hot, the fresh sea air soon produced a magical effect
on our enfeebled digestion. The voyage was as pleasant as a
good ship, a good table, and a courteous commander could
make it. On the 30th a thick fog settled down on the water,
and on the following morning all eyes were anxiously straining
after the Shantung promontory, which was the turning-point
of our voyage. By dead reckoning we were close to it,
but there is no accounting for the effect of the currents that
sweep round this bold headland. The tide rushes into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
Gulf of Pecheli by one side of the entrance, and out at the
other. But from the conformation of the gulf the tidal
currents are subject to disturbances from various causes, of
which the direction of the wind is the most potent. A north-westerly
wind keeps the tide wave at bay, and drives the
water out of the gulf, until its level has been lowered several
feet below that of the ocean. Great irregularities in the ebb
and flow are occasioned by this; and when the cause ceases
to act, the reaction is proportionate to the amount of disturbance;
the pent-up waters from without flow in with
impetuosity, and the equilibrium is restored.</p>

<p>In the dense fog, our commander could only crawl along
cautiously, stopping now and again to listen for the sound of
men's voices, or the barking of dogs, take soundings, and
watch for any indications of the near vicinity of land. At
length, to our great joy, the fog lifted over a recognisable
point of the promontory, and immediately settled down again.
The glimpse was sufficient however, and the good steamer
was at once headed westward, for the mouth of the Peiho
river, and bowled along fearlessly on her way. As the sun
rose higher the mist was dispersed, and the bold rugged outline
of the Shantung coast was unveiled before us. The clear
blue water was alive with Chinese coasting craft, small and
large, of most picturesque appearance. The heavy, unwieldy
junks of northern China lay almost motionless, their widespread
sails hanging idly to the mast, for there was just wind
enough to ripple the surface of the water in long patches,
leaving large spaces of glassy smoothness untouched by the
breeze.</p>

<p>The crews of the northern junks are hardy stalwart fellows,
inured to labour, and zealous in their work. Their
vessels are built very low-sided, to enable them to be propelled
by oars when the wind fails them. The crews work
cheerily at their oars, both night and day, when necessary,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
keeping time to the tune of their half-joyous, half-melancholy
boat-songs. With all their exertions, however, they
drive the shapeless lump but slowly through the water, and
one cannot help feeling pity for the poor men, and regret for
the waste of so much manual labour. It is to be hoped that
this hardy race of seamen will find more fruitful fields
wherein to turn their strength to account when foreign
vessels and steamers have superseded the time-honoured but
extravagant system of navigation in China. This end has,
indeed, been already reached to a certain extent. China has
been imbued with the progressive spirit of the world, to the
great advantage both of themselves and foreigners. The
southern coasts swarm with steamers, and the Gulf of Pecheli,
in this the third year from the opening of foreign
trade in the north, was regularly visited by trading steamers.
In all discussions in England on the subject of the development
of trade in China, the vast coasting trade is generally
overlooked, as a matter in which we have no interest. This
is a mistake, however, for foreigners have a considerable
share in that trade directly, and their steamers and sailing
vessels are employed to a very large extent by the Chinese
merchants. All produce is very materially reduced in price
to the consumer by the facilities for competition among
merchants which improved communication affords, and by
the diminution in expenses of carriage, which is the necessary
result. The rapidity with which foreign vessels can
accomplish their voyages as compared with Chinese junks
enables the native trader to make so many more ventures in
a given time, that he can afford to take smaller profits than
formerly, and yet on the average be no loser. Or even if the
average results of the year's trade be less profitable to individuals
than before, its benefits are spread over a greater
number, and, in the aggregate, suffer no diminution. The
general interests of the country have been subserved in an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
important degree by the extension of the coasting trade,
where no disturbing influences have been at work; and the
prosperity of the general population cannot fail to react
favourably on the mercantile class, through whom the prosperity
primarily comes.</p>

<p>Chefoo, the new settlement on the Shantung coast, is
frequently a port of call for steamers trading between
Shanghae and Tientsin. We did not touch there in the
<em>Nanzing</em>, but passed at a distance of twelve miles from the
bluff rocky headland from which the settlement takes its
name. Before darkness had closed in the view we had
reached the Mia-tau group of islands which connect the
mountain ranges of Shantung, by a continuous chain, with
the Liau-tung promontory at the north of the entrance of
the Gulf of Pecheli. There is not much difficulty or danger
in getting through these islands even at night, but it is
always an object to a navigator to reach them before
dark. The course is then clear for the Peiho, and he has
a whole night's straight run before him with nothing to look
out for.</p>

<p>The Peiho river must be an awkward place to "make,"
except in clear weather. The land is lower even than that
of the valley of the Yang-tsze-kiang; the shoal water runs
out a long distance into the gulf; and a dangerous sand spit,
partly above, and partly under water, stretches fifty miles out
to sea on the north of the approach to the river. On reaching
the outer anchorage, where vessels of heavy draught lie,
the celebrated Taku forts are dimly visible in the haze of the
horizon, and masts may be seen inside the river, but the low
land on either side is still invisible. A shoal bar, with a very
hard bottom, lies between the outer anchorage and the
river, and the <em>Nanzing</em>, drawing less than ten feet, was
obliged to anchor outside until the rising tide enabled her to
get in.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p>

<p>Our Chinese fellow passengers, who had kept remarkably
quiet during the voyage, as is their invariable custom, became
animated as we ran in between the Taku forts. They were
a motley crowd of all classes of people&mdash;mercantile, literary,
and military. The students who go to Peking to undergo
examinations for literary degrees travel now in great numbers
by steamer, and doubtless many who, from want of means,
want of time, or from any other cause, might hesitate before
undertaking such a long journey by the old land route, are
now enabled, by means of the coasting steamers, to accomplish
the object so deeply cherished by all Chinese literati.
The "plucked" ones, and there are many such in China, can
now more easily renew their efforts. Men have been known
to repair year after year to the examination-hall from their
youth upwards, and get plucked every time,&mdash;yet, undaunted
by constant failure, they persevere in their vain exertions to
the winter of their days. The country that can produce such
models of perseverance in a hopeless cause may claim to
possess elements of vitality, and the usual proportion of
fools.</p>

<p>Among our Chinese passengers was an athlete from Fokien,
who was bound to Peking to try his prowess in archery. He
was a man of great muscular power, fat, and even corpulent.
It is remarkable that the training system adopted for the
development of the muscles should produce so much fat. I
had not observed this before in the Chinese; indeed, the few
feats of strength I have seen performed by them have been
by men well proportioned and free from fat. But the Japanese
wrestlers, who are carefully trained, are generally fat.</p>

<p>The entrance to the Peiho was, as usual, crowded with
native and foreign craft, and so narrow and tortuous is the
river that great care is necessary to work a long steamer
through without accident. Tientsin is distant from Taku, by
the windings of the river, between sixty and seventy miles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
By the cart road it is only thirty-six. The <em>Nanzing</em> made
good way up the river until darkness compelled her to anchor.
In the morning the difficulties of the inland navigation
began. The river was actually too small for a steamer over
two hundred feet long, the turns were too sharp, the ordinary
means of handling a steamer were no longer of any avail,&mdash;we
hauled round several bad turns by means of anchors
passed on shore in the boats, but were at length baffled after
running the steamer's nose into cabbage-gardens, breaking
down fences, and alarming the villagers, who turned out <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en
masse</i> to watch the iron monster as she struggled to force a
passage out of her natural element. Partly out of compassion
for the men, who were worn out with the uncongenial
toil of trudging knee-deep through heavy mud, planting
anchors and picking them up again, and partly from some
vague hope of a change of tide in the afternoon, the steamer
was brought to anchor and hands piped to dinner.</p>

<p>The crews of steamers on the coast of China are usually of
a cosmopolite character, chiefly Malays, with a boat's crew of
Chinese, the foreign element being reduced to a minimum
comprising the officers and engineers. Asiatic sailors do very
well when there are plenty of them, the estimate of their
value being two of them to one European. They sail for
lower wages, but not low enough to compensate the ship-owner
for the additional numbers that are necessary. But
the Asiatics are more easily handled than Europeans; their
regular "watches" may be broken in upon with impunity;
they are easier fed, and less addicted to quarrelling with
their bread and butter than Europeans, and more especially
Englishmen. But any doubt on the part of a shipmaster as
to what crew he will employ, will generally be solved by the
sailors themselves, who, if English or American, will desert at
every port the vessel touches at.</p>

<p>Having my saddle and bridle handy I landed at a village,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
and borrowing a horse from the farmers, rode to Tientsin,
which was only some eight miles distant by the road. The
heat was scorching, but greatly mitigated by the mass of
bright green foliage that covered the whole country. The
soil though dry and dusty is rich to exuberance, fruit grows
in great abundance, and, for China, in great perfection.
Apples, pears, peaches, apricots, loquats, grapes, are common
everywhere in the north, which may be considered the orchard
of China. The waving crops of millet, interspersed with
patches of beans, and here and there strips of hemp, fill up
a vast green ground dotted thickly with villages and pretty
clumps of trees. The houses form a dull contrast to the
cheerful aspect of the country. In most of the villages they
are constructed of mud and straw, which becomes hard
enough to be impervious to rain, but the dull parched colour,
the small apertures for doors and windows, and general
cheerlessness of exterior painfully oppress the sight. The
dust of the roads is also an unfavourable medium through
which to view the tame though rich beauties of the country.
The north of China is cursed with dust, the roads generally
are as bad as the road to Epsom on a "Derby day," when
that happy event happens to come off in dry weather.</p>

<p>I got back to the <em>Nanzing</em> in time for the final effort to
double the difficult corner. The first attempt was successful,
and we steamed on gaily through fields and gardens, washing
the banks with the wave formed in our wake, which sometimes
broke over the legs of unwary celestials who stood
gazing after the steamer in stupid wonder like a cow at a railway
train. The Chinese take such mishaps good-naturedly&mdash;the
spectators are always amused, and the victims themselves
when the shock of surprise passes off laugh at the
joke. The most serious obstacle to our progress had yet
to come, however, the "double," a point where the river
bends abruptly like the figure S compressed vertically.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
Extra caution being used there, the appliances of anchors
and warps were efficacious, and we passed the double successfully.
The smoke of the <em>Waratah</em>, a steamer that left
Shanghae the day before us, and which we had passed at sea,
now appeared over the trees close to us. There were several
reaches of the river between us, however, and we traced the
black column of smoke passing easily round the bends that
had caused us such difficulty. The <em>Waratah</em> was gaining on
us fast, and late in the evening her black hull appeared
under our stern, while the <em>Nanzing</em> was jammed at the last
bend of the river, unable either to get round herself or to
make room for the smaller vessel. Hours were spent in
ineffectual endeavours to proceed&mdash;the tantalised <em>Waratah</em>
could stand it no longer&mdash;the captain thought he saw room
to pass us, and came up at full speed between us and the
bank. But as the sailors say "night has no eyes" even
when the moon is shining, and our friend paid for his temerity
by crashing his paddle box against our bow. Time and
patience enabled us to reach Tientsin at midnight on the
1st August, after spending half as much time in the Peiho
river as the whole sea voyage had occupied. I have said
enough, and probably much more than enough, to demonstrate
the difficulty of navigating the Peiho river with vessels
not adapted to it. No vessel should attempt it that is over
one hundred and fifty feet in length, for though the risk of
loss from stranding is extremely small, the loss of time to
large vessels must be serious.</p>

<p>A marvellous transformation had taken place in Tientsin
since my previous visit to it in 1861. At that time the few
European merchants who had settled there were confined to
the Chinese town, the filthiest and most offensive of all the
filthy places wherein celestials love to congregate. Now in
1863, the "settlement," that necessary adjunct of every
treaty port in China, had been made over to foreigners, laid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
out in streets, and a spacious quay and promenade on the
river bank formed, faced riverwards with solid masonry, the
finest thing of the kind in China, throwing into the shade
altogether the famous "bund" at Shanghae. The affairs of
the settlement are administered by a thoroughly organised
"municipal council" after the example of Shanghae, the
"model settlement." The newly opened ports have an
immense advantage over the original five in having the experience
of nearly twenty years to guide them in all preliminary
arrangements. That experience shows first&mdash;although the
soundness of the deduction has been questioned by some
able men&mdash;the desirability of securing foreign settlements
where merchants, consuls, and missionaries may live in a
community of their own entirely distinct from the native
towns, within which they may put in operation their own
police regulations, lay out streets to their own liking, drain,
light, and otherwise improve the settlement, levy and disburse
their own municipal taxes, and, in short, conduct their
affairs as independent communities. These settlements have
the further advantage of being susceptible of defence in
times of disturbance with the minimum risk of complication
between the treaty powers and the Chinese government.
Much of the importance Shanghae has achieved of late years
is due to the foreign settlement which, being neutral ground
and defensible, has become a city of refuge for swarms of
Chinese who had been ousted from their homesteads by the
rebels. The cosmopolite character of the Shanghae settlement
has entailed various inconveniences, which it is thought
might be obviated in the new settlements by keeping the
different foreign nationalities distinct. Time has not yet
pronounced on the success of this experiment. There will
probably be a difficulty in putting it thoroughly in practice;
no arbitrary regulations will be able to prevent nationalities
from fusing into each other to such an extent as the higher<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
laws of interest and policy may dictate. And it will be
impossible in practice to subject a mixed community to the
laws of any one power. In the meantime concessions are
claimed from the Chinese government by each of the treaty
powers separately, and so far they have been granted.
Whether the isolation of the various concessions be permanent
or not, it secures for them at the outset more unanimity
in laying out streets and framing preliminary regulations
for their good government hereafter. This is of great
importance, and the experience of Shanghae is most valuable
in this respect. The narrowness of the streets in the settlement
there&mdash;twenty-two feet&mdash;is a standing reproach on the
earlier settlers who, with short-sighted cupidity, clung with
tenacity to every inch of land at a time when land was cheap
and abundant. This fatal error has been avoided in the
recent settlements.</p>

<p>The municipality of Shanghae established under the auspices
of Sir Rutherford (then Mr.) Alcock, at that time
British consul, has on the whole proved such a success that
the same system has been adopted in the new settlements.
The legality of the institution has often been questioned, but
the creation of some such authority was a necessity at the
time, and it has worked so well for ten years that it has not
only subsisted, but gathered strength and influence by the
unanimous will of the community.</p>

<p>Several fine European houses were already built and inhabited
on the Tientsin settlement. The ground had been
well raised, so as to keep the new town dry, and ensure it a
commanding position. It is about two miles lower down the
river than the native town, has a fine open country round it,
and plenty of fresh air. It is several degrees cooler in the
British settlement than in the Chinese town, and altogether
the very best site for the purpose has been selected. The
merchants retain their offices in the Chinese town, riding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
or sailing to and fro every day. This system will probably
continue to be practised for some time longer, or perhaps
altogether, for the convenience of the Chinese dealers. A
small minority of the foreign merchants would compel all to
retain their business premises in Tientsin, and nothing less
than an almost entire unanimity among them would effect
the transfer to the new town.</p>

<p>As a dépôt of trade, Tientsin labours under certain disadvantages;
the shallow bar outside, and intricate navigation
of the river, prevent any but small craft from trading there.
Larger vessels do sometimes, or rather did,&mdash;for I fancy the
practice is discontinued,&mdash;repair to the outer anchorage.
But the expense of lighterage, and the detention incurred
in loading or discharging at such a distance from the
port, are so great as to drive such competitors out of the
field. The other drawback to Tientsin is the severe winter,
and the early closing of the river by ice. This generally
happens before the end of November, and the ice does not
break up before February or March.</p>

<p>However, Tientsin is the feeder of a large tract of country
containing a large consuming population, and the trade is no
doubt destined to increase. Much disappointment has,
indeed, been felt that the extraordinary start made, chiefly
in the sale of foreign manufactures, in the first year of its
existence as a port of foreign trade, has not been followed
up. This may be explained, however, by the circumstance
that in 1860-61 manufactured goods were extremely depressed
by over-supply in the south of China. These goods
were introduced into Tientsin, and sold direct to the Chinese
there, untaxed by the intermediate profits and charges they
formerly had to bear when sold in Shanghae, and thence
forwarded by Chinese merchants, in Chinese junks, to
Tientsin and the north. Prices in Tientsin soon fell so low
that the merchants were tempted into large investments<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
during 1861. The markets of the interior became overstocked,
and, before the equilibrium was restored, the cotton
famine began to be felt, and prices of goods (the Tientsin
trade is chiefly opium and cotton goods) rose so high as to
deter purchasers, and in a material degree to reduce the
consumption of foreign cottons. Another circumstance also
operated adversely to a maintenance of the lively trade that
grew up in 1861. There were no exports in Tientsin suitable
to any foreign market. The foreign trade was therefore
limited to the sale of imports, which were paid for in specie.
A heavy drain of bullion was the result, more than the
resources of the country could bear for any length of time.
This of itself was enough to check the further development of
trade; for though the precious metals were merely transferred
from one part of the country to another, no counter-balancing
power then existed by which they could be circulated back
to the districts whence they came. There is no good reason
why produce suitable to foreign markets should not be found
in Tientsin. Wool and tallow will no doubt be obtainable in
considerable quantities in process of time, for the country is
full of sheep and cattle, and Tientsin is only six days'
journey from the frontier of Mongolia, where flocks and
herds monopolise the soil.</p>

<p>I must mention a circumstance connected with the Tientsin
trade, which is remarkable among an eminently commercial
people like the Chinese. At the opening of the trade, in the
end of 1860, the relative values of gold and silver varied
fifteen per cent. between Tientsin and Shanghae. Gold was
purchased for silver in the north, and shipped to Shanghae,
at a large profit, and a good many months elapsed before an
equilibrium was established.</p>

<p>In and about Tientsin, as almost everywhere else in China,
the population is well affected towards foreigners. The
British troops that garrisoned Tientsin from 1860 till 1862<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
left behind them the very best impressions on the inhabitants.
Not that these troops were any better than any
other well-disciplined troops would have been, but the
Chinese had been taught to regard foreigners as a kind of
aquatic monsters, cruel and ferocious; so when the horrible
picture resolved itself into human beings, civil and courteous
in their disposition, honestly paying for all they wanted, of
vast consumptive powers in the matter of beef and mutton,
fruit and vegetables, and, on the whole, excellent customers,
the Chinese took kindly to the estimable invaders, and had
cause to regret their departure. Foreign merchants were
held in high estimation from the first. The free hospitals for
Chinese, set on foot by the army surgeons, not only did a
great deal of good in alleviating suffering, but prepared the
way for mutual good feeling in the after intercourse between
natives and foreigners. It has been questioned whether the
Chinese, as a race, are susceptible of gratitude. But, at any
rate, the respectable classes are sufficiently charitable themselves
to appreciate philanthropy in others; and, in the self-imposed
and gratuitous labours of the surgeons for the
benefit of the sick poor, they saw an example of pure benevolence,
which could not but excite their admiration.</p>

<p>The population of Tientsin is supposed to be about 400,000,
residing chiefly in the suburbs, for trade is generally carried
on without the walls, not only here, but in all Chinese cities.
There is an unusually large proportion of beggars about
Tientsin, and loathsome objects they are, as they whine
about the streets, half clad, in tatters, starved, and often
covered with sores. They never sleep but on the ground.
At night, when the streets are quiet, the beggars may be
discovered huddled together at every corner and on every
door-step. Begging is an institution in China, and to qualify
for the craft, men have been said to burn out their own eyes,
in order to excite compassion for their blindness. A Chinese<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
householder seldom allows a beggar to go away empty.
Charity is cheap; a handful of rice, one copper cash, value
the fourth part of a farthing, suffices to induce the disgusting
object to move on to the next shop. The beggars have seldom
any cause to starve in China, but they do very often,
and it is probable they bring diseases on themselves in
their efforts to excite pity, which carry them off very rapidly.
In winter, especially in the north, they seem to die off like
mosquitoes, and no one takes any notice of them except to
bury them&mdash;for the Chinese don't like to leave dead bodies
about the streets. In spring they reappear&mdash;not the identical
beggars, certainly&mdash;but very similar ones, and the ranks
of the profession are kept filled.</p>

<p>The wealthier natives of Tientsin, traders and shopkeepers,
are fond of good living and gambling. They are robust
people, and bear up well against the effects of late hours and
gross dissipation. The close, filthy atmosphere in which they
live and breathe does not seem to injure their health. Epidemics
do make great havoc among them occasionally; one
year it is cholera, another year it is small-pox; but the
general healthiness of the people does not seem to suffer.
The climate is exceedingly dry. Little rain or snow falls;
but when it does rain, the whole heavens seem to fall at once,
not in torrents, but in sheets of water. The peculiar sand-storms,
so common in the north of China, have not as yet
been satisfactorily investigated. They often come on after a
sultry day. A yellow haze appears in the sky, darkening the
sun; then columns of fine dust are seen spinning round in
whirlwinds. At that stage every living thing seeks shelter,
and those who are afield are lucky if they are not caught in
the blinding storm before they reach their houses. But even
a closely shut-up house affords but half protection, for the
fine powdery dust insinuates itself through the crevices of
doors and windows, and is palpably present in your soup and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
your bread for some time after. The most obvious source
whence these sand-storms come, is the great sandy desert of
Mongolia, but such an hypothesis is hardly sufficient to
account for all the phenomena which accompany the sand-storms.
It has been supposed that they are due to some
peculiar electrical condition of the atmosphere.</p>

<p>The Chinese are passionately addicted to gambling, and
the endless variety of games of chance in common use among
them does credit to their ingenuity and invention, for it is
not likely that they have learned anything from their neighbours.
The respectable merchant, who devotes the hours of
daylight assiduously to his business, sparing no labour in
adjusting the most trifling items of account, will win or lose
thousands of dollars overnight with imperturbable complacency.
Every grade of society is imbued with the passion.
I have amused myself watching the coolies in the streets of
Tientsin gambling for their dinner. The itinerant cooks
carry with them, as part of the wonderful epitome of a
culinary establishment with which they perambulate the
streets, a cylinder of bamboo, containing a number of sticks
on which are inscribed certain characters. These mystic
symbols are shaken up in the tube, the candidate for hot
dumpling draws one, and according to the writing found on
it, so does he pay for his repast. So attractive is gambling
in any form to the Chinese, that a Tientsin coolie will generally
prefer to risk paying double for the remote chance of
getting a meal for nothing. On one occasion I volunteered
to act as proxy for a hungry coolie who was about to try his
luck. The offer was accepted with eagerness, and I was fortunate
enough to draw my constituent a dinner for nothing.
I was at once put down as a professor of the black art,
and literally besieged by a crowd of others, all begging me
to do them a similar favour, which, of course, I prudently
declined. Had I indeed been successful a second time, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
dispenser of the tempting morsels would certainly have protested
against my interference as an invasion of his prerogative,
which is to win, and not to lose.</p>

<p>The Chinese gamblers are, of course, frequently ruined by
the practice. They become desperate after a run of ill luck;
every consideration of duty and interest is sunk, and they
play for stakes which might have startled even the Russian
nobles, who used to gamble for serfs. In the last crisis of
all, a dose of opium settles all accounts pertaining to this
world.</p>

<p>In games of skill the Chinese are no less accomplished.
Dominoes, draughts, chess, and such like, are to be seen in
full swing at every tea-house, where the people repair to
gossip and while away the evening. The little groups one
sees in these places exhibit intense interest in their occupation;
the victory is celebrated by the child-like exultation of
the winner, and any pair of Chinese draught-players may
have sat for Wilkie's celebrated picture.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>

<h3>TIENTSIN TO PEKING.</h3>


<p>There are several modes of going from Tientsin to Peking.
The most common is in a mule cart, which is not exactly a
box, but a board laid on wheels with a blue cotton covering
arched over it. The cart is not long enough to enable one
to lie down full length, nor is it high enough to enable him
to sit upright in the European fashion. It has no springs;
the roads are generally as rough as negligence can leave
them; it is utterly impossible to keep out the dust; and the
covering gives but slight protection from the sun. A ride in
a Chinese cart is exquisite torture to a European. It is
true that experience teaches those who are so unfortunate as
to need it several "dodges" by which to mitigate their sufferings,
such as filling the cart entirely with straw, and then
squeezing into the middle of it. But then the traveller
must have some means of securing the feet to prevent being
pitched out bodily, and he must hold on to the frame-work
of the side by both hands to break the shock of sudden jerks.
With all that he will come off his journey feeling in every
bone of his body as if he had been passed through a mangle.
That the Chinese do not suffer from such treatment I can
only attribute to a deficiency in their nervous system. If
they suffered in anything like the same degree that a European
does, they would have invented a more comfortable conveyance
before the Christian era. But the only improvement
in comfort I ever heard of is in the carts made for the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
mandarins, which have the wheels placed far back, so that
between the axle-tree and the saddle the shafts may have
an infinitesimal amount of spring in them.</p>

<p>The next mode of travelling is on horseback, which, if you
happen to have your own saddle and bridle, is very pleasant,
provided the weather is not too hot or too cold. There are
plenty of inns on the road-side where you can rest and refresh
yourself; but woe betide the luckless traveller who,
like myself, nauseates the Chinese <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cuisine</i>, should he have
neglected to provide himself with a few creature comforts to
his own liking.</p>

<p>The weather was excessively hot, and judging that there
would be many calls on our stamina before our long journey
was done, we prudently husbanded our strength at the outset.
We therefore chose the slower but more luxurious (!)
means of conveyance by boat up the Peiho river to Tungchow,
a walled city twelve miles from Peking. Boat travelling
in the north has not been brought to such a state of
perfection as in the creek and canal country in Chekiang and
Keangsoo. In the latter provinces it is practically the only
means of travelling, and though slow, is most comfortable.
In the north the boats are a smaller edition of those used
for transporting merchandise, the only convenience they have
being a moveable roof. In two such craft our party embarked
on the night of 5th August, 1861, and at 11 p.m., by
moonlight, we languidly shoved off from the filthy banks of
the Peiho river, the few friends who were kind enough to see
us off, with a refinement of politeness worthy of a Chinaman,
refusing a parting glass, knowing that we had none to
spare. Our sails were of little assistance, so after threading
our way through the fleet of boats that lay anyhow in the
first two reaches, our stout crews landed with their towing
line, by which means we slowly and painfully ascended the
stream. Tientsin, as I have said, is the filthiest of all filthy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
cities; and the essence of its filth is accumulated on the
banks of the river, forming an excellent breakwater, which
grows faster than the water can wash it away. The putrid
mass is enough, one would think, to breed a plague, and yet
the water used by the inhabitants is drawn from this river!
It was pleasant, indeed, to escape from this pestilential atmosphere,
and to inhale the cool fresh air of the country for
an hour or two before turning in, as we reflected on the long
and tedious journey we had before us, embracing the whole
breadth of the continents of Asia and Europe.</p>

<p>The voyage to Tungchow was monotonous in the extreme.
Nothing of the country could be seen; for though the water
was high enough at the time to have enabled us to look over
the low flat banks, the standing crops effectually shut in our
view. Four days were occupied in travelling 400 li. We
had engaged double crews, in order that we might proceed
night and day without stopping, but it was really hard work
for them, and we did not like to press them too much. There
is no regular towing path on the banks of the Peiho, and at
night the men floundered in the wet mud amongst reeds.
A youngster of the crew gave us a great deal of trouble&mdash;always
shirking his work and complaining of hunger. He
was a wag, however, and kept both us and the crew in
amusement. I have noticed in nearly all Chinese boat-crews
there is a character of this sort, whose business
seems to be to work as little as possible himself, and keep
up a running fire of wit to beguile the toil of the others.
A good story-teller is much valued among them. We had
also an old man, whose chief business was to boil rice and
vegetables for the others, and to steer the boat. His kitchen
duties were no sinecure, for the men did get through an
incredible quantity of rice in the course of the day. Rice is
a poor thing to work on; it is a fuel quickly consumed, and
requires constant renewal.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p>

<p>It is the nature of Chinese boatmen to be constantly
asking for money. The custom is to pay about half the fare
in advance before starting, and the other half when the
journey is completed. But no sooner are you fairly under
way, than a polite request is made for money to buy rice.
It is in vain you remind them of the dollars you have just
paid as a first instalment. That has gone to the owner of
the boat, of course, but as for them, the boatmen, they have
nothing to eat, and cannot go on. Defeated in your arguments
you nevertheless remain firm in your purpose; the
morning, noon, and evening meals succeed each other in
due course. Every one is to be the last, and is followed by
the most touching appeals to your benevolence&mdash;they will go
down on their knees, they will whine and cry, they will beat
frantically on their empty stomachs, and tell you "they are
starving" in tones and gestures that ought properly to melt
the heart of a stone. It is in vain that you deride their
importunity; it is in vain that you reproach them with
their improvidence. You sternly order them to their work,
but are met by the unanswerable question, how can they
work without food? You&mdash;if you have gone through the
ordeal before&mdash;know well that you will have no trouble on
this score on the second day out.</p>

<p>Has any one ever tried to arrive at the exact value of a
Chinese measure of distance? Their li has no doubt been
reduced to so many yards, feet, and inches, equal to about
one-third of an English mile, on paper; but on the road it
is the vaguest term possible. Ask a countryman how far it
is to Chung-dsz, and he will answer after a great deal of
prevarication ten li. Walk about that distance and inquire
again, and you are told it is fifteen li. This will puzzle you
if you are a stranger, but go on another half mile, and you
find you are at your destination. In the common acceptation
of the word, I am convinced it is more a measure of time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
than distance, and 100 li is an average day's journey. Our
Tientsin boatmen put this very prominently when questioned,
as they were nearly every hour of the day, as to how
far we still were from Tungchow, one of them answered, "If
you travel quick it is about 100 li, but if slow it is well on
to 200!"</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 425px;"><a name="pagoda" id="pagoda"></a>
<img src="images/i-045.jpg" width="425" height="550" alt="pagoda" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">TUNG CHOW PAGODA.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
(Page 27.)
</p>
</div>
</div>

<p>In the first part of our journey we met with no traffic on
the river, but towards Tungchow we passed large fleets of
junks bound upwards and a few bound down. John Bell
says of this river, "I saw many vessels sailing down the
stream towards the south-east. And I was informed there
are nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine vessels
constantly employed on this river; but why confined to such
an odd number I could neither learn nor comprehend." I
should say that during the 140 years that have elapsed
since that was written the fleet is more likely to have
been shorn of a few odd thousands than increased by the
odd unit.</p>

<p>On the fourth day, as we were panting for breath, with the
thermometer standing at 97° Fahr., and with anxious eyes
contemplating our almost empty ice-box, the pagoda of
Tungchow was descried over the tall reeds on the river bank,
and we soon were made fast in front of a temple called
Fang-wang-meaou.</p>

<p>At this point the Peiho dwindles away into a very small
and shallow stream, and practically Tungchow is the head of
the navigation, the shipping port of Peking, and the beginning
of the land carriage to the north-west provinces of
China.</p>

<p>The Fang-wang-meaou is much used by Russians as a dépôt
for their goods in transit from Tientsin and Shanghae to
Siberia. We found a considerable quantity of tea stored in
the temple waiting for transport. In this temple, therefore,
by the favour of the reverend personages who preside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
over it, we bestowed our <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">impedimenta</i>, and took up our
quarters for the night in a wing of the building.</p>

<p>The Bhuddist priests are in the habit of transacting
business for strangers, and we therefore entered into negotiation
with them to provide us carriage either by mules or
camels, from Tungchow to Chan-kia-kow, the frontier town
between China and Mongolia. We thought by this arrangement
we could ride to Peking, do what we wanted there in
the way of getting passports, &amp;c., and return to Tungchow
and take our departure thence. This proved a delusion, and
lost us some valuable time.</p>

<p>There is nothing remarkable about the city of Tungchow.
It is situated on a dead level. From a tower on the wall a
view of the country is obtained, including the mountains
north of Peking. There is a tall pagoda in the city, but as
it has no windows in it, it is useless as a look-out.</p>

<p>I found here two ponies that I had sent from Tientsin, in
charge of a Chinese "ma-foo" or groom, who agreed to accompany
me as far as Chan-kia-kow. My object was to be
independent of the Chinese carts at Peking and on the road,
and I looked forward to taking one, if not both, of my
ponies a considerable distance into the desert of Mongolia. I
strongly recommend this plan to any one travelling in that
quarter.</p>

<p>On the 10th of August I rode to Peking, the rest of the
party following in carts. This would no doubt be a very
pretty ride at another season of the year, but in the month
of August the millet crops stand as high as twelve and fifteen
feet, completely shutting in the road for nearly the whole
distance. At eight li from Tungchow we passed the village
and handsome stone bridge of <em>Pa-li-keaou</em> or "eight-mile-bridge,"
which euphonious name gives a title to a distinguished
French general. There are no "high" roads, but
many bye-roads, and it is not difficult to lose one's way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
amongst the standing millet. Many parts of the country
are very prettily wooded, and there is a half-way house at a
well-shaded part of the road, where you naturally dismount
to rest yourself under a mat shed, and indulge yourself with
hot tea, than which nothing is more refreshing on a hot day,
provided the decoction be not too strong, and is unadulterated
by the civilised addition of sugar or milk. You may eat fruit
here also if you are not afraid of the consequences (but take
care that it is ripe), and some naked urchins will cut fresh
grass for your beasts. This little place, like many others of
its kind, is a "howf" for many loafers, who seek the cool
shade, and sit sipping their boiling tea, and languidly
fanning themselves while they listen abstractedly to the conversation
of the wayfarers.</p>

<p>As we near Peking we come to some slight undulations,
and notice some very pretty places with clumps of old trees
about them. These are principally graves of great men, and
it is remarkable to observe how much attention is paid by
the Chinese to the abodes of their dead. Wealthy people
will pass their lives in a dismal hovel, something between a
pig-stye and a rabbit-warren, into which the light of day can
scarcely penetrate; the floors of earth or brick-paved, or if
the party is luxurious, he may have a floor of wood, encrusted
with the dirt of a generation. But these same people look
forward to being buried under a pretty grove of trees, in a
nicely kept enclosure, with carefully cultivated shrubs and
flowers growing round. Some of the loveliest spots I have
seen in China are tombs, the finest I remember being at the
foot of the hill behind the city of Chung-zu, near Foo-shan,
on the Yang-tsze-kiang. These tombs, adorned with so much
taste and care, were in strange contrast with the general
rottenness around. But armies have since been there, and it
is probable that the angel of destruction has swept it all
away.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>

<p>I am unable to say from what feeling springs this tender
regard for tombs among the Chinese. It may be that they
consider the length of time they have to lie in the last resting-place,
reasonably demands that more care be bestowed on
it than on the earthly tenement of which they have so short
a lease. Or it may arise simply out of that strong principle
of filial piety so deeply engraven in the Chinese mind, and
which leads them to make great sacrifices when required to
do honour to the names of their ancestors. From whatever
motive it comes, however, this filial piety, which even death
does not destroy, is an admirable trait in the Chinese character;
and I have even heard divines point to the Chinese
nation&mdash;the most long-lived community the world has seen&mdash;as
an illustration of the promise attached to the keeping of
the fifth commandment. The greatest consolation a Chinaman
can have in the "hour of death" is that he will be
buried in a coffin of his own selection, and that he has
children or grandchildren to take care of his bones. It is to
this end that parents betroth their children when young, and
hasten the marriages as soon as the parties are marriageable.
To this end also I believe polygamy is allowed by law, or at
all events not interdicted. If a Chinaman could have the
promise made to him, "Thou shalt never want a man to
stand before me," he would live at ease for the rest of his
days.</p>

<p>There are no cemeteries in China, that I know of, except
where strangers congregate&mdash;when they of a family, a district,
or even a province, combine to buy a piece of ground to
bury their dead in. In hilly countries pretty sites are always
selected for tombs. In the thickly settled parts of the country
every family buries its own dead in its own bit of ground.
Thus, when they sell land for building purposes, negotiations
have to be entered into for removing the coffins of many forgotten
generations. The bones are carefully gathered up and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
put into earthenware jars, and labelled. This operation is
profanely called "potting ancestors." These jars are then
buried somewhere else&mdash;of course with great economy of
space. A house built on the site of an old grave that is
suspected of having been only partially emptied, would
remain tenantless for ever, and if the ghosts of the departed
did not destroy the house, the owner would be compelled to
do so.</p>

<p>But I am getting away from the Peking road. Amongst
the tombs of great families, outside the walls of the city,
are many old marble colossal sculptures of men and animals.
The same figures, in limestone, are common in other parts of
the country. These sculptures are all more or less dilapidated;
some of the figures are still erect; many have fallen
down and got broken; and many have been ploughed in.
There is nothing remarkable about the workmanship of
these, although the colossal size of some of them is striking.
They are interesting as memorials of departed greatness,
and record their silent protest against the corruption, decay,
and degeneracy that has brought the Chinese empire so low.</p>

<p>Water communicating with the Peiho river goes up to
the walls of Peking, but is not navigable. It forms a quiet
lagoon, the delight of great flocks of the most beautiful
ducks and geese. The streams that run through the city
can also be connected with the water outside through the
arches in the wall; and I am told the intention of those
truly great men, who conceived and executed the grand
canal, was to bring the water through the city and into the
imperial quarters by navigable canals, so that the grain-junks
from Keangsoo, which were to supply the capital with
food, might be brought in to the gate of the Emperor's
palace. It is not to be wondered at that this scheme should
have broken down, considering the engineering difficulties
attending it.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>

<h3>PEKING.</h3>


<p>Nothing of the city of Peking is visible until you are close
under the walls, and then the effect is really imposing. The
walls are high, massive, and in good repair. The double
gates, with their lofty and large three-storied towers over
them, and the general solid appearance, inspire one with
some of the admiration which poor old Marco Polo used to
evince when speaking of the glories of Kambalic, or the
city of the Grand Khan.</p>

<p>Once inside the walls you instinctively exclaim, What a hot,
dusty place this is! and you call to mind that that is exactly
what everybody told you long before its threshold was polluted
by barbarian footsteps. Peking is celebrated for its carts, its
heat, and its dust. If it rained much the streets would be a
sea of mud.</p>

<p>We pursue our way along the sandy tracks between the
city wall and the buildings of the town for a mile or two,
then plunge into the labyrinth of streets, crowded, dirty and
odoriferous. We are being conducted to an inn which is
to be better than any that foreigners have been admitted
to before.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 600px;"><a name="walls" id="walls"></a>
<img src="images/i-052.jpg" width="600" height="352" alt="walls" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">From a photograph.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
WALLS OF PEKING&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(Page 32.)
</p>
</div>
</div>

<p>In our way we crossed the main street which leads from
the imperial city straight to the Temples of Heaven and
Earth. This street is very wide, and has been very fine, but
now more than half its width is occupied by fruit, toy, and
fish stalls. The centre of the street has been cut up by cart-wheels<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
for many centuries, and is full of holes and quagmires,
so that the practicable portion of this wide thoroughfare
is narrowed down to nothing. So it is with all the wide
streets of Peking. They are never made. Filth accumulates
incredibly fast; and the wider the street the dirtier it is,
because it can hold the more.</p>

<p>At last we arrived at this paragon of inns, and passing
through the courtyard, where the horses and mules of travellers
were tied up, we threaded our way as far into the interior
of the establishment as we could get, and then called the
landlord. He pretended to make a great to-do about receiving
us, and strongly urged that we would find much better accommodation
at the West-end. This was not to be thought
of, and we soon installed ourselves in a room&mdash;but such a
room! and such an inn! and such attendance! and such
filth everywhere! I have slept in a good many Chinese inns
of all sorts, but the meanest road-side hostelry I have ever
seen is a degree better than this swell inn in this fashionable
city of Kanbalu. Our room was at the far end of the labyrinthine
passages, and was evidently constructed to exclude
light and air. It was almost devoid of furniture. We
certainly could make shift for sleeping accommodation, for
travellers can manage with wonderfully little in that way;
but we were miserably off for chairs, the only thing we had
to sit upon being small wooden stools on four legs, the seat
being about five inches wide.</p>

<p>There was no getting anything to eat in this establishment,
so we fell in with the Peking custom of dining at a
restaurant, and we found a very good one on the opposite
side of the street. This was a nice cheerful place, with good
airy rooms, and comfortable cushioned seats&mdash;much frequented
by the Pekingese. Here we always got a good
dinner, and met good society. We could not stomach the
pure native messes, but as they had always abundance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
good mutton and fish (kept alive on the premises till wanted),
also rice, clean and white, with a little preliminary instruction
in our manner of living, the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cuisinière</i> hit off our taste
to a nicety. We had our own knives and forks to eat with,
and our own good liquor to season the repast, so in Peking
we may be said to have lived well.</p>

<p>We used to meet a strange mixture of people in this
restaurant&mdash;natives of Canton, Yunnan, Szechune, Shansi&mdash;in
short, of every part of China; men whose lawful occasions
brought them to the capital. Most of them were merchants,
and I presume the students who flock to Peking in such
number form little cliques of their own. These fellows lead
a very jovial life. About seven o'clock, or a little later, they
assemble in parties already made up, and dinner is laid, each
party having a separate room. They eat heartily, and seem
thoroughly to enjoy each other's society. They don't hurry
over their dinner, and they have such an infinity of small
dishes, that their repast spreads itself over several hours.
They are very quiet at the first onset, but as they warm up
with their wine, they get very noisy, and make the whole
place ring with the sounds of merriment. They drink their
wine hot, out of small porcelain cups, and instead of a decanter,
a tea-kettle is put on the table. We used to amuse
ourselves by going from one party to another, and joining
for a few minutes in their conviviality. They were always
pleased to see us, and made us sit down and drink with
them. We reciprocated their hospitality, and when we had
administered a glass of wine to one of them, he would sip
it with an air of grave meditation, then slap his paunch
vigorously, and, holding up his right thumb, would exclaim
with emphasis "Haou!" "super-excellent."</p>

<p>They have a methodical manner of drinking, which is no
less entertaining to spectators, than agreeable to themselves.
The libations are regulated by a game of forfeits, engaged in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
by two at a time. The challenger holds out one or more
fingers, accompanying the action by certain set phrases. The
other has to reply promptly to the word and the pantomime,
the penalty for a mistake being to drink a cup of wine.
They begin this process quietly and soberly, but when an
obstinate antagonist is found, who replies to the challenge
five or six times running without a break-down, the contest
becomes exciting. They gradually rise from their seats, and
approach each other across the table, their faces grow red, as
their shouting gets louder, and the repartee more spirited,
until they reach a climax of passion which flesh and blood
could not long sustain, and then explode like a bomb-shell
amid tremendous bursts of unearthly yells from the full company.
The loser sips his liquor with resignation; and the
victor generally joins him, by way of showing himself a
generous adversary. I have heard of drinking "by rule of
thumb," in our own country, but this has probably nowhere
been reduced to a science so much as in China.</p>

<p>About nine or ten, a long string of carts (the cabs of
Peking), would be collected at the door, the parties would
begin to break up, and go their several ways to the theatres,
or other evening amusements. They generally make a night
of it, and that class of the Chinese are everywhere late in
their habits. I never met a more robust-looking, or more
jovial, hearty set of men, than these, our boon companions of
Peking.</p>

<p>On arriving in Peking, I lost no time in calling on Sir F.
Bruce, our minister there, to get passports put in train. I
was fortunate enough to meet Sir Frederick, as he had just
come in for a day from his retreat in the hills. He has
occupied a temple situated on the hills, some twenty miles
from Peking, which forms an admirable summer residence,
free from the putrid smells of the city, and with a temperature
many degrees cooler,&mdash;no mean advantage when the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
thermometer stands about 90°. The building set apart for
the English legation in Peking is, from an eastern point of
view, magnificent. It was a "foo," or ducal palace, has large
space for garden ground round the principal building, while
the smaller buildings would easily accommodate a full regiment
of soldiers.</p>

<p>We found that it would take several days to get our
papers in order; for not only was my passport to be got, but
my companion had to get his through the French legation.
There was nothing for it but to make ourselves easy, having
done all that we could do to accelerate our business. Now,
at another season of the year, I could have spent a week in
Peking with pleasure, but in the month of August one cannot
go out with any degree of comfort or safety, except in
the morning or evening, and then the streets are full either
of blinding dust, or black mire, in which your horse is always
splashing up to his hocks. However, we tried to make the
best of it, and I was fortunate enough to meet my old friend,
Dr. Lockhart, who had lived long enough in Peking to know
the ropes, and who was good-natured enough to show me
round the principal objects of interest in the city. Another
difficulty besets the sight-seer in Peking, and that is the
"magnificent distances" between the various places one
wants to see. However, by sallying forth betimes, we did
manage to visit a few of the many interesting objects in this
old city; for there is nothing really worthy of note in China,
except what bears the stamp of antiquity.</p>

<p>The Confucian temple was the first object of our curiosity.
Here the great sage is worshipped by the Emperor once a
year, without the medium of paintings or images. In the
central shrine there is merely a small piece of wood, a few
inches long, standing upright, with a few characters inscribed
on it, the name of the sage, I believe. On the sides are a
number of still smaller wooden labels, representing the disciples<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
and commentators who have elucidated the writings
of Confucius. The temple contains a number of stone tablets,
on which are engraved the record of honours conferred
on literary men, and to obtain a place here is the acme of the
ambition of Chinese scholars. In the courtyard there are a
number of pine trees, said to have been planted during the
reign of the Mongol dynasty, more than 500 years ago. These
trees have been stunted in their growth, however, from want
of room, and considering their age, their size is disappointing.
The courtyard is adorned by a variety of stone sculptures,
the gifts of successive emperors and dynasties. The present
dynasty has been rather jealous of its predecessors in this
respect, especially of the Ming, and has replaced many fine
relics of their time by new ones of its own. There are, however,
several Mongol tablets to the fore in the Confucian
temple. A connoisseur can at once, from the style, fix the
date of any of these works of art, and when in doubt, the
inscriptions are for the most part sufficiently legible to tell
their own tale. In another part of the building there are
some very curious old stones, drum-shaped, dating from 800
years <small>B.C.</small> These have been carefully preserved, but the
iron tooth of time has obliterated most of the writing on
them. The curious old characters are still to some extent
legible, however. The building itself is, from a Chinese point
of view, a noble one, and singularly enough, it is kept in
perfect order, in strange contrast to Chinese temples and
public buildings generally. It has a magnificent ceiling, very
high, and the top of the interior walls are ornamented by
wooden boards, richly painted, bearing the names of the
successive emperors in raised gilt characters. On the accession
of an emperor he at once adds his name to the long
list.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 435px;"><a name="pavilion" id="pavilion"></a>
<img src="images/i-059.jpg" width="435" height="550" alt="pavilion" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">PAVILION OF THE SUMMER PALACE OF
YUEN-MIN-YUEN.</p>

<p class="sig">
(Page 37.)<br />
</p>
</div>
</div>

<p>The hall erected by the learned Emperor Kienloong,
although modern (he reigned from 1736 to 1796), is a magnificent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
pavilion, not very large, but beautifully finished, and
in perfect good taste. The pavilion is roofed with the
imperial yellow tiles. Round it is a promenade paved with
white marble, with balustrades of the same. At a little distance
from the pavilion stands a triumphal arch, massive and
elegant. The pavilion is intended to be viewed through the
arch, from a stand-point a few yards behind it, so that the
arch forms a frame for the main building. The effect produced
is peculiar and striking, and does infinite credit to the
taste of old Kienloong, who, by the bye, seems to have done
everything that has been done in modern times to beautify
the capital. The pavilion stands in the middle of a large
open square, on two sides of which, under a shed, stand
double rows of stone tablets, six or seven feet high. On
these tablets are engraved, in clear and distinct characters,
the whole of the Chinese classics, in such a manner that they
can be printed from. Many copies have actually been struck
off from these tablets, and are held in very high esteem.</p>

<p>The great lamasery is outside the city, but the lama
temple or monastery inside is also well worthy of notice,
whether from the vast quantity of bricks and mortar that go
to make the range of buildings, the extent of the grounds
attached to it, including a fine wooded park, or from the
internal economy of the establishment itself. Two thousand
Mongol lamas are maintained here by the bounty of the
Emperor.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The other lamaseries are in the same manner
liberally endowed by the government. The Chinese emperors
feel that they have but a slight hold on their Mongol
subjects, scattered as they are over a vast desert, where no
Chinese troops could penetrate, even were the Chinese a
match for the Mongols in a military point of view, which
they never were. The independence of the Mongols would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
be rather a gain than a loss to China in its immediate
results, but it would establish a warlike race on their borders,
which has been the terror of China from the earliest
times. No doubt, ages of peace have done much to subdue
the warlike spirit of the Mongols, but they retain their
ancient habits and lead a life of privation and hardship from
the cradle to the grave. They are susceptible of the greatest
enthusiasm, and at a word from their chiefs they would be
ready to follow them to death or glory. A few years of
fighting would render the Mongol hordes as formidable to a
non-military nation like the Chinese, as they were in the
days of the terrible Genghis Khan. In the present enfeebled
condition of China an irruption of Mongols would be irresistible,
and would sweep everything before it like a flood.
The Chinese government are quite alive to such a possible
contingency, and hence the care they take to conciliate the
Mongols. Their forty-eight kings (of whom San-go-lin-sin
is one), nominally tributary to China, are really pensioned
by the Emperor, and every inducement is held out to the
Mongol lamas to settle in the monasteries in Peking. Here
they live in comfort and luxury unknown in their deserts.
Their friends have every facility for visiting them, and carrying
back to the "land of grass" their reports of the goodness
of the Chinese Emperor. The lamas are taken from all
parts of Mongolia&mdash;we conversed with several from Dolonor
and Kuren (Urga), and many others from the north and
south, the names of whose districts were not included in my
geographical vocabulary. These large Mongol communities,
under the eye and hand of the Emperor, answer the double
purpose of conciliators on the one hand, and of hostages for
the loyalty of distant tribes on the other. The Mongols are
as little a match for the Chinese in craft, as they are superior
to them in martial energy. It is supposed that the Chinese
government have a deep design in supporting and encouraging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
lamaism, an institution which makes nearly one-third of
the Mongol race celibats&mdash;for there are female as well as
male lamas&mdash;the object being to keep down the population
of the tribes.</p>

<p>However, the simple-minded Mongols lead a comfortable,
easy life in Peking, free from care, and with no occupation
except chanting their prayers. I was fortunate enough to
witness one of their religious services in the great temple.
The building is raised some ten feet from the ground, a fine
flight of steps running round the four sides of it. The roof
is very high, and the sides are open all round. The lamas
muster leisurely out of their cells, dressed in dirty red cotton
garments, and armed with an enormous yellow cap, with
something of a helmet shape, and crested with a long fringe
made, I think, of camel's hair. They carry the cap for the
most part under their arm, seldom wearing it on the head.
About 200 of them assembled in the temple, and sung a
chant which lasted about half an hour. The effect was very
striking and solemn, for the music was good, and one or two
of the lamas had the finest bass voices I ever heard. The
apparent earnestness with which the whole congregation
joined in the service, and the deep, devotional character of
the music, riveted our attention with an irresistible power.
So different was it from the ludicrous mockery of sacred
things perpetrated by the Chinese Bhuddists, during whose
most solemn services I have seen a dirty fellow push his way
through the devotees and coolly light his pipe at the candles
burning on the altar.</p>

<p>The analogies between the Bhuddist and Roman Catholic
forms of worship have been so hackneyed by writers that it
may seem impertinent in me to allude to them. But I
cannot help drawing attention to the manner in which
M. Huc endeavours to explain them. The analogies are
most complete in the Yellow Cap Lama sect, the origin of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
which is described at length by Huc. In the thirteenth
century, in the country of Amdo, bordering on Thibet, a
child miraculously conceived was born with a white beard,
and from his birth gave utterance to profound sayings concerning
the destiny of man. His name was Tsong-Kamba.
This prodigy of a child became an ascetic, devoting himself
to meditation and prayer. A holy stranger from the west
visited him, and amazed him by his sanctity and learning.
The stranger was remarkable for his long nose. After
instructing Tsong-Kamba for a few years in the mysteries
of religion the holy man died; but Tsong-Kamba became a
great reformer, and originated the new sect of the Yellow
Cap Lamas. Huc clutches at this tradition, and thinks he
sees in the mysterious visitor of Tsong-Kamba a Christian
missionary, many of whom had penetrated about that period
into Tartary. The premature death of the master left incomplete
the instruction of the disciple, who, failing to attain
Christianity, stopped short as a reformer of Bhuddism.</p>

<p>After the service we had some talk with the lamas, who
were pleased to see us, and treated us with every civility.
They all speak, and many of them write, Chinese; and in
that language we communicated with them. The ethnical
difference between two races supposed to be of the same
origin could not be more apparent than in the case of these
Mongols and the Chinese by whom they were surrounded.
The Mongols have all an unintellectual cast of countenance,
low narrow foreheads, and a simple and open
expression. Their features are not very different from
the Chinese. They have the high cheek-bones, small eyes,
and some other characteristics of their neighbours; but
their noses are on the whole not so short and flat, nor
their faces so rounded. It is not so easy to tell in what the
difference between them and the Chinese consists, but the
distinction is so marked that I hardly believe it possible for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
any one to mistake a Mongol for a Chinese. The Mongols
have unsuspecting honesty written on their faces. The
Chinese, from north to south, bear the stamp of craft and
cunning, and are much superior in intellect to the Mongols.
It is only necessary to remark the physiognomies of the two
races to understand how the Chinese outwit the Mongols in
their dealings with them, and how the Chinese name has in
consequence become a bye-word among the Mongols for
everything that is detestable. It should not be forgotten of
course that it is probably the worst class of Chinese with
whom the Mongols come in contact. They are mostly adventurers
who seek their fortunes among the Tartars, for the
hard life they are compelled to live in these outlying countries
is not at all suitable to the Chinese taste. The better
sort of merchants are therefore not likely to wander so far;
and those that do go are in the first instance below the
average moral standard of the Chinese, and, when liberated
from the restraint of public opinion in their own country,
they are likely to deteriorate still more. It would also
appear to be true that demoralisation naturally grows out of
the intercourse between two races, one of whom is in a
marked degree inferior to the other in intellectual capacity.
In commercial dealings the Chinese find it so easy to overreach
the simple Mongols, and the temptation to do so is so
strong, that the habit is engendered, which soon becomes
part of the character of the Chinese in Tartary. The
Mongols, on their part, learn to form a low estimate of the
honour of human nature. They know they are victimised
by the Chinese, but they are powerless to escape from it;
hence they, by a very natural process, acquire a settled
hatred to the whole race.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 432px;"><a name="lama" id="lama"></a>
<img src="images/i-066.jpg" width="432" height="600" alt="lama" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">THIBETIAN MONUMENT IN LAMA TEMPLE. PEKING.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

(Page 42.)
</p></div>
</div>

<p>But we have not yet seen the great gilt image of Bhudda,
which stands in a separate building erected for the purpose.
We failed in getting in on the first visit, but afterwards<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
succeeded. The image is seventy-two feet high, well formed,
and symmetrically proportioned. By a series of narrow and
steep staircases we ascend several stories, at each getting a
view of a part of the image. At the top of all we get out
on a balcony, from which a good view of the city and
environs is obtained.</p>

<p>The Grand Lama of this monastery is a Chaberon or living
Bhudda, of whom there are several in Mongolia; and as
such he is a sacred person, and a man of great authority
among Mongols, whether lamas or laymen. We had
business to transact with this incarnation of Bhudda, but,
on inquiring for him, we learned that he had left on some
holy mission to the great lamasery at Dolonor, a Mongol
town a few days' journey north-west of Peking. We had a
letter from the head priest of the Fang-wang temple at
Tungchow, who, though not belonging to the Lama sect,
which so far as I am aware consists exclusively of Tartars,
was nevertheless on easy terms with the Grand Lama. The
purport of the letter was to recommend us to the attentions
of the Grand Lama, and to request him to give us another
letter to the lamas of a monastery in Mongolia, a short
distance beyond the Great Wall at Chan-kia-kow, to enlist
their services in procuring camels for our journey across the
desert of Gobi. We anticipated some difficulty about this,
and wished to have as many strings to our bow as possible.
The letter was written in Mongol, and put in an envelope
addressed in Manchu, for the priest at Tung-chow was a
learned man. No one in the monastic brotherhood could be
found who could read the Manchu address, and they had
great difficulty in finding one who could master the Mongol
characters in which the letter itself was written. We were
surprised that they should not be able to read their own
language, and on inquiry found that lamas are not taught
to read Mongol as a necessary branch of study. They all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
learn the Lama writing, which they call "Tangut," but
which must be Thibetian, as all their books and prayers are
written in that character, and those lamas who live in
Peking generally learn to read a little Chinese for their own
convenience. While the letter was being deciphered we
were introduced to the lay brother of the monastery, the
confidant of the Grand Lama, and factotum in all secular
affairs. A fine, hard-headed, swarthy complexioned, rough-and-ready
burly fellow he was, and he received us with his
rude native hospitality, showing us into the room, and
making us sit on the very <em>kang</em> used by the absent Bhudda.
Being naturally slow of comprehension, and his secretary
being equally slow and uncertain in deciphering the missive,
the old fellow had many questions and cross-questions to
ask, with many repetitions, which all being carried on in
a very loud tone of voice, as if he had been bawling to a
man on the main-top, began to get rather tiresome. Having
satisfied himself about the contents of the letter, he entered
into conversation with Noetzli, who, having been in Mongolia
before, and in the very monastery of Bain-tolochoi to which
we sought to be accredited, very adroitly led the conversation
to that subject, and soon showed our Mongol friend that he
knew all about the locality and the personal appearance of
the head Lama there, whose chief characteristic seemed to
be that he was inordinately fat. No sooner had our friend
convinced himself that Noetzli had actually been the guest
of the fat Lama, than he took us yet closer into his confidence,
ordered the letter to be written, and at the same
time despatched a boy into the street with some money in
his hand. When the letter was finished, and we rose to
leave, the old fellow, on hospitable thoughts intent, protested,
seized our hats, and by main force pushed us back
to the seat of the Grand Lama. To keep us in play he put
fruit before us, but we did not know what it was all about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
until our breakfast was brought in in a large basin. It consisted
of about twenty pounds of plain boiled mutton, without
bread, rice, potatoes, or vegetables of any kind. All we
had to eat with it was a solution of salt, soy, vinegar, and
sugar. Eat we must, there was no help for it, and we
honestly set ourselves to do as full justice to the unsavoury
meal as we were capable of, although we had a good
breakfast waiting us at home, that is, at our restaurant, our
host all the while standing over us like a taskmaster to keep
us up to our work. When no entreaties would make us eat
more, with looks and expressions of pitying regret, our uncouth
friend showed us how Mongols eat mutton by taking
out a good-sized piece with his fingers, and dropping it down
his throat. Then turning to the youngsters who crowded
the room he pitched lumps of mutton to each of them, who,
in like manner, gobbled it like hungry eagles. Our reception
at the Lama temple gave us a fair idea of Mongol hospitality
and habits, and impressed us favourably with the former.
A long ride through the dirty streets of Peking, in a hot
sun, was the least agreeable part of our morning's work.</p>

<p>The old Observatory on the Wall is interesting as a monument
of the early astronomical tastes of the Chinese emperors,
and of the ingenuity of the Jesuits. It was first
erected by the Ming before the Jesuits came to China, or, at
all events, before they began to be influential, and afterwards
greatly enlarged and improved under the auspices of the
Jesuits. There is even an old instrument cast out and lying
dishonoured in the grass&mdash;an orrery, if I rightly remember,
dating from the Mongol dynasty, 600 years old. It is probable
that the Chinese or Mongols were then in advance of
European nations in their knowledge of celestial phenomena.
The great celestial globe made under the direction of Verbiest,
is a superb casting in bronze, and although the instrument
sent from Paris is the finest in the Observatory, Father<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
Verbiest's celestial globe was the most interesting to me
as a specimen of what a clever man can do under almost
insuperable difficulties. Since the fall of the Jesuits little attention
seems to have been paid to, or use made of, the
Observatory, and the teaching of those talented men is well
nigh lost.</p>

<p>The Temple of Heaven, or, as some people call it, the
Altar of Heaven, is situated near the south wall of the city.
We had several miles to go to it from our residence, in a
direct line south, along the main street from the centre gate
between the Tartar and Chinese cities. The street is wide
and straight, but very dirty, and blocked up with trumpery
stalls of all sorts, and kept alive by the incessant shouts of
boys and old women. "Apples! fine apples, to be sold cheap,&mdash;those
who have no money can't have any," reminded us of
the pathetic story of "Simple Simon." Jugglers also disported
themselves in the street and attracted good audiences
to witness the swallowing and disgorging of huge stones, feats
of strength, and other miracles. The poor juggler does not
seem to take much by his motions, however, for, after swallowing
an intolerable quantity of stone, and throwing up
large bricks, and allowing them to break themselves on his
head, thereby creating baldness on the crown, and otherwise
amusing a distinguished circle of spectators for twenty
minutes, he mildly solicits "cash," and has a wretched
pittance thrown into the ring, much as one would throw
a bone to a dog. I could not help wishing him some more
useful outlet for his talents. Another man would stand with
a white painted board in his hand, slightly covered with ink
in a half-liquid state, and, while conversing with the crowd,
he would, by means of his thumb and fingers, throw off such
excellent representations of fishes, birds, &amp;c., with every fin,
scale, and feather done to the life, as one never sees in the
most highly finished Chinese paintings. The talent displayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
by these peripatetic artists proves conclusively that the
Chinese do possess the skill to draw after nature. Then
why don't they do it? A question more easily asked
than answered. But we are supposed to be on the road to
the Temple of Heaven. After walking two miles or so
down this great street, we suddenly come to a break in the
houses. There is no more street, but a large open space
before us, lying very low, the road being continued on a
raised causeway, on the same level as the street we have left.
This space was originally a parade-ground. It is now a mud-puddle,
cut up in all directions by innumerable cart-ruts,
and most unsightly to behold. But the Temple of Heaven
itself is now in sight, the outer wall stretching from a point
abreast of us on the left to the south gate of the city, which
is dimly visible in the distance over the miscalled parade-ground.
The great centre pavilion, with its blue roof and
large gilt top, resplendent in the afternoon sun, shoots up
into the air, the most conspicuous object to be seen in all
Peking. The outer wall alluded to encloses a square mile of
ground. Opposite to the Temple of Heaven, and on our
right, is the Temple or Altar of the Earth, where the
emperors of China repair according to traditional custom on
the first day of spring to inaugurate the happy season by
ploughing the first furrow. The little boy who now wields
the sceptres of the khans must be too young to hold a
plough, and I suppose he does it by commission, if indeed he
is not too degenerate to do it at all.</p>

<p>Entering the outer gate of the Temple of Heaven, we are
ushered into a large park, beautifully laid out with avenues
of trees, and with regular well-paved walks. The whole
place is terribly overgrown with long grass, and the neatly
paved walks are all but obliterated by the same. As we
proceed we come to a number of rather fine buildings for the
accommodation of the priests. We saw none of these gentry,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
however, and the outer gate is kept by a dirty coolie, who
takes a fee for opening it. The great pavilion stands on the
top of a high causeway, the best part of a mile long, with
flights of steps leading up to it at various parts. The causeway
is beautifully paved with square stones, so regular and
well fitted that the joinings can be traced in straight parallel
lines along the whole length, except where the line of sight
is intercepted by rank grass shooting up through them. The
altar is in the great pavilion, which is a circular building of
three storys, each story having wide eaves projecting over
it, all covered with bright blue enamelled tiles. The roof of
the building is of the same material, and is rather a sharply-pitched
cone surmounted by a large round gilt ball. The
whole effect is bright and beautiful. The pavilion is ascended
from the causeway by flights of white marble steps, and a
promenade of the same material runs all round it. On the
causeway, and at some distance from the altar, are large
massive arches with gates in them, and beyond the arches, at
a great distance, there is another pavilion of similar construction
to the principal one, but much smaller, being only one
story high, where the Emperor comes once a-year to worship
the true God, or, as some call it, the Dragon. Be that as it
may, however, this is doubtless the purest form of worship
known to the Chinese. When the Emperor takes his place
in the small pavilion the gates of the arches are thrown
open, and through them he can see afar off the altar of
Heaven, or the Dragon throne, as you may please to call it.
Sacrifices are made on those occasions; a large house or
temple is set apart for the slaughter of the animals, and
another circular tower of green bricks stands near it, where
the remains of the sacrifices are buried. The whole plan of
this splendid monument is nobly conceived, and would do
credit to the most advanced nation in the world. Unhappily,
it seems now to be utterly uncared for. The pavements on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
which so much care, labour, and money have been expended,
are being rapidly covered up with grass. The avenues are
like a wilderness, and weeds are even taking root in the
beautiful blue-tiled roofs, which, if not soon ruined by it,
will at all events be twisted out of their symmetrical proportions.
It is melancholy to see that what men of large and
enlightened ideas have been at such pains to build, the present
degenerate race do not consider it worth while to hire
half-a-dozen coolies to keep in order. No further proof is
necessary of the state of imbecility into which the Chinese
rulers have fallen than this, that in their own city they
should allow such a monument of the active energy of their
ancestors to go to wreck and ruin for want of a little
looking after. I do not see how good government can be
looked for in the distant provinces when the body politic is
so rotten at the core.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 600px;"><a name="heaven" id="heaven"></a>
<img src="images/i-074.jpg" width="600" height="347" alt="heaven" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">P. JUSTYNE. DEL&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
J. COOPER, S<sup><small>c.</small></sup><br />

From a photograph by Beato.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
GREAT TEMPLE OF HEAVEN. PEKING.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(Page 48.)
</p>

</div>
</div>

<p>My opportunities did not allow of my seeing more of the
great sights of Peking, but we have not yet done the
theatres. It was, of course, necessary to patronise some of
these establishments, and they afford great facilities for
admitting people whose time is not all their own. Ours
certainly was our own, but we had let it out for other purposes,
and could only steal an hour now and then to give up
to this enjoyment. The theatres are open all day long, and
all night, too, for anything I know. The acting goes on incessantly&mdash;one
piece following another without interruption.
The favourite pieces with the actors, and by a natural
inference with the audience, are old historical heroic pieces,
which are performed in a wretched falsetto sing-song voice,
and accompanied by the most die-away pantomimic gestures,
even in the chief male characters, painfully monotonous to
European ears and eyes. They are heavy and slow, but
afford great scope for the display of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">outré</i> costumes, overlaid
with fiery dragons and hideous forms, which delight the eye<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
of the Chinese. The theatres at Peking are certainly superior,
both in the get-up and acting, to anything else of
the kind I have seen in China, and some comic pieces we
saw were so admirably acted that we, knowing scarcely a
word, could follow the story throughout. The houses were
always crowded, and the audience seemed to take more
interest in the performance than is usual in the south of
China, no doubt owing to the language used being the
Peking dialect, which is but indifferently understood by provincial
audiences. On our entrance to a theatre we were
always civilly greeted by the officers, and shown up to the
most eligible places in the galleries, where we met people
from all parts of the country, not excepting swell Cantonese,
all dressed in spotless white muslin, as light and airy as if
made from the gossamer's web. We were at once beset by
half-naked peripatetic vendors of fruits, cakes, and comfits,
and even cups of hot tea. The tea was very refreshing in
such a hot place, but our neighbours insisted on giving us
little dumplings and other Chinese delicacies, whose component
parts we could not even guess. It was useless refusing&mdash;that
was regarded as mock-modesty. We could
only take a quiet opportunity of depositing the suspicious
viands in our pockets, and give them to the first dirty
urchin we met in the street. The Chinese themselves go
on crunching ground nuts, melon-seeds, and rubbish of that
sort, the whole time.</p>

<p>Women do not act in China except under very exceptional
circumstances. The female part is acted by men, who, thanks
to their naturally effeminate appearance, make up very well
as women, and the squeaky voice which they practise helps
them out. Actors are by no means held in high repute
in China, and they are in general very ill paid. One of
the best actors, who was also highly esteemed as a singer,
that is a squeaker, lodged at our hotel, and he informed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
us that he earned on an average about half a dollar
a day.</p>

<p>Our lodging being in the Chinese city, was far removed
from the European residents, who all live in the Tartar
quarter, and the gate between the two is closed at sunset.
We therefore saw less of our respective countrymen than we
might otherwise have done. The foreign community in
Peking is but small, and foreign trade being interdicted in
the capital, is not likely to be very much increased. There
are the Russian, English, French, American, and I suppose now
the Prussian legations, all well quartered in commodious
official buildings. The Russian is the smallest, because the
oldest. At the time of its establishment it was a great thing
to have a place at all, without quarrelling about the size of
it. The head of the foreign custom-house lives in Peking,
and there are a few student interpreters attached to him,
who are in training for the custom-house service. Two
Church missionaries also reside in Peking, and last, not least,
Dr. Lockhart, who has established a medical mission under
the auspices of the London Missionary Society, on the plan
of the one he for many years successfully conducted in
Shanghae. Whatever may have been the past success
of medical missions as an indirect means of introducing
Christianity into China, there can hardly be a doubt that
they are of all methods the best calculated to attain the
objects for which they have been organised. The Chinese
are pre-eminently irreligious, I mean with reference to their
own nominal creed&mdash;Bhuddism. They are too keenly intent
on minding their worldly affairs to have any thought to spare
for higher considerations. They are entirely free from the
fanaticism which animates other pagan races. Their temples
and priesthood are universally despised and neglected. The
only semblance of religious observances practised by the bulk
of the people, is a very low kind of superstition, and that sits<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
lightly on them as a rule wherever dollars stand in the way.
It is not unfair to say that they are devoid of the religious
faculty, and are "sunk in material interests." Hence, the
didactic inculcation of strange doctrines is foolishness to them
who are indifferent to any doctrine whatever. Of course I
only speak from a secular point of view, without forgetting
that the most impossible things are easy to the Omnipotent;
and he would be a bold man who would venture to circumscribe
the possible results that the future may develop from
the dissemination of the Bible among a reading, and on the
whole not an unthinking people. But the medical missionary
presents Christianity in its most attractive phase, that is,
associated with a noble philanthropy, after the example of
the Founder of our religion, who always accompanied his
teaching with healing the sick. And there is perhaps no
form of mere philanthropy so powerful to exact gratitude
from the most unlikely objects, as that of alleviating pain.
The Chinese are probably more open to this mode of reaching
their hearts than to any other. In my rambles in out-of-the-way
places in China, I have frequently been appealed to for
medical aid by poor people who had heard of the repute of
foreign doctors, both for skill and benevolence. And although
the Chinese character is the most hopeless one to expect
gratitude from, still I affirm that if anything can touch them
with the sense of an obligation, it is the ministering to their
fleshly infirmities; and in the case of medical missions, they
cannot escape the connection between them and the religion
that prompts them. But I fear I am getting into too deep
waters.</p>

<p>No difficulty was experienced in getting our passports,
although it was intimated to Sir F. Bruce that the passport
for Mongolia was not exactly a thing which could be demanded
under the treaty, and therefore that the issue of such a document
might at any time be refused by the Chinese authorities<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
without infringing any of the treaty stipulations, the argument
being, that Mongolia, though tributary to China, is not
a part of the Chinese empire, in the treaty interpretation of
the word. This is fudge, of course, but as long as they grant
the passports, all right. When they refuse, it will be time to
argue about it. They are no doubt a little jealous about
foreigners poking about in Mongolia: their own hold on it
is so uncertain, and the encroachments of the Russians so
gigantic of late years in other quarters, that is, in Manchuria,
that the Chinese government, who now, if never before, feels its
own decrepitude, does not know which way to turn for security
against aggression. As usual with them, they, in their blindness
to their own best interests, do just the wrong thing. Two
schemes for telegraphic communication from Europe through
Mongolia have been proposed to them, both from English
sources: both have been rejected, from the general and ignorant
dread they have of foreigners establishing stations in
Mongolia. Now were their eyes opened they must see that
it is not from England or France they have anything to fear of
aggression in that part of their dominions; but from Russia
alone. But were English or French subjects to settle, for
any purpose whatever, in the Mongolian steppes, under
authority from the Chinese government, no better guarantee
could be secured against Russian aggression. As it now
stands, the Russians are left alone in the field. When they
really want to have telegraphic stations in Mongolia, they
will not be refused, and before many years are over a large
slice of Mongolia will be Russian. The Russians have certain
winning ways of their own, altogether foreign to our system
of diplomatic procedure, of getting what they want from the
Chinese. While we are spending millions in sending armies
to fight the Chinese, for questions which are as much or more
for their own interests as for ours, and then as conquerors
astonishing the Chinese by the moderation of our demands,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
the Russians are in the most amicable manner possible pushing
forward their frontiers, and slicing off a thousand miles
of Chinese coast, all the while maintaining their position as
friendly allies of the Chinese, in contradistinction to the
English barbarians, who are always blustering and fighting,
in utter defiance of the rules of courtesy. After all it may
be as well so. Our interest as a commercial people is to
develop the resources of the world. The Russians will
certainly do this better than the Chinese in those wild
northern regions; at all events, a desert on the one hand,
and a wilderness on the other, cannot be made much less
productive than they are. But the Chinese cannot be expected
to view the matter in this light, and yet they are so
infatuated as to nurse the snake in their bosom to the exclusion
of others who would be likely to checkmate his
designs. The Russian government has shown a strange
penchant for annexing vast deserts to its dominions. Much
may it make out of them; but if half the enterprise and
money had been expended in improving the condition of the
enormous territory it already possesses, the Russian empire
would have been too powerful for all Europe. But that is
their own affair.</p>

<p>The last thing to be done in Peking was to settle our bills
at the hotel (!) and restaurant, and exorbitant enough they
were. On asking the proprietor of the hotel for his account,
he replied, "Oh! pay what you like." "In that case," said
we, "we like to pay nothing." "All right, as you please,"
with the most lofty indifference, answered our host. Driven
almost wild by his coolness, we tendered about six times
what we should have paid for better entertainment anywhere
else. The wretch turned up his nose at it with a supercilious
air that nearly roused the British lion. The restaurant was
as unconscionable in its demands, but we had something substantial
for our money there, and did not so much object;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
but to pay through the nose for a corner to sleep in, which
no gentleman would think fit for his hounds, did go sorely
against the grain. I cannot imagine what makes things so
dear in Peking, nor do I believe they are so dear to the
initiated. One thing is cheap, and that is ice, and the most
refreshing sight we saw during our stay in the capital, was
the cartloads of the precious commodity being carried about
in large square blocks; and how did we pity our friends
whom we had left in Shanghae, sweltering through the worst
part of the summer without this luxury&mdash;I ought to say
necessary&mdash;in such a climate. No care is taken of ice in
Peking. It is collected and thrown into large pits, and may
melt as much as it likes. If there was any chance of its
falling short, it would simply be a question of a few thousand
tons more to be thrown into the heap in the winter.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 480px;"><a name="emporer" id="emporer"></a>
<img src="images/i-083.jpg" width="480" height="600" alt="emporer" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">PART OF THE EMPEROR'S PALACE, YUEN-MIN-YUEN.<br />

DESTROYED 1860.</p></div>
</div>

<p>The local bank-notes in Peking are a great convenience.
They are issued in amounts from 1000 cash (about a dollar)
and upwards, and are in universal use in the city. The use
of them saves the natives from lugging about huge strings of
copper cash, the only coinage of China, 50 lbs. weight of
which are worth about sixty shillings. These notes are not
current outside the city walls, however, and here is an inconvenience;
for whatever cash balance you may have in
that medium must be paid away for something or other
before you leave. It would be possible to change them for
copper cash or Sycee silver, but that would involve delay and
perhaps trouble.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2>

<h3>PEKING TO CHAN-KIA-KOW.</h3>


<p>On the 14th of August, having arranged all our affairs in
Peking, we set out for Tung-chow, where we had left the
priests to provide us transport to Chan-kia-kow. Disappointment
awaited us&mdash;nothing was done. We were very angry,
and a hot discussion ensued between us and the head priest,
but we could make neither rhyme nor reason out of him.
Here was a dilemma. Ought we to wait till the morrow, and
try ourselves to hire beasts of burden at Tung-chow, with
this shaven head probably plotting against us? Or ought we
to start by break of day with our whole baggage to Peking,
and trust to arranging matters there? To do that even, we
were helpless, unless the priests were on our side. We
resolved, therefore, to conciliate the monk. At this juncture
M. Noetzli, who had kindly volunteered to accompany us so
far, being acquainted with the ways of the road, addressed
the priest in Russian. The effect was marked and instantaneous&mdash;the
priest's countenance changed&mdash;he opened himself
out&mdash;explained the true causes why he had not been able to
get the mules, and suggested that we should get carts to take
our baggage to Peking the next day. He would accompany
us himself, and help us to negotiate for transport in Peking.
That settled, we felt relieved, and ate our frugal dinner in
peace and comfort.</p>

<p>I must explain the wonderful effect produced by the use of
the Russian language. I have already intimated that this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
Fang-wang temple has been constantly used by the Russians
as a dépôt. Intimate relations have grown up between the
Russians and the priests, and mutual confidence and kindliness
has been the result. Several of the priests have learnt
the Russian language in their frequent intercourse with the
Russians. The priests know no other foreigners. On our
own merits we could do nothing with them; but the moment
a connecting link seemed to be shown between us and the
Russians, we were regarded as belonging to a privileged
class.</p>

<p>Next morning, we were again on the road to Peking, bag
and baggage. We rode, Noetzli on a mule, which was quiet
and tractable enough till a straw touched his tail, when he
bounded off, kicking and jumping, floundered in a rut,
pitched Noetzli over his head, then tenderly kicked him.
<em>Mem.</em>&mdash;Never ride a mule if you can help it, they are uncouth,
unmanageable brutes.</p>

<p>Our late landlord in Peking greeted us obsequiously on
our return, and our old friends at the restaurant were no less
delighted that their newly acquired art of cooking mutton
chops was again in requisition.</p>

<p>Our clerical friend soon appeared with a large, old-fashioned,
blue cotton umbrella. We at once went with him to a
shop where mules and litters were to be hired, and after the
preliminary salutations and cups of tea, we asked for mules,
and were told off-hand that they had none. This we knew
to be untrue, because we had seen them. We tried several
others, but met with the same reply. This looked hopeful,
indeed, and it seemed there was nothing left for us that day,
but to go to the theatre, where we saw some good acting and
an audience thoroughly enjoying it; and so we drowned our
own troubles for a time. The next expedient was to order
as good a dinner as our ingenuity could devise, out of
the materials at hand. A good dinner is a wonderful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
soother, and has been, perhaps, too much overlooked by
philosophers.</p>

<p>The next day, 16th of August, our priest, worn out in our
service, came and reported himself sick. He had feverish
symptoms, for which we administered quinine.</p>

<p>This break-down of our mainstay was unfortunate, for as
we could not get on with his assistance, how could we
manage without it? The mule-proprietors still maintained
in the morning that there were no mules to be had; but at
mid-day they sent to say we could have as many as we liked,
at slightly exorbitant prices. We thereupon engaged eight
pack-mules at four taels<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> each, and three mule-litters at
eight taels each, to convey us and our belongings to Chan-kia-kow,
distant about 400 li, or a four days' journey. It is
difficult to divine why it was that these crafty dealers so
obstinately maintained the non-existence of the mules. They
refused even to listen to an offer on the first day. They were
prepared to demand an extortionate price, and we were
equally prepared to pay it, but they determined to play with
us a little, in order to work our feelings up to the requisite
pitch. And when they had reduced us to despair, they
thought we would be in a proper frame of mind to accede to
their demands, however extravagant they might be. But
now everything was satisfactorily arranged, and the mules
were to be sent to us early in the morning. The fare
amounted to sixty taels in all, of which we paid one-third on
the signing of the contract, one-third when the mules were
loaded, and the balance on arrival at Chan-kia-kow.</p>

<p>My ma-foo now made himself very busy. Up to this time
he had done little but entertain me with cock-and-bull
stories about his late master, and his reasons for leaving his
service, at every favourable opportunity appealing to me for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
my opinion, as to whether he was a "good man." I always
answered in the negative, but he solaced himself with the
reflection that I would find him out and do him justice when
we got to Chan-kia-kow. Now that we were about starting,
we thought of many little things we wanted for our comfort
on the journey, and who so eligible to make the purchases as
"ma-foo." His eagle eye discerned in this a fine scope for
his energies, for nothing tickles a Chinaman so much as to
have money passing through his hands. "Ma-foo" set to
work manfully, and was proceeding very satisfactorily to all
parties, bringing the articles we wanted, and rendering an
account of the prices paid, until he brought me a coarse
cotton bag, which he put in at two dollars. "No," I said,
"I won't have it at that price. Take it back to the shop."
By and by, he re-appeared with the bag, and offered it for
a dollar and a-half. I refused it; and sent him back to
the shop. After a while, he returned to the charge with
the wretched bag: told me he could not take it back, but
reduced his demand to one dollar. I asked him how he
could afford to sell it for one dollar, seeing he had paid
two for it. "Maskee&mdash;you take it." I saw he was "stuck"
with it, and that if he failed to realise, he would be under
the necessity of stealing something from me to make up for
his loss. I therefore accepted it&mdash;not without making him
confess that he had paid only one dollar for the bag. It was
now my turn to ask him where his vaunted goodness was,
seeing he tried to cheat me of a dollar. He only grinned,
and said, in this instance he was a "little" bad. He was but
an inexperienced knave. A clever Chinaman, that is, an
ordinary average Chinaman, would have managed an affair of
that kind so adroitly as to defy suspicion, except the general
feeling one always experiences that all Chinamen are rogues.
But small peculations are considered by the Chinese as their
legitimate game. When they are intrusted with commissions,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
they look on it as a sacred duty to scrape as much as
they can out of the affair for themselves. This runs through
the whole race, and every grade of society, from the highest
official in the empire to the meanest beggar.</p>

<p>In case these remarks should be taken to contain a general
sweeping charge of dishonesty against the whole Chinese
race, I must explain myself a little more fully. The system
of peculation is recognised in China, as a legitimate source of
emolument; and within certain limits, arbitrarily fixed by
custom, it is not held to be inconsistent with honesty. The
government connive at it to an alarming extent, by paying
responsible officers mere nominal salaries, leaving it to their
own ingenuity to improve their fortunes. But with all that,
it is a rare thing for a Chinaman to betray a trust; the best
proof of which is that they are trusted, under the slenderest
of guarantees, with large sums of money. Among the
respectable class of merchants, their word is as good as their
bond. A bargain once concluded is unflinchingly adhered to.
Their slipperiness is exhausted in the preliminary negotiations.
Their "cheating" is conducted on certain broad and
well understood principles. But for practical honesty, the
Chinese may well excite the admiration of many who think
themselves vastly superior. When we were at war with the
Viceroy of Canton, the European factories were burnt, and
foreigners compelled to abandon the place, leaving a great
deal of property in the hands of Chinese merchants. Repudiation
never occurred to these Chinamen's minds. On the
contrary, they found their way to Hong-kong, during the
blockade of the Canton river, for the purpose of settling
accounts with the foreigners. China contains good and
bad in about the same proportion as other countries. Old
John Bell says of them:&mdash;"They are honest, and observe
the strictest honour and justice in their dealings. It must,
however, be acknowledged, that not a few of them are much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
addicted to knavery, and well skilled in the art of cheating.
They have, indeed, found many Europeans as great proficients
in that art as themselves." A very fair summary of
Chinese character.</p>

<p>Bright and early in the morning the mules and litters
came, and we were three hours at work, loading and arranging
everything. It required a good deal of management, as
the loads are not lashed on the mules' backs, but balanced,
so that they must be pretty equally divided on each side of
the pack-saddle.</p>

<p>We had somehow nine mules instead of eight. We had
under 3000 lbs. weight of baggage to carry. That did not
give a full load to each mule, for they are reputed to carry
300 catties, or 400 lbs. each. The loads of our team
averaged 325 lbs.</p>

<p>The mule litter, used in the north of China, is a large
palanquin suspended on the backs of two mules, length-wise.
Strong leather bands connect the points of the shafts, resting
on the saddles of the respective mules. An iron pin, fixed
in the top of the saddle, passes through a hole in the leather,
and so keeps it in its place. The shafts are, of course, a
good length, to reach from one mule to the other, and to
leave the animals plenty of room to walk. There is, consequently,
a good deal of spring in the machine. The motion
is not at all disagreeable; compared with a cart, it is luxurious.
There is hardly room in the palanquin to stretch out
full length, but in other respects it is very commodious,
having room in the bottom for a good quantity of baggage.</p>

<p>About 10 o'clock on the 17th August our caravan moved
slowly out of the courtyard of the inn, which we left with no
regret, and we slowly felt our way through the dusty, crowded
streets of Peking towards the North Gate, which was our
exit from the city. I was on horseback, intending to get into
my litter should the sun prove too powerful, which it did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
when we got to the sandy plain a little way outside the city.
The slow pace of the mules was most disheartening, but I
had yet to learn much patience in travelling.</p>

<p>Our first resting-place was at Sha-ho, a village sixty li or
twenty miles from Peking. Here we made ourselves a dinner,
and fed the cattle. There are two very fine old stone
bridges at Sha-ho, but the river that runs under them is only
a ditch now. It was drawing late in the afternoon before we
were on the road again, and we had not gone many miles before
darkness came. The country is well cultivated with
cereals, the chief crop being Barbadoes millet, standing from
ten to fifteen feet high. Strips of cotton plants appear here
and there. It is a delicate-looking plant in this part of the
country. The last five miles of the road to Nankow is very
rough and stony, and as the night was dark when we passed
it, our animals had great difficulty in keeping their legs.
About 11 p.m. we arrived at the inn at Nankow, and created
a scene of no small confusion by our entry into the courtyard.
It was already filled with travellers' gear of all sorts,
and it was long before we could pick out a clear space to unload
our mules. The fitful glimmer of the dimmest of all
lanterns helped to make the darkness visible, but did not
assist us in clearing the heels of horses, mules, and donkeys
that were straggling all over the place. In the midst of the
Babel of tongues, and the senseless yells of our fellow-travellers,
as they one after another awoke in a nightmare, we were
fain to retreat to our dormitory, and with a scant supper, lay
down to rest hoping to find everything in its place in the
morning.</p>

<p>The village of Nankow is at the entrance of the mountain
pass of that name. It is for this pass alone that
the mule-litters are necessary, for it would be impossible to
take any wheeled carriage through. In a Russian sketch
of the route from Peking to Kiachta, it is stated that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
road is passable for carriages throughout. There are several
very difficult rocky passes on the road, but this one at Nankow
is, I am certain, impracticable for carriages.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 600px;"><a name="pass" id="pass"></a>
<img src="images/i-093.jpg" width="600" height="349" alt="pass" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">THE NANKOW PASS.</p>

<p class="sig">
(Page 63.)
</p></div>
</div>

<p>On the 18th August, early in the morning, we entered the
defile. It is indeed a terrible road, over huge boulders of
rock. The pass is about thirteen miles in length, and for the
greater part of that distance nothing breaks the monotony
of the precipitous mountain wall on either side. The remains
of several old forts are seen in the pass, showing the
importance that has been attached to it in former times. It
certainly is the key of the position, and the last step of an
invader towards Peking. But it is so well defended by nature,
that a handful of men could keep an army at bay, if
any were so bold as to attempt to force this thirteen miles of
defile. The care bestowed on the defences hereabouts shows
the terror inspired by the Mongols and other outer tribes in
the hearts of the rulers of China.</p>

<p>Our mules struggled gallantly with their loads, slipping
and tripping at every step, and landed us at the outside of
the pass, without accident of any kind, but not without a
good deal of wear and tear of hoof. They even kept up
almost their full travelling pace of three miles an hour. At
the northern exit from the pass a branch of one of the inner
"Great Walls" crosses. It is out of repair, but still the
archway over the port is good, and it would puzzle anyone
to get in or out of the pass without going through the
gate.</p>

<p>At a small walled town, called Cha-tow, just clear of the
pass, we halted for our mid-day meal, at a very good inn.
The inns hereabouts are nearly all kept by Mahommedans,
called in Chinese "Hwuy-Hwuy." The modicum of extraneous
civilisation they have acquired, through the religion of
the Prophet, is sufficient to mark them as more intelligent
and enterprising than their fellows. It is not likely that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
their tenets are very strictly kept, but they are sufficiently so
to enable the Mohammedans to keep together, and form
communities and associations of their own. Mine host at
Cha-tow asked me for some wine, on which I read him a lecture
on the duty of abstinence inculcated by the Prophet.
He admitted this was so, but said they were not over strait-laced
in those parts. The Mohammedans have their mosques
at Tientsin, Peking, and in most large cities in the north
and west of China. They are evidently left unmolested in
the exercise of their religion, and enjoy every social privilege.
The Chinese government is really very tolerant of all religious
opinions, and the Chinese as a race are so supremely indifferent
to religious matters, that they are the last people in
the world who would be likely to work themselves up to
fanatical persecution. They are all too busy to attend to
such matters. The Chinese government has, no doubt, shown
itself jealous of the propagation of the Christian religion,
but it is its political tendencies only that frighten them.
They have a wholesome recollection of the ambitious projects
of the Jesuits in their day of influence,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> and they have been
constantly kept in hot water by the Propaganda. They have
to meet ever-recurrent demands by the self-constituted champion
of religion in the East, for the murder of some French
or Italian priest in some unheard-of part of the country,
where he had no right to be, except at his own proper peril.
They see in every native convert a contingent <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">casus belli</i>
with some powerful state, and very naturally seek to check
the spread of such dangerous doctrines by all indirect means.
This unfortunate mixing-up of politics with religion has
been a deadly blow to the real advancement of Christianity
in China. And the abuse of the Christian vocabulary by
the Taeping rebels is not calculated to prepossess the Chinese<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
authorities in favour of the Western faith. Japan is another
country where the government, and I may say also the
people, are utterly indifferent to religion, but where the
Christian religion has been, and is, tabooed with a vigour
unsurpassed in the history of the world. And who that has
read the story of the introduction of Christianity into that
country by the Jesuits, can blame the government of Japan
for its arbitrary exercise of power?</p>

<p>Huc laments the low status of the Chinese Christians, as
compared with the Mussulmen, and attributes it to the want
of self-assertion. When a Christian gets into trouble his
brethren hide themselves. Huc would have driven them
to the other extreme. He advocated strong associations by
which the Christians might "awe" the Mandarins, as if there
must necessarily be antagonism between the two. The inference
from which must be either that the Christians are
systematically persecuted, as such, or that they are in the
habit of committing offences against society. The Chinese
government and people have a horror of secret societies and
of any political associations whatever. But if Huc's converts
had been content to live like ordinary good citizens, neither
shrinking from nor courting publicity, they would probably
have disarmed suspicion and escaped molestation. Above
all, if Huc and his clerical brethren could have divested
themselves of the character of spies who had crept into
China in defiance of the law of the land, for purposes
which the government could not understand, and therefore
assumed to be pernicious, they might have saved their
disciples from some annoyance, or, as they love to call it,
persecution.</p>

<p>In the inn at Chatow, and in all the other inns north of
Peking, we found a large cauldron of boiling mutton in a
central position in the kitchen. This is kept boiling from
morning till night; and the broth, which, by itself, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
by no means unpalatable, is always handy as a stock for
any messes the wayfarers may fancy. A youth spends
his time in kneading chow-patties, which he does very
skilfully and rapidly. These are torn and thrown in
pieces into the boiling mass, and, when sufficiently done,
are served out with a due proportion of broth, as a
savoury dish for a hungry man. The "steward of the
cauldron," as Huc would probably have called him, has
acquired great expertness in serving out his stuff. With a
variety of ladles, all sieves, more or less fine, he will serve up
either the plain broth, or nimbly seize any of the morsels
that are tumbling about in confusion in the pot.</p>

<p>Mutton is cheap and abundant here, and is the staple
article of food. The sheep are pastured on many hill-sides
that are not fit for anything else, and the constant droves
of sheep that come in from Mongolia, for the supply of
Peking, pass along this road, and are no doubt to be had
cheap.</p>

<p>We now enter a plain about ten miles broad, bounded
on either side by bold mountain ranges running east and
west. We cross the plain obliquely towards the northern
mountain chain. This plain must be elevated more than
1000 feet. The air was fresher than about Peking, and a
very marked difference was apparent in the fertility of the
soil. The millet and other crops were stunted, the soil was
arid and rather stony. The hills are quite bare, but a few
trees are dotted over the plain.</p>

<p>At Hwai-lai-hien, a good-sized walled town, we halted for
the night. Outside the city is a very large stone bridge,
evidently of the same period as those at Sha-ho. Five
gothic-shaped arches are still standing, and another is detached
at a distance of some 200 feet, the intermediate part
of the bridge having no doubt been destroyed. There is no
water now in the river, but the bed is still well marked, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
the old embankments remain, about 500 or 600 yards apart.
The old bed of the river is in a high state of cultivation
now.</p>

<p>I find the following notice of this bridge and this river in
Bell's Travels. He does not, indeed, give the name of the
town, but, tracing up his march from stage to stage, between
the Great Wall and Peking, it is evident that Hwai-lai is the
station referred to. He says: "About noon, next day, we
came to a large, populous, and well-built city, with broad
streets, as straight as a line. Near this place runs a fine
river, which appears navigable, having across it a noble stone
bridge, of several arches, and paved with large square stones."</p>

<p>Bell also makes frequent allusion to an earthquake, which
did great damage to this part of the country in July, 1719.
Many towns and villages were half destroyed, and some were
wholly laid in ruins, and "vast numbers of people" were
engulfed. "I must confess," says Bell, "it was a dismal
scene to see everywhere such heaps of rubbish." The district
being subject to earthquakes, makes it probable that the fine
bridge has been destroyed by that agency. But what has
become of the fine navigable river that existed in 1720, and
has now disappeared? Has it also been upset by an earthquake?
The river was probably the Kwei-ho, which now
runs in another direction, but some of the gentlemen of
Peking or Tientsin, who have explored the country, will no
doubt elucidate this interesting question.</p>

<p>On the 19th we made an early start, and went at a very steady
pace towards the northern chain of mountains. On approaching
them we turned slightly to the left, and skirted the base
of the hills. We met a good deal of traffic on the road here,
all goods being carried on the backs of mules and donkeys.
Coal formed a conspicuous object, on its way to Peking,
where it is used to a considerable extent.</p>

<p>Immense flocks of sheep are continually passing in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
direction of Peking, and we also met a good many herds of
horses bound the same way. Our mid-day halt was at Shacheng,
a walled town.</p>

<p>All over this country are the ruins of old forts; and a line
of square towers, with a good many blanks, runs nearly in the
direction of the road. If these forts could speak they could
tell a tale of many a hard-fought battle before and after the
Mongol conquest of China.</p>

<p>This part of the country was hotly contested by Genghis
Khan; and, in the years 1212 and 1213, the town of Suen-wha-foo,
and other places in the neighbourhood, were several
times taken and re-taken. "A bloody battle" was fought
near Hway-lai, wherein Genghis defeated the Kin, a Manchu
dynasty who then ruled Kitay or Northern China. The pass
at Nankow, and its fortresses, were taken by Chepe, one of
Genghis's generals.</p>

<p>A story is somewhere told that, in olden times, when intelligence
was transmitted through the country by beacon fires
lighted on these towers, an emperor was cajoled by one of
his ladies to give the signal of alarm and summon his generals
and officers from all quarters. The word was given, and
the signal flashed through the Chinese dominions. The
Mandarins assembled in the capital to repel the invader, but,
finding they had merely been used as playthings to amuse
a woman, they returned in wrath to the provinces. By and
by the Tartars did come; the alarm was again given;
but this time no one responded to the emperor's call
for aid.</p>

<p>At Chi-ming-i, another walled town, we had done our
day's work, but it was too early to halt, so we pushed on to a
small village called Shan-shui-pu. At Chi-ming-i we met
the Yang-ho, a small river that seems to lose itself in the
sand. Turning northwards we followed the course of the
Yang-ho, and entered another defile. The scenery at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
entrance of the pass, where the opening is wide, with a
number of valleys running into the hills, and snug-looking
villages nestling in cosy nooks, is a relief from the dull monotony
of the plain on the one side, and from the wild rocky
barriers on the other. It is a romantic little spot, full of verdure,
and completely sheltered from the north winds. It has
therefore been a favourite resort for ecclesiastics; for, with
all their dullness, the Chinese priests have everywhere displayed
excellent taste in the selection of sites for their temples
and monasteries.</p>

<p>The following pretty legend of the place is given by Bell,
and, as he says, it is a fair specimen of the numerous fabulous
stories which the Chinese imagination delights to feed upon:&mdash;"Near
this place is a steep rock, standing on a plain, inaccessible
on all sides, except to the west, where a narrow winding
path is cut in the rock, which leads to a Pagan temple
and nunnery built upon the top of it. These edifices make a
pretty appearance from the plain, and, as the story goes, were
built from the foundation, in one night, by a lady, on the
following occasion. This lady was very beautiful, virtuous,
and rich, and had many powerful princes for her suitors. She
told them she intended to build a temple and a monastery of
certain dimensions, with her own hands, in one night, on the
top of this rock; and whoever would undertake to build a
stone bridge over a river in the neighbourhood, in the same
space of time, him she promised to accept for a husband. All
the lovers having heard the difficult task imposed on them,
returned to their respective dominions, except one stranger,
who undertook to perform the hard condition. The lover
and the lady began their labour at the same time, and the
lady completed her part before the light appeared; but as
soon as the sun was risen, she saw, from the top of the
rock, that her lover had not half finished his bridge, having
raised only the pillars for the arches. Failing, therefore,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
in his part of the performance, he also was obliged to depart
to his own country, and the lady (poor lady!) passed
the remainder of her days in her own monastery."</p>

<p>The Yang-ho had been flooded a few weeks before. It
had now subsided, but still it came down from the hills
roaring like a cataract. It runs through the pass, and falls
not less than 200 feet in a distance of five miles. We
followed its course through the mountains, sometimes close
to the river. The noise of it at times was deafening, and
one of my ponies could with difficulty be kept on the path
from fright at the noise. The road became very difficult as
we ascended the pass, and it grew dark long before we
reached our halting-place, Shan-shui-pu. When we got there
we found but poor accommodation. We managed to eat
some rice and eggs, and surveyed the premises to find a
decent place to sleep, but without success. Six Mongol
travellers were lying on the ground in the outer yard, side
by side, their sleep undisturbed by the noise our party made
in coming into the hostelry. We slept in our litters.</p>

<p>Coal is worked in this neighbourhood, but in a very
imperfect way. As far as I could detect, it is merely
scooped out of the hill-sides where the seam happens to
crop out.</p>

<p>At half-past five next morning we left Shan-shui-pu. The
road continued very rocky for a mile or two, and led through
an undulating country. We then got on to another terrace
very much like the one we crossed yesterday, and bounded
by two parallel ranges of hills.</p>

<p>At Suen-wha-fu, a large walled city, we halted to breakfast
in a very comfortable inn, much frequented by Russian
travellers, who had inscribed their names on the walls as far
back as 1858.</p>

<p>Mr. Noetzli and I rode ahead of the caravan in order to
reach Chan-kia-kow early, and see how the land lay. Chan-kia-kow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
was the critical point in our journey, and we were
naturally anxious to manage matters there with proper
address. If we could but get camels to carry us across the
desert to Kiachta, we were safe from all annoyance and
delay for the rest of our journey. So we innocently thought;
but the sequel will show how short-sighted we were.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2>

<h3>CHAN-KIA-KOW.</h3>


<p>We reached Chan-kia-kow at 1 o'clock, after a hard ride.
It is a large, straggling town, lying in a valley surrounded
on three sides by mountains, and is bounded on the north
by the Great Wall, which descends precipitously from the
brow of the hill, crosses the valley, and up the other side.
The town of Chan-kia-kow has a character peculiarly its
own. It derives its importance from its being the focus of
the trade between Russia and China. All goods to and from
Kiachta must pass this way, whether on the direct route for
the Hu-quang provinces or <em>viâ</em> Tientsin. The result is a
large "foreign" population&mdash;that is, of Chinese from other
provinces. Many of these men have passed most of their
lives in Kiachta, and speak Russian. Most of them are
wealthy; indeed, the Kiachta trade has been the means of
enriching both Chinese and Russians, and many of both
nations who have been engaged in it have amassed large
fortunes. There is an outward appearance of wealth in
Chan-kia-kow, and more show of newness than one meets
with in other of their fusty old towns. Some new temples
have lately been built by the merchants, and new archways,
of which the paint is fresh and good, a thing rarely seen in
China. This being the frontier town between China and
Mongolia, attracts considerable numbers of Mongols, who
bring in their camels to hire for the transport of goods across
the desert, and drive in their sheep, cattle, and horses for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
sale, taking back with them in exchange store of brick-tea
and small articles of various sorts, such as pipes, tobacco, &amp;c.
The Russians, also, have had a factory here for a few years,
and altogether a rare motley crowd is the population of
Chan-kia-kow. The Russians call it Kalgan, a name of
Mongol origin, meaning, according to Bell, "the everlasting
wall." But it is more probably a corrupt form of Halgan,
or Khalgan, signifying a gate. The name is quite out of
use among the modern Mongols, who invariably employ the
Chinese name.</p>

<p>Mr. Noetzli first endeavoured to hunt up some of his
Chinese acquaintance, and a tedious business it was, in the
interminably long streets, and in a rather hot sun, fatigued
as we were with a long ride. After several false scents, we
hit on the establishment of a Shanse man who had been
thirty years in Kiachta. He and his household spoke good
Russian, and he was proud to serve up tea, European fashion,
with cups and saucers, sugar and teaspoons. This was very
acceptable to us; and we rested as long as we could under
his roof, while he entertained us with much interesting conversation,
and many cups of the cheering beverage. Having
got directions by which to find out the Russians, who had
lately gone into new quarters, we soon traced them out
in a neat little house built on the hill-side, out of town,
that is, beyond the Great Wall, in the narrow pass leading
into Mongolia. Mr. Noetzli, being already acquainted with
some of them, and speaking a little Russian, we soon made
friends with them, and induced them to invite us to take
up our quarters with them. So, tying up our beasts, we
abandoned ourselves to tea-drinking for an hour or two.
The Russians were exceedingly kind and hospitable to us.
We were much more comfortable with them than we could
hope to be in a Chinese inn; but we derived other advantages
from living with the Russians which were of more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
importance to us. We were not friendless; the cunning
Chinese could not look on us merely in the light of victims
who had come there to be choused and swindled. Our
negotiations for transport would pass through the hands of
our Russian friends, who were accustomed to deal in such
matters. So far all was well. But Mr. Noetzli had sent an
express on some time before to ask the Russians to prepare
us camels. Had they done it? No. This looked black
rather, but we resigned ourselves to circumstances, confidently
believing that things would mend when they came
to the worst. We now prepared to play our last card, which
was that Mr. Noetzli should go, accompanied by Chebekin,
the Russian factotum, a most indefatigable fellow, who
speaks Mongol like a native, to a Lama convent, called
Bain-tolochoi, two days' journey into Mongolia. There they
were to discover a certain priest, to whom Noetzli was
accredited by the lamas at Peking, and endeavour to get
him to advise some of his Mongol brethren to give us
camels. The simple Mongols reverence their lamas, and
will readily execute their behests, even at great personal
inconvenience. This lama was a man of great influence in
his own circle, and we were a little sanguine about the
result, if only a favourable reception could be had. It was
arranged, therefore, that our two friends should set out on
horseback on the morrow, while we kicked our heels about
in idleness and suspense at Chan-kia-kow.</p>

<p>The next morning, 21st of August, while we were at
breakfast, two Mongols came lounging into the place. One
of them was the courier who carries the post-bag to Kiachta,
who was hanging about waiting for post-day; the other was
a friend of his, but apparently a stranger to our hosts. We
took the opportunity of asking about camels, and Chebekin
set to work palavering. In a quarter of an hour the whole
thing was settled, we were to have camels in four days, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
we should be ready to start on the fifth day. The price we
paid for eight camels (we really had twelve) for 800 miles,
was 150 taels (£50), and two bricks of tea to the ferryman
of a certain river. Thus we were once more at ease in our
minds; the two scouts were well pleased to see their horses
unsaddled again, and we were all happy together.</p>

<p>The next day Mr. Noetzli left us to return to Tientsin, and
we were rather in a bad plight, not being able to communicate
with our Russian friends, except in Chinese, a
language of which we were almost wholly ignorant. One
of them vigorously rubbed up some English he had once
learned, and in a few days made great progress.</p>

<p>While we are waiting for our camels we have plenty of
time to see Chan-kia-kow, but after all there is not much to
see. The view from the house where we lived was across the
pass, and looked straight on the mountain wall on the other
side. So close were we to the mountain that the sun was
several hours up before he was seen topping the hill. The
Great Wall runs over the ridges of these hills, nearly east and
west. This structure is entirely in ruins here. The rubbish
that once composed it remains and marks the line. Many of
the towers are still standing. I doubt if the wall ever has
been so massive in this quarter as near its eastern terminus,
where I crossed it a few years ago. Where the Great Wall
crosses the town of Chan-kia-kow it is kept in good repair,
and has a good solid arch with a gate which is closed nominally
at sunset. There is no traffic from the town except
through this port, and all Mongols and Chinese dismount in
passing.</p>

<p>One of our amusements in Chan-kia-kow was to attend the
horse-fair which is held every morning on an esplanade just
outside the city on the Mongol side of the Great Wall. It is
a most exciting scene, and attracts a great concourse of
people. Several hundred ponies, chiefly Mongol, are here<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
exposed for sale every morning. They are tied up in line on
either side, leaving the middle space clear, and are taken out
in turns and ridden up and down the open space by wild-looking
jockeys, who show off their paces to the highest
advantage. The fast ones are galloped as hard as their legs
can carry them from end to end of the course, pulling up
dead short, about ship and back again, the riders all the
while holding out their whip hand at full length, and yelling
like infuriated demons. There are generally half a dozen on
the course at a time, all going full tilt, and brushing past
each other most dexterously. They go tearing through the
crowd of spectators without checking their pace, and yet it is
rare for any one to get ridden over. Amongst these ponies
are many extraordinary trotters, and many trained to artificial
paces. These are generally more sought after by
purchasers than the gallopers.</p>

<p>A number of men hang about the horse-fair who act as
brokers between buyers and sellers. These men are invariably
Chinese. They soon attached themselves to us, offering
their services, and descanting on the merits of the various
steeds that were constantly scouring past us. Their mode of
making and receiving offers is to pull their long sleeves down
and communicate with each other by the touch of the
fingers. This seems to be more of a traditional ceremony
than anything else, for when they have made a bid with so
much show of secrecy, they frequently continue the bargaining
<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vivâ voce</i> in the hearing of the whole multitude. The
prices of the ponies sold varied from five taels to twenty, or
say from thirty shillings to six guineas. We had occasion to
make some purchases, and paid about ten taels each for very
good useful ponies. One of mine that I had brought from
Tientsin had got a very bad sore back from the last day's
ride with a badly fitting saddle. He was useless to me in
that condition, and I sold him to a horsedealer for five taels.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p>

<p>Large droves of cattle and sheep came in from Mongolia,
but the sale of these is not carried on with so much ostentation
as that of the horses.</p>

<p>We daily, almost hourly, observed long strings of ox-carts
coming down through the pass loaded with short square logs
of soft wood. The carts are of the roughest description, and
have not, I think, a bit of iron in their construction. This
wood is brought from the mountains near Urga, across the
desert of Gobi, a distance of 600 miles, and is chiefly used
in the manufacture of coffins by the Chinese. These ox caravans
travel very slowly, a journey of 600 miles occupying
forty days or more; but it is a cheap and convenient mode
of conveyance. The animals feed themselves on the way,
and cost very little to start with. Camels could do the work,
but a camel is a wretched object in harness, and is quite
unable to drag even a light cart through a steep pass.
Horses or oxen have to do this work for them. The pass
at Chan-kia-kow is very stony for some fifteen miles, and the
oxen have to be shod with thin iron plates. The Chinese
farriers at Chan-kia-kow are very expert at shoeing cattle
and horses. They don't attempt to make a shoe to fit any
particular hoof, but keep a stock on hand, and selecting the
nearest size, they hammer the shoe approximately to the
shape of the hoof. They don't trouble themselves to cut the
hoof down much, and you can have your beast shod on all
four feet in a remarkably short time.</p>

<p>The head of the Russian establishment had been absent
on a journey to Peking. He returned while we were in his
house, travelling, as we had done, in a mule-litter. Amongst
his travelling gear that we saw turned out of the palanquin
was a small sized "<em>samovar</em>," or tea-urn, which is the
greatest institution in Russia, and as we were first introduced
to it in Chan-kia-kow I must give some account of it here.
<em>Samovar</em> is composed of two Russian words, meaning, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
believe, "self-boiling." It is a very simple and admirable
contrivance for boiling water quickly, and keeping it boiling,
without which it is impossible to make tea fit to drink. The
samovar is an elegantly shaped vase, made of brass, with a
tube about two and a half inches in diameter going down
the centre from top to bottom. A charcoal fire burns in this
tube, and, as the water is all round it, a large "heating-surface"
is obtained, and the water is acted on very rapidly.
Samovars are made of all sizes, the capacity being estimated
in tea cups. An average sized one contains twenty to
twenty-five cups, or rather glasses, for it is customary among
the Russians to drink tea out of tumblers. Those who can
afford it drink very good tea, and they are probably the most
accomplished tea-drinkers in the world; our countrywomen
might even learn a lesson from them in the art of tea-making.
They use small earthenware tea-pots, and their first
principle seems to be to supply the pot bountifully with the
raw material. The infusion comes off very strong, and they
judge of its strength by the colour in the glass. They put
but a little tea in the glass, and then dilute it with boiling
water from the samovar, in about the proportions of the
whiskey and water in toddy. As a rule, they use sugar and
milk, or cream, when procurable. At Chan-kia-kow it was
not to be had, for the Chinese do not use milk, or any preparation
from it; and it probably never occurred to the
Russians that they might keep their own cow for a mere
song. The Russian gets through an amazing quantity of tea
in the course of a day, and I verily believe they consume
more per head than the Chinese themselves. The samovar
is almost constantly blowing off steam&mdash;morning, noon, and
night it is to be seen on the table, and they never stop sipping
tea while there is any water left. It is as much a necessary
of life with them as their daily bread, or tobacco to an
inveterate smoker, and their attachment to their own way of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
making it, is strikingly exhibited by the fact, that a Russian,
travelling among the Chinese, where every possible facility
for tea-making is at hand, should consider it essential to his
comfort to carry his own samovar about with him.</p>

<p>During our stay at Chan-kia-kow, we experienced a considerable
change in the weather. The first two days it was
hot, but with a fresher and more elastic atmosphere than
about Peking. This is probably due to the elevation, and
the vicinity of mountains. We had ascended by successive
passes and terraces from Peking about 2500 feet, which is
approximately the elevation of Chan-kia-kow. A thunder-squall
on the 21st of August cooled the air so much that we
had to sleep under a blanket that night. Next morning was
quite chilly with the thermometer at 71°. At mid-day on
the 23rd it stood at 72°, and on the morning of the 24th it
was 65°. It got warmer again afterwards, but we began to
think there was something in the Russian warnings of great
cold in Mongolia, and we did not regret being well provided
with blankets and furs.</p>

<p>As the time drew near for our departure we seriously set
to work to supply ourselves with necessaries for the journey
across the desert. Our Mongol friends had contracted to
carry us to Kiachta in thirty days, but to provide against
accidents we allowed a good deal more. Although we
were well supplied for the desert journey with preserved
provisions, wine, and bottled porter, the opportunity of procuring
fresh vegetables was too tempting to be overlooked.
At Chan-kia-kow we found some of the finest cabbages<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> in
the world, carrots, &amp;c. Potatoes are also to be had in the
season, but we were too early. These and some fresh beef
equipped us fully in that department.</p>

<p>Then we had to purchase two carts to travel in. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
Russians and Chinese always travel so, for it would be
too fatiguing to ride on a camel all the way, they go so
long at a stretch&mdash;sixteen to eighteen hours without stopping.
The carts are built on the same principle as those in
use about Peking and Tientsin, but larger. They are drawn
by camels. We essayed to make these purchases, and soon
found one cart in good order, barring the wheels. We then
asked a wheelwright to make a pair of wheels for it, but he
would have charged more for the wheels than the cost of a
new cart, completely furnished.</p>

<p>It was evident that we could not manage these matters
without being shamelessly imposed upon, and we
therefore begged our good friends, the Russians, to take
our business in hand. Everything now went smoothly.
Two carts were quickly found, second-hand, and at moderate
prices. When we had got them we found they wanted
harness, that is, sundry strips of leather thongs, attached
to the points of the shafts, and which are secured in a very
primitive, but effective, way to the saddle gear of the
camels. Then the covers of our carts looked rather weather-beaten,
and it would be cold in Mongolia. New felt covers
had therefore to be obtained, and for extra warmth, nailed on
over the old ones. Our wheels would want oiling. We must
therefore have five catties of oil, cost 500 cash. But how to
carry it? A pot was requisite&mdash;cost 150 cash more. There
was really no end to the small things that suggested themselves.
We had ponies&mdash;extra felt saddle cloths were wanted
to protect their backs. And how were we to catch them
when turned out to graze during our halts? Hobbles must
be got for this. We also took some dry food for our ponies
to eat when the grass was very thin, but they would not look
at it, and we had eventually to throw it away to lighten our
camels. What with extra rope, a bag of charcoal, covers for
our baggage in case of rain, lanterns, and a variety of other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
things, we made up a formidable list of odds and ends. The
account rendered filled a sheet of foolscap, but the whole
amount of our purchases at Chan-kia-kow, exclusive of the
first cost of two carts, came to less than six pounds, and this
included several pairs of felt boots and a couple of goat-skin
jackets. No one travelling that way (unless it be in the
early summer), should omit to procure a couple of pairs of
these felt boots. There is nothing like them for warmth,
and they can be got large enough to pull over your other
boots. I used mine nearly all the way to Moscow, and rarely
experienced the sensation of cold feet, though exposed in all
sorts of carriages, and in severe weather.</p>

<p>On the 25th of August, the Mongol gave notice that the
camels were at hand, and on the 26th they came into the
courtyard, uttering that disagreeably plaintive cry that is
peculiar to the camel, and more particularly to the juveniles.
The camels looked very large and ungainly in the small enclosure,
but the Mongols soon made room by making them
kneel down close together, when they immediately commenced
chewing the cud. The Mongols manage their camels by
means of a tweak passed through the nose, with a thin string
attached. They pull the string with a slight jerk, saying
"Soh, Soh," and the animal, screaming the while, falls on his
knees, and with three oscillating movements he is flat down
with his belly on the ground.</p>

<p>The Mongols had already tackled our baggage and arranged
it to their own satisfaction, so as to suit not only the weight
each camel was to carry, but to balance one side equally with
the other. Each package is well lashed up with stout rope,
leaving a short loop. In loading, a package is lifted up on
each side simultaneously, the loops crossed over the camel's
back between the humps, one loop passed through the other,
and secured by a wooden pin. The load is then allowed to
fall, the weight comes on the wooden pin, and so keeps it in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
its place. The back of the camel is protected by a series of
pieces of thick felt, ingeniously laid round the humps, on the
sides, and very thickly over the hollow between the humps.
This mass of felt is kept in its place by means of a frame-work
of wood on each side, lashed together across the camel's
back.</p>

<p>Some hours were occupied in adjusting the camel loads
and getting all ready for the start. We did not hurry, as we
could not afford to forget anything now, as we were about to
plunge into the desert, where we would be as entirely thrown
on our own resources as if we were in a ship at sea.</p>

<p>Horses had to be hired to take our carts through the pass,
a distance of fifteen miles, the camels being unequal to the
task. The camel has little strength in proportion to his size.
His formation peculiarly adapts him to carry weight, his
whole strength being concentrated in the arch of his back;
and yet in proportion he carries much less than a mule,
that is, considerably less than double. For draught purposes,
as I have already mentioned, the camel is ill adapted. His
pace is remarkably slow, and in short he is only fit to work
in deserts where, comparatively speaking, no other animal
can live. His faculty of going for many days without food or
water, and of nourishing himself on any sort of vegetable
growth that comes in his way, is invaluable to his nomad
masters.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2>

<h3>MONGOLIA.</h3>


<p>We left Chan-kia-kow on horseback, escorted by three of
our kind Russian friends, Messieurs Weretenikoff, Iguminoff,
and Beloselutsoff, who accompanied us a few miles up the
pass, and bid us God speed. It took a long time for our
camel-drivers to form the order of march, and we had got far
ahead of them. So, coming to a spot where there was a
little grass, we dismounted to give our beasts a feed, thus
putting in practice a maxim which travellers in strange
countries learn by daily experience to adopt for themselves
and their beasts,&mdash;to eat when they can.</p>

<p>My pony, being rather sharp in the back, I had over-done
him with thick saddle-cloths in my anxiety to preserve him
in ridable condition; for though very old he was a rare good
one, but viciously inclined, having once before had his paws on
my shoulders. As the camels hove in sight, I essayed to mount,
but had not got into my seat when, what with the pony's
capers and bad saddling, I came to grief, and was left sprawling
on my face on the stones, which spoiled my physiognomy
and my temper at the same time, and nearly obliterated one
optic. It was painful to contemplate my brave steed careering
about with my good saddle under his belly, and reins
going all to pieces amongst his legs. The vision of a month's
riding vanished away in a moment. A ray of hope dawned
on me as I saw my favourite settle down in a small enclosure,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
bearing a poor crop of under-grown millet, but there
was no one near to catch him. After a little, the husband-man
appeared, and stoutly remonstrated with me for turning
my cattle into his field. I was in no mood to tolerate
abuse, for my abraded skin was smarting considerably. I
offered the aggrieved agriculturist the alternative of catching
my pony, or leaving him where he was. The Mongols,
and also the Chinese borderers, are very expert in
catching horses&mdash;their favourite dodge is to crawl up to his
head on all-fours. My friend tried this, but he was unfortunately
too fat, and when he got his hand within an inch and
a-half of the remnant of my poor bridle, the pony started off
and went straight back at full gallop in the direction of Chan-kia-kow.
My heart died within me at the sight. The
camels having now come up, one of the men went in pursuit,
and with the assistance of the country people brought back
the renegade, with the loss of my bridle and one stirrup&mdash;not
so bad as I expected.</p>

<p>The pass is a narrow gorge between steep hills, with little
cultivated corners here and there. A small stream trickles
down the side, and the road is strewn with round pebbles,
which gives it the appearance of the bed of a river. The
ascent is very steady and regular, gaining considerably more
than 2000 feet in fifteen miles. The road is tolerable all
the way, until about the top of the ascent, which is very
rough and rocky. Rather late in the evening we got to our
halting-place well on to the table land, which is at an elevation
of 5300 feet above the sea.</p>

<p>The Chinese are the most patient and persevering agriculturists
in the world. They have pushed their aggressions
through the pass at Chan-kia-kow&mdash;on the hill-sides, where-ever
they can find soil enough to hold together&mdash;and into the
skirts of the desert itself. They get but a poor return for
their labour, however; their crops seem to struggle for bare<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
existence, and the farmers must depend more on their live
stock than their crops.</p>

<p>In other parts of Mongolia the Chinese have been more
successful in extending their civilising influence into the
prairie. In the kingdom of the Ouniots, further to the
north, Huc tells us that since the Chinese, following their invariable
custom, began to penetrate into the country of the
Mongols, about the middle of the seventeenth century, the
forests have disappeared from the hills, the prairies have
been cleared by fire, and the new cultivators have exhausted
the fecundity of the soil. "It is probably to <em>their system of
devastation</em> that we must attribute the extreme irregularity
of the seasons which now desolate this unhappy land." A
curse seems to have rested on the industrious invaders. The
seasons are out of joint. Droughts are frequent, then sand-storms
and hurricanes, then torrents of rain which wash
away fields and crops together in a general deluge, and the
land is thenceforth incapable of being ploughed. Famines
follow, and the people torment themselves with presentiments
of calamity.</p>

<p>That all this is due to the Chinese agriculturists is hard
to comprehend. It is not their practice elsewhere to "exhaust
the fecundity of the soil." Huc propounds the new
and strange doctrine that cultivation of deserts is a system
of devastation. The truth seems to be that Huc, with the
strong partiality he always evinces to the Mongols, was over-credulous
of their stories. The Mongols, very naturally, consider
themselves aggrieved by the Chinese. The latter first
bought the right of cultivating the prairie, and, as their
numbers increased, the weaker race necessarily gave way,
moving their tents and their sheep further and further into
the desert. The poor Mongols now see, with feelings of sorrow,
the plough desecrating the ground where their fathers
fed their flocks; they look with hopeless regret on the past<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
as a kind of golden age, which their fancy dresses in a halo
of peace, happiness, and prosperity. The hated Kitat at
once suggests himself as the cause of these changes, and the
Mongols delight to feed their hatred out of the copious store
of their imagination.</p>

<p>A process exactly analogous has been going on in the
country of the Manchus, where the arable soil has been occupied
by Chinese colonists, almost to the entire exclusion of
the natives. Hatred is strongly developed there also; but I
can answer for it that there, at least, cultivation has not exhausted
the fecundity of the soil, nor devastated the country.</p>

<p>The Chinese also with whom Huc conversed would readily
admit the superiority of the past. They have a reverence
for antiquity, and whenever they could spare a thought from
the stern realities of the present, they would mourn their
hard fate, and exalt the glories of the past.</p>

<p>The sun had been very hot all day, but when we came to
pitch our tent at night we were shivering with cold, and
could with difficulty hold the hammer to drive the pins into
the ground. It is always chilly at night in Mongolia, even
in the hot weather, but we were not prepared for such a
degree of cold on the 26th August, in latitude 41°. All our
blankets were brought into requisition, and we passed a comfortable
night. Next morning the thermometer, which was
under a blanket, showed 35° Fahrenheit.</p>

<p>The morning of the 27th of August was as bright and
cheery as the most lively fancy could paint. The air
resounded with the notes of hosts of skylarks, which one does
not often hear in these far-off regions. The sun warmed up
fast, and in a few hours dried up the heavy dew that lay on
the grass in the early morning. The pasture was exceedingly
rich, and sprinkled with "gowans" and other wild flowers,
which imparted a delicious fragrance to the fresh morning
air. Many herds of cattle and horses were scattered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
over the plain, the Mongol herdsmen incessantly galloping
round their flocks to keep them together, their shouts
audible from great distances in the still air, and the perpetual
movement of vast numbers of parti-coloured beasts
gave an animation to the scene which was quite exhilarating
to the spirits. A small brook trickled tortuously through
the plain, where we managed to kill a few snipe, greatly to
the delight of the straggling Mongols, who rode up to us
from various quarters. The only building in sight was a
temple which we had passed in the night, and which was
the last brick-and-mortar structure we were to see for many
days. We were now fairly among the dwellers in tents, and
began to realise what it was to be cut off from civilised life;
for, whatever may be the various opinions of Chinese civilisation
in its higher developments, you can at all events
obtain in China every necessary and many luxuries for
money. In the "Land of Grass" we had to depend on our
own resources, but with the comfortable assurance that
these were amply sufficient for us. Our introduction to
nomad life was under happy auspices, and we were at the
outset favourably impressed with the Mongols and their
country, an impression which never entirely wore out, even
under very adverse circumstances. I never till that morning
experienced the consciousness of absolute <em>freedom</em>. Many
Mongol visitors rode up to our encampment, bringing plentiful
supplies of new milk, cheese, and other preparations
from milk very like Devonshire cream.</p>

<p>About 8 o'clock the camels were got in, and we made
a start, halting again at noon near the "yourts" of some
Lama friends of our camel-drivers. This was a short stage,
and we endeavoured to remonstrate with our conductor, but
as at that time we could not understand a word of each
other's language, the broad Saxon merely provoking a volley
of guttural Mongol, we made no progress towards a mutual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
understanding. We were again favoured with numerous
visitors, and our conductor had evidently serious business
to negotiate, which occupied the whole afternoon. It ended
in his exchanging his pony for another, and getting a fresh
camel. It was close on sunset before the camels were loaded,
and a fresh start effected. During our halt we had time
to make the acquaintance of our camel-drivers. The chief
was a Lama named Tup-tchun, a good, easy man, with all
the native simplicity of his race. He was the responsible
man to us, and I believe owned the camels. He had two
assistants; the first a clansman of his own, Tellig by name,
a fine, good-natured, bullet-headed, swarthy-complexioned,
indefatigable fellow, the equanimity of whose temper nothing
could ever disturb. The Lama placed his whole confidence
in Tellig, and we naturally did the same as we became
better acquainted with the excellence of his character. The
other had a name I never could pronounce, so I will not
attempt to spell it. He had some taint of wickedness in
his eye, and showed more craft and cunning than the
average Mongol. He could likewise speak a few words of
Chinese, hence we gave him the nickname of <em>Kitat</em>, the
Mongol name for Chinese, a word abominated by all true
Mongols. He stoutly rebelled for a long time against his
new name, but it greatly amused his companions, and, as
he was never called by any other appellative, he was compelled
at last to answer to Kitat.</p>

<p>The order of our march was this. One of the Mongols
on a camel rode ahead, leading the next camel by a string
from his nose. Half the caravan followed him in single
file, each camel being slightly attached to the preceding
by his nose-string. The other driver, also on a camel,
brought up the rear-guard in the same way. The Lama was
more privileged, for he never took any active part in leading
the caravan, but rode about on a pony, talking now to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
Tellig, now to the Kitat, and now to us, then suddenly
breaking out into some of his wild native chants. He had
a fine sonorous voice, and his singing was a pleasant relief
from the monotony of the way, and when Tellig joined in
chorus they made the welkin ring. The Mongols sing with
their natural voice, and have far more music in their souls
than the squeaking Chinese. The Lama indulged himself
in a gossip with every traveller he met, and would often be
left out of sight, but with his active pony he could easily
overtake the slow-moving camels. When he descried a
Mongol yourt in the distance he seldom missed a chance
of riding up to it, to bestow his benediction on the inmates,
and drink tea with them. Nor was the Lama entirely
useless on the march, for the rearward camels were frequently
getting loose, and dropping into the rear, as Tellig
and the Kitat seldom thought of looking behind them.
The moment a camel feels himself at liberty he stops to
graze. I have never seen one voluntarily follow his leader.
Great delay occurred sometimes from this cause, and the
Lama saved us much time by riding after a stray camel,
dexterously catching up the nose-string with his whip-handle,
and leading the straggler up to the caravan. The
leading-string of the camel is fastened to the gear of his
leader in such a loose manner that a very slight resistance
is enough to undo it. The reason for this is that if the
string were secured firmly, any check in the rear camel, or
the leading one advancing from a halt before the rear one
was ready, would tear the camel's nose. A nose once broken
in this way, it is difficult to find good holding ground for
the tweak, and the Mongols are therefore very economical
of camels' noses.</p>

<p>As for ourselves, we each had two ponies to ride, and we
varied our manner of travelling by alternately sitting in our
carts and riding our ponies. We also walked a good deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
with our guns, for the pace of the camels was so slow that
we could range at will over the country, and still keep
up with the caravan. The camel's pace is slow and sure,
the average of a day's march being two miles an hour.
The actual pace is of course quicker, but the frequent
stoppages to adjust loads, and from camels breaking loose,
reduce it to two miles per hour. Sitting in the cart is
never very agreeable. The track is not cut up with ruts
like a road in China, and the jolting is considerably less;
but it is difficult to get a comfortable posture without lying
down, and sitting in the front of the vehicle you are unpleasantly
near the odour that exudes from the pores of the
camel's hide, to which it requires a long apprenticeship to
get accustomed. It is most uninteresting, besides, to sit
for an hour or two contemplating the ungainly form of the
ugliest of all created things, and to watch his soft spongy
foot spreading itself out on the sand, while you reckon that
each of these four feet must move 700,000 times before
your journey is accomplished.</p>

<p>Our ponies were tied behind the carts, and all went quietly
except my old one "Dolonor," who was sagacious enough to
break his halter regularly, and follow the caravan in his own
way, which was to trot a few hundred yards ahead and apply
himself vigorously to the grass until the caravan had passed
some distance, when he would trot up and repeat the operation.
With all that he fell off in condition more than any of
the others.</p>

<p>Starting at sunset, as I have said, we proceeded all night
without stopping. It was a fine moonlight night, but an uncomfortable
one for us. Not knowing we were to travel all
night, we were unprepared for sleeping in our carts, and
suffered a good deal from cold and disturbed rest. With
every precaution to close them in, the carts are thoroughly
well ventilated; but subsequent experience taught us to roll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
up warmly, for most of our nights in the desert were spent in
our carts on the road.</p>

<p>At sunrise on the 28th my thermometer beside my bed
stood at 43°. At 8 o'clock we halted and pitched our tents.
Our Mongols had a tent for themselves, made of thin blue
cotton stuff, and black inside with the smoke of years. Their
contract with us included tent accommodation, as also fuel
and water; but we congratulated ourselves daily on being
provided with our own commodious and substantial bit of
canvas. The Mongols make their fire in the tent and
lounge round it while the pot is boiling. Some of the smoke
manages to escape through the opening that answers the
purpose of a door, running from the apex of the tent to the
ground in the shape of a triangle. For the rest they don't
seem to mind it, although it is almost suffocating to those
who are unaccustomed to it. I noticed the eyes of the
Mongols have mostly a bloodshot hard appearance, often
showing no white at all, attributable no doubt to the argol
smoke in which they pass so much of their time. The tents
being pitched, the next operation is to procure a supply of
<em>argols</em>, or more correctly <em>ar'ch'l</em>, which is dried cow or horse
dung, and is to be found all over the desert. So long as we
were in a populous part of the country, that is, if there were
three Mongol yourts within as many miles of us, we were
saved the trouble of going out to gather them, for our tents
were seldom up for many minutes before a woman would
appear bearing a large basket of the precious material. This
seems to be the ordinary custom of the Mongols, and is a part
of the genuine hospitality they show to strangers. Our halting-places
were selected with a view to water. There is no
scarcity of water in the desert, but a stranger would be sorely
puzzled to find it, for there is nothing to mark the position
of the wells. The Mongols have an instinctive knowledge of
the country, and in order to encamp near good water they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
make their march an hour or two longer or shorter as the
case may be. When the caravan halts, one of the Mongols is
despatched on a camel with two water-buckets to fetch water
from the well, generally some distance from the line of march.
The buckets have a head to them with two holes in it stopped
with wooden plugs. The water is poured out of the larger
hole at the side, while the smaller one in the centre is opened
to admit the air, to enable the water to pass out freely. In
selecting a halting-place, the Mongols generally contrive to
combine a good bit of pasture with the vicinity of water, for
this is naturally of much importance to them, as the only
feeding the animals get is a few hours' grazing during the
halt, and that only once in twenty-four hours. Before the
tent is set up the camels are unloaded and set free to graze,
the horses are taken to water, and then hobbled and let loose.
The camels are not supposed to want water, and they very
rarely get it. Their lips and mouth are peculiarly adapted
to quick feeding, the lips being long and very pliable, and
the incisor teeth projecting outwards. They gather up a
good mouthful of grass in a very short time, even where it is
exceedingly scant, and as their food requires little or no
mastication, they are enabled to take in a full daily supply of
food in a few hours.</p>

<p>So far, Mongolia is a succession of plains and gentle undulations,
much resembling the long swell of the ocean, and
here and there the country is a little rough and hilly. The
undulations stretch across our track from east to west. The
whole face of the country looks like the sea. There is not a
tree or any object to break the monotony of the vast expanse,
but occasionally the yourt or tent of a Mongol family. The
sunrise and sunset encourage the illusion, and the camel has
been aptly called the ship of the desert.</p>

<p>The sun was hot during the day, but the thermometer in
the shade only showed 73° at noon. Yesterday it was 71°.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
After dinner we went out with our guns and bagged a few
small birds of the curlew kind. We also came across a flock
of wild geese, but, as usual, they were very wild. We had
a chase after a herd of animals which have been called
wild goats. The Chinese call them <em>whang-yang</em>, or yellow
sheep: other tribes call them <em>dzeren</em>. The Mongols give
them a name of their own, <em>gurush</em>, and do not associate
them with either sheep or goats. They are really a
kind of antelope (<em>Procapra gutturosa</em>), the size of a
fallow deer, and of a yellowish brown colour, approaching to
white about the legs. They are exceedingly swift and very
shy, and as the country is so flat it is almost impossible to
get within shot of them. They are usually found in large
herds of several hundreds. We subsequently tried to stalk
them on horseback, and did get some long random shots at
them with a rifle, but to manage this properly there ought to
be three or four people well mounted and with plenty of
time. Our poor tired ponies were not fit for such work, and
we never stopped the caravan for the sake of sport. Some
of the Mongols do hunt the gurush, both on horseback and
on foot. I never witnessed any successes, but they must
shoot them sometimes, to pay for their powder and shot.
They use a small-bored rifle, which has a rest placed about
six inches from the muzzle, by which means they can lie on
their face and take their aim, the muzzle being raised well
clear of the ground by means of the rest.</p>

<p>We had a long halt to-day, partly in consequence of a
crack being discovered in one of the camels' feet. This is an
infirmity they are subject to, and if sand and grit were
allowed to get in, the animal would become lame and useless.
The remedy, which is always at hand, is to sew a square
patch of stout leather over the part affected, which they do
in the roughest cobbler fashion. With a flat needle slightly
curved they pierce the horny part of the sole, and fasten the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
patch by means of leather thongs at each corner. This is
only a temporary measure, and when a camel is taken that
way, he must soon be turned out to grass. The Mongols
have no trouble in getting at a camel's feet. They first make
him squat down, and then two of them go at him with a
sudden push and roll him over on his broadside, one of them
keeping his head down while the other operates on the foot.
The animal screams a good deal while he is being turned
over, but once down he resigns himself helplessly to his fate.</p>

<p>We did not get off till five o'clock in the afternoon. The
night was cloudy and no dew fell, and consequently it was not
nearly so cold as the night before. The difference in temperature
between a cloudy and a clear night is very marked in
Mongolia.</p>

<p>We were now leaving the good pastures and the numerous
herds of cattle behind, and on the morning of the 29th
August we found ourselves getting into a very desert country
with only a little scrub grass, of which our poor ponies
found it hard work to make a meal. No horses or cattle were
seen in this part, and the country seemed only capable of
supporting sheep and camels. About eleven o'clock we
halted, and encamped on almost bare sand. Not a single
"yourt" was in sight, and, for the first time, we had no
visitors. This must have been a relief to our Mongols, for
they were compelled by custom and their natural hospitality
to receive and be civil to all comers, and it was not easy for
them to snatch even an hour's sleep. This must have been a
great privation, for their mode of travelling all night precluded
their getting any sleep at all, except on the backs of
their camels while on the march, and in their tent during the
six hours' halt in the day; and as that was broken up by
cooking and eating, pitching and striking tents, loading and
unloading camels, and other necessary matters, and the
frequent and protracted visits from neighbouring yourts,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
or travellers on the road, our poor Tartars had often to go for
days together with hardly any sleep at all. But they never
complained, and certainly were never betrayed into any rudeness
to their inconsiderate countrymen.</p>

<p>We started again at 4.30 in the afternoon, and continued
through gentle undulations, proceeding, as before, all through
the night. Before morning we passed some rocky places
over low hills, which sadly disturbed our sleep in the carts&mdash;in
fact, our usual night's rest, while on the move, was far
from being uninterrupted or comfortable, and it was only our
fatigue and exposure to the air all day that enabled us to
sleep at all under such circumstances. The rough hilly part
was again succeeded by low undulations continually unfolding
before us, and which became painfully monotonous to the
eye. Distances are altogether deceptive, partly owing to
the smooth, unbroken surface of the country, and partly to
the mirage which is always dancing on the horizon, making
small objects look large, and sometimes lifting them up
into the air and giving them a variety of fantastic shapes.</p>

<p>About 11 o'clock on the 30th of August we halted, and
went through our usual process of cooking and eating. We
began to find that one meal a day did not suit our habits,
and we soon learned to keep out a certain quantity of
biscuit and cold meat when we had it, so that we could make
a breakfast or a supper without stopping to unload the
camels. To these materials we added a handful of tea or
some chocolate-paste, and in the morning rode up on our
ponies to any yourt we happened to see that was smoking,
and there made our breakfast. In the evening we often
managed to do the same, but it frequently happened that we
had no opportunity of doing this.</p>

<p>But I have not explained what a "yourt" is. It is simply
the habitation of a Mongol family&mdash;a tent, but of a more
permanent construction than the ordinary travelling tent. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
consists of a frame of light trellis work covered with thick
felt, is circular in form, with a conical shaped roof, but nearly
flat. A hole in the apex of the roof lets out the smoke from
the argol fire which burns all day in the middle of the tent.
At night, when the fire is out, and before the inmates retire
to rest, the hole in the roof is covered up. I did not measure
the upright part of the wall of the tent, but it is under five
feet, and you cannot enter without stooping. The tent is
about fifteen feet in diameter. A piece of felt hanging from
the top forms a door. The Mongols sleep on mats laid on
the ground, and pack very close. They have no bedding, but
sleep generally in their clothes, merely loosing their girdles.
In addition to the family, I have frequently observed a
number of young kids brought into the tent for shelter on
cold nights. When the owner decides on moving to better
pastures, his yourt is packed up in a few hours and laid on
the back of a camel, or, failing that, two oxen answer the
purpose. Although yourt is the name always used by
foreigners, I never heard it from a Mongol. They call it
"gi-rai," as distinguished from a travelling tent, which they
call "mai-chung."</p>

<p>Such are the dwellings of the Mongols, and so much are
they attached to them, that even where they live in settled
communities, as in Urga, where they have every facility for
building wooden houses, they still stick to their yourts,
merely enclosing them with a rough wooden paling. In the
whole journey I did not meet with a single instance of a
Mongol living in a house, or in anything else than a yourt or
girai. The Mongols are very superstitious, and certain rules
of etiquette have to be observed in riding up to and entering
a yourt. One of these is that all whips must be left outside
the door, for to enter a yourt with a whip in the hand would be
very disrespectful to the residents. Huc explains this almost
in the words&mdash;"Am I a dog that you should cross my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
threshold with whips to chastise me?" There is a right
and a wrong way of approaching a yourt also. Outside the
door there are generally ropes lying on the ground, held
down by stakes for the purpose of tying up their animals
when they want to keep them together. There is a way of
getting over or round these ropes that I never learned, but,
on one occasion, the ignorant breach of the rule on our part
excluded us from the hospitality of the family. The head
of the house was outside his yourt when we rode up; we
saluted him with the customary <em>Mendo! Mendo!</em> &amp;c.; but
the only response we got was a volley of quiet abuse, in
which our salutation was frequently, repeated in ironical
tones, as much as to say, "Mendo! Mendo! you come to
my tent with sugared words on your lips, and disregard the
rules of civility, which a child would be ashamed of doing.
Mendo! Mendo! If you do not know how to conduct yourselves
like gentlemen, you had better go about your business."
So we turned and went away, not in a rage, for
we knew we had committed some grave offence against
propriety.</p>

<p>The furniture of a Mongol yourt is very simple. A built-up
fireplace in the middle of the floor is the only fixture. A
large flat iron pan for cooking, or, if the parties are luxurious,
they may possess two such utensils, and sport two fireplaces,
by which means they can boil their mutton and water for
their tea at the same time. A basin to hold milk, and a good
large jug with a spout for the same purpose, and for the convenience
of boiling it at the fire while the big pan is on,
comprise all their kitchen and table service. Each person
carries his own wooden <em>ei-iga</em>, or cup, in his bosom, and, so
armed, is ready to partake of whatever is going anywhere;
and his small pocket-knife, by which he can cut up his quota
of mutton. A wooden box serves as a wardrobe for the whole
family. No tables or chairs are necessary, and I found no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
trace of a toilet service. These, with a few mats on the
ground for squatting on by day, and sleeping on by night,
comprise all the actual furniture of a yourt.</p>

<p>To-day, 30th August, we killed some sand-grouse. They
were of the same species as those found about Peking and
Tientsin (the <em>Pallas</em> sand-grouse), but were in much finer
condition. They were fat, and of such excellent flavour that
they would be considered a delicacy anywhere. All their
crops which we dissected were full of small black beetles,
and the same was the case with the curlew we killed. We
fell in with a herd of gurush, and had some long shots;
but we were never fortunate enough to bag any of these
animals.</p>

<p>In leaving the caravan there is always more or less danger
of getting lost. It has happened more than once to travellers.
But still there is a beaten track all the way through
the desert, which is distinctly marked in the grassy parts,
and even in the sand it is traceable. In winter it may be
obliterated, but still I think, with ordinary care, one ought
not to lose himself in the desert.</p>

<p>At 6 p.m. we had returned to our caravan and again took
the road. It came on very windy at night, with some rain,
and as the winds were always from the north, and consequently
in our teeth, we were miserably cold and uncomfortable
in the carts, so much so that we ardently hoped that the
Mongols, who were more exposed than we, would propose a
halt. We could not do so ourselves, for that would have
given the Mongols an excuse for all manner of delays in our
journey, but we would have been glad to consent had we
been asked. There was nothing for it, however, but to bear
our burden patiently. The few bottles of water and milk we
invariably carried with us in the carts were exhausted, and
being much in want of something, we knew not what, we
ordered the Mongols to stop at the first yourt they saw.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
This they did at 11 o'clock, and having turned out an
old woman we asked for water. They had none of that
precious beverage (and if they had it might have been bad),
but we got some boiled milk. I did not really want anything,
but during the time the Mongols were negotiating
with the lady, our carts were turned with the backs to the
wind, and it seemed that I had never known what enjoyment
was till then. It lasted but a quarter of an hour. The
inexorable camels turned their noses to the wind again, and
I spent the night in manipulating blankets and contorting
limbs, but all to no purpose, for the merciless gale swept
under and over and through me. In the morning as soon as
daylight came we got out of our cold quarters and on to our
ponies, stopped at a yourt where we indulged in a cup of hot
chocolate, and warmed ourselves at the hospitable fire. In
this yourt we found a record of the party who had preceded
us on the journey, dated 11th June. Our poor Mongols and
their camels were fatigued, and we did not object to an early
halt on the 31st August. We camped in a very desert place,
scarcely any grass at all; shot grouse for breakfast, and tried
to believe that we were comfortable. But we were not, for if
we had no other annoyance, the impossibility of keeping the
blowing sand out of our food was an evil hard to bear
patiently. Everything, even the inside of our boxes, was
filled with sand. Every means was tried in vain to prevent
it from blowing under our tent. We walked about most of
the day and tried to shoot, but the guns were nearly blown
out of our hands, and that resource for the destitute had to
be abandoned in despair.</p>

<p>About 4 in the afternoon we started again, wind still
blowing a gale. The road became very rough, which was an
additional reason for a restless night. We had many stoppages
besides, and much shouting all through the night,
which seriously disturbed our fitful naps, and in the morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
it was painfully evident that our poor camels were breaking
down. One of them had several times refused to go on, and
had eventually lain down with his load, and resisted all
persuasion to rise. He had to be unloaded and the extra
weight distributed among the stronger ones, at the risk of
breaking them down also. The truth is the camels were not
in condition when we started. We were too early for them.
The practice of the Mongols is to work their camels hard
from the autumn to the spring. Before the summer comes
everything is taken out of them; their humps get empty and
lie flat on their backs; their feet get out of order, and they
have mostly bad sore backs. They are then taken off the
road and turned out to grass. About this time they shed
their long hair and become naked, and all through the hot
weather the Mongol camel is the most miserable object that
can be imagined. In the early autumn they have recruited
their strength, their humps are firm and stand erect, their
backs are healed, and they begin the campaign fresh and
strong.</p>

<p>Our progress during the night was very slow, and towards
morning the road became sandy&mdash;in some places very heavy.
The cart-camels now suffered most, sweating and struggling
with their work in a way that was far from reassuring to us
who had the greater part of the journey still before us.</p>

<p>The whitened bones of camels are scattered all over the
desert, but in this place they were more numerous than ever.
I believe the camels always die on the road. They are
worked till they drop, and when one of a caravan fairly
breaks down, there is no alternative but to leave it to die on
the sand.</p>

<p>Yourts are few and far between, and few cattle are to be
seen; there is barely grass enough to support sheep and
camels. We pushed on till 11 o'clock, and encamped at
Mingan, where there were no yourts actually in sight, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
several within a few miles. There was really little or nothing
to eat, and our trusty steeds were palpably suffering from
their long stages and short commons. Serious misgivings
crossed our minds as to the probability of our ponies carrying
us much further, and we were concerned for them as well as
for ourselves, for they had done our work well so far, and we
felt kindly to them as the patient companions of our journey.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2>

<h3>MONGOLIA&mdash;<em>continued</em>.</h3>


<p>Our lama received sundry visitors at Mingan, and had
evidently some business to transact with them, for we soon
saw him in earnest converse with some of the strangers in
his tent, passing their hands into each others' sleeves as if
bargaining with the fingers. This resulted in the sale of one
of our camels&mdash;the one that had broken down. Our conductor
had more matters to settle than that, however, but he
was prevented by circumstances beyond his control. The
fact is that on such occasions the Mongols consider it indispensable
to imbibe freely of spirits, and our lama had to
stand a bottle of <em>samshu</em>, a very ardent spirit made from rice.
The Mongols drink liberally when they have a chance, and
the Mingan lama was no exception to the rule, for in a short
time he got so drunk as to become unmanageable. He
began by breaking the tent-poles, no slight calamity in a
country without wood; he soon became helpless, and lay
down on his back, refusing absolutely to move. All idea of
further business was abandoned, and the drunken Mongol's
friends were ashamed, not so much at the exhibition he was
making, but at the mischief he had perpetrated. He could
hardly lie on his back, but they deemed that no valid objection
to his riding on horseback. They therefore caught his
pony, by main force lifted him on, and put the reins in his
hands. The pony started off across the plain in the direction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
of his home, quietly enough at first; but the drunken rider
began to swing about and stretch out his right hand, as the
Mongols do when they want to excite their ponies to unusual
exertion. The pony went off at full gallop, throwing up
clouds of sand behind him as he went; the rider's motions
became more and more centrifugal until at last he rolled
over and sprawled full length on the sand, apparently with
no intention of moving. His friends rode after his pony,
caught it, and hobbled it beside its master, and as evening
was drawing on they left them both to their fate. Another
of the party, not so far gone, was merrily drunk. He tried
to work up a dispute with our Mongols, and promised us
some amusement, but he also was got on his pony by the
persuasion of his son, who was with him. The boy was
ashamed of his papa, and did his best to take him off the
field. They made several false starts together, but the old
fellow grew warmer and more excited, again and again turning
his horse's head and returning to our tent to "have it
out." At last the young one prevailed, and they rode off
together and disappeared in the distance. We were now left
alone, at sunset, and our poor lama was left lamenting on his
bad day's work, his waste of much good liquor to no purpose,
and his broken tent-poles.</p>

<p>The Mongols are a pitiable set on foot, with their loose
clumsy leather boots, but they are at home on horseback.
From their earliest years they may be said to live on horseback,
and the women are almost as expert as the men,
mounting any animal that comes handiest, whether horse,
cow, or camel, with or without saddle. Huc says he never
saw a Mongol unhorsed; but probably he never saw a dead-drunk
lama forcibly put on a fiery steed.</p>

<p>Our lama received Sycee silver for the camel he sold.
Silver is not much in use among the Mongols, their only real
currency being very coarse brick tea. But it is a mistake to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
suppose, as has been stated, that they are ignorant of the
value of money.</p>

<p>We got away about 7 in the evening. The wind had fortunately
lulled, and we passed a pretty comfortable night on
the road, which was alternately hard and sandy. My "Dolonor"
pony, that had been voluntarily following the caravan,
began to find the pastures getting too poor even for him, who
had the privilege of grazing day and night. The last two
days he remained faithful, but on the morning of the 2nd
September, finding matters getting from bad to worse, he
pricked up his ears, about ship, and galloped straight back
by the way we had come. This was not much to be surprised
at, all things considered, and I could not help commending
him for his sagacity. The "Kitat" was despatched
on his camel in quest of the fugitive before I was awake.
Had I been consulted I certainly should not have consented to
such a wild-goose chase, but the Mongols thought themselves
bound in honour not to lose anything, although it was not in
the contract that they were to look after ponies on the journey.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 600px;"><a name="halt" id="halt"></a>

<img src="images/i-136.jpg" width="600" height="353" alt="halt" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">HALT IN THE DESERT OF GOBI.</p>

<p class="sig">
(Page 104.)
</p></div>
</div>

<p>It was a very dry morning, but we got water for ourselves
and our horses passing Borolji. The well there was very
deep, and we were indebted to the friendly aid of some Mongols,
who happened to have driven their cattle in to water,
for obtaining a supply for our beasts. The head shepherd
had brought with him a small bucket made of sheepskin,
attached to the end of a long pole to enable him to reach
the water. His own beasts were very thirsty and impatient
to drink; the horses especially crowded eagerly round the
well, neighing, biting, and kicking each other in their efforts
to gain the best places. Nevertheless, the polite Mongol drew
water for us first, and allowed us to continue our march. We
kept on till 1.30, when we pitched our tents on the steppe,
called "Gunshandak." No grass at all grows here, but the
sand is slightly shaded with green by a small wild leek, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
grows in form much like the Mongolian grass. We had frequently
observed this plant already sprinkled amongst the
grass, but in Gunshandak it flourishes to the exclusion of
everything else. The sheep and camels thrive on it. Our
ponies also ate it freely, perhaps because they could get
nothing else, and when our cattle were brought in from feeding
they had a strong smell of onions about them.</p>

<p>The Kitat not having come up with my pony, we did not
hurry away, and our Mongols availed themselves of the delay
to buy and kill a goat from a neighbouring flock. We also
bought a sheep for two rubles, or about six shillings. The
seller, on being asked to kill it, told us we might do it ourselves.
This was not to be thought of, and our own Mongols
were too much occupied with their goat. We had, therefore,
to resort to a little craft, for the sheep must certainly be put
to death before we could eat it. Addressing the man, we
said, how can we lamas kill an animal? This was sufficient.
"Oh, you are lamas!" and he proceeded at once to business.
The dexterity with which these Mongols kill and cut up a
sheep is truly marvellous. They kill with a small knife
which they insert into the belly, just below the breast-bone.
Death is almost instantaneous. The object of this mode of
slaughter is to save the blood inside the animal. Skinning is
an easy process and soon done. The sheep is laid on his
back on the sand, the skin is spread out on either side, a
strip down the back being left attached while the cutting up
is going on. The skin thus serves as a table, and so well
does it answer the purpose that they will cut up a sheep into
small pieces, and put everything, including lights and liver,
on the skin, without ever touching the sand. The Mongols
have a perfect practical knowledge of the anatomy of the
sheep, and sever every joint with perfect ease, with only a
small pocket-knife, no other instrument being used in any
part of the process. The rapidity with which the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
thing is done, is astonishing. Our butcher was unluckily
called away during the operation to retrieve a young camel
that had been crying for its dam all the morning, and had
now broken its tether, so that I could not time him accurately.
I shall not state the number of minutes usually
occupied from the time a sheep is purchased till the mutton
is ready for the pot, for I could hardly expect to be believed.
On removing the intestines, &amp;c., the blood is found all together
in a pool. It is then carefully baled out and put into
the cooking pan, or <em>taga</em>, for nothing is thrown away here.
We gave ours to the butcher, as also the skin and the whole
of the inside, except liver and kidneys. The wandering
Mongols scent a sheep-killing like vultures, and there are
never wanting some old women to lend a hand in making
black-puddings, and such like, who are rewarded for their
trouble by a share of the feast; for among the Mongols the
first instalment of their sheep is eaten in less than half an
hour from the time it is killed. The Mongol sheep are generally
in good condition, but there is no fat about them at all,
except in the tail, which is a heavy lump of pure suet, said to
weigh sometimes ten pounds. The condition of the animal is
judged by the weight of the tail. The Mongols use but little
water in cleaning their mutton. The ubiquitous old woman,
who instals herself as pudding-maker, handles the intestines
in a delicate and artistic manner. She first of all turns them
all inside out, and then coils them up into hard, sausage-shaped
knots, without stuffing, which take up very little space
in the pot. These and all the other loose things are first
put into the pot, with the addition of as much of the meat
as it will hold. The pot is filled so full that the water does
not cover the meat, but that is of no consequence to the
Mongols. It is soon cooked, and quickly eaten. When
sufficiently boiled, one of the company adroitly snatches the
meat, piece by piece, from the boiling cauldron, with his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
fingers, and distributes it in fair proportions to the anxious
expectants seated round. They never burn their fingers by
this snap-dragon process. Their manner of eating mutton is
most primitive, and I will also say disgusting. Each person
gets a large lump or two, either in his lap, or on the mat on
which he sits. He then takes a piece in his left hand as big
as he can grasp; and, with the inevitable small knife in his
right, he cuts off nuggets of mutton, using his thumb as a
block, in the manner of cutting Cavendish tobacco. They
literally bolt their mutton, and use no salt, bread, or sauce
of any kind in eating it. When they have got all the meat
off, they pare and scrape the bones very carefully, and when
that is done, they break the bones up, and eat the marrow.
Nothing is thrown away, except part of the eye, and the
trotters. The tail is considered a delicacy, and is reserved
for the head lama, or the honoured guest, who generously
shares it with the others. I need only say that this mass of
rich suet is eaten as I have described above.</p>

<p>When the solid part of the entertainment has been despatched,
they put up their knives after wiping them on their
clothes, and then proceed to drink the broth in their wooden
cups. If they have any millet, they like to throw a little into
the broth as they drink it. The millet gets softened a little
as the cup is rapidly replenished, but no further cooking is
necessary. When the broth is finished, they put clean water
into the taga with a handful or two of brick tea, and go to
sleep while it is boiling. The tea so made has of course a
greasy appearance, and this practice of cooking everything in
the same pot has probably given rise to the belief that they
boil mutton and tea together, eating the leaves of the tea
with the mutton. There may be Tartar tribes who do this,
but the Khalkas Mongols certainly do not. The tea leaves,
or rather stalks,&mdash;for their bricks are made up of tea dust
and timber,&mdash;are always thrown away. It is necessary to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
boil the tea to get anything out of it at all, and it is of course
bitter and ill flavoured. I have drunk it when hard up; and
when it is well diluted with milk it is not unpalatable, when
you can get nothing else.</p>

<p>The Mongol tastes no doubt seem to us very unrefined, but
they are natural. The great esteem in which they hold the
fat as compared with the lean of mutton, is a plain expression
of the direction in which their ordinary regimen is defective.
It is well known that fat and farinaceous foods ultimately
fulfil the same purposes in the human economy; they mutually
compensate, and one or other is absolutely necessary.
We thus find fat and oils eagerly sought after, wherever, as
among the Mongols and Esquimaux, the cultivation of cereals
is forbidden by soil and climate.</p>

<p>The value of a scale of diet does not, as might at first sight
be supposed, consist in the prominence of any one article, but
depends on the different ingredients which are necessary to
sustain health, being duly proportioned; and wherever the
food of a people is necessarily composed of one substance
almost exclusively, the natural appetite will always mark out
as delicacies those which are deficient. It is to this want of
due proportion in the elements of diet that we must attribute
the comparative muscular weakness of the Mongols, in spite
of the abundant supply of mutton and the bracing air of the
desert. The coolies of China and Japan greatly excel them
in feats of strength, and in power of endurance, because the
rice on which they feed contains a more varied proportion of
the elements that nourish life, the poor quality of the fare
being compensated by the incredible quantities which they
consume.</p>

<p>Our Mongols having slept off their first meal and drunk
their tea, put the pot on the fire again, and cooked the
remainder of the goat, on which they had another heavy
blow-out late in the afternoon. The rapacity and capacity of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
a Mongol stomach is like that of a wild beast. They are
brought up to eat when they can, and fast when they must, and
their digestion is never deranged by either of these conditions.
They very much resemble their own camels in those useful
qualities so necessary to the inhabitants of a desert. Our
Mongols had really eaten nothing since leaving Chan-kia-kow.
They had fasted for seven days at least, and gone almost
entirely without sleep all that time, and yet suffered nothing
from the fatigue they must have endured. They had certainly
some millet seed and some Chinese dough, a little of
which they put into their tea as they drank it, but of actual
food they had none. They had now laid in a supply which
would last them another week. They seldom carry meat
with them, finding it more convenient to take it in their
stomachs.</p>

<p>Lest it be thought that we also adopted the Mongol way of
living, I must explain that we had a very complete set of
cooking utensils, plates, knives and forks, and every other
accessory to civilised feeding. We certainly had to a great
extent to educate ourselves to live on one meal a day, but
that was but a distant approach to the Mongol habit of
eating but once a week.</p>

<p>We made a long day of it on the steppe Gunshandak,
hoping every hour that the Kitat would return. The
country was so desert that there was no population, and
only two yourts were near us. Our encampment was some
distance off the track, and we had consequently no visits
from travellers, so we spent a very quiet day. In the afternoon
the camels were brought in, and Tellig and the lama
examined them all narrowly. Their condition was really
becoming serious, for not only were they tired and worn
out, but their backs were getting very bad. They are very
subject to this. Nearly all of them had large deep holes in
their backs, which penetrated almost through the flesh between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
the ribs. Maggots breed very fast in these wounds, and every
few days the Mongols probe deep into the wound with a bit
of stick, and scoop the vermin out. The animals complain a
little during this operation, but on the whole they bear their
ills with marvellous patience. While the camels are grazing,
the crows sit on their backs and feed on the worms. It did
seem cruel to put heavy loads on such suffering creatures, but
what else could be done?</p>

<p>Our ponies were falling off fast from want of food and rest.
It was severe on them to go eighteen hours without eating.
But they were, comparatively speaking, a luxury, and could
be dispensed with. The camels were essential, and could not
be replaced in the desert. The lama betrayed considerable
anxiety for his camels, and began to talk of getting fresh
ones at a place called <em>Tsagan-tuguruk</em>, where there is a
<em>sumé</em> or temple. We gathered from him that his family
lived there, and that he could easily exchange his camels for
fresh ones, if only he could reach that rendezvous. But
Tsagan-tuguruk was four days' journey from us, and our
used-up cattle did not look as if they could hold out so
long. But we live in hope, for it is foolish to anticipate
misfortunes.</p>

<p>We have hitherto met no caravans since leaving China,
excepting long trains of ox-carts carrying timber from Urga.</p>

<p>The day wore on and no Kitat appeared. The Mongols
strained their eyes to descry some sign on the horizon, then
looked anxiously at the sun fast sinking in the west, and
made up their minds to remain in the steppe all night. The
Mongols have no means of judging of time except by guessing
from the height of the sun or moon. I speak only of my
own experience, for Huc says they can tell the time of day by
looking at a cat's eyes. For my part I did not see a cat in
the whole of Mongolia. Dogs they have in plenty. They
are of the same breed as the common dog of China, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
rather larger and with thicker coats. They are useful to
the shepherds and are good watch dogs, not so thoroughly
domestic as their Chinese congeners, but will run after one a
great distance from their yourt barking ferociously. They
are great curs, however, and their bark is worse than their
bite. It is a singular thing that the Mongols do not feed
their dogs; nor do the Chinese, as a rule. They are supposed
to forage for themselves, and in Mongolia they must be put
to great straits occasionally.</p>

<p>The day had been very warm, and, the air being still, in
the evening we slept in the carts. It was always warmer
and more comfortable to sleep in the tent, but our bedding
had to be moved, and the oftener that was done the more
sand got into our blankets.</p>

<p>The nights in Mongolia were beautiful, sky very clear, and
stars bright. The "harvest moon," that had been such a
boon to us in our night travelling, now rose late. In a few
days it would be over, and we should have dark nights to
travel in.</p>

<p>After a luxurious night's rest, the first we had had for a
week, we awoke to see the sun rise on the steppe, and almost
fancied ourselves at sea. So indeed we were in a figurative
sense, for there was still no appearance of the missing Mongol.
We were now in the humour to take things patiently;
and the sheep we had killed yesterday enabled us to prepare
a breakfast that for a desert might fairly be called sumptuous.
The day was passed in idleness, for not a feather of a bird
was to be seen to afford an excuse for taking our guns out.
Visits were paid and received between us and the Mongols
who lived in the two yourts near us, and our lama fraternised
with them, and got the women to bring us argols and water.
The women, as a rule, keep the house and do the cooking and
darning, only going out after the flocks when the men are
out of the way.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p>

<p>The lamas carry their principle of not killing animals to
an extremity that is sorely inconvenient to themselves. They
are not exempt from parasitical connections; in fact, the person
of a lama, considered as a microcosm, is remarkably well
inhabited. He cannot, with his own hand, "procure the
transmigration" of any animal, in case it should contain the
soul of his grandfather, or some past or future Bhudda; but
when the population presses on the means of subsistence, something
must be done. In this juncture the services of some
benevolent female are called in, the lama strips to the waist,
and commits his person and his garment to her delicate
and practised manipulation.</p>

<p>We determined to start at sunset, Kitat or no Kitat, and
with one long-lingering look over the vast plain we had
crossed, at sunset we did start. We soon met a caravan of
sixty camels, which was refreshing to our eyes as evidence of
the travelling season having fairly commenced, affording us a
better hope of finding fresh camels.</p>

<p>We had again to encounter rough stony roads during the
night; in fact, we seemed just to come to the bad roads as
we were going to sleep. How was it that we did not sometimes
by accident stumble on a bit of soft ground at night-time?
The roads were perhaps not so bad as our nocturnal imagination,
stimulated by want of proper rest, painted them. But
whether or no, we had nothing to complain of on this occasion,
having enjoyed a sound unbroken sleep the previous
night; and surely one good night out of two is enough for any
reasonable being.</p>

<p>In the morning, passing over some rather steeper undulations
than usual, and in a very desert country, we came
across a herd of gurush. Some ineffectual shots were fired
as usual. It was tantalising in the extreme not to be able to
bag one of these fine animals when met with in such numbers
as would have delighted the heart of Gordon Cumming.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
About two o'clock we halted at Kutul-usu, where we were
agreeably surprised to find no less than six yourts near our
encampment, which was remarkable considering the scarcity
of grass. There is no grass at all, in fact, and our beasts
return from their grazing redolent of onions. A large ox-cart
caravan was also encamped at this place.</p>

<p>Our lama had long and earnest conversations with the
Mongols of Kutul-usu, and there was much going to and fro
between our tents and the yourts. There was something in
the wind&mdash;we could not divine what&mdash;until the lama again
broached the subject of <em>Tsagan-tuguruk</em>, the place where he
expected new camels. His proposal was that he should ride
ahead on a pony, and get the camels ready by the time the
caravan came up. There were grave objections to this course,
for we were already short-handed from the absence of the
Kitat, and were we to be left with only one camel-driver, we
should never be able to keep the caravan together. The
lama was importunate, and at last we consented to his plan
on condition: 1st, that he should find a substitute to assist
Tellig with the caravan; and 2nd, that he should provide us
with fresh ponies at Tsagan-tuguruk. The substitute was
soon found in an active-looking, wiry old man with very bad
eyes. The sun had set some time before the discussions and
preparations were concluded, and we were consequently
compelled to remain till the moon rose, which was not
before eleven o'clock&mdash;half the night gone and no progress
made.</p>

<p>We had a rough night as usual, but we are getting into a
more broken country. In the morning we passed one of the
numerous salt plains that are spread over the great desert.
Sometimes there is water in them and sometimes not. This
one was dry, but had a white scurf of salt on the ground. A
dark-green plant grows in tufts over these plains, and is eaten
by the animals in the absence of grass; indeed, I am not sure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
whether the camels don't prefer it. It was a hot thirsty day,
and we were at great trouble to find a yourt in which to rest
and make chocolate in the morning. We did discover one
eventually after riding many miles, and there we fell in with a
sporting lama with two good-looking ponies, riding one and
leading the other. This seemed a good opportunity for business,
and my companion soon concluded an exchange operation,
giving a pony with an incipient sore back and two
dollars to boot, for a good old sound one of the lama's. We
were in some doubt about finding our caravan, having let it
get a long way out of sight; but the wandering lama, having
a direct interest in discovering our party to get his two dollars,
soon scented them out by the same kind of instinct that
directs a bee to his distant hive. We took him some miles
back out of his way, but these people seem to care little in
which direction they go, or how much time they may lose in
going from one place to another.</p>

<p>The facility with which our Mongol friends found their way
in the open desert had often excited our admiration. At the
end of a night's march, although interrupted by numerous
accidental stoppages, they were never at a loss to know where
they were. They needed no land-mark to guide them, and
in pitching their tent near a well they never made a mistake
as to its position. The explanation seems to be that certain
instincts are developed in proportion to the want of artificial
aids. Thus Chinese sailors cruise about their dangerous coast
by a kind of rule of thumb, and are able to judge of their
position in darkness and fog where scientific navigators would
be at fault. In Australia also it is found that the best bush-ranger
is generally the most ignorant man of the party. The
effect of education being to cause men to trust more and
more to acquired knowledge, the faculty of perception, which
is possessed in a high degree by the lower animals, becomes
weakened for want of exercise. Instinct and education mutually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
compensate each other; and the lower we descend in
the scale of humanity,&mdash;the nearer man approaches to the condition
of the inferior animals,&mdash;the more does his mere instinct
predominate over his higher mental faculties. The senses
are very acute in primitive peoples, because of the constant
exercise they get, or rather because of the necessity which
compels them to be guided by the senses in their daily lives.
For to hear or see abstractedly, or for pleasure or instruction,
is a different thing from using these senses with the conviction
that the supply of food perhaps depends on the accuracy of
their indications.</p>

<p>As we approached our halting-place, <em>Ulan-Khada</em>, we witnessed
a remarkable phenomenon, which was a few dwarf
trees, scorched and scraggy, but still alive, growing in a
sheltered nook in a pass over some rocky hills. A little rill
filters through the stone and sand, and fresh soft grass is
found in modest quantity beside the water. Ulan-Khada is
in a hollow surrounded by high ground, and three yourts were
seen from our camp. The wild leek still prevails.</p>

<p>The following day we stopped at Ude, and early on the
morning of the 7th of September, to our great joy, we reached
the land of promise,&mdash;the well-watered, grassy plain of Tsagan-tuguruk.
There was something cheering in the very
name, associated as it had been in our minds with the hoped-for
end of our troubles and uncertainties. Vast flocks and
herds were seen in all directions, and yourts in good number,
though at great distances from each other. Our lama, Tup-chun,
was not here, but at his family yourt, said to be six
miles off. It was clear we must make a day of it, at least, at
Tsagan-tuguruk, and we at once proceeded to make acquaintance
with the natives of the nearest yourts, who came to visit
us. The next move was to buy a sheep, for we had been out
of mutton for some days, the hot sun preventing our keeping
it long. A Mongol jumped on his pony, and galloped off to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
his flock, caught a big, fat sheep, swung it across the pommel
of his saddle, and rode back with it to our tent. That was
soon done, but now came the lama question again. Were we
lamas, or Chara-chun? Now, <em>Chara-chun</em> means, literally,
"black man," and is the name applied to all Mongols who are
not lamas. To one or other of the two classes we must
belong. But we certainly were not black men, that was
clear; and if not black men, we were necessarily lamas.
The Mongols worked out the conclusion satisfactorily in their
own minds, and lent cheerful aid in killing and dressing
our mutton, for that was the great practical issue of the
question.</p>

<p>We had heard much from Tellig and others of the sume,
or temple of Tuguruk, and we took a few Mongols with us
and started off to visit it. It is a neat little house built of
stone, but the smallest place of worship perhaps in the world,
smaller even than some missionary chapels I have seen. A
priest came out of a neighbouring yourt, and opened the
door for us. The interior was covered all over with dust, but
we were already so dusty that we did not scruple to sit down.
Half the space was occupied by the materials for making
yourts, apparently new; and no doubt left by some wandering
Mongol for safe custody. A second priest soon joined us,
and the two together took down two old brass trumpets, like
the Chinese bagpipes, to give us some music. These instruments
were so dusty inside and out, and their joints so
loose, that no sound of any kind could be produced from
them. The priests puffed and blew as if they would have
burst their boilers, but the rusty old brass would yield no
sound.</p>

<p>Among our new acquaintances was a youth of fifteen, called
<em>Haltsundoriki</em>, the most active and intelligent of the Mongols
we had met with. He was much interested in us and
our belongings, and during our few days' stay at this place,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
he came regularly every morning, and stayed with us till
nightfall. He was a most willing servant to us, collecting
argols, lighting our fire, washing our dishes, taking our
ponies to water, and making himself universally useful. As
our visitors increased in numbers, they crowded our tent
inconveniently, especially at meal-times, for they had a nasty
habit of fingering everything they saw. <em>Haltsundoriki</em> was
therefore installed as master of the ceremonies, and vigorously
did he exercise his authority over young and old. It
was quite understood that he might bore us as much as he
liked himself, but he was not to permit any one else to do it.
He used the utmost freedom with all his countrymen who
came in his way, riding their horses or camels without asking
leave, and levying contributions on all and sundry in the
shape of tobacco, cheese, or anything they might happen to
possess. He furnished us with amusement by chaffing and
playing practical jokes on his friends, without regard to age
or sex. His wit was in a great measure lost on us, but we
made great progress in the Mongol language under his tuition.
Although not a lama, he was educated, and could read
and write both Mongol and Tangut. He was probably the
son of some small chieftain who lived in the neighbourhood,
and had had an opportunity of seeing better society than
the cowherds.</p>

<p>On intimating that we were prepared to do a little horse-dealing,
we at once set in motion several Mongols on their
ponies. Armed with a long light pole, with a large loop at
the end of it, they ride at the drove, and singling out the
one they want, they generally manage to throw the loop over
his head without much difficulty. An old hand, that has
been hunted for a good many years, will sometimes lead
them a chase of an hour or two; for though the pony that is
ridden is always the fleetest, the hunted one doubles and
dodges his pursuer in every possible way. My Chan-kia-kow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
pony was so done up as to be useless, and I exchanged him
for a big, strong beast, with doubtful feet, but the most likely
I could find.</p>

<p>We were much pestered for biscuit, liquor, and empty
bottles. It was useless to tell our persecutors that we were
on a long journey, and required all our supplies. They have
no consideration for travellers, and would eat you up to the
last morsel of food you possessed. We found it a good plan
to give them porter when they asked for drink. The wry
faces it produced were most comical, and they never asked
for more. As for the empty bottles, we reserved them to
requite any little services that were performed for us, and to
pay for milk. One old hag, a she-lama, came begging for
drink, and would not be denied. Her arguments were after
this sort:&mdash;"You are a lama, and I am a lama, and we are
brethren, and our hearts are in unison; therefore it is right
that you should give me this bottle of wine." The only
reply to such an appeal would be:&mdash;"True, I am a lama, and
you are a lama, &amp;c., but as the bottle is in my possession, it
is right it should remain so." The old woman would still go
rummaging about the tent, and it would have been rude to
turn her out <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vi et armis</i>. At length she came across a bottle
uncorked, and pouring a little of its contents into the
palm of her hand, she licked it up with her tongue. The
effect was remarkable, her features were screwed up in
hideous contortions, she went out of the tent spitting,
and did not ask for any more drink. The bottle proved
to contain spirits of wine which we used for boiling
coffee.</p>

<p>The first theft we were conscious of was perpetrated during
our stay at Tsagan-tuguruk. Hitherto we had relied implicitly
on the honesty of the Mongols, leaving all our small things
lying about at the mercy of our numerous visitors. But now
a few nick-nacks that our lama had asked me to take charge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
of for him, were stolen out of my cart during the night. We
were very angry at this, and proclaimed aloud that we would
allow no Mongol to come near our tent till the thief was discovered,
and the property restored. It was impossible, however,
to stem the tide; and it seemed hard, moreover, to
punish the whole tribe for the misdeed of one who might
have no connection with the neighbourhood. We deemed it
quite fair, however, to stop their biscuit and brandy. On the
return of the lama, we reported the theft, but he received
the news with perfect equanimity. In the evening he got
two other lamas to perform the prescribed incantation for
the purpose of discovering the thief. They performed their
task in a Mongol yourt with bell, book, and candle (literally,
as regards the bell and the book), reciting many yards of
lama prayers, while they told their beads. Our lama had
asked us for some wine for the ceremony. This was poured
into three small brass cups which stood on the table (the
family box, or chest of drawers) during the ceremony. It was
too tedious to see it out, but our lama informed us next
morning that the incantation had been successful (of course)&mdash;that
they had discovered who the thief was, but as to
catching him and recovering the property, that seemed as far
off as ever.</p>

<p>On the second day of our halt the Kitat arrived, in company
with a friend, both on camels, and with my pony, "Dolonor."
He had managed to lose his own camel in the chase,
and had come up to us on one borrowed from his companion.
The lama gave him a cold reception, lamenting bitterly over
the loss of his camel. As to the pony, he came full of spirits,
but being rather poor when he ran away, the six days' hard
hunting in the desert had not improved his condition, and I
wished they had left him where he was.</p>

<p>We were two days kicking our heels about in the utmost
impatience before our lama deigned to make his appearance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
with the new camels. As soon as he came, Tellig started on
an expedition to see his friends, who also lived some six or
eight miles off, and did not return till the next day. The
lama, instead of preparing for the journey, went dilly-dallying
about, drinking tea and gossiping with all the old women in
the country, which we considered a wanton waste of <em>our</em>
time, and we exhibited the feelings natural to us under such
circumstances. The lama tried every device to keep us till
the 10th, but we were desperate, and forced them to commence
packing late at night, which was no easy matter in the
dark, with unwilling workmen. Tellig was civil and good-natured.
The Kitat showed the cloven foot so disagreeably
as to provoke some rough treatment, which led to his leaving
our service. I suspect this had already been arranged, for a
substitute was found at a moment's notice. The new camels
not having been tried in harness, were first put into the
empty carts, and carefully led about for some time, before
they could be depended on for steadiness. All this occupied
a good many hours in a very cold night, and it was midnight
before we got away from Tsagan-tuguruk. Two friends of
the lama accompanied us on our first stage, which was only a
few miles, for we were halted before daylight. The lama's
business matters had not been quite settled, and he had a
few more last words with his two friends. The packing, so
hurriedly done in the dark, had all to be done over again.</p>

<p>While these little matters were being arranged, we had time
to take stock of our new establishment. The camels were
certainly fat and fresh, humps full and erect, backs whole,
with only the marks of old scars. The camel department
could not be in a better state than it was. Kitat's substitute
turned out to be a lama, a good-natured looking fellow, whom
we afterwards discovered to be well-meaning but stupid.
He could speak a few words of Chinese, and we therefore
christened him, in contradistinction to our chief of the staff,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
who was <em>the</em> lama <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">par excellence</i>, the "Kitat lama." We
further observed that <em>the</em> lama had somehow got rid of his
pony, and now rode a camel, which looked ominous for the
success or even the preservation of our equestrian stock; for
the lama hated camels, and never rode one himself when he
could help it.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>

<h3>MONGOLIA&mdash;<em>continued</em></h3>


<p>The grass was still copiously sprinkled with onions. As
we advanced we crossed some marshy ground with a good
deal of water, enough to make it necessary to pick the way
judiciously, for the camel hates water or slippery mud.
Their broad soft feet don't sink into the mud sufficiently to
enable them to get a good foot-hold like a horse, and their
long weedy legs are so loosely knit together, that they run a
great risk of splitting up when their feet slip. A caravan of
seventeen camels, that had accompanied us since morning,
took a wrong road across the marshes and stuck, the camels
being unable to proceed. Our lama took a round-about road,
for which we abused him at the time; but when he saw the
other caravan brought up all standing on the short cut, he
merely pointed it out to us with a triumphant chuckle, and
quietly asked, "Who knows the road?"</p>

<p>A 60-camel caravan was passed encamped near the marsh.
It was from Urga, and probably from Kiachta, loaded with
merchandise for China, and for account of Chinese. Two
celestials were in charge of the goods, jolly roystering fellows,
with whom we stopped awhile and held such conversation as
to the road, the state of the pastures, time occupied, &amp;c., as
will usually occur to travellers in such regions. It was curious
to notice how untruthful these travellers' stories generally
were. They seemed to say whatever came uppermost in their
minds, as a man of a happy disposition will often say, "It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
a fine day," when it is raining cats and dogs. But yet if you
are to believe <em>nothing</em> of what you hear on the road, you will
deprive yourself of a great deal of information which might
be valuable; and if you believe <em>all</em>, you will keep yourself
and your people constantly in hot water. It is difficult to
steer a safe course between too much credulity on the one
hand, and too little faith on the other.</p>

<p>We halted again at 2 o'clock at <em>Taryagi</em>, a region unpeopled;
but we were near a shallow lagoon, with thick
chalk-coloured water. It was most unpalatable, but the
Mongols seemed to like it. It is easier for them to draw
their water from a pool than to fetch it from a distant well;
and to cover their indolence, they invariably assure you that
the wells are salt. You are of course obliged to accept their
explanations, for if they were to assert that there were no
wells at all, you would not be a bit the wiser. Although the
pastures were pretty fair at Taryagi, our camels were not
allowed to graze, the reason being, that in their condition,
they would blow themselves out in a couple of hours to such
an extent, that they would not be fit to work.</p>

<p>It was pitch dark before we got ready to start. We had
difficulty in collecting the beasts, particularly the ponies, and
a young unruly camel. Our two Chan-kia-kow lanterns were
sufficient to make the darkness visible, but no more. The
Mongols, when looking for cattle in the dark, stoop down to
the ground and scan the horizon round. In a steppe, this
plan is very useful, for if the animal is not very far off, his
outline can be descried against the horizon.</p>

<p>At daylight we were in the steppe <em>Butyn-tala</em>, where
another large caravan was encamped. This steppe has also
a great deal of surface water in it, and in the small valleys
round it. The grass is pretty good, and cattle abundant.
Game was again met with in Butyn-tala.</p>

<p>Our next halt was near <em>Sain-kutul</em>, where there were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
good pastures, but shocking water. We really could not
drink it, and, as the day was still hot, we had to suffer from
thirst. Milk was of no use, and only aggravated our sufferings.
At Sain-kutul, a strange Mongol (a lama) rode up on
a camel, and after the usual greetings, he undid his camel's
load, and took up his quarters in the tent of our people. On
inquiry, we found he was going to <em>Kuren</em> (Urga of the
Russians), and gave us to understand we might have his
company if we liked. He had started from his home with
his one camel to perform a long journey, without any of the
necessaries usually carried on such a journey, trusting that
Bhuddha would furnish a table for him in the wilderness, and
a covering as well, by directing him to the tent of some
travellers who were better provided than himself. He was a
man of a mean character. Our first impressions of him were
decidedly unfavourable, and subsequent experience confirmed
them. Not that the man ever did anything wrong; on the
contrary, his conduct was regulated by the strictest rules of
propriety. But that merely served to aggravate his offence,
for it gave us no excuse for disliking him. On the first day
of our acquaintance I lent a hand to lash up his gear, not
from any desire to help him, but from the same motive that
induces people to twirl their thumbs for want of some more
intellectual amusement; or children to pull and haul at anything
they can lay hands on, more especially where they have
a chance of doing mischief. As I was pulling at his ropes,
the fellow looked up in my face, and, with the most abject
expression, but with great gravity, said, "<em>Sain chung! Sain
chung!</em>" Good man! Good man! The Mongols use this expression
in two senses, one with a meaning, and one without.
Now, in which sense soever this individual used it, it was
equally bad, and I much fear I never forgave him for it.
Indeed if he had asked forgiveness (which he did not) I could
not have believed him sincere. And this man was to stick<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
to us like the old man of the sea all the way to Urga! He
affected great learning too&mdash;knew all the lama books, according
to his own account, and had been to Tangut. Whether
by Tangut the Mongols mean the old country of Tangut,
or whether it means Thibet, I am unable to say. It is most
probably the latter, and the confusion of names is very likely
to have occurred from the fact that Tangut was peopled with
a Thibetian race.</p>

<p>After leaving Sain-kutul, we were joined by a Russian
courier, a lama, mounted on a camel, a very unusual thing,
for they generally ride horses, changing them every twenty
or thirty miles. The courier, knowing Russ, tried to get up
a conversation with us in that language, which we evaded,
for we had already discovered the advantage of passing for
Russians. It would, indeed, have been useless to explain to
the lama that we were not Russians. It would probably have
staggered his belief to begin with, for I am persuaded that
more than half the Mongol population believe Mongolia to
be in the centre of the world, with Russia at one end, and
China at the other. The Russian courier or postal service
through Mongolia is all done by lamas, whom an idle roaming
life seems to suit better than it does the black men.
They perform the distance from Chan-kia-kow to Kiachta,
780 miles, in eleven or twelve days easily, by means of their
relays of horses. This seems very fast travelling, compared
with our weary thirty days' journey; but it is really very
slow, and if the courier were pushed, he could do the distance
in six days even, with the same facilities as they have at
present, excepting, perhaps, that the rider should be relieved
once. We met several of them on the road, and they travel
as if time were no object to them; for example, the courier
now alluded to kept company with us at our two mile an
hour pace from 6 o'clock in the evening till 10 next day.
Others of them on ponies have done the same thing, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
know they spend their time in yourts, gossiping and drinking
tea for hours together. In short, the couriers to and
from Kiachta take matters exceedingly easy. There are
three couriers monthly; one for the Russian government,
starting from Peking, and two for the Kiachta merchants;
the latter go to and from Tientsin. The Russian government
courier is entirely under the control of the Chinese government,
and is also, I believe, at its expense. The merchants'
posts are managed by themselves.</p>

<p>Near <em>Ichi Khapstil</em> we encamped in rather good pastures,
and near a large pond of very dirty water, with wild fowl on
it. A large kind of duck, nearly all white, and dab-chicks,
were the tenants of this pond, but we elsewhere saw many
species of wild fowl.</p>

<p>Six of our camels were now allowed to eat and drink, after
fasting for four days, to our knowledge, and perhaps a couple
of days before they were brought to us.</p>

<p>The water from the pond was nauseous. I could not touch
it, and suffered severely from thirst in consequence. In the
afternoon, when we had started the caravan, I rode all over
the country on every side looking for water, but could not
find any, except a mere puddle where horses and cattle
had pitted the wet mud with foot-prints. Into these holes a
little water had collected, and we were fain to stoop down
and drink with eagerness the filthy liquid that, at another
time, would have turned my stomach. But we were happily
getting out of the watery region, and before night we got
into a yourt to make tea, and found delicious spring-water.</p>

<p>The camel that was drawing my cart did a very unusual
thing during this evening. He set to kicking so violently
that at first I was afraid he would smash everything to
pieces, but, as every blow was delivered on the solid part of
the machine, no damage was done, except to the camel's own
legs. He would not desist until he had so mauled himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
that he could hardly stand on his legs. And when the pain
had a little subsided he would resume the kicking, but with
less and less energy, until he was fairly defeated. During the
fits he was dangerous to approach, for, by the formation of a
camel's hind legs, the lower extremities spread out widely
from the hocks, and the feet, in kicking, project considerably
beyond the perpendicular of the shaft. Tellig did, in fact,
get knocked over in this way. This was the only instance
in my experience of one of these patient animals getting out
of temper.</p>

<p>The face of the country was now fast changing its character,
being broken up into irregular elevations, and was
more grassy. We hoped the worst part of the desert had
been left behind, as we gradually got into an inhabited
region. Passing <em>Sharra-sharatu</em>, where there were many
yourts, we proceeded to <em>Shibetu</em>, in the middle of a hilly
country. Our next stage took us to the <em>Ulin-dhabha</em> mountains,
the only ones worthy the name we had seen in Mongolia.
The road rises gradually towards the mountains from
3700 feet to 4900 feet, which is the elevation of the pass.
The pass is an easy one, and forms a deep cutting into the
mountains. The pass opens out a fine valley on the north,
which was alive with men and beasts moving about; yourts
packed up and laid on the backs of cows, camels, &amp;c., and on
rude wooden carts; flocks of sheep, and droves of cattle being
driven here and there. The Mongols were moving to winter
quarters. In the summer season they spread all over the
desert and find enough food to support their beasts, but in the
winter they try to get into some sheltered place where there
is enough grass to keep their beasts alive during those dreary
months. The few touches of north wind we had lately felt
warned the inhabitants of the steppes of the approach of
winter, and of the necessity of seeking a more hospitable
region.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p>

<p>Near <em>Bombatu</em>, where we halted, the grass was luxuriant,
and our half-starved ponies enjoyed it thoroughly. But, unfortunately,
when our beasts are in clover our men are fagged
out. Tellig especially, who has had most of the work, is
nearly done for want of sleep and from constant exposure on
the back of his camel.</p>

<p>There was no end to the ox-cart caravans that passed us on
the way to China. There are between 100 and 200 carts in
each, and they followed so close on one another that it seemed
as if there was a continuous line of them for the whole
length of a night's march. Their tinkling bells have a
strange, but not unpleasant, effect as they move slowly
along.</p>

<p>On the 15th September the lama made an excuse of buying
sheep for himself and us, to halt at 9 a.m. some miles
south of the steppe <em>Guntu-gulu</em>. We had been but two days
without meat, but the Mongols had eaten nothing for six
days. We had made several ineffectual attempts to buy
sheep, and that very morning we had concluded a bargain for
one, but the owner in catching the sheep missed his mark as
he sprang forward to clutch it, and fell sprawling on his face.
Of course we laughed, in common with the Mongol spectators,
and whether the fellow was angry at being the occasion of
merriment to us, or whether he considered his accident
as a providential intimation that he was to sell no sheep
that day, I cannot tell; but he obstinately declined to
have anything more to say to us on the subject of sheep-selling.</p>

<p>The pony I had got at Tsagan-tuguruk had gone all to the
bad with his feet. The roads had been very stony all the way,
and his hoofs were too far gone to bear rough travelling. I
bartered him, therefore, for two good sheep, and now I had
only the skeleton of Dolonor left.</p>

<p>High mountains appeared fifteen miles east of us (if one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
may venture to estimate distance in such a country), and we
began to hope for something like scenery. It blew fresh and
cold from S.-W., and in the afternoon it came round to N.-W.,
a regular <em>choinar salchin</em>, or north wind, a word of horrible
signification to Mongols. And if dreaded in September what
must it be in January? I often wondered how the wretches
get through their dreary winter. They are taken very suddenly
with these cold northers. The day may be fine, and
almost oppressively warm. A cloud comes over, and drops as
much water as you would get out of a watering-pan. Then
the north wind pipes up, and in a few hours you have made
the transition from a tropical summer to worse than an Arctic
winter, for the biting wind cuts into the bone.</p>

<p>In the face of a sharp norther we entered on the steppe
<em>Guntu-gulu</em>, which seemed to be about five miles broad, but
it proved the best part of a day's march, so deceptive are distances
without prominent marks. A scene occurred in the
steppe which delayed us a night, and might have proved
serious enough to arrest our progress altogether. One of our
guns went off in the cart (we always kept them loaded and
handy), the charge went through some bedding, then the
wooden back of the cart, and ricochetted from a wooden bar
outside, miraculously clearing the camel that was following
within two yards of the cart, and describing a curve over the
whole line; one of the pellets hit the lama who was bringing
up the rear, at a distance of full sixty yards, and made a
groove on the outside of the flap of his ear. It bled profusely;
in fact, the first notice he had of the injury was the
streams of blood that suffused his neck and shoulders. He
roared in terror, thinking he was <i>at least</i> killed; stopped the
caravan; dismounted from his camel, and committed himself
to the care of Tellig and the Kitat lama. The tent was
hastily put up, and all made ready for a halt. Tellig
and the others were greatly alarmed, and disturbed in their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
minds, and we were somewhat uncertain of the view their
superstitious fanaticism might lead them to take of the
affair. Luckily we had just got clear of another very large
caravan, and were spared the officious assistance of a crowd
of people. There was a pool of water close by, and we
sent for repeated supplies of it, washing the ear, and letting
it bleed freely. The wound was nothing at all, but the
profuse bleeding frightened the Mongols. Our policy was
to look wise; and my companion being provided with a
neatly got-up little case containing various articles of the
<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">materia medica</i>, it was produced, and inspired a proper
amount of blind faith in the minds of our Mongol
friends. The wound was washed with arnica, and a piece
of sticking-plaster put on it so successfully, that it completely
stopped the bleeding, and made a very neat finish.
The Mongols looked on with much wonder and reverence at
our proceedings, and if any idea at retaliation for the injury
had crossed their minds, it was now giving place to a feeling
of gratitude for our surgical assistance. The lama was helpless
from fright, and we had him lifted to his tent, where we
made him recline on a bed that had been extemporised for
him with boxes and things packed behind him on the windy
side. A towel was tied round his head to keep the cold out,
and he was made as comfortable as our means would allow.
He looked sad and woe-begone, and we could with difficulty
suppress a smile at the utter prostration of mind that the
sight of his own blood had induced. He now imagined he
had pains in his head, throat, and chest, and seeing him so
entirely a victim to his fears, we were obliged to humour them
a little, prescribing for his various symptoms with great care.
The first thing we ordered him was a measured glass of
brandy, knowing him to be partial to that liquor. This
roused him a little, and his pluck began to return. We then
prescribed tea, which was soon made, and, as he improved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
in spirits, we ordered mutton, knowing they had some
scraps left from their morning's feast. All that done, we
allowed him to smoke, and finally prescribed a good night's
rest. In the morning we inquired for our patient and found
him well, but much inclined to remain in his shell till the
north wind was over. This was a little too much of a good
thing; so when we had carefully examined him all over, and
scrutinised all his symptoms, we were compelled to pronounce
him fit to travel. He could not get out of it, but reluctantly
mounted his camel, his head still tied up in a white towel, to
the wonderment of the wandering Tartars we encountered on
our march. It certainly never was my fortune to be so well
treated by a doctor, but as the faculty in this country depend
so much on popularity, a similar mode of treatment with
the majority of their patients would be well worth their consideration.
I may here observe that the Mongols have their
ears very protuberant, like an elephant's.</p>

<p>The accident to the lama was a godsend to us in procuring
us a night's rest. The wind blew mercilessly across the
steppe, so that sleeping in our carts with their backs turned
to the wind, we could not keep warm. What it would have
been, marching in the teeth of it with our front exposed, may
be imagined by those who have experienced these cutting
winds, for the fronts of our carts were, with all our care, but
indifferently closed by sheets of felt, fastened as securely as
we could manage, but utterly ineffective to keep out a gale
of wind.</p>

<p>Most of the steppes in the desert are inhabited by a small
marmot, like a rat, which burrows in the ground. Its custom
is to sit on its haunches (it has only a rudimentary tail) beside
its hole, uttering a chirping noise when alarmed, and
then dropping into its hole, turning round immediately with
only its head out to see if the apprehended danger is imminent,
and then disappearing altogether. Each hole has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
several roads to it, extending to about twenty or thirty yards
from the hole. The little animal seems never to stray from
the beaten track, and is so secure of reaching its retreat, that
it will allow you almost to tread on it before it begins to
scamper home. Where these animals abound, the ground is
furrowed in all directions by their roads. On the margins of
their holes a heap of grass and herbs is piled up, which Huc
thought was for the purpose of sheltering the animals from
the winter winds. I have too much faith in their instinct to
believe that, however, for, once in their burrows underground,
no wind can touch them. It is more probable that the
stores of vegetable matter so collected are intended for winter
forage, which they collect with great industry during the
autumn. Our ponies were very fond of nibbling at these
heaps of drying grass, and turning them over with their
noses, a practice which we did our best to discourage. It
was in fact a kind of sacrilege to destroy wantonly the stores
of food that these interesting creatures had with so much
forethought and months of patient labour accumulated against
the evil day.</p>

<p>In Guntu-gulu we met with another marmot of nearly
similar habits, but much larger. It is in size and colour like
a hare, but heavier and clumsier in its movements. Its burrows
are as large as a rabbit's. It is found at a considerable
distance from its hole, and is more easily alarmed than its
neighbour, because less easily concealed. When slightly
alarmed, it makes rapidly for its hole, and there sits till the
danger approaches too near. Then, cocking up its short tail
and uttering a chirp, it disappears into its hole. We could
never get within shot of these animals. As to the little
fellows, we got so close to them that it would have been
cruelty to shoot them, as we had no means of preserving the
skin. The larger ones burrow in stony places, and with
their short legs, strong claws, and wiry hair, somewhat resemble<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
the badger or racoon. They might be the <em>Lepus
pusillus</em>, or "calling hare," if it were not that that species is
positively said never to be found farther east than the Oby.</p>

<p>The wind lulled at sunset, and we had a fine frosty night.
The morning of the 17th September showed us the first <em>bonâ
fide</em> ice, and from that time we had frost during all the remainder
of the journey. It was a moonless night, the roads
were indifferent, the Mongols hungry and tired, and they
therefore took it on themselves to halt for some hours before
daylight to make tea near <em>Khulustu-tologoi</em>. From there we
crossed the steppe <em>Borelju</em>, meeting the usual array of ox-cart
caravans, and encamped at 10 o'clock near the entrance to a
pass leading through a ridge of hills. The sharp clear outline
of <em>Bain-ula</em> (rich mountain), ten to sixteen miles distant on
our right, and the modest elevations at the foot of which we
were encamped, made a pretty bit of scenery after such a
monotonous succession of steppes. We had now been twenty-two
days in Mongolia, and had become strongly imbued with
the habits of the people we were living amongst. To have
imagined that we were <em>travelling</em> at such a slow pace would
have been misery. But there was nothing to make us believe
we were travelling. Now and then a vague idea would
cross our minds that some day we ought to see Kiachta, but
that was of short duration, and our daily routine all went to
keep up the illusion that we were dwellers in the desert.
There was nothing to mark our daily stages, no church spires
or road-side inns, not even a mile post. Those fine euphonious
names of places I have given indicate nothing. They
might with as much propriety be given to various parts of the
ocean. We had entirely identified ourselves with the wandering
Tartars, and were content to live in the desert with
much the same feeling that the Israelites must have experienced
during their desert journeyings, that there was a
promised land dimly figured out to them&mdash;that is to say, their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
apprehension of the reality of it was dim; but the thought
of ever arriving there had but slight influence on their daily
life. The regular supply of manna was to their minds much
more important than the bright future to which their leaders
looked forward. And so it is with the greater part of mankind.</p>

<p>With all its drawbacks, there is a charm about desert life
which is worth something to a man who has undergone the
worry of incessant occupation. You are safe there from
the intrusions of mail steamers and electric telegraphs, and
"every day's report of the wrong and outrage with which
earth is filled." The longer you live in such quiet solitudes
the more independent you feel of the great struggling world
without. It is a relief to turn your back on it for a while,
and betake yourself to the children of nature, who, if they
lack the pleasures, lack also many of the miseries, and some
of the crimes, which accompany civilisation.</p>

<p>The day turned out very warm, so much so, that we were
glad to get shelter from the sun under our canvas until 3
o'clock, when we were again in the saddle. The pass proved
a fine valley, rich in grass. Another long string of caravans
was met with, most of the carts empty, and bound from Urga
to Dolonor. Why they were empty we could not ascertain,
but conjectured that they could not get loaded before winter,
of which the late severe weather had given them warning,
and that they were bound at all hazards to get home to winter
quarters.</p>

<p>Some days before this we had picked up a young pilgrim,
a lama, on a journey to the great lamasery at Urga, there to
pass a certain time in study. The boy was performing a
journey of between 200 and 300 miles alone and on foot.
He carried nothing in the world with him except the clothes
on his back and a few musty papers containing lama prayers,
carefully tied up between two boards which he carried in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
bosom. He had no provisions with him, still less any money,
but depended solely on the well-known hospitality of his
countrymen for his daily bread and his night's lodging. I
thought there was something heroic in a boy of fifteen undertaking
such a journey under such circumstances, but the
Mongols thought nothing of it. Our caravan offered him a
good opportunity of performing his journey comfortably,
which he at once and without ceremony availed himself of.
His first appearance was in one of our halts, where he was
discovered in the tent of our Mongols, as if he had dropped
from the clouds, and our three Mongols had thenceforth to
fill two extra mouths, which must have been a considerable
tax on them. The boy was at once placed on our effective
staff, and we christened him <em>Paga-lama</em>, or "Little Lama," a
name not much relished at first, but he soon became reconciled
to it. The little lama had left his mother's tent in summer,
a few days before; winter had now overtaken him&mdash;for
there is no autumn or spring in Mongolia&mdash;and he was all
too thinly clad for such inclement weather. Our lama, seeing
the boy pinched with cold in these biting north winds, with
the genuine hospitality of a Mongol gave up one of his
coats to him, thus unconsciously practising a Christian precept
to which few Christians in my experience pay so much
practical respect. The little lama's loose leather boots, and
particularly the felt stockings inside of them, were considerably
travel-worn; and, with all his management, he could
not keep his red toes covered from the cold. But he was
patient and enduring, and very thankful for what he had got.
He had no more long marches to make on foot, for our lama
generally contrived to put him on a camel.</p>

<p>On the morning of the 18th of September, we found ourselves
starting from a halt at 6 o'clock, which caused a row
between us and the Mongols; for though the night had been
cold and dark enough to give them an excuse, we admitted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
no excuses for extra stoppages, and we had been
stopped most of the night. It was a cold, raw morning, with
a heavy leaden sky, and a fresh southerly wind, very unusual
weather in Mongolia. We soon came to a point where the
road seemed to terminate abruptly on the brow of a precipice,
and it was now plain that we could not have proceeded
further without good daylight. From our elevated position
we came suddenly on a view of scenery of surpassing magnificence.
An amphitheatre of mountains lay before us, rising
up in sharp ridges, and tumbled about in the wildest confusion,
like the waves of the sea in a storm. The crests of
many of them were crowned with patches of wood, and to us,
who had lived so long in the flat, treeless desert, the effect of
this sudden apparition was as if we had been transported to
fairy land.</p>

<p>We had to cross a wide valley that lies half encircled at
the foot of the mountains, and our descent was almost precipitous
for 500 feet. We had to get out and walk, and the
camels had enough to do to get the empty carts down
safely.</p>

<p>On the top of the high ground, and at the beginning of the
descent, is a large <em>obon</em>, or altar, consisting of a cairn of
stones. There are many of them in different parts of Mongolia.
They are much respected by the Mongols, and have a
religio-superstitious character. It is considered the duty of
every traveller to contribute something to the heap, the
orthodox contribution being undoubtedly a stone. Our lama
seldom troubled himself to dismount, and find a stone, but
contented himself with plucking a handful of hair from the
hump of his camel, and allowing it to be wafted to the <em>obon</em>,
if the wind should happen to take it there. At the same
time he saved his conscience by mumbling a few words from
the form of prayer prescribed for such occasions. At the
more important <em>obons</em>, however, such as the one which has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
led to these remarks, which are always placed at difficult or
dangerous passes, he rode a-head of the caravan, dismounted,
and with solemn words and gestures propitiated the good
genius of the mountain. The Mongols have a great horror
of evil spirits, and have strong faith in the personality, not
of one, but many devils. In this respect, they are like the
Chinese Buddhists, but I never could detect that they worshipped
the devil, as their neighbours do, the whole drift of
whose religious ceremonies always seemed to me to be to
charm away or make terms with evil spirits. This is, of
course, only negative evidence as regards the Mongols, and
that from a very slight experience, but the tone of religious
sentiment among them is more healthy and elevating, encouraging
the belief that devils are not among their objects of
worship. They don't speak of the <em>tchutgour</em>, or devil, in the
same flippant way as the Chinese do of their <em>kwei</em>, and
although they attribute diseases and misfortunes to <em>tchutgour</em>
influences, only to be counteracted by lama incantations, they
hold that good men, and especially good lamas, never can <em>see</em>
a <em>tchutgour</em>. I have tried to joke with them on the subject,
and turn their <em>tchutgour</em> notions into ridicule, but the Mongols,
though easily amused on any other subject, were sensitively
anxious on this, and never spoke of it without serious
concern. The rapid and complete recovery of our lama from
what seemed to him and his friends a deadly wound, was the
cause of no small congratulation to them as establishing the
moral excellence of his character, by means of a severe
ordeal&mdash;as it were a hand-to-hand contest with the powers
of evil.</p>

<p>As we advanced across the valley a few drops of rain fell.
A halt was summarily ordered, and the Mongols began to
run about, hastily unloading camels and unrolling tents, with
horror depicted on their faces, muttering to themselves,
"<em>borro beina</em>," "the rain is coming." There is so little rain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
in Mongolia, that no great preparations are made for it, and
a smart shower disconcerts travelling Mongols as if they were
poultry. Before our tents were got up, the rain was falling
heavily, and we were all well drenched, but when we had
got safely under the canvas, the real misery of our situation
flashed upon us&mdash;the argols were wet, and we could get
no fire! The poor Mongols resigned themselves to their fate
with enviable philosophy, looking on their misfortune as one
of the chances of war. We were not so well trained in the
school of adversity, however, and could not tolerate the idea
of sitting in our wet clothes during that cold, rainy day.
Besides, past experience had taught us to look for the dreaded
north wind after rain, and how could we abide its onset in
such a condition? There was but one source from which
we could obtain fuel, and that was to break up one of
our cases of stores, and burn the wood. This was also
wet, but not saturated like the argols, and after some difficulty
we lighted a fire in our tent, and gave the Mongols
enough to make them a fire also, by which to boil their
tea. We were richly rewarded by their looks and expressions
of gratitude for such an unexpected blessing. The
rain continued all day till sunset, when it cleared up, and
the wind came round to N.-W., piping up in the usual manner.
We got our tent shifted round, back to wind, and made ourselves
exceedingly comfortable. With waterproof sheets and
a light cork mattress, the wet ground was of no account, and
we could always manage to keep our blankets dry. In the
morning the ground was white with snow, and the north
wind blowing more pitilessly than ever. A few driving
showers of snow fell for some hours after sunrise, and we
waited till 10 o'clock before resuming our journey towards
the mountains <em>Tsagan-dypsy</em> which bounded the plain in
our front. <em>Tsagan</em> meaning "white," we thought the name
highly appropriate, as we gazed the live-long day on their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
snow-clad slopes. It was a trying day to all of us, and I
never suffered so much from cold. The sun seldom showed
his face, and the air was charged with black, heavy snow-clouds,
which only the violence of the wind prevented from
falling. It was impossible to endure the wind, either in cart
or on horseback. There was nothing for it but to walk, but
that was no easy performance in the teeth of such a gale, and
we were fain to take shelter behind the carts, supporting
ourselves by holding on to them. I estimated that I walked
twenty miles in that way. The camels breasted the storm
bravely, and even seemed to enjoy it. The Bactrian camel,
at least the Mongol variety, is peculiarly adapted for cold
climates. In a hot day he is easily fatigued, and seems
almost to melt away in perspiration under his load (hence
our constantly travelling at night, in the early part of our
journey, and resting in the heat of the day), but in cold
weather he braces himself up to his work, and the colder it
gets, the better he is.</p>

<p>We were entertained by the few travellers we met with
alarming accounts of the state of the river Tolla, which was
said to be in flood, and impassable. We paid little heed to
such Job's comforters, knowing the Asiatic proneness to figurative
language; but our lama was disconsolate, and began to
look like a man who feels that some great calamity is hanging
over him.</p>

<p>On gaining the Tsagan-dypsy mountains we enter a long,
narrow, but very pretty valley, watered by the small river
<em>Kul</em>, which runs into the <em>Tolla</em>. The mountains on both
sides of us were well wooded, chiefly with fir with yellow
feathery leaves, and small birch. The fir grows to no great
size, probably because it is in too great demand for sale in
China. Several wood-cutting stations were observed in this
valley of the Kul, where the timber is collected and the ox-carts
loaded, of which we met so many in the desert.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p>

<p>With the woods, several new birds appear, conspicuous
among which are magpies, jackdaws, and pigeons.</p>

<p>The <em>Yak</em>, or "long-haired ox," or "grunting ox" (<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Poëphagus
grunniens</i>), also now appear in considerable numbers.
They are smaller than the average Mongol ox, but
seem to be very strong and hardy. They are used solely
for draught purposes. It has been supposed that these
animals are peculiar to Thibet, but they appear to be also indigenous
in Mongolia.</p>

<p>Passing through the Kul valley, our lama purchased two
small trees for firewood, giving in exchange half a brick of
tea. It was joyfully intimated to us that we should want no
more argols, but should find wood all the rest of the journey.
The intelligence pleased us not so much on account of the
prospect of a more civilised fuel to burn than argols, for,
cooking as we did, in the open air, there was not much to
choose between the two; but we received it as a tangible
evidence that we had really passed the great desert, and were
henceforth to travel in a country of mountains and "shaggy
wood."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2>

<h3>URGA TO KIACHTA.</h3>


<p>Just as we came in sight of the river <em>Tolla</em>, and with our
glasses could make out the houses in the Chinese settlement of
<em>Mai-machin</em> beyond, a heavy, blinding shower of snow came
on, which neither man nor beast could face, in the teeth of
such a wind as was blowing. The camels were halted and
tents hastily pitched, but not before the ground was covered
with snow. The storm did not, however, prevent visitors
from coming to us from the numerous caravans that were
encamped round us in the valley. Eager inquiries were made
as to the state of the river, and the information received was
to us more gloomy, because more definite, than before. The
stream was very rapid, and the water very high. The only
boat they had fit to cross it had been swept away by the
force of the current, and in an attempt to ford it, two men
and a horse had been drowned that very day. Our informants
were in a similar predicament to ourselves, and some
of them had been waiting several days for an opportunity
to cross.</p>

<p>We could no longer discredit these statements, and we
acquiesced in our adverse fate to the best of our ability; but
it was sorely trying to our patience to be stuck there in sight
of <em>Urga</em>, the first great break in our journey through Mongolia,
with only a little bit of a river between. We were
consoled as usual under such circumstances by a good dinner,
to the preparation of which we always devoted special care,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
when we were stopped by compulsion. A few hours' kindly
converse with the Mongols in their tent served to while away
the long evening. They are, in many things, very much like
children, and easily amused. Our simplest plan was to
select one of the company, generally the Kitat lama, and
make him the subject of a series of imaginary stories that we
had heard of him in distant parts. The Mongols are always
ready to enjoy a joke at the expense of their friends, though
the individual directly interested does not seem to appreciate
it. It is a very tender point with a lama to be asked how
his wife and family are, as their vows exclude them from
matrimonial happiness (or otherwise). They have a long list
of stereotyped salutations, which are hurriedly exchanged by
travellers as they pass on the road, and more deliberately and
sententiously delivered on entering a tent. Tender inquiries
after the flocks and herds, wives and children, are among the
number, but the latter of course is never addressed to lamas.
We, in our ignorance, were not supposed to know the lama
<em>régime</em>, and we could always shock the feelings of a strange
lama by asking after the <em>chuchung</em> (wife), and thereby raise
a laugh among the listeners.</p>

<p>During our night encampments it was considered necessary
for one of the party to keep watch and ward over the
goods and chattels, for the Mongols are not so honest as they
usually get credit for. Foreigners are disposed to put more
confidence in them than they do in each other, and they
must surely know their own countrymen best. If a Chinaman
were asked what he took such precautions for, he would
probably say against wolves and tigers; but the plain-spoken
Mongols bluntly tell you that thieves are their bugbear.
The expression they generally use for thieves is <em>mochung</em>,
"bad men," and it is questionable whether they
recognise any other kind of badness. They don't break up
the night into different watches, but one keeps guard the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
whole night through, the others taking it in turns on subsequent
nights. The lama, by virtue of his position as head of
the party, gave himself a dispensation, and the onus of watching
fell on Tellig and the Kitat lama. When we had strapped
down the door of our tent, made all snug for the night, and
retired under the blankets with a book, a candle burning
on the ground, we used to receive visits from Tellig in his
rounds. Lying down on the ground, he would insinuate his
large bullet head under the curtain of the tent, and scan us
carefully to see if we were asleep. If awake, he would ask
us for a light to his pipe, and for permission to smoke it in
the tent, as, in the high wind, it would be difficult to keep it
alight outside. He would then lie and smoke with half his
body inside the tent and half out, and on such occasions he
would become very confidential, giving us most interesting
accounts of his family affairs. He had a yourt near Tsagan-tuguruk,
and in that yourt he had a wife that he was greatly
attached to, and two boys that he was very proud of,&mdash;one
four years old and the other two. He had moderate possessions
in cattle, which, in his absence, were cared for by his
brother. He had been a long time separated from his family,
and while we were at Tsagan-tuguruk he had stolen a few
hours to ride over and see his "chickens and their dam";
but our impetuous haste to get away had cut his visit
very short. Tellig's story brought qualms of compunction
to our mind for what now seemed inconsiderate treatment;
for he had, from the first, had all the hard work,
and none of the indulgences; moreover he had always
done for us cheerfully what he was in no wise bound
to do.</p>

<p>The wind continued to howl eerily the whole night, and
our canvas flapped about like the sails of a ship in stays.
The morning was still bitterly cold, and the sky darkened by
heavy snow clouds driving furiously. It required no small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
resolution to turn out of our warm beds that morning; and
I am sure if either of us had been travelling alone, he would
have been inclined to lie quiet till called for. But we were
each afraid of showing the white feather, and of being twitted
with impeding the progress of the journey; we therefore
mutually forced ourselves to get up. The Mongols were
making no move. As for Tellig, he had just gone to sleep
after his night's watching, and it seemed nothing could ever
be done without him. With considerable trouble we overcame
the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vis inertiæ</i> of Mr. Lama, and persuaded him to ride
down with us to the bank of the river to reconnoitre. The
horses were brought in from the hill-side where they had
spent the night trying to pick out a few blades of grass from
among the stones. My "Dolonor" looked down in the
mouth, and did not snort at his master, which heretofore
he had never failed of doing on every occasion. The poor
brute was completely doubled up with the cold, and could
hardly move one leg past another. I immediately presented
him to a Mongol, but I am afraid, with his old age and
miserable condition, he could not last many more such
nights.</p>

<p>A great concourse of people were assembled on the bank of
the <em>Tolla</em>, many who wanted to cross, and many hangers-on,
who make a living by assisting travellers to cross the river.
Mongols kept riding backwards and forwards between the
river and the various caravans encamped in Kul valley, all
bent on the same errand as ourselves. But there was no
crossing the Tolla that day. The stream was foaming and
roaring like a cataract, with a current of nearly seven miles
an hour. It was deep enough to take a man up to the neck,
and the bottom was strewn with large round pebbles, making
fording difficult, even had the current been moderate and the
water shallower. What the boat was like that had been
swept away I cannot say; but there was only left a raft<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
made of hollow trees lashed together, and, in the present
state of the river, inadequate to any purpose whatever. In
the motley crowd there assembled, every one had some sage
advice to offer; communications were carried on at the
highest pitch of many stentorian lungs, and the place was
like another Babel. All concurred in the impossibility of
crossing; some thought it would be practicable to-morrow,
others were less hopeful. There was nothing for us to do
but to admire the truly magnificent scenery with which we
were surrounded. The valley of the Kul runs north, and
enters the larger valley of the Tolla at right angles. The
general aspect of the mountains that overhang Urga is
bare, the woods being scattered in small patches. The Tolla
rushes out of a gorge in the mountains to the east, and is
completely hidden by brushwood and willows, until it
debouches on the opening formed by the Kul, its tributary.
The Tolla hugs the left side of the valley, leaving a
wide flat on the right, over which lies the road to <em>Maimachin</em>
and <em>Urga</em>.</p>

<p>The day continued black and stormy till sunset. In the
evening the wind moderated, and at night the stars shone
out in all their splendour. The morning of the 21st of
September was charming, a bright sun and a blue sky, with
hard frost on the ground. The air was still, and the concert
of mingled sounds, of cattle lowing, dogs barking, and the
general hubbub among the wild Mongols who were in motion
in all quarters, was soothing to the feelings. It felt like a
summer day, in spite of the hard crust under our feet. I am
persuaded that unbroken fine weather would become very
tiresome and monotonous; it can only be thoroughly enjoyed
by contrast with stormy antecedents.</p>

<p>We again left the caravan to ride to the river, and, like
Noah's dove, we returned with the olive-branch in our
mouth. The waters had subsided a little, and some camels<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
had actually crossed. There was no doubt of it, for we saw
them with our own eyes standing dripping on the bank.
The lama of course made difficulties, but we forced him to
the attempt, and got the caravan moved down to the water
by 2 o'clock. There were two reasons why he felt reluctance
to force a passage to-day; first, we had our carts to get
through, which was, of course, much more difficult, and even
risky, than merely walking a camel through the water with a
load on his back. This objection we met by offering to leave
our carts behind. The next objection, which the lama did
not think it judicious to name to us, but which was nevertheless
to him the more cogent of the two, was that he would
require many assistants, and in the present condition of the
ford, with so many people waiting to cross, they exacted
onerous terms for their assistance; for even the simple unsophisticated
Mongols understand the mercantile laws of
supply and demand.</p>

<p>The regular ford was still too deep, and a more eligible
spot was selected, half a mile higher up the stream, where it
is divided into three branches, with low flat islands between.
The three branches make up a breadth of several hundred
yards, and the opposite shore is concealed from view by the
small trees and underwood that grow on the islands. The
scene at this ford was most animated and exciting. Before
proceeding to do anything, a great deal of jabbering had to
be gone through, but once the plan of action was settled, our
assistants set to work energetically. The two ponies of my
companion were taken possession of, each bestridden by a
Mongol, with his nether garments either stripped off altogether,
or tucked up to his hips. Each took the nose-string
of a camel and plunged into the ice-cold water. The camels
were wretched, turning their long necks every way to avert
their timid eyes from the water, of which they have an instinctive
dread. Moral suasion is vigorously applied to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
camel's hind-quarters by half a dozen men armed with
cudgels, but he still hesitates. The pony in his turn gets
tired, standing in the cold water, and tries to back out just
as the camel is feeling his way with his fore feet. The rider
is equally impatient, with his bare legs dangling in the water,
and plies his steed vigorously with his heels. It is all a
question of time, and both animals are eventually launched
into the stream. The camel's footing on the loose slippery
stones is very insecure, and when the deep part is reached, it
requires all his strength to prevent the current from floating
him clean off his legs. He knows his danger, and trembles
in every muscle. The same struggle occurs at each of the
three branches, and we all watch the progress of the first
detachment with breathless anxiety, as we see the pony
gradually sinking till only his head and shoulders are above
water. When they are safely landed on <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">terra firma</i>, the two
camels are unloaded, and brought back in the same way to
fetch the two carts. The carts have in the meantime been
emptied of our bedding, and various small necessaries we
usually kept there, which are lashed up in bundles, and
covered with waterproof sheets, ready to put on the back of
a camel. The passage of the carts was the most ticklish
business of all. They were all wood, except the iron-work
about the wheels. Would they sink or swim? If the latter,
it would be impossible to cross them in such a current. One
was actually floated away, camel and all, but luckily fetched
up on a shoal place lower down, whence it was recovered
with slight damage. We crossed with the last batch, two on
a camel. A Mongol sat behind me, and made me lean over
against the current, to give the camel a bias in that direction;
but I confess to having felt momentarily nervous, as
the poor beast staggered and hesitated in a strong eddying
current that almost carried him off his legs. Four hours had
been occupied in crossing the Tolla, during all which time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
the two ponies and their riders were in the water. The
men's legs had become a bright red colour, and their teeth
chattered audibly; but they were cheery and light-hearted,
and only laughed at their hardships. A dram when it was
all over made them as happy as kings. They are undoubtedly
a fine hardy race, these Mongols; no wonder that
they make such admirable soldiers. All sorts of people were
crossing the Tolla with us, among whom were some very old
men travelling on horseback. One old woman I observed
also, infirm and almost blind, crossing on a pony, her son
riding alongside of her and holding her on. These people
all take off their boots and trowsers, and carry them on the
saddle to put on dry at the other side.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 600px;"><a name="fording" id="fording"></a>
<img src="images/i-181.jpg" width="600" height="349" alt="fording" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">FORDING THE TOLLA NEAR URGA.</p>

<p class="sig">
(Page 147.)
</p></div>
</div>

<p>We were now a good mile from the road, and it was
getting dark. We could not travel further that night, and
did not wish to put up our tent. We therefore accepted an
escort, and the proffered hospitality of a Mongol, and galloped
to his yourt, which was near the Urga road. The
plain is grassy, but rather stony, and intersected by many
small watercourses running out of the Tolla. Our host was
none other than the <em>Kitat</em>, whom we had so summarily dismissed,
or at least compelled to send in his resignation, at
Tsagan-tuguruk. He received us with open arms in his
yourt, and commended us to the good offices of the lady who
presided over the cauldron. Whether she was his own wife,
or somebody else's wife, we could not clearly determine, but
she performed the household duties with exemplary assiduity.
A piece of a sheep was immediately put on the fire, while the
Kitat and the wife plied us with milk and cheese, and did
their best to entertain us with their lively conversation, which
turned chiefly on the passage of the Tolla, with an occasional
allusion to Tsagan-tuguruk. We, all the while, tried to
analyse the motives that actuated the Kitat in going out of
his way to show us such civility, seeing we had last parted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
with him on very indifferent terms. Did he intend to heap
coals of fire on our heads? or to show us that Mongols bear
no malice? Or was he proud to show his friends that he had
such distinguished guests in his tent? I believe he was
moved by none of these considerations, but simply by the
feeling of true hospitality that is natural to all Mongols. It
turned out that the feast our host had prepared was solely for
us, for he himself was already engaged to dine with our lama
and his Tolla-river friends when they should come up. We
were visited by many Mongols, some of whom appeared to
belong to the family, and spent a very pleasant evening.
When bed-time came, and the fire was out, the hole in the
roof was covered over, and the yourt was cleared of all but
ourselves, the Kitat and the lady.</p>

<p>Many valuable hours were lost next morning in settling
with the Mongols for their services of the preceding day. It
cost three taels in all&mdash;about a guinea&mdash;a sum which seemed
to our lama exorbitant, and caused many rueful shakes of
his shaven head. During the bustle of preparation, a heartless
robbery was committed on me. A small pic-nic case,
containing a drinking-glass, knife, fork and spoon, was stolen
out of the cart. If they had stolen a horse, or our tent, or box
of Sycee silver, I could have born it with equanimity, but the
loss of articles so constantly in use was hard to bear. I
missed them every hour of the day, and it was of course impossible
to replace them. I was compelled, on emergencies,
thereafter to use the <em>ei-iga</em> of some stray Mongol, which went
much against the grain. They are so uncleanly in their
habits that their wooden cups get frequently encrusted with
dirt. Their usual mode of cleaning them is to give the inside
of the cup a scrape with the back of the thumb-nail, or, when
they mean to be very particular, they clean their cup in the
same manner as a dog cleans a plate.</p>

<p>Having bought another pony for myself from the Kitat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
first, because I wanted it; and second, because I wanted to
acknowledge his hospitality, we formed the order of march,
which was this: Tellig, mounted on a pony, to accompany us
and pilot us to Maimachin and Urga, and then follow after
the caravan, which was to take a short cut from Maimachin
and cut off a corner at Urga, not passing through the town at
all. Maimachin is a Chinese commercial settlement about
two miles from the ford of the Tolla, established, as the
Mongols believe, for the purpose of swindling them. It is a
unique-looking place, built of wood for the most part, the
outer wall enclosing the whole, as also the fences round each
compound, being made of rough poles placed uprightly and
close together. It is entered by a gate, which has the appearance
of being in constant use. The mutual jealousies of the
two races lead them both to seclude themselves for their own
protection. The Chinese shopkeepers in the settlement are
well-to-do people, mostly, I believe, Shansi men. We rode
about the streets for some time trying to find a few necessaries
we required, but were not very successful. At last we
stopped at a blacksmith's shop to try and get our ponies
shod. The artisan to whom we addressed ourselves did not
understand us, but ran into the next shop and brought out a
well-dressed young fellow, who at once addressed us in Russian.
He could not comprehend our ignorance of that
language; but he soon condescended to speak Chinese, which
a Chinaman never will do if he can get on in any other
language. We could not deal with the man, however, and
being short of time we yielded to Tellig's importunity, and
turned our heads towards Urga. The streets of Maimachin
are canals of black mire, and so uneven that our beasts could
with difficulty keep their legs. We were heartily glad to get
out into the open air again.</p>

<p>On the way to Urga we passed a large house nearly
finished, on a rising ground, and in a fine commanding position.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
It is the house of the Russian consul; but Tellig would
not have it so,&mdash;said he knew the Russian house, and would
take us there all right. He certainly did take us to a Russian
piggery, where a few so-called merchants lived in the
most barbarous and filthy condition. We could not even communicate
with them, except in the little we had picked up of
the Mongol language. To see the consul we had to go all the
way back again to the big house we had passed. Mr. Shishmaroff,
the vice-consul in charge, received us very hospitably,
and treated us to a civilised breakfast on a clean white
tablecloth. It was a greater luxury to us than probably even
our host imagined, for we had not seen an egg for twenty-seven
days, there being no fowls in Mongolia. Mr. Shishmaroff
must lead a very solitary life in Urga, having no one
with whom to associate but the high Chinese mandarin and the
Mongol deputy-khan. His house-supplies are, for the most
part, brought from Kiachta, the Russian frontier town, 175
miles distant. The Russian government keeps up a considerable
establishment at Urga, the consul having a body-guard of
twenty Cossacks, besides the twenty Russian carpenters who
are at work on the new house, and other hangers-on. The
object of such an expensive establishment, at a place like
Urga, where Russia has no interests whatever to protect, can
only be divined by the light of its traditional policy of progress
in Asia. It has long been considered<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> that the Khingan
chain of mountains running east and west past Urga to the
head waters of the river Amoor forms the "natural boundary"
of Siberia, and consequently advantage has been taken of
disputes between the Mongol khans of former times and
some Russian merchants who had penetrated as far as Urga,
to gain a foot-hold there, which will certainly never be relinquished
until the whole tract of country enclosed by these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
mountains and by the river Kerulun, the head stream of the
Amur, to Lake Hurun or Dalainor, has been annexed to
Siberia. After that, the "natural boundary" will be discovered
to lie still farther to the south. Russia is in no
hurry to enter on the possession of this new territory, but,
in the mean time, the country has been surveyed, and is
included in Russian maps of Eastern Siberia. The transfer
will be made quietly, and without bloodshed, when the
favourable moment comes, for none understand better than
Russian diplomatists the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">suaviter in modo</i> when it suits
their purpose. No one will be much a loser by the change.
The Emperor of China will lose his nominal suzerainty over
a country that even now probably costs him more than it is
worth. The Mongol tribes, with their chiefs, would merely
become subjects of one autocrat instead of another; but
everything else would probably go on as at present until
time brought gradual changes. The Chinese merchants
don't care a straw about who is king as long as they are left
to their peaceful occupations; and the Russian government
is too enlightened to throw any obstacles in the way of a
trade which has done more than anything else to develop
the resources of the Siberian deserts.</p>

<p>The name, <em>Urga</em>, or the camp, is not in common use. The
Mongols call it <em>Kuren</em> or <em>Ta Kuren</em>, which Huc translates
the "great enclosure." The situation of the town, or camp,
or whatever it may be called, is romantic in the extreme. It
stands on a wide plateau about a mile from the Tolla.
Behind the Kuren is a bold and rugged mountain range
which shelters it from the northerly gales, while in front
there is never wanting a pleasing prospect for the eye to rest
upon in the roughly wooded mountains beyond the Tolla, that
hem in the valley of that river. The river itself is hardly seen
from the town, being concealed by the growth of brushwood
on its banks and on the low islands that lie in the stream.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p>

<p>The population is scattered over the plateau, without much
reference to regularity of arrangement, and instead of streets
the dwellings of the Mongols are separated by crooked passages.
The only buildings in the place are temples, official
residences, and the houses occupied by Chinese or Russians.
The Mongols live in tents, as they do in the desert, with this
difference, that each family surrounds itself with a wooden
palisade as a protection from thieves, who are numerous
among the pilgrims, who resort on pious missions to the
Kuren.</p>

<p>A man was found to shoe our ponies, which he did well
and expeditiously, and at a very moderate charge, about half
the sum demanded at Maimachin. The shoeing-smith was a
Chinaman&mdash;of course&mdash;for it seems the Mongols never do,
under any circumstances, shoe their horses. They have no
hard roads, it is true, to contend with, but even the gravelly
sand of many parts of the desert does sometimes wear down
the soles of their horses' feet, and particularly the toes, until
the animal becomes useless. They seldom allow them to
get so bad as that, however, as the large herds they possess
afford them the means of frequently changing their
saddle-horses.</p>

<p>There are no shops in the Kuren, that being contrary to
the Mongol nature. All things necessary for desert life are to
be purchased for bricks of tea in a large open space where a
great bazaar is held under booths, principally by Mongol
women. There you may purchase horses, cattle, tents,
leather harness, saddles, beef, mutton, caps for lamas or
black men, female ornaments, felt,&mdash;in short everything
within the scope of Mongol imagination. Our small purchases
were effected very satisfactorily&mdash;no attempt was
made to impose on us because we were strangers, and we had
reason to congratulate ourselves that we were not at the
mercy of Chinese. In nothing is the contrast between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
Mongols and Chinese more marked than in the common
honesty of shopkeepers or hawkers. It may indeed be said
with truth that mercantile honesty allows a man to get
as much as he can for his goods, but it is very doubtful
whether such a maxim can properly be stretched so as to
justify a shopkeeper in taking a customer at a disadvantage.</p>

<p>The nucleus of the Mongol settlement at Urga is the
Great Lamasery of the Guison-tamba or Lama-king of the
Mongols. In this monastery, and in the minor ones round
it, it has been said that 30,000 lamas reside, which estimate,
however, must be received with caution. The two great
lamaseries of Dobodorsha and Daichenalon are built in an
indentation of the mountains that form the northern valley
which opens into the valley of the Tolla at Urga. As our
route from Urga lay on the slope of the opposite side of the
valley, and our time was exhausted, we had not the chance of
visiting these temples. The buildings are of vast extent, as
plain almost as if they were barracks; but what ornamentation
there is about them is quiet and in good taste. They
differ considerably from the Chinese style of architecture,
and are no doubt Thibetan. An inscription in the Thibetan
language has been placed on the slope of the hill above the
monasteries. The characters are formed by means of white
stones, and the size of them is such as to render the writing
perfectly legible at the distance of a mile.</p>

<p>All good lamas esteem it an honour to be able to say they
have made a pilgrimage to the Kuren, and these devotees
come from enormous distances&mdash;some from the Manchurian
wildernesses in the far east, and others from the frontiers of
Thibet.<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> There are many small shrines on the plateau on
which the town stands, erected for the convenience of those
ascetics who are desirous of commending themselves to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
favour of Bhudda and to the respect of their fellows. I
observed one of these deluded people performing a journey to
a shrine, which was then about a quarter of a mile from him.
He advanced by three measured steps one stage, made sundry
prostrations, falling flat on his face on the stony ground,
repeated prayers, and then advanced again. I know not
from what distance he had come, or how long it was since he
had commenced this slow and painful march; but, on a
rough calculation, we made out that it would take him
two days more, at the same rate of progress, to reach the
goal.</p>

<p>The Lama-king of the Kuren is regarded by the Mongols
as a god. He can never die&mdash;he only transmigrates. The
whole of the Kalkas tribes are under his sway, and this personage
is consequently an object of constant jealousy to the
emperors of China, who keep an anxious watch over his proceedings.
The lama system has been greatly humoured by
the Chinese emperors from early times, and the theocracy of
Mongolia and Thibet is mainly of their creation. The secular
sovereignty of these nations became spiritual by an accident
or an after-thought, and does not, like the Japanese, trace
back into the dawn of history its descent from the gods. The
last independent king of Thibet finding himself in great
trouble from within and from without, escaped from the cares
of government by becoming a lama. This happened about the
year 1100 A.D., and, in a few years afterwards, Thibet became
subject to China. When Kublai became Emperor of China
he made a lama of Thibet king, and the kings who succeeded
the Mongols in China followed up the idea of conciliating the
lama power by making eight of them kings. These afterwards
(<small>A.D.</small> 1426) took the title of grand lama, and the chief
of them became the Dalai-lama of Thibet,<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> who from that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
time to this has been the head of the Bhuddist religion and
the vassal king of Thibet. It would have been impossible,
under any circumstances, for the Dalai-lama to have maintained
a real surveillance over the widely-scattered tribes
who acknowledged his spiritual sway; and in fact his authority
over his distant dependents began to be greatly
relaxed from the time that the emperors of China completed
the subjection of all the tribes who now inhabit what is
called Chinese Tartary. The Emperor Kang-hi, under whose
reign this was accomplished, promoted the independence of
the lama-king of the Kalkas with a view to severing the tie
that bound them to their neighbours the Eleuths or Kalmuks,
and in order to accustom the vassal chiefs of the various tribes
to look more and more to the Chinese emperors for government
and protection. By this wise policy the Chinese government
sought to divert the Mongols from forming any combination
which might threaten the stability of the foreign rule
to which the tribes had just been subjected. The Chinese
ambassadors at the court of the Dalai-lama, men of great
talent, and trained in diplomatic subtlety, furthered these
purposes of their government by holding in check the pretensions
of the Dalai-lama, while appearing to support him,
and, by indirect means, neutralising his authority whenever
the exercise of it seemed to clash with the Chinese policy.
The lama-king of the Kalkas has therefore become virtually
independent of his spiritual superior at Lassa, for whom he
has about the same regard as Napoleon has for the Pope.</p>

<p>The "Urga" of the Kalkas has not always been where it
stands now. In 1720,<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> it was on the river Orkhon, near its
confluence with the Selenga, some distance north of the
present Urga. But some time before that date the Kalkas
had their head-quarters where the Urga now stands, for we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
read<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> of the Eleuths having "destroyed the magnificent
temple, which the Kutuchtu had built near the river Tula,
of yellow varnished bricks," about the year 1688.</p>

<p>The mountain fastnesses of the Khangai range, stretching
south-west from Urga, and bordering the great desert, are
eminently favourable to the assembling of armies, and afford
a safe retreat for fugitive tribes. The richness of the
pastures, and the abundance of water supplied by the
larger rivers, and by the mountain streams that are found
in every ravine, afford sustenance for unlimited herds and
flocks. The first Huns had their head-quarters not far from
Urga long before the Christian era. The site of the old
Mongol capital of Kara Korum is about 160 miles from
Urga in a south-west direction. Thence the Mongols issued
forth to conquer Asia and Europe, and thither they returned,
when driven out of China in 1368, to found the new empire
of the Yuen of the north, under a Grand Khan of the Kalkas.
There also flourished Ung-Khan, celebrated in the 12th
century, from his name having been used by the Nestorians
as a stalking-horse for perpetrating what has generally been
considered as a gigantic hoax on the Pope and various
European sovereigns. The Nestorians caused it to be reported
that they had converted this potentate and his
subjects to Christianity; and that the Khan had been by
them baptised under the name of John. Letters were
written in the name of this "Prester John" as he was
called, to his royal brethren in the west. These seem to
have been credited as genuine, for more than one mission
was despatched from European courts to make the acquaintance
of this most Christian king. There is, perhaps, as much
reason to believe as to doubt the conversion of this prince.
These expeditions, if they failed in their main purpose, were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
at least the means of giving to the world much curious information
concerning the inhabitants of the Great Tartary.</p>

<p>"Prester John," or, to call him by his right name, Ung-Khan,
was the most powerful Tartar prince of his day.
Genghis, then called Temoujin, when a very young man,
repaired to the court of Ung-Khan to seek aid to repress
disturbances among his own tribes, and soon became commander-in-chief
of Ung-Khan's armies, in which capacity he
displayed the high military qualities which afterwards made
him master of nearly the whole civilised world. He was a
great favourite with the Khan, and all went on smoothly
until the unlucky day when Ung-Khan's daughter fell in love
with young Temoujin. The course of true love did not run
smooth with him, for his rivals being fired with enmity, began
to plot against him with the Khan, who in time yielded to
their instigation, and betrayed his best friend. Temoujin remained
true to his colours long after he lost the confidence of
the Khan; but the discovery of a deeply-laid plot against his
life at length brought him to an open rupture with his
sovereign. They fought a pitched battle between the rivers
Tolla and Kerlon, probably at a short distance eastward from
the present Urga. Ung-Khan's forces had greatly the advantage
in numbers, but the Khan was no match for his
accomplished general. Temoujin gained a decisive victory.
The Khan escaped from the field of battle, but was soon
afterwards killed, and his dynasty destroyed. Temoujin now
found himself master of the situation, and was installed at
Kara-Korum in 1206, under the title of Genghis-Khan.</p>

<p>Having done our business at the Kuren, we started rather
late in the afternoon in pursuit of the camels. The route lay
about north through a valley. It was bad travelling, owing
to the rough nature of the ground. It is naturally soft and
boggy, and the melted snow in the low ground had greatly
aggravated the evil. When past the great monasteries, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
got on higher ground on the slope of the hills, but this was,
if possible, more slippery than the low road, for the melting
snow above kept up a continuous supply of moisture which
made the road very difficult even for horses. We soon came
upon the traces of camels, which we had no difficulty in
identifying by the side-slips down the hill made by their
broad splay feet. This is always dangerous work for camels,
and we had some apprehension of accidents from "splitting,"
or dislocating the hip joints. We were in consequence not
ill-pleased to come upon the caravan a little after sunset,
encamped in a narrow ravine looking west, and at the foot of
a steep pass. Several of the camels had fallen, but fortunately
none were injured. It was a fine moonlight night,
and we tried to get our people to proceed on the journey;
but the camels could not draw the carts over the pass, steep
as it was, and with such slippery roads. Bullocks had been
sent for, and they were expected every hour, of course, but it
might have been evident to us that they had no intention of
coming before morning. Anyhow we would not be the occasion
of delay, and therefore slept in our carts ready for a
move at any moment. At daylight on the 23rd of September
the bullocks came, two for each cart, accompanied by a young
woman and a boy, who proceeded to harness them in a very
slow and deliberate manner. The beasts did their work, but
with difficulty, owing to the broken character of the road.
On the top of the pass our lama paid his respects to an
obon, by throwing a large piece of wood on it, and the
bullocks took the carts safely down the other side of the
pass, which was quite as steep as the ascent. We then proceeded
with the camels through valleys and undulations,
among fine mountain scenery, avoiding the main road, and
striking off through various bye-paths, all apparently well
known to our conductors. At 3 p.m. we halted off Narim
valley to dine, intending to take advantage of the moonlight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
to resume our night travelling. But as bad luck would have
it a snowstorm came on, and we had to remain where we
were till morning. All hopes of mending our pace from
Urga to Kiachta now vanished. We had already lost two
good nights out of the four, or at most five days which is
considered ample time for the journey; and if the stormy
weather were to continue, which it looked very like doing, we
might be the whole winter on the road. The beasts had
little to eat but snow all night. In the morning the ground
was white, but the storm was over. Our old enemy the wind
began early in the day to stir the twigs of the trees, and
though he came in like a lamb, we had but too sure a presentiment
of what was coming. It blew fiercely all day, and
we walked during the greater part of it. The slight covering
of snow on the ground soon melted under the combined
action of the sun and wind. The latter agency is certainly
the more powerful of the two, when the atmosphere is above
freezing temperature. Our nights were always very frosty,
but the sun had still sufficient influence during the middle of
the day to moisten the surface of the ground.</p>

<p>Over a steep pass and down into another valley we joined
the main road, which is now very broad and good. Our
march continued to be diversified by valleys and undulations,
the scene constantly changing, and now and again opening
out enchanting views of scenery, with every variety of rock
and river, wooded hills and high mountain ranges tumbling
on each other. The wind, that had blown bitterly cold all
day, lulled at sunset; the sky continued clear, and we had a
calm frosty night. Halted at 10 p.m. in <em>Gurun-dsata</em>, a
broad rich valley, with abundant grass, and supporting vast
herds of cattle, which the clear moonlight revealed to us.
The beauties of this spot were only fully discovered at sunrise
the next morning, which being calm and fine, we were in
the best humour to enjoy the rocky, woody, and pastoral<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
scenes around us. It was plain we had got into a country
altogether different from the Mongol steppes. The valleys
are all watered by streams, and the soil susceptible of high
cultivation.</p>

<p>We are now frightened with another bugbear, in the shape
of an unfordable river, the <em>Khara-gol</em>, or "black-river." It
seemed we were destined to be delayed by every possible
contrivance of nature, for these rivers are very rarely flooded.
Were it otherwise, some device would certainly have been
found to meet the emergency. It was all the more hard,
therefore, that these paltry little Mongol rivers should get
themselves up into such a state of fury just when we were
passing through the country.</p>

<p>During our march towards Khara river, we struck the
river <i>Boro</i>, a tributary of the Khara, which waters a fine
broad valley containing the largest Mongol population we
had seen anywhere collected in one place. As we followed
the course of the Boro down the valley, we passed several
apparently separate communities, all rich in cattle. A novel
sight here met our eye, the cultivation of a coarse kind of
rye, called by the Mongols, <em>boota</em>. They were harvesting
this as we passed, carting it to the yourts in a rough sort of
wooden cart, and stacking it up. This seems to show that
the Mongols are not naturally averse to cultivation, when
they are favourably circumstanced for carrying it out. Some
of their tribes, such as those in Western Toumet, mentioned
by Huc, do indeed systematically cultivate the ground. The
sun had set before we got to the end of the valley, and we
encamped in the evening not far from the left bank of the
Khara-gol, sending out the lama with a native of the district
to survey a crossing for the morning.</p>

<p>Early on the 26th we advanced to the river at a place
higher up than the usual ford. Carts were unloaded, and
the passage effected in the same way as the Tolla, but, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
river being much smaller, less time was lost in the operation.
There is always a busy scene at these fords, particularly
when a drove of cattle have to be got over. One poor man
spent the whole morning in fruitless endeavours to drive
half-a-dozen cattle through the river, but the neighbours at last
came to his assistance, and led them through one by one.</p>

<p>There was a steep pass before us, a few miles distant, and
at a yourt near the Khara four sturdy little yaks were
engaged to get our carts over. A young lama courier, well
versed in the Russian language, whom we found in the
yourt, where he had spent the night, afforded us no end of
fun all the morning. He was a great wag, and affected to
be a man of the world, travelling constantly as he did
between the court of Peking and Kiachta. He chaffed our
lama more than he liked, criticising his cattle, and offering
to buy him out. As a specimen of how these couriers do
their work, this young scamp had not only spent the whole
night in a yourt, but waited in the morning for our party,
and kept company with us till near mid-day.</p>

<p>The pass is up a steep and rugged ravine, thickly wooded
with white-skinned birch-trees. The trees do not grow to
any size before they rot in the heart, and become hollow,
when the wind blows them over. Few of them have a
proper trunk, but two or three strong suckers shooting up
from the root. It makes excellent firewood, but is unfit for
any other purpose.</p>

<p>In the ascent the view is entirely shut in by the woods,
but on the top, near the <em>Obon</em>, is a clear space, from which
an imposing view is obtained of the hills and dales behind
and before us, with the Boro valley spread out at our feet.
In the descent we plunge again into the thick woods,
emerging at the foot into a long valley leading to <em>Bain-gol</em>.
This is a very small river, with soft, boggy ground on either
side, very bad walking for camels. The river, like the others<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
we had crossed, runs westwards and northwards. On the
north side of Bain-gol we halted from sunset till midnight,
and at daylight entered another fine, long valley, through
which runs the <em>Shara-gol</em>, the "yellow," or "sandy river,"
for it may be translated either way. In this valley the
grass grew more luxuriantly than we had yet seen. Crowds
of Mongols were settled here, and the valley was covered
with enormous herds of cattle. The people were busy cutting
the long grass with scythes, which they handle very
skilfully, and stacking it up round their yourts. This grassy
spot was selected for wintering in, and is no doubt less
populous in the summer season, when the grass is green
and abundant in the country. A steep pass takes us out of
this valley, but we still follow to the left the course of the
river for some distance. We halted about 4 o'clock, the
lama having ridden to a distant yourt to buy a sheep. He
could not bring it with him, but must needs return to our
tent, and send Tellig, who was a "black man," to fetch the
sheep, thereby losing much valuable time. The lama notions
on this subject are absurd in the extreme. They will not kill
an animal, nor will they carry it to be killed. But they
will bargain for and purchase the animal for the purpose of
getting it killed, and they will eat it after it is killed, thus
becoming "accessory after the fact," as well as before it. I
never could understand the logic of this practical application
of the doctrine of transmigration, for it always appeared to
me that on the hypothesis of the soul of Bhudda or any
relative being in captivity in the body of a sheep, it would
be a simple act of charity to release it by procuring the
transmigration.</p>

<p>It rained a little at sunset, but no gale of wind followed,
as on former occasions.</p>

<p>At midnight we proceeded over a stiff sandy pass, and
got the carts through by putting an extra camel to each of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
them. This was followed by another stiff pass, a little
sandy, but road pretty good, and so on through the night,
till we descended about 9 o'clock next day to the banks of
the <em>Iro-gol</em>, a smooth flowing river, 100 yards wide, and
ten feet deep. Seeing hosts of caravans on both sides of
the river we expected to have to "wait a wee" before we
could get across, but were agreeably surprised to find a
passage ready for us in a few hours. Rafts made of hollowed
trees lashed together transport the baggage, the camels and
horses, unloaded, are led from the boats, and swim across.
The current of the Iro was about three miles an hour.
The right bank of the river at the place we crossed is a
great flat, but the left bank is hilly and well wooded, and
apparently closed in by bluffs on the right bank above and
below us, for the river is very tortuous. It forms altogether
a very pretty valley. We had to spend a good many hours
basking in the warm sunshine, waiting for all the force to
get over. When the caravan was ready to start we induced
the lama to ride ahead with us through <em>Talabulyk</em>, taking
a sackful of mutton to be boiled at some yourt ready for
Tellig and his friend when they came up. By this means
we saved much time, and gave the Mongols no excuse for
another halt. One long march would bring us to Kiachta,
and we were the more anxious to lose no time, because a
storm, or some other unforeseen event, might delay us again.
We travelled hard all night over rough roads, through dense
pine forests, and shortly after daylight we came out on a
rather sandy open space, across which, at a distance of eight
miles, Tellig pointed out two white specks, informing us,
with an air of triumph, that that was Kiachta. They were
two of the church spires that form landmarks for all Russian
towns.</p>

<p>Here we were, then, at last, on the 29th of September,
at the end of a journey which had sometimes seemed interminable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
Thirty-four days in travelling 780 miles!
Think of that, ye who fly about the country in express trains.
Of course the high Russian officials who pass occasionally
between Peking and St. Petersburg have a quicker mode of
getting across Mongolia. The post horses kept for the
couriers are at their disposal, and by some pre-arrangement
they have relays all the way, and so they travel in their
own comfortable carriages from Kiachta to Peking in twelve
days or so.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2>

<h3>MONGOLS&mdash;HISTORICAL NOTES.</h3>


<p>A peculiar interest surrounds these wandering tribes of
the desert. In them we see the living representatives of the
ancient Huns, and of the yet more ancient Scythians.
Of them came Attila, "the Scourge of God," who with his
barbarian hordes shook the foundations of Europe in the
fifth century, and accelerated the downfall of the old
Roman empire; of them came also the redoubtable warriors
who desolated Asia and Europe six hundred years ago.</p>

<p>The Mongol tribes are exceedingly conservative in their
habits; their fashions never change. A description of their
manners in the time of Genghis, or even of Attila, is equally
applicable now. Everything goes to show that in the form
of their tents, in their dress, their social customs, and their
mode of life, the Mongols of to-day have changed but little
since they first became known to history.</p>

<p>The early history of the Huns is involved in obscurity.
They appear to have existed as a pastoral people, inhabiting
the east of the desert of Gobi from about 1200 <small>B.C.</small>, during
which time they were frequently at war with the Chinese.
The first authentic accounts of them date from about the
year 200 <small>B.C.</small>, when they greatly extended their empire,
and became very formidable neighbours to China. It was
in the third century before the Christian era that the
Chinese built the famous wall as a protection from the inroads<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
of the warlike Huns, who, notwithstanding, laid China
under tribute.</p>

<p>Vouti, of the Han dynasty (died 87 <small>B.C.</small>), gained a bloody
victory over the Huns, and was the first to break their
power in China. He followed up his military success by
the application of the craft for which his race was, even at
that early date, distinguished. By diligently promoting
dissension among the tribes he succeeded in severing many
of them from their allegiance to the Tanjou, the title then
adopted by the kings of the Huns. The Tanjou himself
became afterwards a vassal to the Chinese emperors, and
was fain to lick the dust for a dependent kingship.</p>

<p>About 100 years after the birth of Christ, the Huns were
broken up and scattered. The Huns of the South, who had
previously seceded from the main body, and had established
their dynasty in alliance with China, held together till the
year 216 <small>A.D.</small> The Northern Huns, being distressed by a
great famine, were attacked by the tribes whom they had
so long oppressed, and were compelled to seek safety in
flight. From that era we must date the migrations of the
Hunnish tribes. They were again subdivided. One branch
wandered to the coast of the Caspian Sea, where they
settled, and became modified in their character under the
influence of a more genial climate; their nomad habits
were gradually abandoned; and they became civilised.
These were called the White Huns.</p>

<p>Another branch migrated in a north-westerly direction,
and in their march had to contend with a more rigorous climate.
Exasperated by their struggles with the elements and
with many enemies, they retained all their savageness in
their new settlement on the Volga. These restless warriors
had barely secured their own existence in the west, when they
began to attack their neighbours. After conquering the
Alani, a nation only a little less barbarous than themselves,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
and adding to their own forces those of the vanquished
tribes, the Huns became the terror of the Goths, and these
also fell a prey to the invaders before the end of the fourth
century of the Christian era.</p>

<p>But the power of these wandering tribes was always liable
to be paralysed by the jealousies of rival chiefs. Their notions
of government were crude; hereditary succession was
held of little account among them. The Huns were only
formidable to their neighbours when they were under the
leadership of chiefs who possessed sufficient vigour to rise
pre-eminent over all others, and the talent or the craft to
secure to themselves absolute power.</p>

<p>Attila was one of these. The Huns were already in the
ascendant when he came to the throne; but his genius,
energy, and insatiable ambition soon rendered them the terror
of all Europe, and himself the greatest barbarian that
ever wielded the sceptre. Attila had a body-guard of subject
kings. His effective force has been variously estimated at
half-a-million and at seven hundred thousand men. He enriched
himself with the spoils of all nations; yet in the
height of his barbaric pride he retained in camp the simple
habits of his ancestors. Having subdued every hostile tribe
within his reach, and incorporated their armies with his own,
he threw the whole weight of his forces on the corrupt and
degenerate Roman Empire, which was brought to the feet of
the conqueror and compelled to accept conditions of peace
the most degrading that the insolence of the invader could
dictate.</p>

<p>Desolation everywhere followed the march of Attila, for
destruction was ever the glory of the barbarians. As the
old Huns lived by predatory warfare, so the hosts of Attila
were actuated, only in a higher degree, by the savage instincts
of wild beasts. But their power only held together
while there was food for pillage, and a master mind to direct<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
their enterprise. And thus their reign of terror in Europe
was of brief duration. A heavy debauch cut short the
career of Attila, and he died an inglorious death in his own
bed from the bursting of an artery. The empire of his
creation collapsed after his death amid contending factions;
and in <small>A.D.</small> 468, just fifteen years after the death of Attila,
the empire of the Huns was utterly destroyed, and their
name disappeared from history.</p>

<p>The shepherds tended their flocks in the steppes of Tartary,
and 700 years passed away before another chief arose to
summon the scattered tribes to his standard. During that
period sundry insignificant dynasties succeeded each other on
the outskirts of the Chinese dominions. The Turks also
appeared in the interval, and established a formidable power,
which lasted from the sixth to the eighth century. They
issued from the Altai mountains, where they had served the
Geougen Tartars who had overwhelmed the Huns after the
death of Attila. The Turks, or Turki, reduced the Geougen,
and, it is said, almost extirpated them. These Turks have
been supposed to have been identical in race with the Huns
who preceded, and the Mongols who followed, them.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> But
there is much reason to doubt their consanguinity.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> The
great skill in iron working for which the original Turks were
distinguished, seems sufficient to mark a difference between
them and the ancestors of the pure Mongols. They shaved
the beard also in token of grief, and were considered by the
Persians handsome men.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> The Huns and Mongols had
almost no beard, and in the eyes of all writers who have
thought it worth while to describe their persons, they were
remarkable for their deformity.</p>

<p>It would, however, be a hopeless task to unravel the descent
of the various races miscalled Tartars. The old Chinese<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
records have preserved little more than the catalogue of
kings and battles, and of the rise and fell of dynasties. The
Tartar powers that have successively risen up in Asia have
never been composed of a homogeneous race. Their names,
even have generally been taken from some small tribe or
family which accident rendered prominent; and the names
Tartar, Turk, and Mongol, have been perpetuated and misapplied
to armies and confederations of mixed races. The
wanderings of these mixed tribes, the dissolution of empires
which arose among them, and the reconstruction of these empires
under new combinations, have constantly tended to the
amalgamation in blood and language of races distinct in
origin, but following the same nomadic habits. Their mode
also of dealing with prisoners of war, and the conditions
which they imposed on conquered nations, conduced still more
to the fusion and confusion of races. It was unusual with
the Huns or Mongols to spare their prisoners, unless they
could employ them either as slaves or soldiers, or make profit
by their ransom. The men were massacred, and the eligible
women were appropriated by the conquerors. A supply of
women was exacted as tribute from subject states. This
gross indignity was ruthlessly imposed on the Chinese; and
"a select band of the fairest maidens of China was annually
devoted to the rude embraces of the Huns."<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> These practices
must have tended greatly to enhance the perplexity of
ethnologists in attempting to analyse the masses of men who,
by the vicissitudes of war, were from time to time assembled
under one standard, and received the name of the dominant
family.</p>

<p>When the Huns appeared in Europe, however, they were
portrayed by the Goths and Romans in graphic but distorted
terms. Through the haze of these hideous caricatures,<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
the fabulous origin which fear and hatred attributed to the
Huns, we cannot fail to identify in them the form and features
of the modern Mongols. Whatever be the descent of
the numerous Turki tribes, and whatever changes may have
been brought about by intermixture, change of climate, &amp;c.,
in the pastoral peoples, the great race of the Mongols has in
the main preserved its manners and its characteristics through
all its revolutions and migrations, and has proved its unity in
blood with the Huns of Attila. The Mongols are certainly
far from being a handsome people, but the Romans, themselves
models of symmetry, greatly exaggerated their deformity.
The barbarians were esteemed so fiendish in their
aspect, that the Goths, to account for the phenomenon, were
obliged to invent the fable of the descent of the Huns from
the unholy union of Scythian witches with infernal spirits.
They were inhumanly ugly. Attila himself was hideous.
Yet that did not deter the young Princess Honoria from betraying,
or feigning, a passion for him. That spirited lady,
with a courage worthy of a better cause, found means of
secretly communicating with the king of the Huns, and
urged him to claim her as his bride.</p>

<p>In the thirteenth century, Genghis became Khan<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> of all
the Mongols, who under him were once more the terror of
the world. Genghis had already conquered the Naimans, a
powerful people in their day; and invaded Tangout. When
he had assembled under his standard the tribes of his own
people and of the nations whom he had conquered, he was
impelled by his restless ambition to keep them in motion.
The lust of conquest became his ruling passion, and every
new trophy added fuel to its flame. He first invaded Kitai,
or northern China, overran the territories of the then powerful
Kin, desolated their cities and villages, and massacred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
their people, and then retired to the river Tolla to recruit,
having added to his army many Chinese of all ranks. The
seven years' campaign in the west followed shortly after,
during which Genghis conquered Persia and Bukhara, destroyed
many populous cities, and put to the sword prodigious
numbers of human beings. His lieutenants extended their
ravages still further westward, while Genghis himself returned
to his head-quarters at Kara-Korum. Kitai was again invaded,
and Tangout subjugated. On the death of Genghis,
in 1227, the succession to the Khanate fell to his son Oktai,
who followed up the conquest of China according to instructions
delivered by Genghis on his death-bed. But the
empire had become so unwieldy, and the distances that
separated the divisions of it so vast, that it could no longer
subsist in its integrity. It was soon split up into sections,
which were parcelled out to the descendants of Genghis.
Some reigned in Persia, and some in Kapchak, a territory
stretching from the Caspian Sea to Kazan, and covering a
large portion of the steppe of the Kirghis. The little dynasty
of the Nogai Tartars was also founded in Europe by a descendant
of Genghis. The Tartar kingdoms of Kazan and the
Crimea were both offshoots from the khans of Kapchak.
Batou, Khan of Kapchak, or the Golden Horde, took Moscow
and wasted the Russian provinces. Kublai, who succeeded
to China, was the greatest of them all. In addition
to that country, he possessed Pegu, Thibet, and the whole of
Tartary; while Cochin China, Tonquin, and Corea paid him
tribute. He was, moreover, acknowledged by all the other
khans as their chief. But the whole continent of Asia lay
between him and his vassals, and his suzerainty soon became
a name only, and in course of time the form also was discontinued.</p>

<p>The Mongols were, however, incapable of maintaining a
settled government. The expeditions to subjugate Japan<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
having proved fruitless, there was no other country left for
them to conquer; this quiescent state was unnatural to them,
and Chinese culture demoralised them in less than a hundred
years.</p>

<p>Russia was held by a tenure more suitable to the nomad
habits of the Mongols. Armies had to be maintained, and
the khans of the Golden Horde found occupation in keeping
down the Russian princes. They therefore held their supremacy
in Europe, until they did the work of their enemies by
quarrelling amongst themselves, but their yoke was not
finally shaken off till the fifteenth century.</p>

<p>Before the empires founded by the family of Genghis had
been wholly broken up, another great Mongol conqueror
appeared in the person of Timour, or Tamerlane. Born
under happier auspices, and brought up in contact with
more civilised people, Timour added to the native ferocity
and the ambition of universal empire of his ancestors, the
arts and some of the refinements of education. He was,
moreover, a zealous Mahommedan, and drew from the
Koran encouragements in his career of conquest, and excellent
moral maxims which seemed in strange contrast with
his life. In a military point of view, Timour's life was a
brilliant success. Before his death he placed twenty-seven
crowns on his head; he conquered India, and boasted that
he had penetrated northwards to the region of perpetual
day. His conquests outstripped those of Alexander. "On
the eastern bank of the Hyphasis, on the edge of the Desert,
the Macedonian hero halted and wept; the Mogul entered
the desert, reduced the fortress of Batnir, and stood in arms
before Delhi."<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> He captured Delhi, and "purified his soldiers
in the blood of the idolaters." Timour, when he was seventy
years old, resolved to re-conquer China, from which country<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
the family of Genghis had been recently expelled. He despatched
his armies from Samarcand for the expedition, but
he himself died on the way, in 1405, and his empire fell to
pieces through the incapacity of his sons.</p>

<p>Timour had perhaps the honour of shedding more blood
than any of his predecessors; but, like them, he was incapable
of governing what he had conquered. His boast
that a child might carry a purse of gold from the east to the
west, could be justified only on the supposition that he had
pacified Asia by making it a solitude.</p>

<p>He was considered a usurper by the Mongols of his day.
He made war on his own people because they were idolaters;
yet the modern Mongols worship him, beguiling their long
evenings in their tents by chanting invocations to his
memory.</p>

<p>The next great Mongol who left his mark on the world
was Timour's great-grandson Baber, who conquered Delhi in
1528, and founded there the dynasty of the Great Mogul.
But Baber was ashamed of his descent, and despised the
Mongol character. It was probably to his throwing off the
barbarism of his ancestors, that his family owed the permanence
of their Indian empire. The last scion of this royal
house died in misery at Rangoon, in 1862.</p>

<p>On the disruption of the Mongol empire, founded by
Genghis, and built on by his successors, the tribes who
composed it were dispersed far and wide over Europe and
Asia, from the Great Wall of China to the Volga and the
Black Sea. Their dynastic divisions were numerous, but the
Mongol blood was soon lost in many of these. The Khans
were often followed into conquered territories by a small
proportion only of their own race, sometimes by a few
families, and sometimes by a few individuals only, their
armies being mainly composed of alien elements. These
handfuls of men soon lost their national characteristics under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
the influence of a settled life, and contact with races better
trained in the arts of peace. The numerical superiority of
the people among whom they lived, must necessarily have
absorbed them; and it would be hard now to trace the
Mongol blood in the descendants of the Tartars of the Crimea,
of Kazan, of Nogai, or of Kapchak.</p>

<p>The homogeneous race of the Mongols may now be
divided into the Kalkas, the Kalmuks, and the Bouriats.
The Kalkas, who take their name from a small river rising
in the Siolki mountains in Manchuria, are a numerous
people, occupying the north of the Great Desert. They may
be called the Mongols proper, if any are entitled to that
name.</p>

<p>The Kalmuks, so nicknamed by the Mahommedan Tartars,
inhabit the Russian province of Astrakhan. A remarkable
exodus of these people took place in 1770-71, on which occasion
half a million of the Kalmuks of the Volga fled from the
tyranny of Catherine II., and directed their march eastward
by the route by which their ancestors had so often travelled
to Europe. During their eight months' pilgrimage they were
goaded to despair by hunger, weariness, and savage enemies;
and when they at last found shelter in the dominions of the
Emperor of China, they had been reduced to half their
number. The Emperor Kienloong allotted to them a settlement
in the province of Dsungaria, on the north-west of
the desert. The Eleuths on the south-east of the desert are
also of the race of the Kalmuks. The black Kalmuks are
settled near the sources of the river Obi, north of the Altai
mountains.</p>

<p>The Bouriats in the Siberian province of Trans-baikal,
although of true Mongol origin, do not appear to have been
much mixed up in the military movements of the other
tribes. They were nevertheless a warlike people, were subdued
by the family of Genghis in the thirteenth century,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
and made a respectable stand against the Russians in
the seventeenth.</p>

<p>There are other tribes of Mongols within the modern limits
of China proper, though north of the Great Wall. Some of
these till the ground, but they are principally kept up as the
reserve army of China.</p>

<p>From the earliest times, these wandering tribes, when not
united in a crusade against the human race at large, were
constantly at war with each other. These feuds were continued
with varying results for several centuries after their
empire was broken up; but the adroitness of the Chinese on
the one side, and the brute force of Russia on the other, have
subdued the turbulent spirit of the Mongol hordes, who for
the last hundred years have been quiet subjects of these two
empires.</p>

<p>The Mongols, Kalmuks, and Bouriats are all Bhuddists,
while the other Tartar tribes, with whom the Mongols have
been associated in their wars, are almost all Mahommedans.</p>

<p>The history of the wars of the Huns and Mongols exhibits
some curious psychical phenomena. First, we see these
barbarous tribes, living in the most primitive condition,
ignorant of everything beyond the range of animal instinct,
vanquishing in fair fight the most warlike and civilised
nations that then existed. By the weight of their masses,
and the impetuosity of their onslaught, stimulated by the
ferocity of fanaticism, the barbarians broke in on the old
empires, which they overwhelmed like a flood. Civilisation
bowed the neck to barbarism: matter triumphed over
mind.</p>

<p>And yet the materials of which these formidable hosts were
composed were in themselves feeble and innocuous. When
we see the descendants of the Huns quietly feeding their
sheep in their native deserts, harmless and kind-hearted,
simple and contented, it is hard to conceive that out of such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
a race could have come the conquerors of the world. Their
power indeed was a matter of pure accident, that is to say, it
lay dormant until accident raised up men with ability to use
it. The shepherds have little power of reasoning, and no
notions of self-government; but they are willing machines in
the hands of a man of strong intellect, who can exact from
them the worship due to a divinity. Under such a leader
they can be handled like a pack of hounds, with which they
have a close affinity in the instinct of obedience and unreasoning
courage: animal qualities which are invaluable to
the schemes of the master-mind.</p>

<p>The heroes of the Mongol tribes have been few and far
between. The marvel is that such a people could produce
heroes at all. Their great conquerors were not men of
ordinary ability, but of vast genius, rendered all the more
conspicuous by their untutored barbarism. None but great
minds could have controlled and directed the movements of
such multitudes. The words of the khan were inexorable
laws; without the ruling spirit nothing could be done.
China was saved from a second conquest by the accident of
the death of Timour; and it has been said that the fate of
Europe at one time depended on the digestion of a barbarian
under the Great Wall of China. Nor were the Mongol
leaders animated by blind ferocity. They had an object in
their wars, which was nothing less than the sovereignty of
the world. Their courage was high, and they occasionally
fought desperate battles. But that was not their usual
custom. Attila, and Genghis, and Timour, all showed remarkable
caution. They calculated the chances of a battle
or a campaign with the deliberation of experienced generals,
and declined engagements against heavy odds when they
could effect a retreat without discouraging their troops.
Attila, the rudest of them all, was a skilful diplomatist. He
penetrated into Gaul, not so much by force of arms as by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
craft he displayed in playing off one faction against another,
and so distracting the counsels of his enemies.</p>

<p>The secret of the ascendency of the Mongol chiefs lay
mainly in the skill with which they used the potent instrument
of superstition. The shepherds, illiterate and brutish,
had a blind awe of the supernatural, which it was the policy
of their leaders to encourage. Attila became miraculously
possessed of the sword of the Scythian Mars, and thenceforth
bore a sacred character which was confirmed to him by his
early successes. A divine origin was attributed to the
ancestors of Genghis. He was styled the son of God, and
was popularly believed to have been born of a virgin.<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> The
Turks traced their descent from a youth who was nursed by
a she-wolf, a fable probably borrowed from that of Romulus
and Remus.</p>

<p>The kings of the Huns and Mongols excited the enthusiasm
of their armies by the use of omens. When unfavourable
to their plans, the omens were either disregarded or
explained away by the chiefs, who were probably incredulous,
but at all events possessed the resolution to rise superior to
the oracles. Thus when Attila had raised the siege of
Orleans, and was pressed in his retreat by a powerful army
of Goths and Romans, the auguries were against him, and
his troops were dispirited. But Attila, considering that a
defeat would be less disastrous to him than flight, rallied the
sinking courage of the Huns by an eloquent oration, in
which, with consummate ingenuity, he turned the very advantages
of the enemy into encouragements to himself. Their
well-chosen posts, their strict alliance and close order, he
affected to attribute to fear alone. He plied his people also
with arguments from the doctrine of fate, and persuaded
them that they were as safe in the thick of the fight as in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
their own tents. In the desperate battle which ensued,
Attila outdid himself in personal valour, and the Huns
fought furiously; the slaughter on both sides was prodigious;
but when night came Attila was fain to retire within
his camp. The result of the action was nevertheless creditable
to his sagacity, for he was still so formidable in defeat
that his enemies compared him to a lion at bay, and they
dared not renew the attack.</p>

<p>Timour, who lived in a more enlightened age, or rather
among a more enlightened people, and was himself educated
in Mohammedanism, rose to a higher flight in the use
and contempt of auguries. Instead of examining the entrails
of animals, he consulted the planets and the Koran. When
marching on Delhi his astrologers could not educe any
favourable indication from the stars, but Timour refused to
hamper his plans by such considerations, telling his astrologers
that fortune does not depend on the stars, but on the
Creator of them.</p>

<p>The Huns and Mongols were distinguished from other men,
chiefly by their waste of human life. They may be said to
have depopulated Asia. The flourishing cities that once
existed in the deserts of Tartary have been utterly destroyed;
the history of many of them has been lost; and where large
populations cultivated arts and industry, one may now see
only the tent of a herdsman in the vast solitude. The
savages boasted that grass never grew where the feet of their
horses had trod, and that a horse might run without stumbling
over the places where the great cities had stood. The
conquerors built towers and pyramids of the heads of their
enemies, that is, their prisoners&mdash;not soldiers only&mdash;but whole
populations whom they massacred in cold blood.</p>

<p>But yet, though ferocious, the barbarians were not, strictly
speaking, cruel. Their systematic slaughter must be otherwise
accounted for, and in a way even more humiliating to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
human nature. The morality of the kings, khans or emperors
may be assumed to have been on a par with that of
the people; it was in intellect only that they were pre-eminent.
Attila, in the midst of his sins against mankind,
was accessible to pity. His own people loved him. Genghis
aspired to the honour of a wise legislator, and primitive
though his code was, his motives for devising it were honourable.
He encouraged trade so far as he knew how; patronised
the sciences, and favoured the missionaries of all persuasions.
He was both just and generous, and if he had but governed,
instead of killing, the people he conquered, it is possible that
he might have been a benefactor to mankind. Yet, in three
cities alone, Genghis caused more than four millions of
people to be slaughtered.</p>

<p>But the strange paradox comes out in more vivid colours
in the character of Timour, who, compared with his predecessors,
was civilised and humane. Amongst his exploits was
the massacre of one hundred thousand people at Delhi. He
exacted from Ispahan a contribution of seventy thousand, and
from Bagdad of ninety thousand human heads to build towers
with. Although a Mahommedan he did not spare his co-religionists,
but slew indiscriminately all who seemed to stand
in his way. When he grew old, and was satiated with blood
and glory, he repented. But his repentance was the most
curious episode in the monster's history. He planned a pious
mission to China, and in announcing his resolve to his
council, he told them that the conquests he had made were
not obtained <em>without some violence</em>, which had occasioned
the death of a great number of God's creatures. To atone for
past crimes he determined to perform some good action,
namely, to <em>exterminate the idolaters of China</em>.<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p>

<p>By what law or standard of ethics can such an abuse of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
moral faculties be judged? And how can such antagonistic
traits of character be reconciled?</p>

<p>The Mongols did not practise the cruelties that have so
often disgraced more refined peoples. Tortures were exceptional
among them, perhaps because their invention had not
risen to such a pitch. Noble captives were paraded in chains,
but that was done rather to glorify the victor than to punish
the victim. The Mongol massacres seem to have been dictated
less by positive than negative considerations. Their low
estimate of the value of human life lay at the bottom of it
all. The slaughter of the population of a great city was no
more in their eyes than the destruction of so many vermin.
Their towers of human heads were to the primitive barbarians
what the trophies of the chace are to sportsmen. Being
guided by animal instincts alone, they were unconscious of
any wrong. So low is the moral condition of uncultivated
races, "the children of nature," that human feelings can only
grow in them after ages of gradual education. The social
virtues, and even the natural affections, are only developed in
their full force by means of artificial or civilised life, just as
the perfectability of plants is only attained by the aid which
art gives to nature. So, then, the artificial state is in a sense
more natural to man than the natural or primitive condition
of savages. His moral nature needs culture as much as his
intellect does; and artificial life alone can bring out man's
natural qualities. The affections of the Huns and Mongols
were little more than such as they possessed in common
with the lower animals. They loved their children after a
fashion, and sometimes they loved a favourite wife. But if
we desire to test the quality of the paternal affection of such
people, let us look at the half-tamed barbarian Peter the
Great, who condemned and executed his own son, after
inviting him to surrender under the promise of a full
pardon.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>

<p>The theory has been advanced that the exclusively animal
diet of the shepherds rendered them ferocious,<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> and that their
familiarity with the blood of their sheep excited their passion
for the blood of their fellow-creatures. But neither
of these hypotheses is founded on fact. The elaborate
cruelties of the vegetarians of China and Japan supply a
sufficient answer to the first. The Chinese have racked
their ingenuity to multiply tortures, and a fat rice-eater will
sip up his tea and fan himself with perfect <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sang-froid</i>, while
he causes the nails of a victim to be pulled out. When their
blood is up the Chinese are as savage as the Mongols, and by
so much the more cruel as their superior intellects supply to
them varieties in the enjoyment of their blood-thirstiness.</p>

<p>To the second observation it may be replied that the professional
butchers are not the least humane class of civilised
society; their occupation does not impair their human sympathies.
A wild beast may be excited by the taste of blood,
but it is merely from the instinct that impels him to seek his
natural food.</p>

<p>The brutalising influence of war itself is well known. To
this rule there are few exceptions. Even among Christian
nations, in whom the degrading tendency is counteracted by
education and social culture, the hero of many battles is but
too apt to value his men at so much per head. Barbarians,
with no controlling power to check the natural bent of their
passions, exhibit the full dehumanising effects of war. They
glory in the mere shedding of blood, as a hunter delights in
the death of his game. Yet this savage passion is far removed
from simple cruelty, and may be quite compatible with a low
form of goodness of heart.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>

<p>Although at first sight the simple life of pastoral peoples
does not seem likely to produce a race of warriors, yet the
very simplicity of their habits peculiarly adapts them for warlike
enterprises. The incentives to war would not be wanting
to wandering tribes with no fixed boundary; for they would
be constantly invading each others' pasture grounds. Hence,
the habits of predatory warfare would be induced. Their
hardiness and endurance would enable them to sustain the
fatigue of long marches, privations and exposure. Such a
community needs no commissariat. Their food is the flesh of
their cattle or horses, which, being accustomed to eat grass
only, can always feed themselves on the way. Their tents
might even be dispensed with, and the ground would serve
them for a camp. Their indifference to life renders unnecessary
any provision for the care of the sick or the wounded. They
are not hampered in their movements by any tie to localities.
The whole world is alike to them. Their life in war, involving
the long marches and countermarches which wear out
other troops, was little different from their ordinary habits in
peace. Their enthusiasm made them formidable. Their
ignorance rendered them unscrupulous. They destroyed the
noblest monuments of learning and industry with the same
wantonness that prompts a child to pull to pieces the finest
piece of mechanism. They set no value on anything, and it
was a pleasant recreation for them to destroy what they
could neither appreciate nor understand. The spoils of civilisation
allured them to new conquests. Victory inflated
their fanaticism. Defeat subdued their spirit for the time, but
they had always a retreat open in the deserts of Asia where
they were at least safe from the retaliation of the civilised
nations whom they had oppressed. In their career of devastation
they were often stimulated by necessity. When their
earlier successes had attracted great numbers to the victorious
standard, it was impossible to maintain the vast multitude<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
stationary. First, their pastures would soon become
exhausted; and, secondly, their leaders could only maintain
their own character and their ascendency over their followers
by active operations. The alien troops, who entered largely
into the composition of their armies, were always ready to
secede from their forced allegiance. Any symptom of weakness
or incapacity in the chief would be the signal for a
general disruption. Out of this necessity for perpetual
motion doubtless arose the Mongol vision of universal
empire.</p>

<p>The military enthusiasm in the Mongols is only dormant,
not dead. We have seen, four or five years ago, with what
alacrity Sang-ko-lin-sin, himself a Kalka Mongol, and one of
the forty-eight kings, brought a force into the field to bar our
entrance into Peking, and with what zeal and energy the
Mongol troops acquitted themselves. Given a sufficient motive,
and a man to lead them, and the shepherds could
soon be put in motion again. By nature they are faithful to
their chiefs, and their head lama has but to hold up his
finger to stir up the sleeping prowess of the shepherds.
Nor is it likely that the sanguinary passions, common to
barbarians, have been eradicated in the Mongols. Quiet and
peaceful as they are among their flocks, they would be as
fierce in war as in the bloodiest days of their history.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2>

<h3>MONGOLS&mdash;PHYSICAL AND MENTAL CHARACTERISTICS.</h3>


<p>The following physical characteristics of the Mongolian
race, by a gentleman who resided many years among the
Bouriats in Trans-baikal, are equally applicable to the tribes
in Mongolia proper, and to some extent also to the Chinese.</p>

<p>"The high cheek-bones; the oblique, elongated eye, dark
and piercing; the flat nose, with compressed nostrils; the
strong black straight hair; the large protuberant ears; the
small sharp chin; the want of beard in the men, till late in
life; the general gravity of expression, and cautious, inquisitive
mode of address, are so many marks of this tribe of men,
never to be mistaken, and never to be found so strongly developed
in any other."<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p>

<p>There is nothing noble or generous in the Mongol character,
and those tribes who have afforded the widest field for observation,
are said to be naturally servile to superiors and tyrannical
to inferiors.</p>

<p>Their <em>meanness</em> is remarkable. They are not too proud
to beg the smallest trifle, and a man well blessed with this
world's goods thinks it no disgrace to receive alms.</p>

<p>The habits they have inherited qualify them admirably
for the lazy nomad life which they lead. But they have
no heart for work in the sense of regular, steady occupation.
Fatigue and privation they make no account of, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
it goes quite against the grain with them to do a day's work.
They sadly lack energy and enterprise, and are easily discouraged.
The Mongols proper are seldom tempted to leave
the beaten track of their pastoral life, and even the Bouriats,
who live amongst Russians, and have incentives to exertion,
show little disposition to depart in anything from their traditional
mode of life. The Russian government has tried to
make them farmers, but with very little success. Every
Bouriat family is compelled by law to cultivate a few acres
of ground. Government supplies them with seed, generally
rye, on condition that an equal quantity be returned to the
government granary the following year, or its equivalent in
money paid. They are subject to bad seasons in those regions.
A backward, dry spring, with no rain before June, is
of not unfrequent occurrence; in such seasons the crops don't
ripen before the autumn frosts come, and the year's labour is
lost. The seed corn must, nevertheless, be delivered back to
the granary, and the Bouriat agriculturist loses heart.</p>

<p>The cardinal virtue of the Mongol tribes is hospitality,
which is as freely exhibited to perfect strangers, as to neighbours,
from whom a return may be expected. Indeed, the
nomad life would be intolerable without this mutual good-feeling
and readiness to assist, to feed, and to shelter travellers.
The absence of trades, and of the amenities of settled communities,
renders the Mongol people mutually dependent,
and hospitality becomes simply a necessity among them. At
the pitching and striking of tents, at sheep-shearing and felt-making,
the assistance of neighbours is required by all in
turn. When cattle stray, the neighbours help to catch them.
When a Mongol is on a journey in the desert, he is dependent
on the hospitality of the families whose tents he may pass
on his way, and he will always be welcome. The Mongols
are also attracted to each other's quarters to hear news,
or for the mere satisfaction of talking. In such a sparsely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
peopled country, this feeling makes a stranger all the more
welcome.</p>

<p>Although rather addicted to petty pilfering, the Mongols
are, in a general way, honest. At any rate, they will not
betray a trust committed to them. The fidelity of servants
is universal, and theft, robbery, and assault, are of rare occurrence
among them. Their most prevalent vice is drunkenness;
and, although drinking, and even smoking, are prohibited
by the sacerdotal law, the living example of the priests
is more powerful than the dead letter of the law. Those
Mongols who wander to the frontier of China or Russia,
supply themselves with tobacco, and distribute it to their
friends in the desert. Every one carries a pipe with a small
brass bowl, like the Chinese. A steel and flint are invariably
attached to the tobacco-pouch. The Mongols also take snuff,
using a stone bottle, with an ivory spoon attached to the
stopper, after the Chinese fashion. Chinese liquor they use
very sparingly, and only on great occasions of bargaining or
merry-making. They use a spirit of their own very extensively,
and as it is made out of milk, an article which is
very abundant among pastoral people, their supply of the
spirit is almost unlimited. They call it <em>ir'chi</em>, or in the
Bouriat dialect <em>araki</em>, a name applied by the Mongols to
all liquors indiscriminately. It is better known to Europeans
by the name of <em>kumiss</em>. The following account of
the mode in which the spirit is distilled from milk is
interesting: "The milk, previously soured and fermented,
is put into a large iron kettle, over which is inverted a
wooden dish, fitted to the edge of the former, and luted
with cow-dung. One end of a bent wooden tube is inserted
into a hole in the inverted dish, and at the other end is
placed a cast-iron pot to receive the liquid as it comes
over. When the fire has made the contents of the kettle
boil, the vapour is condensed within the tube, and passes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
into the receiving vessel in the form of ardent spirit."<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a>
The spirit is fit to drink whenever it is made, and as it
is more than usually plentiful when the pastures are richest,
that is the season of the greatest excesses. Any sort of
milk may be used, but mare's milk is said to make the
most approved liquor. The Mongols are inclined to be
uproarious in their cups; and squabbles often occur, but
they seldom come to anything very serious.</p>

<p>The morality of the Mongols is about a fair average of
that of the rest of mankind, perhaps purer than that of
more civilised countries. Their customs admit of polygamy,
but it is too expensive to be very common, as each wife
has to be in a manner bought of her father for a certain
number of oxen, horses, or camels. They have a strong
objection to marrying within their own families, or tribes,
considering all the descendants of one father or head of
a tribe as brothers and sisters, however distant their actual
relationship may be. "So universal is this custom," says
the writer already quoted, "that I never knew or heard of
an instance of its being violated."</p>

<p>The lamas are all celibats, but seeing this class numbers
one fourth or one fifth of the male population,
it might safely be predicated of them that their vows
are not strictly kept. As a matter of fact, the celibacy
of the lamas is in very many instances a merely
nominal thing. The lama may not marry, but he can
take to himself a "disciple;" children will be born to
him in the natural course of events, and no great public
scandal will be excited thereby. Hence a standing joke
among the laity is to ask tenderly for the health of Mrs.
Lama.</p>

<p>The Mongol women are childishly fond of small ornaments<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
for their hair. Any kind of tinsel, or small glass
ware, is highly valued by them. Before marriage, the
women wear their hair disposed in plaits which hang straight
down. Ornaments of coral, or other articles, are suspended
from the plaits. After marriage the hair is collected into
two thick ties, one at each side, falling down over the
front of the shoulders, and adorned according to the fancy
or means of the wearer. They wear a kind of tiara round
the head, which is ornamented with coral, glass, strings of
mock pearls, or any kind of gaudy trinkets they can pick
up. They also wear sometimes, instead of the ordinary
cap, a coronet of soft fur, fastened round the head, and
projecting over the brow, which gives them, at first sight,
a rakish appearance.</p>

<p>The Mongols, one and all, evince great regard for decency
in their dress and habits. Their inner garments consist
of cotton trousers, tightly fastened by a scarf round the
waist, and a long flowing robe of the same material. These
are generally of blue. The long sheepskin is kept in reserve
for night-work, or cold days. They never appear uncovered
outside of their tents, even in hot weather. In this respect
they contrast remarkably with all other natives in hot
climates with whom I am acquainted.</p>

<p>In physical development, the Mongols do not rank very
high. They are in stature below the middle height, but
moderately stout. Short necks are common, but many thin,
scraggy necks are also met with. They do not get corpulent
like the Chinese. They look healthy and robust. Their
muscular energy is rather low, which may be due to their
avoiding all regular work, and partly perhaps to their exclusively
animal diet.</p>

<p>Wrestling is one of their favourite amusements, and the
trained wrestlers are proud of their skill in the art. A
square-built lama challenged me to wrestle with him at Tsagan-tuguruk.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
There was a great concourse of people present,
and to have declined the contest would have been as
bad as a defeat. I therefore determined to risk the trial. I
soon found that being totally ignorant of the art, I had to
act solely on the defensive. After some ineffectual attempts
the lama threw me. I had a firm hold of him, however, and
we both came down together, the lama under. Having come
out of the ordeal better than I expected, I had no wish to
try another round, and the lama also had enough. It was
my turn to challenge then, and considering that the honour
of my country required it, I offered to box my antagonist,
which honour he respectfully declined. This incident exhibited
to me the muscular weakness of one of the best-made
men I met among the Mongols.</p>

<p>But their weakest point is their legs, which are rarely
exercised. The Mongols begin from their earliest years to
ride on horseback. If they have but to go a few hundred
yards, they will ride if possible, in preference to walking.
They walk with the gait of a duck; indeed, were their legs
good&mdash;which they are not&mdash;the heavy shapeless leather
boots they wear would prove an effectual bar to walking.
These boots come up near the knee, are made of nearly uniform
size, so that the largest feet will go easily into any of
their boots. Thick stockings are also used, and the foot has
ample play with all that. They are nearly all bow-legged, a
circumstance that might be explained by their constant habit
of riding, or by the pressure that is put on them when
infants to make them sit cross-legged, were it not frequently
developed in children before the age when nurses begin to
cross their legs. The phenomenon may nevertheless be the
indirect result of both these causes. The habits of the tribes
being fixed and uniform for many ages, the bow-legged tendency
which these habits are calculated to produce, may have
been gradually impressed on the race as a permanent feature,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
by the mystery of hereditary influence. Thus the peculiarity,
although originally accidental, would become permanent and
constitutional. The Mongol is rarely seen standing upright.
He is either sitting on horseback, or crouching in a tent.</p>

<p>The Mongols are rather dark-complexioned; the face and
hands, which are constantly exposed to sun and weather, are
deeply bronzed; the skin is very coarse; the covered parts of
the body are much lighter than the exposed parts, but among
the men there is nothing like a white skin. The whitest of
them are yellowish. During our ablutions the whiteness of
our skins was a subject of constant remark among the
Mongols, although the skin of our faces became, by constant
exposure to the sun while in Mongolia, as dark as that of the
Mongols themselves. The Mongols, nevertheless, have often
a ruddy complexion, but it is uncommon among the men.
The women are much fairer than the men, and are much less
exposed to the sun, being mostly in the tents attending to
household duties. Their faces, although rough and weather-beaten
more or less, have all a "roseate hue." Old women
frequently become pasty white in the face. Their children
are born fair skinned, and with brownish hair, which gradually
becomes darker as they grow up. Shades of brown are
however not unfrequent even in adults, and a tendency to curl
is sometimes observable. Their eyes are seldom quite black,
but run on various shades of brown. The white of the eye is
usually "bloodshot" in middle-aged men, probably from two
causes, exposure to wind and weather, and the argol smoke
of their tent fires. They live, without any inconvenience, in
an atmosphere of sharp biting smoke, which our eyes could
not tolerate. The small eyes of the Mongols are shaded by
heavy wrinkled eyelids, which, in many instances, are permanently
contracted, giving the eye a peculiarly keen expression,
as it peers out from under the mass of soft muscle
that surrounds it. This feature is entirely absent in children,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
and is no doubt produced in adults by exposure to glare and
the habit of straining after distant objects in a dry sandy
country.</p>

<p>The almost entire absence of beard is a remarkable feature
in the Mongolians. As regards this and other marks of race,
it may be useful to compare the Mongols with their near
neighbours the Chinese. The two races have a sufficient
number of broad characteristics in common to warrant their
classification under one great type of mankind. But their
differences are also well marked, and are deserving of
attention. The northern districts of China are not very
different from Mongolia in point of climate. Both have a
short but hot summer, and an extremely rigorous winter,
differing only in degree. Both climates are dry. The
northern Chinese assimilate more closely than any other of
their countrymen to the Mongol habit of life. They eat
animal food rather extensively, and drink strong liquor
freely. Yet in physical development they are further removed
from the Mongols in some features than even the
southern Chinese who live on rice, fish, and vegetables. In
the matter of beards, which led to this comparison, the
northern Chinese are in a marked degree more hairy than
their southern compatriots, and these again than the natives
of Mongolia. In none of them is the beard developed till
towards middle life; yet they all attain the age of puberty
earlier than Europeans. The beef-eaters of northern China
are tall, muscular, and robust, as much superior to the
Mongols as they are to their own countrymen who lead a
different life. But with their animal diet the northern
Chinese eat copiously of vegetable and farinaceous food,
while the Mongols live almost exclusively on mutton.</p>

<p>The regularity of habits which prevail in settled populations
may also have its influence in the general physical development
of the people. The nomads have certain qualities cultivated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
to excess, and others almost entirely unused. The animal
instincts are naturally found highly developed amongst the
Mongols. The sense of sight is very acute in them; they
are sensitive to indications of changes of weather, and so
with various other instincts which to these wandering tribes
supply the wants of a more artificial life, and enable them
to exist in a state of nature. Individuality is in a great
measure lost among such people. The habits and education
of each individual among them are identical. Their pursuits
are all the same. The very same faculties, both physical and
mental, are kept in exercise among the whole tribe, and
that through many generations, so that they have become
hereditary, and indelibly imprinted on the race. A Mongol
who was not a good horseman would be as anomalous as one
that was inhospitable. The uniformity of life among the
members of these nomad tribes, while it keeps back many
faculties, the exercise of which is necessary to the existence
of civilised people, also renders the type of whole tribes
constant, so that no one individual differs greatly in external
features from another. In civilised communities, where the
division of labour has become so indispensable as to be in
itself one great criterion of civilisation, a variety of types are
evolved even in a single lifetime. A tailor can never be
mistaken for a blacksmith, nor a soldier for a sailor; but
tribes whose habits compel each family to be independent, as
it were, of all the rest of the world, whose wants are limited
by the means of supplying them, and among whom different
occupations are almost unknown, do necessarily present a
remarkable uniformity. It would be unsound to generalise
too freely, and there are of course the individual distinctions
of physiognomy as well marked as among other races, but
these differences are more limited in their scope. Some
trades are known to the Mongols, such as felt-making,
tanning and dressing skins, iron, copper, and silver work,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
saddle-making, &amp;c. In more settled parts they also make
harness, carts, and sledges; and printing from blocks, after the
manner of the Chinese and Japanese, is also known among
them. These arts are most cultivated among the Bouriats in
Siberia, who, by their contact with the Russians, and from the
nature of the country they inhabit, are thrown more in the
way of artificial life than the desert tribes.</p>

<p>To the casual observer, at least, the Mongols do not
present the same individual differences as their neighbours,
the Chinese. In complexion they are nearly all alike,
although the skin seems to get darker as the face becomes
wrinkled with age, which might seem to favour the idea that
the brownish skin of the Mongols is due as much to their
habits as to their descent, or the effects of climate. But the
causes which influence colour are very obscure. In Siberia,
where Sclavonic races have been settled for nearly two centuries,
living side by side with Mongol tribes, and exposed
to the same climatic influences, these show no signs
of variation from the complexion of their ancestors, as it is
exhibited by their European representatives. Again, the
Portuguese settlers in Macao, who degenerate very rapidly,
become in two or three generations much darker in the skin
than the native Chinese. It is not the smoky atmosphere of
their tents that darkens the skin of the Mongols, for in that
case, the women, who are more exposed to it, would be darker
than the men, the reverse of which is the case. A comparison
with the Japanese again would seem to show that exposure
exercises at the most an insignificant effect in darkening the
skin. The Japanese live much within doors, and are careful
to protect themselves from the sun when they stir abroad by
means of broad-brimmed hats and umbrellas. Great differences
of complexion exist among them, whether regarded as
individuals or classes; but it is safe to say they are on the
whole quite as dark as the Mongols. The contrast between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
men and women is singularly marked, the women having
fair clear complexions, often rosy. Yet the Japanese women
are a good deal out of doors, and are fairer skinned than the
Chinese women, who are only blanched by confinement to
the house and exclusion from light and air.</p>

<p>The Mongols, although deficient in muscular energy, and
incapacitated for sustained activity, are nevertheless gifted
with great powers of endurance. I have already noticed
their capacity for enduring prolonged fasts, and their ability
to go several days and nights without sleep, with equal
impunity. The sudden and important changes to which
their climate is subject, are also borne without any great
suffering. From a hot summer, they are plunged, with but
slight gradations, into an extremely rigorous winter, when
the temperature falls very low, and is accompanied by keen
cutting winds, that sweep over the steppes with merciless
fury, and from which they have no better protection than
their tents.</p>

<p>The Mongol tribes stand low in the scale of mental capacity.
Scattered over vast deserts, remote from civilised man,
they are ignorant by necessity. Their intellectual faculties
have no stimulus to exertion. Their aims in life, and their
whole worldly ambition, are limited to flocks and herds.
While there is grass enough to feed the sheep, and sheep
enough to feed the men, they have little else to disturb
their quiet equanimity. Thus they lead an idle careless life,
free from thought and everything that might disturb the
negative happiness they enjoy. This kind of existence is
truly a low form, having more affinity with the animal than
the mental side of human nature, while at the same time it
is to be observed that they are almost entire strangers to
the varied emotions that fill up the existence of a civilised
being; so that both their intellectual and moral qualities are
dwarfed and partially destroyed. The prostrate mental condition<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
of the people predisposes them to the domination of
superior minds, and when their highly superstitious tendencies
are considered, it is not surprising that they are among
the most priest-ridden races in the world. It is not easy to
say why these people should be more easily imposed upon
than others, excepting that ignorance is always found to go
hand-in-hand with this mental weakness. The wild solitary
life of the desert is also, no doubt, eminently favourable to
belief in the supernatural and mysterious.</p>

<p>A man who frequently passes days and nights with no
society, except the howling waste below, and the deep blue
sky above, has his imagination set free from the trammels of
the world of fact. He has no resources but in the spirit-world,
and it is not unnatural that his fancy should people
the air with superior intelligences, whose voices are heard in
the desert winds or the rustling leaves of the forest. Under
these conditions of life, the poor nomads are in a proper frame
of mind to become the thralls of any one who will undertake
to interpret for them the spiritual mysteries on which their
imagination runs riot. The lamas fill this office, and are
treated with unbounded respect by the masses. The religion
of the Mongols is Bhuddism, a superstition which numbers
more votaries than any other existing religion, true or false.
But the fact is, they are Bhuddists only in name; that is to
say, the laity are almost wholly ignorant of the doctrines of
Bhuddism. Even the lamas have but vague and confused
ideas about it. Their prayers are conned by rote, and these
priests are generally ignorant of the Thibetan language in
which they are written.</p>

<p>The Mongol religion may indeed be called Lamaism, its
leading doctrine being faith, implicit and absolute, in the
authoritative teaching of the lamas, and that not in any well-digested
system of belief settled and fixed by the united
wisdom of the sect, but in such interpretation of spiritual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
matters as any individual lama may choose to give. The
gods are deified lamas. The Dalai Lama of Thibet is a god
incarnate, as is also the Lama king of the Mongols; and even
the ordinary lamas, whose name is legion, are considered
as off-shoots from deity in a sense that entitles them to
the worship of common mortals. The abstruse doctrines of
the metempsychosis and the future state, are studied by the
recluses who live in the retirement of the great monasteries,
and spend their time in prayer and meditation. But the
every-day lama, although he carries a pocketful of musty
papers, in which the eighteen hells and twenty-six heavens are
elucidated, cares little for these things. He has more practical
matters to attend to than meditating on the Bhuddist notion
of bliss consummated by absorption into Bhudda&mdash;complete
repose&mdash;in other words, annihilation. His written liturgies
are a powerful spell by which he maintains his moral influence
over the people, and it is none the less powerful that
neither party fully comprehends their meaning. More regard
is paid to the quantity than to the quality of their prayers,
and to facilitate their devotions an ingenious machine is in
common use, consisting of a roller containing a string of
prayers. This is sometimes turned by hand, and sometimes
it is attached to a windmill! So long as it is turned
round by some means, the efficacy of the prayers is considered
the same. No doubt it is. The petitions are long-winded
and multifarious.</p>

<p>The following, from one of the lama liturgies, is a specimen:</p>

<p>"From the fear of the king, from the fear of robbers, from
the fear of fire, from the fear of water, from the fear of loss,
from the fear of enemies, from the fear of famine; of thunder,
of untimely death, earthquakes, thunderbolts, of the king's
judgment, of the tengri, of the loo, of wild beasts, &amp;c., keep
me and all men in safety."<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p>
<p>The general drift of their religious observances is towards
securing immunity from the "ills that flesh is heir to," rather
than towards providing for a future state. Both objects are
aimed at, but the materialistic greatly preponderates. Medical
knowledge is of course at a low ebb among these wandering
people. The lamas are their physicians. When a child or a
horse is taken ill, the ignorant people are taught to believe
that an evil spirit is present, which can only be exorcised by
the incantations of a lama. In every doubt and difficulty a
lama is consulted. He is at once a detective officer, justice of
the peace, priest and physician. His blessing is at all times
efficacious. His power over disease is unquestioned. There is
virtue for good or evil in all his acts. His authority to
declare what is right and what is wrong is never doubted.
The punishments he may inflict for violation of his precepts
are borne patiently. In a word, the lamas are the beginning
and the end, at once the ministers and the objects of religion
to the simple Mongols. Their persons are held sacred, and
they wear a sacred dress consisting of a red cotton garment
with a collar of black velvet, and a cap of peculiar shape.
Their heads are shaven all over, which is a sufficient distinction
from the laymen, who shave the head only in front of the
crown, wearing a tail like the Chinese. Wherever a lama goes
he is received with open arms, and assumes the place of
honour in any tent which he may deign to enter. The
priestly tyranny of these functionaries opens a wide door to the
most heartless knavery, and dishonest lamas who oppress and
eat up the people are very common. Were the lama order
restricted to one class of people, it is possible their victims
might rise in rebellion against their assumption of authority.
But the lamas are drawn from every tribe and household.
The second son of every family is generally set apart from
his birth as a priest. In childhood and youth he is regarded
as a superior being in his parental tent. The place of honour<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
is assigned to him from the time he is able to sit cross-legged.
When an opportunity offers, the little devotee repairs to a
monastery, where he may learn the Thibetan characters and
the rudiments of the lama prayers. Great numbers of lamas
reside permanently in these monasteries, which are supported
by contributions from the people, or endowed by the Emperor
of China. The lama unattached receives no pay, and has
therefore to support himself, as the rest of his countrymen do,
by feeding sheep and cattle. His special services are paid for
according to his cupidity or the wealth of his employers.
Many of them grow rich on the spoils of their deluded
votaries. Some others, of ultra-nomadic proclivities, keep no
cattle and own no tents. They simply roam about where
fancy directs, and live on the people whose tents they pass.
These are not much respected, but are, nevertheless, hospitably
entertained wherever they go.</p>

<p>The spread of Bhuddism eastward over Mongolia, China,
and Japan, the deep hold it has taken on the people of those
countries, to the extinction almost of pre-existing superstitions,
are most remarkable phenomena. Looking at the degenerate
form of the religion that has sprung up in Mongolia,
and the ignorance of the people, tending strongly to adherence
to the dogmas of their fathers, it seems wonderful that
Bhuddism should have had vitality enough to supersede the
ancient Shamanism.</p>

<p>The Bhuddistic doctrines, involved and obscure as they
are, certainly filled up a blank that must have been felt even
among the most unthinking races, for Shamanism had no
reference to a future life. In this respect Bhuddism is more
elevating than Shamanism, and when first introduced into a
new country, it was probably in a purer form, and untarnished
by the many abuses that have grown out of it in its subsequent
history.</p>

<p>Among the Bouriats, Shamanism was almost universal as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
late as one hundred and fifty years ago. Up to that time it
was the only superstition known to the northern nomads.
The Shaman worship was directed to the material heavens
and heavenly bodies&mdash;fire, earth and water, wild beasts and
birds, and the malignant spirits of the air, called tengri.
Its ritual consisted very little in prayers, but mainly of
animal sacrifices. Some curious facts connected with the
Shaman superstition are given by Mr. Swan in the "Scottish
Congregational Magazine."</p>

<p>As a preventive against cattle being killed by lightning,
a horse is devoted to the god of thunder&mdash;light grey or white
being preferred. He is brought to the door of his owner's
tent, and while the Shaman ceremonies are going on, a cup
of milk is placed on his back. When the ceremonies are concluded,
the horse is cast loose, the milk falls, and the animal
is thenceforth sacred. No one may use him again, and, when
he dies, his tail and mane are cut off and twisted into those
of another horse, who, from that time, also becomes sacred to
the god of thunder. They also had a ceremony of a scapegoat,
which in its details coincided most singularly with that
of the Levitical institution. The Shaman offerings usually
consisted of three animals sacrificed at once&mdash;part of the
flesh was eaten, and the rest, stuck on a pole, was consumed
by crows or magpies.</p>

<p>Another strange practice of the Shamans, and one which
is common also among the lamas, betrays the intellectual
imbecility of the people who could tolerate and be deceived
by it. To exorcise the evil spirit out of a sick person, an
effigy of straw is made, and clothed in the garments of the
patient. The priests proceed to kill the man of straw, then
convey it away and burn it. The unsophisticated devil is
supposed to be watching these proceedings, and to mistake
the effigy for the sick person; so that when it is destroyed, this
most accommodating spirit considers his own malignant purpose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
accomplished, and at once leaves the sick person, who
thereupon recovers. It is even said that human victims are
used for this purpose by the rich in Mongolia and Thibet.</p>

<p>The Shamans were simply sorcerers. Their ceremonies
were wild fanatical ravings, and their ranks were usually
filled by persons of diseased brains. The people generally
were reluctant to become Shamans, and a severe illness was
often held to be an intimation to the person affected of
the desire of the Spirits that he or she should become a
"medium."</p>

<p>The Bouriats learned Bhuddism from the Mongols, their
kinsmen. About the beginning of the eighteenth century a
mission was sent from Siberia to Thibet. The members of
it returned as lamas and brought the paraphernalia of the
new religion with them, built a temple, and set up Bhuddism.
The Shamans were then gradually superseded by the
lamas in the districts of Trans-baikal&mdash;sacrifices gave place
to prayers&mdash;and a purely materialist superstition to one
which recognised the necessity of providing against a future
existence.</p>

<p>When, and under what circumstances, the Mongols proper
embraced Bhuddism, is not so easy to determine. The Chinese
received it in the first, and the Japanese in the sixth century
of the Christian era; but it does not appear to have been
known to the Mongols before the time of Genghis. It was
probably during the wandering career of the hordes under
his leadership, that the lamas insinuated themselves into
influence over the untutored shepherds. The higher culture
which they had acquired, even by their partial education,
would mark them in the eyes of the rude Tartars as a
superior order of magicians; and their ascendancy over the
Mongol intellects would be natural and easy.</p>

<p>There are traditions of Lamaism in the district of the
Ortous before the time of Genghis, but as that part of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
desert had frequently been incorporated with China, the
existence of Bhuddist monasteries there is not inconsistent
with the supposition that the Mongol tribes became Bhuddists
only after the wars of Genghis.</p>

<p>It would appear that Mohammedanism also was introduced
into China by means of the armies of Genghis, which
traversed Asia in every direction from the Great Wall of
China to the Volga.</p>

<p>The Bhuddism, or Lamaism, of the Mongols, serves the
important purpose of binding the tribes together by one
common bond of union. The adoration they are taught to
pay to their Dalai Lama is such as to give that personage a
power over them greater, probably, than is exercised by any
crowned head over his people. The Dalai Lama is the Pope
of the Mongols. He is a valuable ally to the Chinese
Emperor, and would be a dangerous enemy. When Russia
comes to carry out any aggressive design in Mongolia, the
Great Lama of the Kalkas will be the instrument used; and
the Consular establishment at Urga, if it succeeds in gaining
over the Lama king to the Russian views, will not have been
kept up in vain. To conciliate this dignitary the Chinese
Emperors liberally endow monasteries, and support and encourage
Lamaism in every way possible;&mdash;but the Russian
Emperors will find no difficulty in securing the attachment
of the Lama when their plans are matured.</p>

<p>The Mongol people, though in a sense slaves or serfs to
their chiefs, really enjoy every liberty. They pay tithes to
their lords of the produce of their herds, but there is no
exaction, and no apparent discontent. The forty-eight
chieftains enjoy the Chinese title of <em>wang</em>, <em>i.e.</em>, prince,
or king, and though tributary to the Emperor, they receive
from him more than they pay. Their allegiance is, in reality,
purchased by the Chinese court, and they are certainly
faithful to their salt.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2>

<h3>KIACHTA.</h3>


<p>As we approached the Russian frontier we reflected on the
savage condition in which we had been living for so long, and
were not without some anxiety as to how we should brook
the glimmering of civilisation which we might expect to find,
even in that remote corner of Christendom. It was also uncertain
what reception we would meet with from the Russian
officials, for although we had every reason to anticipate cordiality
and friendly assistance, still political complications in
Europe might have altered the relations of either of our
respective countries with the court of Russia, and difficulties
might possibly be raised. I had not forgotten the advice of
a Russian official, high in the confidence of his Government,
to defer my journey till more tranquil times. While indulging
in these vain surmises, a smart shower of snow diverted
our attention to other matters.</p>

<p>The Chinese town of Maimachin has first to be passed
through. It is surrounded by a modern palisade, and looks
mean enough externally, but improves vastly on acquaintance.
The streets are regular, wide (for China), and tolerably
clean. The houses are solid, tidy, and tastefully decorated,
with pretty little courtyards, and ornamental screens for their
doors, &amp;c. The Chinese settlers have evidently improved by
contact with the Russians, for the style of their houses in
Maimachin, where the Chinese are only sojourners away from
their own country, is superior to what one usually sees, even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
in fashionable cities in China proper. The <em>yamun</em>, or Government
office, is at the far end of Maimachin, and is presided
over by a Mongol. Beyond the Yamun is an open
square, which is considered neutral ground between Russia and
China. On the Russian side of the square we pass through a
gate and are in Kiachta, under the wing of the great Russian
eagle, which we see paraded everywhere over our heads. The
black and white posts, said to have been a pet fancy of that
miserable pedant, Paul Petrovitch, that offend the eye everywhere
in Russia; the elegant houses with white-washed walls
and red or green roofs; the gorgeous churches with tall
tapering spires; and the wide streets, with nobody in them,
are all taken in at the first glance through the gateway,
and establish it beyond doubt that we are really in the
territory of the Czars.</p>

<p>With little trouble we found out Mr. Pfaffius, Commissary
of the Frontier, an office established in lieu of the
governorship which had been abolished. The Commissary
received us in a very friendly manner, gave me some letters
that had overtaken me from China, files of the "Times"
newspaper up to the 5th of August, and finally, to my great
joy and comfort, announced that he had instructions from his
superiors to facilitate my journey homewards, in consequence
of an application from Lord Napier to the authorities at
St. Petersburg. Nothing could be more satisfactory, and
we had only now to get lodgings and make ourselves easy for
a little.</p>

<p>Kiachta itself is but a small place, and contains few inhabitants,
except the Commissary and his dependents, and the
Russian merchants who are engaged in the China trade. The
general population lives at Troitskosarfsk, which is a good-sized
town, about two miles from Kiachta. Thither we proceeded
with our caravan, and soon fell into comfortable
quarters by the kind assistance of my countryman, Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
Grant. The day was wearing on, and our Mongols were in a
hurry to get back to their grazing-ground. The camels were
soon relieved of their burdens, but we could hardly realise
that they were now unloaded for the last time in our service.
The lama called us to count over the packages, and see
whether everything was right; he then received the balance
of his contract money, and was off. We did not charge him
the forfeit he was liable to for the four days' over-time.
Tellig received a small present, which gratified him beyond
measure, for he never considered that he had done anything
to lay us under an obligation to him. We really felt sorry to
part from our Mongols, especially the faithful Tellig, and we
could not help commiserating them as we thought of the
severe season they had to pass on those dreary steppes, so
intolerable in September, that one would suppose flesh and
blood could not withstand the cruel cold of winter. They
had in view a return cargo from a Chinaman in Maimachin,
and, after a few days' rest, they would probably be on the
march again towards the Great Wall of China. They had no
intention of laying up any part of the winter, that being in
fact their busiest season, and they would be in Kiachta again
about December. What a miserable life it seems to live day
and night almost on the back of a stinking camel! And yet
these people, in the midst of hardships, are as happy as the
day is long.</p>

<p>One of our first objects of inquiry at Kiachta was a Russian
bath, which we found in the house where we lodged, and
anything so exquisitely luxurious I never experienced, burdened
as I was with a month's sand and dust, which we had
no efficient means of getting rid of in the desert. The
Mongols, indeed, never attempt to wash themselves, being
only too glad to get water enough to boil their mutton
and make their tea, and that is generally carried from
a considerable distance, for a yourt is never found very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
close to a well. I never could get an explanation of this,
but presume it is so ordained by law, to prevent any one
family from monopolising a well. Although the Mongols do
not wash at all, they did not look so dirty as we did after
twenty-four hours travel,&mdash;either the dust does not stick
to them, or it does not show on their darker-coloured skins.
Anyhow, it does not inconvenience them, and all the purifying
I have seen them attempt is a rough wipe they occasionally
give to their greasy mouths with the skirt of their
garment, either calico or sheepskin.</p>

<p>We were agreeably surprised to find so much refinement
in this outpost of Siberia. The houses are mostly large and
comfortable. All are built of wood, and mostly of round
logs dovetailed together at the ends, and caulked with moss,
giving them a massive warm look, even from outside. Those
of greater pretensions are faced outside with planed wood,
painted white, which, with their red or green painted roofs,
give a cheerful air to the whole place. The churches are
a great ornament to the town. They are all three built
of brick, and white-washed, the tall cupolas being painted
green.</p>

<p>The streets are well kept, which is not difficult to do,
seeing that the ground is dry, and there is no great traffic
to cut up the roads. Several of the streets are provided
with wooden side-walks, which are very agreeable to the feet
where the planking is sound, but in many places it has given
way, exposing dangerous pitfalls to nocturnal or inebriated
pedestrians.</p>

<p>Every Russian above the rank of a <em>moujik</em> (peasant)
drives in some sort of a vehicle; and there are all sorts in
Kiachta, from the droshkie, pure and simple, drawn by one
or two shaggy Siberian ponies, to the luxurious carriage of
"the swell," mounting a coachman, and perhaps a footman
in livery, and drawn by two well-bred showy little horses<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
from the west. The Russians never ride for pleasure or
exercise; in this respect resembling the Chinese, who never
ride, walk, dance, or do anything that they can afford to pay
some one else to do for them. A few of the Kiachta notabilities,
who have been put under strict regimen by their
doctors, certainly may be seen in the afternoon taking a
constitutional, closely muffled up in their fur over-coats,
which they hug round them with both hands, greatly impeding
the free movement of the limbs. Fast walking
would, however, probably be considered derogatory to the
dignity of their station. These solitary and sombre-looking
figures, covered up to the eyes, look like assassins, and the
imagination can easily picture to itself a dagger concealed
under the ample folds of the cloak as they pace slowly along
in the dusk on the open road between Kiachta and Troitskosarfsk.</p>

<p>The Russians generally have a lurking consciousness that
they are but half civilised, and they are quite aware that they
are so esteemed by the rest of Europe. Hence they are at
unusual pains to maintain punctiliously the external forms of
civilised life, mistaking the husk for the kernel. The tailors
and milliners of Kiachta are as particular, and their customers
perhaps more so, about getting the latest Parisian
fashions, as their contemporaries in the most fashionable
towns in Europe or even America. A morning visit in a
shooting-coat to a merchant in Kiachta would grievously
shock his sense of propriety, and if such an outlandish garb
were to meet the ultra-refined eyes of his wife, the probable
consequences to her delicate system are too serious to contemplate,
albeit she is "fat, fair, and forty," and will challenge
you in champagne on a proper occasion till all is blue.
I had the misfortune to be the innocent cause of an alarming
attack to a gentleman, who was civil enough to call at an
unexpectedly early hour in the morning, by appearing before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
him in slippers and a Chinese sleeping-dress. The apparition
paralysed him for two minutes, nor did he entirely
recover his equanimity during the interview. It is this
mistaken notion of what constitutes civilisation that induces
the well-to-do Russian to wear expensive furs, simply because
they are expensive, and to drink English bottled porter, not
because he likes it, but because it costs twelve shillings a
bottle.</p>

<p>In the streets and in the bazaar (Gostinnaidvor) a strange
mixture of races is seen. The hairy, greasy, drunk-when-he-can
Russian moujik; the small-eyed cunning Russian
shop-keeper; a sprinkling of fine, dirty, rough-looking Bouriats,
a Tartar tribe subject to Russia; a few Mongols who
have business,&mdash;for their authorities, instigated by the Chinese
government, are jealously watchful of their crossing the
frontier,&mdash;and a few astute Chinese, the most business-like
of the whole crowd.</p>

<p>The merchants of Kiachta are mostly reported to be enormously
wealthy&mdash;several millions of roubles are not considered
too much to ascribe to the most prosperous of them. These
great fortunes are doubtless for the most part mythical, and
as mammon is devoutly worshipped here, and the Russian
"swell" has no qualities but wealth to recommend him to
the respect of his countrymen, their reputed millions are
merely a figure of speech, by which the public mean to
express their appreciation of character. That the Kiachta
merchants are, on the whole, wealthy, there is no doubt, and
the most approved means for attaining that desirable condition
seems to be to fail periodically. On those occasions the
gentleman makes a journey to Nijni-novgorod and Moscow to
see his creditors,&mdash;offers them fifty kopeks in the rouble or&mdash;nothing.
The composition is accepted for various reasons:
first, because it would be too much trouble to dispute it, and
secondly, because the said creditors have made a good thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
out of the connection, and hope to do so again. All this being
satisfactorily arranged, the merchant starts afresh in the old
line, having in the meantime added "house to house, and
field to field." I would not be supposed to insinuate that
this is a common practice in Kiachta, but some instances
were pointed out to me of Croesuses who had passed through
the ordeal more than once, rising higher in public estimation
each time, as their worldly prosperity increased. Large
profits are made, or rather have been made, in the Kiachta
trade, both with China and the west of Russia. Almost
every merchant has a shop either in the bazaar at Troitskosarfsk
or in Kiachta, and their principle in business is
rather to do little with large profits, than to accept smaller
profits with a greatly extended trade. They don't seem to
try to undersell each other, but rather combine to tax the
public heavily for all the necessaries of life. The prices of
nearly all articles in the shops are extravagant, even allowing
for the expensive carriage their goods have to bear from the
great distances most of them have to come. Were they to
be content with such profits as would be considered ample
in any other civilised country, they would place the necessaries
of life, and even luxuries, within the reach of a vast
number of people whose means do not at present admit of
expensive indulgences, and thereby increase consumption to
an extent that would in the long run bring them in greater
aggregate profits than they now realise, and indirectly add to
the general prosperity and well-being of the place. For one
bottle of porter they now sell at three and four roubles, they
would sell ten at one-and-a-half or two roubles; and so with
other things. But the Russians have no notions of expansion,
and the merchants are far behind the Government in
commercial enlightenment. The recent measure of opening
the Russian sea-ports to the import of tea direct from China,
has utterly disconcerted the Kiachta people, who looked on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
the overland tea-trade through Siberia, with its sure snug
profits, as part of their inheritance; and bitter complaints
are heard on all sides at such an arbitrary interference with
their prerogative. They considered themselves to have a
vested right to supply the Russian people with dear tea for
ever.</p>

<p>The Chinese of Maimachin are likewise reputed wealthy,
and no doubt they are, to judge by their portly figures. This
is considered a sure sign of prosperity in China, where rolling
in wealth, and rolling in fat, are often considered synonymous
terms. I have, however, known the criterion prove frequently
fallacious. The Chinese merchants of Maimachin live there
without their families, and consider themselves as mere sojourners,
although many of them spend the best part of their
lives there. They have an unconquerable aversion to moving
their families from the spot where they and their fathers
were born; and even within the bounds of their own country
they rarely migrate for good from one district to another,
unless driven to such a step by some potent cause, such as a
visitation from the "rebels."</p>

<p>The Russians and Chinese are peculiarly suited to each
other in the commercial, as well as in the diplomatic departments.
They have an equal regard for truth, for the Russian,
spite of his fair complexion, is at the bottom more than
half Asiatic. There is nothing original about this observation,
but it serves to explain how it is that the Russians have
won their way into China by quiet and peaceable means,
while we have always been running our head against a
stone wall, and never could get over it without breaking it
down. The Russian meets the Chinese as Greek meets
Greek: craft is encountered with craft, politeness with politeness,
and patience with patience. They understand each
other's character thoroughly, because they are so closely alike.
If some matter has to be negotiated, it is quite understood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
that each begins as far from the subject as possible: much
conversation takes place on both sides; many pipes are
smoked, and many cups of tea sipped, while they are beating
about the bush. They receive each other's statements for
what they are worth, that is, not as being intended to convey
any definite signification, but as merely put in for the purpose
of concealing their real purpose and to smooth the way
to the object in view. Of course much valuable time is lost
by this circumlocution, but it is a matter of apparent indifference
to either party whether the negotiation is concluded in
one day, or three days, or three weeks. They prefer their own
way of dealing, and don't understand any other. When either
Russian or Chinese meets a European, say an Englishman, he
instinctively recoils from the blunt, straightforward, up-and-down
manner of coming to business at once; and the Asiatic
either declines a contest which he cannot fight with his own
weapons, or, seizing the weak point of his antagonist, he angles
with him until he wearies him into acquiescence. As a rule,
the Asiatic has the advantage. His patient equanimity, and
heedlessness of the waste of time, are too much for the impetuous
haste of the European. This characteristic of the
Russian trading classes has enabled them to insinuate themselves
into the confidence of the Chinese; to fraternise and
identify themselves with them, and as it were make common
cause with them in their daily life; while the European holds
himself aloof, and only comes in contact with the Chinese
when business requires it,&mdash;for all the rest, a great gulf separates
them in thoughts, ideas, and the aims of life. The
Russians and Chinese are equally low in their tastes; intellectual
and manly recreations are equally foreign to them,
while eating and drinking, play-going and gambling, are the
congenial amusements of both alike. I have been told that
the Russian merchants of Kiachta, when they wish to treat
each other to something worthy of a highly cultivated mind,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
order a Chinese dinner in Maimachin, a feast that most
Europeans would rather undergo the incipient stages of starvation
than come within the smell of. But in this and other
things the Russians pay tribute to the superior civilisation
of the Chinese, all the more genuine that it is unconsciously
done. That the Chinese are the more civilised of the two, I
am thoroughly convinced. Their notions of civilisation certainly
run in a different groove from those of Christian
nations, but it is a spontaneous growth, and genuine of its
kind. But the Russians, after all that they have borrowed
from their western neighbours, remain barbarians at bottom;
and their living in large houses, and drinking expensive wines,
serve merely to exhibit, in more striking colours, the native
barbarism of the stock on which these twigs of a higher
order of life have been engrafted. This does not, of course,
apply to the educated gentlemen of Russia, the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">nous autres</i>,
who constitute a higher caste, and who have been largely
leavened with foreign blood, but only to the middle and lower
ranks. There is no middle class in Russia, as we understand
the term, but there is a pretty large number of merchants who
have risen from the condition of serfs, many of them very
rich, and who must be taken to represent the middle class,
but between whom and the gentlemen in uniform there is as
impassable a barrier as between a merchant in Japan and a
daimio. The Chinese far outstrip the Russians as a nation
of shopkeepers, and in commercial matters generally have
more enlarged and liberal ideas. Much of this is due to the
non-interference of Government with trade. The restrictions
of shops to one locality in Russian towns has its advantages
and disadvantages; but the licence fees required for admission
to the guilds, and for permission to open a shop in the bazaar,
are so onerous as to exclude that class of small shopkeepers
who are the life and soul of Chinese cities.</p>

<p>The largest building in Kiachta is called the Custom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
House, but it is no longer used as such, all duties on
merchandise having been recently abolished through the
enlightened exertions of the present Governor-General of
Eastern Siberia, who has done much to develop trade in
his government. And truly the whole of that inaccessible
region, including the Amoor provinces, is so ill-favoured by
nature in its geographical position, and so thinly inhabited
by a race who have had all enterprize ground out of them
by centuries of oppression, that it is only by coaxing and
nursing that prosperity can ever take root and flourish. The
old Custom House is now occupied by the chief of <em>postes</em> and
some other Government officials. It is situated on an elevation
above the town and at the far end of Troitskosarfsk, at
as great a distance as possible from the residence of the
Commissary of the Frontier, who holds his court at the
opposite extremity of Kiachta.</p>

<p>Having much business to transact at both these places, we
hired a droshkie by the day at two roubles, an old shabby
looking machine, very groggy on the springs, with two wild
half-broken ponies tied to it with ropes, and an unkempt
<em>moujik</em> on the box. In this turn-out we rattled along the
dusty streets of Kiachta, passed by everything we saw excepting
costermongers' carts. I felt very small, perched on
the old rattle-trap, and had it not been for the "honour of
the thing" I would infinitely have preferred walking or
riding, but that was not to be thought of in a Russian, and
especially a Siberian, town. Our reputation was at stake.</p>

<p>Kiachta lies snugly in a hollow between hills of sand and
fir-trees, well sheltered from the northerly winds, and opening
out southwards towards Mongolia. A small rivulet runs
through the ravine, which turns west through the sandy
plain on the Mongol side of the frontier, and falls into the
general receptacle of the other rivers we had crossed.
Kiachta and Troitskosarfsk are said to contain 20,000 inhabitants,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
who are pretty well supplied with provisions from
the interior. Great numbers of peasants' carts may be seen
in the morning bringing in the products of their farms and
gardens to market. All the common vegetables are to be
had in abundance; good beef and mutton of course, though
the Russians, for some unexplained reason, eat very little
mutton. The supplies for Kiachta come from great distances,
and the peasants start from their homes long before
break of day. They generally hunt in couples, the man with
his sheepskin coat hung on him, leading the horse and riding
by turns, while the good-wife, swaddled up into a round
bundle of clothing, and booted to the knees, sits on the top
of the cabbages. A large square in the centre of Troitskosarfsk
is set apart as a corn and hay market, and is provided
with sundry weights and scales sanctioned by the
proper authorities. Here the vendors of agricultural produce
assemble, and generally manage to get rid of their stocks by
an early hour in the afternoon. Everything seems to be sold
by weight in Russia, but they can hardly carry this to the
same extent as the Chinese, who sell live chickens by weight,
and by way of making up for any deficiency stuff their crops
with sand, which adds an ounce or two to the aggregate
weight, but produces death in a very short time. This trick
used to be played off on masters of steamers, who thought to
do a service to their countrymen at Shanghae, where provisions
were at famine prices, by bringing a few hundred
fowls from other ports where they were to be had cheap.
The mortality in the middle passage was so great, however,
that the second day generally threw a very different light on
the venture.</p>

<p>Kiachta is also well supplied with excellent fish, the
sturgeon among others, from the river Selenga, and it was
here for the first time that we indulged ourselves in fresh
caviar.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p>

<p>In this town there is a public recreation ground within a
neat enclosure, where ladies promenade in the afternoon
to inhale the fresh air, or exhibit the latest thing in
bonnets, for Russians don't care much for air or exercise.
Some retired nooks there are in the enclosure, suggestive of
love-making at a more genial season, but they looked dreary
enough in September, with a hard frost on the ground, and
snow on the neighbouring hills. The whole goes by the
name of "the garden," and in the three short months of
summer it may possibly show something to justify this appellation.
The mere attempt at gardening under such difficulties
as a Siberian climate imposes, is creditable to the
enterprise of the Kiachtaites, and it were much to be wished
that the sun would shine on their efforts. The severity of
the weather drives those who have a taste for flowers to
cultivate them in their houses, which they do very successfully.
Many of their rooms are like greenhouses, furnished
round with large flowering shrubs in pots, very pleasant to
the eye, whatever may be the effect of so much vegetation
on human health. The plants are put out into gardens
during the short summer, and withdrawn to the warm rooms
when the chill winds give notice that winter is near.</p>

<p>The climate of Kiachta is very cold in winter, and pretty
hot in summer. The air is very dry, soil sandy, and little or
no rain or snow falls. It lies in lat. 50° 15', and at an elevation
of 2200 feet above the sea. The population is reputed
to be healthy, and old people of eighty and upwards are as
lively as crickets. The houses are very comfortable, so far at
least as warmth constitutes comfort, and in severe climates it
is undoubtedly the first essential. The massive wooden walls
well caulked with moss, which is said to be better and more
lasting than oakum, are well adapted to exclude cold. They
have all double windows a few inches apart, with the space
between filled with cotton wool along the sill. The rooms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
are heated by large closed stoves or ovens, which are used for
cooking as well as warming the house. In general, one stove
is made to heat several rooms, being built into the corner
presenting one face to each apartment. The great drawback
in all this is the absolute want of ventilation, which was to
us very trying and disagreeable, but the Russians are accustomed
to live in health in the close stuffy atmosphere of
their houses. The temperature of their rooms is kept up
to about + 16° Reaumur (68° Fahrenheit), and varies but
little from that range. They use a great deal of firewood,
which is cheap in the neighbourhood of those vast primæval
forests, and in the yards of Kiachta immense stores of this
fuel are piled up for winter use.</p>

<p>The Russian manner of living was not quite suitable to us,
although more regular than we had lately been accustomed
to. They eat but one meal a-day, and that about twelve or
one o'clock. The everlasting samovar fills up the morning
and evening with its incessant bubbling and spluttering.
Much tea-drinking is calculated to take the edge off a
ravenous appetite, and in addition to the fluid we were fain
to eat all the little cakes that usually accompany the
samovar, in order to tide over the long twenty-four hours
that interfered between regular meals. The stock dish of
the Russians is a vegetable soup, with beef boiled in it. It is
called <em>shtchee</em>, and is good or bad, according to the materials
available for its manufacture, and the skill of the cook. Our
cook in Kiachta was a lady of the mature age of eighty-two,
who was justly proud of her attainments. The <em>shtchee</em> is
enough of itself to make a substantial meal, as the <em>bouilli</em> is
served up with it; but it is generally followed by a solid
piece of roast beef. The bread is very good and white, but a
strange custom prevails of putting black bread on the table
along with the white, for the apparent purpose of showing off
by contrast the extreme whiteness of the white, for no one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
ever touches the black when he can get the other. The real
black bread is heavier, and as clammy as if potatoes entered
largely into its composition. It is used almost exclusively by
the peasants, and is doubly economical, being in the first
instance cheap in price, and moreover a very little of it goes
a long way, as it resists digestion as long as a hard-boiled
egg. The black bread used by the well-to-do classes is a
compromise, and is of a black-brown colour, known as <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">demi-blanc</i>.</p>

<p>The Kiachta community is for the most part permanent.
The official portion of it is of course migratory, as the Government
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">employés</i> look for promotion to other regions, but some
of them also settle down in Kiachta and found families. Many
of the merchants also move westward, or intend to do so, but
the whole substratum of peasants, artisans and tradesmen is a
settled population. They talk little of Petersburg and Moscow,
and when they do, it is with a kind of distant awe, as if
these holy places belonged to a higher world. Irkutsk is the
centre of their thoughts, the pivot on which they move.
Whatever is defective in Kiachta is sure to be found in perfection
in Irkutsk; the best hotels, horses, carriages, doctors,
houses, churches, shops&mdash;everything&mdash;are there. A journey
to Irkutsk is not an unfrequent occurrence, but a journey to
Moscow is something to be talked about on every convenient
occasion for the remainder of one's life-time.</p>

<p>The town was founded in 1728, as an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entrepôt</i> of the
caravan trade with China, and to that alone does it owe its
importance. Tea has always been much the largest item in
this trade, and although Kiachta must continue to command
the trade between China and Eastern Siberia, the direct importation
of sea-borne teas to the Baltic ports cuts off an important
source of prosperity from Kiachta. The mercantile
community have, up to last year, endeavoured to compete
with their rivals, and pushed into China to purchase the tea<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
in the same markets; but the conditions of the trade are so
much altered that they are deprived of their former facilities
for bartering Russian produce, and in other respects the
caravan trade is too heavily weighted ever to compete successfully
with the long sea route. Even in Russia, wedded
as the masses are to prejudice, common sense must gain the
day in the end, particularly where roubles and kopeks are in
question.</p>

<p>We did not grudge ourselves a few days' rest at Kiachta,
considering we had accomplished the most tedious part of
the journey, and henceforward would get over the ground as
fast as horses' legs could carry us. But no such luck was in
store for us. The first news we had from the commissary and
others, was that the whole country between the shores of the
Baikal lake and Kiachta was inundated by the flooding of
the river Selenga. It seemed that our adverse fortune was
to follow us along the whole journey. We need not have
been surprised, however, at the intelligence we received of
the condition of the Selenga, since into it all the rivers we
had crossed in Mongolia discharge themselves. The post
from Europe was long overdue, and no news had been
received from the Baikal for ten days. We were constrained
perforce to remain quiescent until the waters should subside,
and a day or two after our arrival a courier who came with
the missing mail reported a slight improvement in the communication,
he having succeeded in carrying the mail in
small boats from station to station. Our time was not, however,
misspent, for we had a number of preparations to make
for our journey. In the first place we had to exchange our
Chinese silver into Russian paper money. We were prepared
of course to lose on this operation, but were agreeably
surprised to find we had got off with only about one per cent.
For one tael of sycee we received 2<em>r.</em> 15<em>kop.</em>, which, at the
then value of three shillings to the rouble, gave us 6<em>s.</em> 5<sup><small>4</small></sup>&frasl;<sub><small>10</small></sub><em>d.</em><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
for our tael, which was worth roundly 6<em>s.</em> 6<em>d.</em> We had
then our ponies and carts to dispose of, and my pony was
quickly sold for ten roubles, of which my share was eight,
that is twenty-four shillings for what cost thirty-two,&mdash;so far
so good. But, when we came to offer the carts for sale,
difficulties presented themselves. No one had ever heard of
such articles being sold in Kiachta. This seemed strange, for
the Chinese&mdash;if not the Russians&mdash;use no other conveyance
in their frequent journeys to China. The carts are made
only in China, and therefore ought to be at a premium in
Kiachta. But the Russians were not to be reasoned with in
this way, but maintained that it was hopeless to attempt to
sell our carts, and we abandoned the idea. We happened,
however, to mention the subject to some Chinese in Maimachin,
and having persuaded them to come to Troitskosarfsk,
and see the articles, we concluded a bargain, on the
eve of our departure, for sixty-five roubles, about half what
they cost.</p>

<p>It was necessary to our comfort to purchase a tarantass, or
large travelling carriage. It was possible to travel without
one, using the <em>kibitka</em>, or small carriage, provided at the
post-stations; but that mode of travelling involved the annoyance
of changing at every station, which, with our huge
amount of baggage, would have been intolerable. We had
some trouble to find a tarantass, and when we had got one it
was not quite what it should have been&mdash;indeed we should
have done better to have used the post kibitkas as far as Irkutsk,
and bought a tarantass there, where we would have
had a better selection.</p>

<p>In Maimachin we purchased some goat skins, with hair
twelve inches long. These we had sown together into a sack
for each of us to put our legs into when sitting in the carriage;
a very simple contrivance, well worthy of the attention
of all travellers in those regions in cold weather, and which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
contributed in no small degree to our comfort on the
road.</p>

<p>The remnant of our stores, &amp;c., tent, saddles, and such like,
had to be abandoned in Kiachta, and we could only make
room in the tarantass for a little brandy, and some tins of
bacon, and smoked tongues. Hitherto we had trusted
nothing to the chance supplies of provisions that might be
found on the road; but now, being in a civilised (?) country,
we depended solely on its resources, such as they were.</p>

<p>We had no trouble with our papers in Kiachta, and our
luggage was never looked at; neither did we require to take
out a Russian passport, but merely had to get our Peking
ones viséd for Irkutsk by the master of police, which formality
enabled us to obtain from the chief of the posts a
padaroshna, or pass for post-horses, which are entirely under
Government control. In addition to this, Mr. Pfaffius supplied
us with a special pass, to give greater effect to the
padaroshna, and to ensure us proper attention from the
various station masters as far as Irkutsk. This document
was to be exchanged for a similar one, which we hoped to
obtain from the higher authorities at the provincial capital.
We experienced the greatest civility and ready assistance
from all the Russian officials with whom we came in contact
in Kiachta, and the bugbear of troublesome interference by
the authorities vanished away.</p>

<p>We soon got tired waiting for better news of the state of
the roads between us and Lake Baikal, and determined to
start on the 7th of October at all hazards. The steady frosty
weather, with occasional falls of snow, gave us warning of
winter, and of the uncertainty of getting our heavy carriage
over half-frozen rivers. Every day was important at such a
critical season, and the motherly counsels of the good old
lady we were living with, to postpone our journey till December,
when the snow roads would be in perfect order, only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
made us the more impatient to be off. Had we stayed
another day we might have been tempted to give ear to
these reiterated remonstrances against tempting Providence
by starting at such a time.</p>

<p>Some hours were occupied in loading our tarantass, for we
discovered to our dismay that the machine, large as it was,
was still too small for our baggage and ourselves. After several
attempts to dovetail unwieldy boxes into corners and use
up all smaller articles as broken stowage, we eventually succeeded,
between the inside and the outside of the machine,
to get everything on board, and with a severe struggle we
squeezed ourselves in, horizontally, between the baggage and
the hood of the conveyance. Our padaroshna was for three
horses, but when the driver brought them to be harnessed,
and saw the load he had to drag, he at once protested against
going with less than four. We felt that he was quite right,
but to establish a character it was necessary that we should
be firm at the outset. To have admitted the necessity for
four horses would have exposed us to all manner of impositions
at the successive stations, where our ignorance of Russ
would have placed us at the mercy of every ruffian of a postmaster.
With great misgivings, therefore, we started with
our three horses, driven by a Bouriat <em>yemschik</em>. The tarantass
is a strong roughly made four-wheeled carriage, placed
on poles, which rest across the two axletrees. The poles are
made of soft wood, but have some spring in them, and the
tarantass is at least more comfortable on rough roads than a
Chinese two-wheeled cart. The hood comes well forward,
and with an apron that comes up nearly to the top, and a
curtain that can be let down from the front of the hood, the
tarantass can be pretty well closed in.</p>

<p>The "horses" are only ponies, a little over thirteen hands
high, strong shaggy little brutes, full of beans and of great endurance.
They are harnessed, or rather tied, to the vehicle,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
or, as the Russians like to call it, the <em>equipage</em>, in the
loosest possible manner. A stout steady one is put in the
shafts without any traces, the collar being secured to the forward
part of the shafts by strong leather bands. A wooden
tree arched over the collar and fixed to the shafts by its two
ends, has a bearing rein running from the top, and kept
rather tight on the horse's mouth. A bell is also suspended
from the top of this cumbrous-looking apparatus,
which denotes to all whom it may concern that it jingles
over a post-horse. The bell is an intolerable nuisance on
the road, but it is of some use in arriving at a station to
announce the important event to the station-keeper, who
peradventure may be asleep.</p>

<p>The other horses are attached by rope traces to the axletrees,
or any part of the outside of the tarantass which
may be available for making fast a rope. Each horse is
independent of the others, and any, except the middle one,
may get off the road, kick, fall, or do what he likes, without
disturbing the general equilibrium. The favourite number
of horses in Russia is three, which they call a <em>troilki</em>&mdash;they
all go abreast, whether the number be two or six.
Everything about the "turn out" is of the loosest and
rudest construction&mdash;the wheels have plenty of scope, and
oscillate three or four inches on the axle, so as to be easily
oiled. Something is constantly going wrong&mdash;the wonder
is that the whole arrangement does not break down on
the road beyond the hope of remedy; but the Russians
are very clever at making shifts, and with the constant
demands that are made on their resources, their talents
are kept in full exercise.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2>

<h3>KIACHTA TO LAKE BAIKAL.</h3>


<p>We got out of Troitskosarfsk about three o'clock in the
afternoon, for as we intended to travel as the Russians do,
night and day, it made no difference at what time of the
day or night we commenced the journey. The first stage led
us over rather hilly roads, in many places heavy with sand.
The hills around have a sandy appearance, but after crossing
the first ridge we opened out fine broken scenery with richly
wooded heights. Our <em>yemschik</em>, or driver, being a Bouriat, we
were able to converse with him in his mother-tongue, for
though the Bouriats grow up speaking Russian, they preserve
their own domestic institutions, and among themselves speak
their own language, which, with some slight differences, is
identical with that spoken by the Mongols of the Great Desert.</p>

<p>The first station we arrived at was Ust Kiachtinské, which
is a fair-sized village of small wooden houses, with a very
neat little church. We were prepared for all the horrors of
a Siberian post-station, but found instead a new station-house,
well kept and scrubbed inside, warm and clean. It is
twenty-three and a-half versts, or nearly sixteen miles, from
Troitskosarfsk. Our doubts and fears regarding our ability
to deal with Russians, of whose language we were ignorant,
awed us into great circumspection at this, the first point
where we were left to our unaided resources. Our first
anxiety was to maintain our prestige among the Russians,
for, that failing, we should have been helpless indeed. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
only sure way of saving our name under the circumstances
was to decline all discussion, and as far as possible hold our
tongues. This succeeded very well at Ust Kiachtinské&mdash;four
horses were put to our tarantass, and no extra fare asked.
The post had left that day, and the poor jades allotted to
us had already performed one stage over very heavy roads,
and were in no condition to drag our unwieldy equipage.
Our Bouriat yemschik had not gone very far over the soft
sand before he discovered this, and after exhausting all his
persuasion to no good purpose, he sent a message to the
station by a chance Russian whom we met on the road. In
answer to this a fifth horse was sent from the post-house.
The yemschik resumed his efforts to proceed, and by dint of
yelling, carressing, and whipping, we got along a few miles
further. A nasty steep hill lay before us, and arrested our
progress finally for the night. When the yemschik had
bawled himself hoarse, and had goaded his horses to despair,
he entreated us, first in Russian, and then in Mongol, to get
out and unload the carriage. It was a cold dark night, and
we were warmly wedged into the carriage in a way that if
we got out we could never have readjusted our beds in the
dark. Finding us deaf to remonstrance, our poor yemschik
took the horses out and let them graze&mdash;made a fire for
himself of the end of a fallen tree, and waited patiently for
morning.</p>

<p>When daylight came we found ourselves in a thick wood,
half way up the hill. An hour and a half was spent in
unloading and getting the vehicle over the hill. After which
we proceeded slowly to the station Piravolofské, which we
reached at 8 o'clock. On the road we passed several villages,
with some cultivated enclosures farmed by Russians, who also
keep a good many cattle.</p>

<p>It was plain that we could not go on so heavily laden, for
even if horses could draw our tarantass, the machine itself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
would certainly break down, and we should run the risk of
being wrecked on the road beyond the reach of assistance.
We therefore determined if possible to secure an extra carriage
at Piravolofské. To this the station-keeper demurred,
and told us that with only one padaroshna it was impossible
to horse two equipages. The pass from the commissary was
efficacious in removing his doubts, and after expending all
his eloquence in proving the impossibility of complying with
our request, he quietly ordered a <em>kibitka</em>, into which we transferred
a portion of our dead weight, and we went on our way
rejoicing. The roads were rather sandy and a good deal
up and down hill. At 2 o'clock we passed Paravotné station,
where we had <em>shtchee</em>. We then proceeded by a good road
up a long valley through which runs a tributary of the
Selenga. Turning with the river into another valley to our
left, we again encountered sandy and hilly roads. We soon
struck the Selenga, a fine deep river, running through a wide
valley, hemmed in by steep and well-wooded hills. A ferry-boat
which was in attendance carried us across easily, horses,
carriages, and all. The people who manned the boat were
Russians and Bouriats, some of them showing unmistakeable
marks of mixed blood. The river had fallen about twelve
feet by the marks on the rock. A few miles from the ferry
lies the small, but rather pretty town of Selenginsk. It has
commodious barracks, one fine church, and some good houses.
The station-master at Selenginsk was an old, fat, consequential
and surly fellow. His room was adorned with some
poor pictures, among which was an engraving of Catherine
II. The companions of his solitude were a wretched-looking
girl, maid-of-all-work, and a small cur, trained to
perform certain tricks before travellers, on whom it seemed
to depend for its daily bread. This old fellow was too important
a personage in his own estimation to allow us to pass
without challenging our right to the two carriages, but by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
dint of holding our tongue we conquered his objections as
effectually as if we had greased his palm with roubles.</p>

<p>Night was on before we got away from Selenginsk. At 11
o'clock we passed Arbusofské, and at 5 next morning we
passed Nijni Ubukunské. A bitterly cold morning was the
9th of October. Passed through a well-peopled valley, in
good cultivation compared with what we had seen, though
still far short of what it might be. The valley runs north-east
to Verchne Udinsk, a considerable town. We did not
go round by that town, but turned off at Mohinski into a
valley on our left, and struck the Selenga again, keeping on
the left bank of the river. We now began to experience the
effects of the recent inundations. Although the flood had
abated very much, the water in the river was still high, and
the flat banks were great marshes. The road had been almost
obliterated by the flood, and new tracks had been
struck out through the driest parts, over large boulders, deep
holes filled with water, and heavy mud. The horses floundered,
but struggled bravely, and the yemschiks vociferated
for miles, through this impracticable compound of land and
water. We were five hours in going sixteen miles.</p>

<p>The valley narrows to a steep gorge through which the
Selenga forces its way under a shade of overhanging trees
that almost conceals it from view. The river was running
about four miles an hour, but so smoothly and silently, that
the current would have been hardly perceptible but for the
floating branches of trees borne on its surface. The scenery
is most beautiful. The perpendicular walls of rock that form
the gorge are thickly wooded with pine and birch, which,
combined with the willows that grow in great luxuriance on
the low banks of the river, and seem to stretch their branches
almost across the water, give quite a tropical appearance to
the valley.</p>

<p>The road through the gorge is scarped out of the rock, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
rises to a good height above the river. It is narrow in the
parts which are entirely artificial, so narrow that in some
places there is not room for two vehicles to pass. The
grandeur of the scenery faded away before our eyes as we
looked down from the height into the deep abyss below.
The edge of the precipice is guarded by a rough, strong,
wooden parapet, without which, restive horses and drunken
yemschiks would inevitably be immolated by the score at
this dangerous place.</p>

<p>At 3 p.m. we arrived at Poloviné station, simultaneously
with a number of other travellers from various quarters.
The long interruption of travelling from the flooding of the
country, had accumulated a great many on the west of
Baikal lake, and now they crowded on all at once. Amongst
our fellow-travellers were several government officers, and
two loquacious Poles from Irkutsk. The station could not
furnish horses for half of the number, and as we had all
arrived together, it was a question who should get them.
We required seven for our two carriages in the then state of
the roads, and it was no small satisfaction to us to find that
the postmaster assigned to us the precedence. The government
officers made no remark, but simply ordered the
samovar to make tea. The Russian travellers also took it
very quietly. But the two Poles were not so easily appeased.
We could glean a few words from the volleys of
abuse with which they indulged themselves, the gist of
which was anathemas on the Russian government, the
postal system, and things in general, winding up with a
threat to set up a "republic" in Siberia. Leaving our exasperated
friends to digest the venom of their spleen, we
rattled away over good roads along the left bank of the
Selenga, till we arrived at dusk at the post station of
Ilyensk, six versts short of the town of that name. The
postmaster here was an old sergeant who kept house with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
his aged wife. She seemed to be a good sort of woman,
for the house was in capital order, the wooden floor clean
scrubbed, and the walls beautifully white. Tables and chairs
were in the like good trim, as were also the pots and pans and
crockery. The sergeant received us with open arms, and was
obsequiously civil. It is probable that the yemschiks who
had conducted us from Poloviné had passed the word to him
of our being distinguished personages, whom all good postmasters
delighted to honour. When the little man had
acquitted himself of his bowing and scraping, he began to
expatiate on the coldness of the night and the badness of the
road that lay before us. The end of it was that he pressed
us, with his most winning grimaces, to make ourselves comfortable
under his roof for the night, and proceed at daylight
next morning towards the Baikal. We were but too willing
to listen to the voice of the charmer, for experience had
taught us that night travelling in Siberia is no great luxury.
Having therefore satisfied ourselves that we should be in
good time to catch the steamer on the Baikal, which makes
two trips a week, we resigned ourselves with a good conscience
to the kind solicitations of our host. When supper
was over and bedtime came, visions of Russian vermin began
to haunt us, and seriously disturbed our prospects of rest.
The most careful scrutiny of the apartment, however, led to
no discoveries of a disagreeable nature, beyond the shoals of
small cockroaches which the heat of the room brought out in
high condition. These animals are inoffensive enough in
their habits, but restless, and ever on the move, running to
and fro over the room and everything in it. They emit a
fetid odour, which is the most unpleasant thing about them,
particularly when you inadvertently crush them. But the
close, oven-heat of the room itself was in my case a sufficient
objection to sleeping there, and the tarantass was to me the
more attractive dormitory of the two. Indeed, when well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
wrapped up with furs, and only a part of the face exposed to
the frost, the tarantass affords sleeping accommodation that
might well be envied by a king, provided always there is no
jolting over rough roads to disturb the sleeper.</p>

<p>The jingling of bells at various periods of the night announced
the arrival of other travellers, and in the morning
we found that one party of Russian officers, whom we had
left drinking tea at Poloviné, had come and gone without
stopping at Ilyensk. Another party of merchants had arrived
later, and were all ready to start again when we got out of
bed. We were naturally, though perhaps unjustly, suspicious
of the Russians, and the first thought that flashed across our
minds, on surveying our situation, was that we had been
duped by the post-master into remaining all night at Ilyensk
in order to let the others get a clear start of us on the road.
It was of the last importance to reach the shore of Lake
Baikal, from which we were still ninety versts distant, in
time to save the steamer, and in the bad state of the roads it
was impossible for us to calculate the length of time we
should require to travel the distance. The advantage we
had been induced to yield to our fellow-travellers might
prove fatal to our own success, for although horses would be
kept for us at Ilyensk, there might be a scarcity at the
following stations, and our neighbours having the lead
might take every available beast, leaving none for us.
Under such circumstances the old sergeant was regarded
with very different feelings from those we entertained of
him when we retired to rest the night before. He did not
escape a fair quota of abuse, but he still protested that his
intentions were honourable. Great haste was made to get
our horses in, and we had faint hopes of overtaking some of
our friends.</p>

<p>The road from Ilyensk was good for fifteen versts, and
quite level. Beyond that it had been completely destroyed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
by the recent floods, and the country was full of lagoons.
The bridges were washed away, and their <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débris</i> were
scattered about over the fields. The main road was quite
impracticable, and by-paths were struck out wherever the
fancy, or topographical knowledge of the yemschik directed
him. It was a wild chase for many weary miles, through
great sheets of water, over high banks, and wide deep
ditches, which were charged at full gallop, the lumbering
machine being got over apparently by the sheer force of
momentum. We then plunged into a dense forest where a
lane had been cut out, leaving the stumps of the trees still
sticking up. The ravines had been roughly bridged over
with new-cut trees, overlaid with branches. This road,
besides being as rough as wheeled carriage ever travelled
on, was very circuitous, and our stage of twenty-four versts
by the main road was stretched out to not much short of
double that distance by the tracks we were compelled to
follow. It says something, however, for the energy of the
government, that the emergency should have been met so
promptly. Their postal communication had not been interrupted
a fortnight before this new road had been cut through
the wood, on the slope of a hill above the reach of inundation.</p>

<p>Changed horses at Tarakanofské, a small miserable station,
and at 1.30 reached Kabansk, a neat town with a
pretty church. Here we dined, and proceeded at 2.30.
The high mountains west of the Baikal were now distinctly
visible. At the next station, Stepné-dvaretské, the postmaster
was a Pole, a fine old gentleman, who was exiled
under Nicholas in 1854. He appeared very anxious to talk
about the affairs of Poland, but we had not acquired enough
Russian to make conversation very interesting to either
party, and besides we were in a hurry, and daylight was
fast failing. The old fellow exulted in the expectation of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
foreign intervention in Poland, and became radiant with
delight when we revealed our respective nationalities.</p>

<p>After leaving Stepné-dvaretské we soon reached the shore
of the lake, when we turned to the left, and followed the
coast-line, through occasional thickets and wide lagoons, till
we reached Pasoilské, the terminus of the Trans-Baikal
post-road. The station-house was full of travellers waiting
for the steamer to cross the water. The fixed time of her
departure was 9 o'clock the next morning, and the crowd
of travellers spent the night in the post-house. No beds,
and few seats are provided at these places. Men, women,
and children roll themselves down on the floor indiscriminately,
and sleep soundly through the incessant turmoil
and noise that would make night hideous to nervous people.
It is often impossible to thread one's way into the dormitory
without treading on half the people who are sleeping
among the bundles of clothing that cover the floor; but
aggressions of that sort, being of common occurrence, are
borne with stoical indifference. I slept as usual in the tarantass,
and was lulled to sleep by the harmony of a howling
wind, and the loud murmur of the waves of the lake that
washed the sandy beach within a few yards of me.</p>

<p>The Selenga is formed in Mongolia by the junction of a
number of small streams south of Lake Kosgol, 230 miles
south-west from Kiachta. It is afterwards joined by the
Orkhon, and its tributaries from the Kinghan mountains.
The length of this river has been computed at 300 miles,
which is probably near the mark. It is singularly rich in
fish, among which is the sturgeon. The fisheries are a great
blessing to the people who inhabit the valley, among whom
fish forms a staple article of diet.</p>

<p>The Selenga falls into the Baikal, by several mouths, about
twenty miles north of Pasoilské. That part of the coast
would not be so convenient for the steamer to cross at, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
would moreover make the crossing so much longer. But as
the Selenga itself is navigable, by properly constructed
vessels, from its mouth to a point higher than Selenginsk,
the steamer route may possibly be eventually diverted to
the river.</p>

<p>The valley of the Selenga is hemmed in to a narrow compass
by mountains as far down as Ilyensk. Thence, downwards,
the two mountain barriers diverge gradually, leaving
a fine open valley, which widens to about forty miles on the
coast of the lake. This valley supports a pretty large agricultural
population, and the peasants seem all well-to-do.
Agriculture is certainly not in an advanced state, if Europe
be taken as a standard, but still a large portion of the valley
is enclosed and cultivated; weeds are kept down; and stubble
looks like stubble, and not merely grass of a different shade
of colour from the surrounding pastures, which is the characteristic
of the fields nearer Kiachta. The soil is light, dry,
and friable; furrows don't hold their shape. The crops are
chiefly cereals&mdash;wheat, barley, rye, and oats.</p>

<p>There is an immense tract of uncleared country in the
Selenga valley, only wanting hands to fell trees and bring the
soil under the plough, to make this a rich and fertile region.
The slopes of the hills are also capable of cultivation, but
centuries will probably elapse before they are required. In
the meantime, both hills and plains bear magnificent crops of
timber, which will keep the Siberians in fuel and building
material for a thousand years to come.</p>

<p>Cattle are abundant, but under-bred and rather small.
The milk cows are poor, which is singular considering that
milk is such a valuable item in the subsistence of the people.
They have a good hardy breed of sheep, which are nearly all
black. Pigs are also very common in the villages. They
are a peculiar breed, very active, do not grow to any size,
rather long in the legs, and bristly. Their owners do not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
seem to feed their stock much, if at all, and consequently
the animals have to follow their own instincts of self-preservation.
They may be seen in the morning trooping it
down the street at a steady trot, turning neither to the right
hand nor to the left, until some edible substance arrests
their attention. They are not very particular about what
they eat, and they manage, by dint of rapid movements, to
eke out a subsistence off the odds and ends to be found in
the streets, and the roots they can burrow out of the fields.
Many of these Siberian pigs are of a brown colour, which is
uncommon in the porcine race.</p>

<p>The dogs of Siberia are of the ubiquitous breed which is
common all over China, Japan, and many other countries,
and is nearly akin to our own collie dog.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>Chapter XIV.</h2>

<h3>LAKE BAIKAL TO IRKUTSK.</h3>


<p>The post-house of Pasoilské was all alive at an early hour
on the 11th of October. Cart-loads of wood were piled on the
fires. All the samovars were in requisition at once, and the
company waited patiently, or impatiently, for their turn to
come, for a Russian is very useless until he has guzzled three
or four tumblers of tea. The "postilions," as they call the
soldiers who travel with the mail-bags, and other hangers-on,
generally came off best. Their instinct leads them to make
friends with kitchen-maids, and the kitchen being their
centre of attraction, it goes hard if they don't get their tea
in good time.</p>

<p>The kitchen was the only place where one could get a
wash, which is a difficult operation to the unskilful. No
basin is provided, but an urchin, or a robust maiden, holds a
pitcher of water, the contents of which you receive by instalments
in the hollow of your two hands, and with good
management you succeed in getting a few drops to your face.</p>

<p>While we were all stretching our necks to catch a glimpse
of the steamer, every moment expected to heave in sight, an
officer gave us the valuable hint that our tarantass could not
be embarked at Pasoilské, there being no boat there capable
of conveying it to the steamer. This was unwelcome intelligence
to receive at the eleventh hour, but it was confirmed
by the post-master who, however, had told us a different
story the night before.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p>

<p>The "shipping port" was nine versts further south, and
thither we had to transport our carriage. It was off the
government post-road, and private horses had to be hired at
rather an exorbitant rate. But there was no time to lose, and
the Russian had us on the hip, an advantage which none
know better how to turn to account. The road runs along a
narrow sand-spit between the Baikal and the inner lagoons. It
is very heavy, and the water has broken in on it in some
places. The sand-spit runs out to a point forming a sheltered
harbour inside for vessels of light draught. The entrance
round the point has a shoal sand-bar, somewhat dangerous,
running across it. Several Russian barges, rigged very much
like Japanese junks, with one enormous mast placed near
the centre of the vessel, and of about 150 tons burthen, lay
aground discharging their cargoes on the shore. Several
more were lying at anchor in the harbour. These vessels are
of the rudest construction, and the most primitive model&mdash;very
short, enormously high-sided, and of great beam. They
have preposterously large rudders like the Chinese and
Japanese junks. Their "lines" are so imperfect that no
ordinary rudder would steer them. They must be incapable
of any nautical movement except running before the wind.
They carry large crews, chiefly Bouriats. Their heavy main-sail
and rudder necessitates plenty of hands, and when in
harbour (where they seem to spend most of their time) the
large crew is useful in loading and discharging cargo.</p>

<p>When we consider the kind of craft, and the quality of
their crews, by which the Baikal has been navigated, it is easy
to account for the terrible stories of the storms that frequently
spread destruction over the surface of the lake. That
the lake, like other lakes similarly shut in by high mountains,
is subject to sudden and violent storms, fraught with
danger to crazy barks and unskilful navigators, there can be
no doubt; but we had occasion to observe that a very gentle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
zephyr indeed is accounted a storm on the Baikal. It is said
that a peculiar phenomenon is sometimes observed in the
lake,&mdash;a wave, or succession of waves, bubbling up from the
bottom in the calmest weather as if moved by submarine influences.
But it is not likely that this, or other anomalous
convulsions in the waters of the Baikal are of frequent occurrence.
But, although such phenomena have no doubt fortified
the popular superstitious dread with which the lake is
regarded, it is of the wind-storms that the Russian sailors and
travellers are so apprehensive.</p>

<p>There is only one house at the port, which belongs to the
company who own the steamers, as also many of the sailing
craft that cross the lake. In the house we met but one traveller,
all the others having stopped at Pasoilské to join the
steamer there. There was a large concourse of people, however,
engaged in landing and shipping cargo, and the scene
was most animated. The sand-flat was covered with merchandise,
in bales done up in cow-hides, casks, and all manner
of packages&mdash;that from the west waiting to be carted away to
the post-road for China or the Amoor river,&mdash;and eastern
produce, principally Chinese, waiting shipment. The people
moved about with more business-like energy than we had yet
observed amongst Russians. The whole traffic with the
Amoor crosses the Baikal here, as does also that with the
south-eastern provinces of Siberia, which includes all Russian
trade with China, excepting what finds its way to Semipalatinsk,
further west on the Khirgis steppe. Large caravans
of one-horse carts, laden with merchandise, are constantly
met with on the post-road. The heavy portion of the trade
naturally goes eastward, for all the clothing, all the luxuries,
and much of what may be considered the necessaries of life of
the Siberian cities, are supplied from Western Russia. Siberia
has not much to send in return, except furs, the precious
metals, and Chinese produce.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p>

<p>While we were waiting for the arrival of the steamer, we
were roused by a wild kind of chant outside, and presently a
procession of three Russian priests, with long hair and long
beards, came into the room where we were sitting, and after
doing reverence to the picture of the saint, stuck up in a
corner of the room, they besprinkled the apartment with
holy water, and retired. It was Sunday, and this imposing
ceremony served to remind the Russians of that circumstance.</p>

<p>An officer from the Amoor country showed us great civility
here, and made the time pass very pleasantly. He was worn
with hard travelling, having ridden a long distance through
forests where no proper road had yet been made. The usual
way of travelling up the Amoor is by steamer, as far as the
navigation is practicable, which is as high as the junction of
the Shilka. But the steamers often tow huge barges, laden
with grain, which greatly retards their progress, and besides,
they are almost constantly breaking down. So that, where
time is important, the shortest way is to ride until the
regular post-road is struck.</p>

<p>This gentleman gave us some interesting information
regarding the new road now being constructed by the government
from Irkutsk to Kiachta, round the south end of Lake
Baikal. The present route across the lake is very inconvenient,
and not always safe. In summer and winter the communication
by the lake is pretty regular; but during the interregnum
between the seasons it is very uncertain. When ice is
forming on the lake it is always doubtful whether the steamer
can cross with safety, and she is probably laid up for the
winter sooner than is really necessary, from fear of being
nipped by ice. Again, when the ice is melting, it would be
hazardous to leave on the surface the post-stations which are
used in winter traffic, for on such a large sheet of water, exposed
to gales of wind, the ice may break up suddenly when thaw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
has once set in. This has actually happened: on one occasion
a sudden break-up in the ice submerged a post-station with
all the men, horses, &amp;c., belonging to it. Thus the post establishments
will generally be cleared off in spring, some time
before the navigation is open. The inconvenience of depending
on this one route for the transport of merchandise and
gold has long been felt by the government, but the nature of
the country on the southern shores of the Baikal presents
almost insuperable difficulties to road-making. The precipitous
mountain ranges in that region are at present impassable,
except on foot or horseback, and dangerous even then.
Our informant once tried it in winter, and had to abandon his
horse to perish in the snow, saving his own life with difficulty.
The road now being made is scarped out of the rock
in the same way as the one I have described in the gorge in
the Selenga valley. It is only worked at in winter when the
peasants are frozen out of the mines and fields. One of the
means employed to split the rocks, is to make enormous bonfires
of trees when the temperature is very low (-30° to -40°
Réaumur), the action of heat on the stone causing huge
masses to crack, and enabling the workmen to dislodge it.
This is necessarily a slow process. Several years have already
been spent on it, and a good many more will elapse before
the work is completed. When this road is finished it
will materially shorten the distance between Irkutsk and
Kiachta.</p>

<p>At noon a white column of wood-smoke on the horizon announced
the approach of the steamer, and in a couple of
hours she came-to off the port, dropped a barge which she had
towed across, and proceeded to Pasoilské to embark mails
and passengers. Her return was expected at 4 o'clock, but
she did not appear till 6. It was then getting dark, and to
our surprise it was unanimously pronounced too stormy for
us to embark that night. It was even hinted that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
steamer might run across to the other side of the lake where
there was good shelter, and return next day to take us across.
It was vain for us to remonstrate against this folly, though
the wind was so light that we really could hardly tell which
way it was blowing&mdash;with a chorus of bawling Russians all
speaking at once. We had but to wait, and it was some consolation
to us to hear the steamer's cable rattling through
the hawse-pipe. She had dropped anchor in the offing, and,
unless the "gale" increased, would remain there till morning.</p>

<p>The rates of passage by steamer across the lake are
eight roubles first class, and five roubles deck passage, say
twenty-four and fifteen shillings respectively. Distance
about seventy miles. No table is kept on board. The
freight on our tarantass was twenty roubles. Freight
on general cargo is thirty kopeks per pood, equal to
sixty shillings per ton. There seems to be no fixed
rule as to passengers' baggage, but the agent is always
open to an "arrangement." We were to pay the regular
freight on ours, and the agent, to save himself the trouble
of weighing it, asked us how much we had. I forget what
the quantity was, but say it was ten poods. "Oh, then
we will call it fifteen," said the agent. Our indignation
was of course roused at this. We appealed to the Russian
officer before mentioned, who laid it on so smartly to the
agent for first asking us for the weight, and then assuming
that we were necessarily trying to cheat him, that the
wretch got frightened, and took our baggage free. This
afforded the officer an opportunity, which the higher classes
in Russia never let slip, of commenting on the low state of
Russian morality, that is, of the merchant and moujik class,
as distinguished from <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">nous autres</i>.</p>

<p>In the early morning the hive was all animation again.
The clumsiest of boats were manned by crowds of Bouriats,
with short paddles, to tow out to the steamer two of those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
huge barges that were lying in the harbour. The steamer
was unable to approach nearer the shore than half a mile,
owing to the shoalness of the water. The towing business
pays the steamer well, and there are always numbers of
sailing craft waiting at both ends for their turn to be towed
across. Time is no object with them, and they miss many
opportunities of sailing over with a fair wind, while waiting
for the steamer to tow them. The trade is highly remunerative,
as at present conducted, but it would pay much
better to keep a smart steamer running regularly with mails
and passengers, and a good tug to do nothing but tow
barges. Half the number of these would then do as much
work as the whole fleet does at present. A little healthy
competition would work great results, but the Russians are
fonder of combinations and monopolies than competition.</p>

<p>When the two barges had got their hawsers on board the
steamer, one of the boats embarked our tarantass and ourselves,
with a few other passengers who had turned up, and
by eight o'clock we stood on the deck of the <em>General
Karsakof</em>, so named after the present governor-general of
Eastern Siberia. She is a rare specimen of naval architecture,
and might have been built any time the last hundred
years. Roughly put together, clumsy and unshapely, she
would be a curiosity in any other part of the world; and for
dirt I am certain she has not her match. The engines,
which are of fifty horse-power, are the only redeeming
feature in the vessel. They were made by an Englishman
in Western Siberia. It is no doubt a great thing to have
floated a steamer at all on the Baikal lake, but while they
were about it the builders might have produced something
more ship-shape. The <em>General Karsakof</em> and her sister
ship are coining money for their owners, however, and <em>they</em>
have no reason to be dissatisfied with their property.</p>

<p>We made but slow progress with the two lumbering barges<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
in tow. There was a slight head wind at first, and our speed
was about one mile per hour. Latterly the barges made
sail, and we got on better.</p>

<p>Our course lay obliquely across the lake, about W.S.W.
towards Listni-nijni at the head of the lower Angara. Had
the weather been less severe we should have been tempted
to keep the deck, and enjoy the sublime scenery with which
we were surrounded. Both shores of the lake are very
mountainous, those on the south-eastern side being highest,
and covered with snow down to the water's edge. There
was very little snow on the western side, the snow showers
up to that time having been very slight and partial. The
water of the lake, away from land, is of a very deep blue,
almost black. Its depths have never been fathomed, probably
from the want of proper tackle, for I am not aware that
any ocean-sounding apparatus has ever been used on the
Baikal. It has been said, I know not on what authority,
that "no bottom" has been found at three thousand fathoms;
but much that has been said of the Baikal is exaggerated,
and I greatly doubt whether such a depth has been satisfactorily
established. I was informed by a gentleman on the
spot, personally acquainted with that part of the country,
that the deepest soundings yet obtained in the lake were
two hundred fathoms, and that beyond that depth nothing
was known. It is only in a few places where soundings
have not been taken.</p>

<p>The lake is over 300 miles in length, averaging about
thirty in breadth; it covers a surface of 11,000 square miles,
and is 1300 feet above the sea level. It is fed by two
considerable rivers, the Little Angara on the north, and the
Selenga on the east. It has only one outlet, the Great
Angara, on the west, which drains the waters of the lake
into the great river Yenisei, and that again into the Frozen
Ocean. It is estimated that the water so drained, out of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
lake does not amount to more than one-tenth of the quantity
poured into it. This estimate may be a little wide of
the mark, but there can be no doubt of the fact that the
lake receives a large surplus of water above what it gives
out, which the quantity lost by evaporation must be utterly
inadequate to account for. The level of the water fluctuates
only a few feet between seasons.</p>

<p>Baikal is a Mongol name. In saintly Russia it is called
the Holy Sea, and among the peasant navigators it is considered
high treason to call it a lake.</p>

<p>So much for the much be-written Baikal. To return to
the <em>General Karsakof</em>. She is puffing and spluttering, with
no apparent result but the rapid diminution of the pile of
firewood which cumbered her deck. The passengers, mostly
on deck, wrapped in huge furs, sit patiently wherever sitting-room
can be found, facing the keen air with unruffled
equanimity. Their noses look a little blue, but what of
that?&mdash;every other portion of their body is warmly covered.
The saloon, so called, is under deck, cold and cheerless. It
was occupied by a few Russian officers and ourselves, who,
between intervals of sleep, called for the samovar, and
sipped tea <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad libitum</i>, the only kind of entertainment the
steamer seemed capable of providing. All travellers in
Russia carry their own tea and sugar.</p>

<p>I presume some one navigated the steamer, but I never
could discover who occupied this important post. She was
steered mostly by Bouriats, who take it very easy, sitting all
the time on neat little stools to that end provided.</p>

<p>We succeeded eventually in reaching the western shore.
We were eighteen hours crossing, the distance being seventy
miles. A good little harbour, with deep water, shelters
the steamers at Listni-nijni. A pier has been built for the
vessel to go alongside, and everything would be perfect were
the easterly shelter a little more complete.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p>

<p>The captain of the steamer now appears on the scene to
superintend the disembarkation. He is charged by government
with the examination of the padaroshnas of passengers,
which gives the authorities a check on any unauthorised
persons going about the country.</p>

<p>It was 3 o'clock, and a bitterly cold morning, when we
landed in the government of Irkutsk, but, as the steamer
had been expected, there was no difficulty in getting horses
at the station. A few versts beyond the station we observed
a great bonfire blazing on the road-side, and certain wild-looking
figures gliding about between the fire and a small
hut close by. On reaching the spot, we detected a black
and white bar suspended across the road, intimating that
we were under arrest for the time being. The unearthly
figures that reflected from their faces the fitful glare of the
burning logs resolved themselves into men, clad in the grey
great-coat of the Russian soldiers. Our luggage, it seemed,
had to be examined here, which involved the torture of
turning out of our warm berths. The officials were inexorable.
Not knowing who was chief,&mdash;for as usual they all
spoke at once, and every one seemed more officious than
another,&mdash;we did not know whom to bribe; and, after turning
out of our tarantass, we were not at all in a humour to
bribe anybody. The officers of the customs, for such we
assumed them to be, took plenty of time to turn over our
boxes before opening any of them, but finding at last that
the coveted coin was not forthcoming, they opened one or
two packages for form's sake, repacked them, and performed
the ceremony of putting a seal on them. We were then
furnished with a certificate, which we were instructed to
produce at Irkutsk, failing to do which it would be the
worse for us. We never did produce it, and never were
asked for it. Indeed this was the first and last time our
baggage was looked at during the whole journey through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
Siberia and Russia. The other passengers by the steamer
came up after us, and passed the barrier without stopping.
We should have done the same, no doubt, had we been
better acquainted with the language.</p>

<p>The country west of Baikal, like that east of Baikal, is a
vast forest, but not so mountainous. Between the lake and
Irkutsk there is a great deal of cleared ground, and a considerable
population. The Russian cottages are bare-looking,
but neat and substantial. Their cattle-yards are mere open
wooden palings, unsheltered and dreary-looking.</p>

<p>The road runs along the right bank of the Angara, the
river that runs out of Lake Baikal, and falls into the Yenisei,
about 1200 miles below Irkutsk. The water of the Angara
is perfectly clear.</p>

<p>From the Baikal to Irkutsk we pass through a very fine
country, whether regarded from a tourist or agricultural
point of view. The cleared portion is in an advanced state
of cultivation, carefully fenced, and very fertile. The people
have more of the appearance of men who mean to make a
living out of the soil, than any we had seen further east.
The bold mountain scenery of the environs of the lake has
disappeared, giving place to richly-wooded undulating hills,
which are shown to great advantage by the intervals of villages
and ploughed land. The rapid river flowing between
steep banks, generally covered with trees or brushwood down
to the water's edge, works its way circuitously through the
hills, and gives a finish to as fine a bit of scenery as can
anywhere be seen.</p>

<p>The road to Irkutsk is in capital order. Our horses were
good, and our yemschiks willing, and by 11 o'clock we had
rattled over the forty miles between the Baikal and Irkutsk.
This distance is divided into three stages. At the last station
the post-master was a German, of a Jewish cast of face, who
seemed to be hired to tout for the Amoor Hotel in Irkutsk,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
which is the most popular with strangers. We had been
specially warned against this establishment, and had the
address of another, Metzgyr by name, which our yemschik
pretended to know, and we started on our last stage with the
understanding that we were to be conveyed to Metzgyr
Hotel.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2>

<h3>IRKUTSK.</h3>


<p>The sun shone brightly on the domes and cupolas of
Irkutsk when they burst on the view; the effect of the
dazzling white walls and bright green roofs of the churches
was strikingly beautiful. Before entering the town, our
yemschik descended from the box, and tied up the bells
of the horses, in deference to a municipal law of the town,
and in mercy to the inhabitants.</p>

<p>The streets of Irkutsk are straight, wide, and well kept.
Indeed the main streets are too wide, and have always a
more or less desolate appearance.</p>

<p>Our yemschik was again catechised about Metzgyr Hotel,
but, after all, drove us into a hotel which, after unloading
our gear, turned out to be the Amoor. The combined action
of two conspirators was too much for us, and we had but
to make the best of our situation. We were indeed too
travel-worn to be particular about our quarters. A room
was allotted to us, facetiously said to contain four bed-chambers.
On inquiring for the said chambers we were
pointed by the <i>maltchik</i> (boy) to certain corners and recesses,
in which, by skilful dove-tailing, it was certainly
possible to find sleeping-room for four people. Beds there
were none, but there was a good solid floor, a plain hard
sofa, three chairs, and a table. There was no fire-place in
the room, the temperature being kept up by blazing furnaces
opening in the corridor. The windows were hermetically<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
sealed for the winter. Our first and last sensation,
during our occupancy of that apartment, was suffocation,
only to be relieved by active out-door exercise. The
room was adorned by a few pictures, and a large placard,
framed and hung up in a conspicuous place, advertised the
prix-courant of liquors, cabs, billiards, and viands. Here
we found <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">côtelettes</i> and <em>bifsteks</em>, admirably adapted to the
Russian spelling.</p>

<p>The attendance was of a very mean order. An unkempt
urchin in tattered habiliments, did the duty of maid-of-all-work,
always in the way when not wanted, now and again
disturbing the time-honoured dust of our fusty chamber by
besoms and dish-cloths, but never to be found when he was
required. No bells are provided for the convenience of
visitors, and you may roar yourself hoarse with cries of
<em>maltchik</em> or <em>tchelavek!</em> before any one will deign even to
answer <em>sey tchass!</em> This word, literally interpreted, means
directly, but it may be more practically translated to-morrow,
or next week, or when convenient. It is only thrown
out to allay your impatience, and keep you in play while
the tchelavek is eating his dinner, or gossiping with the
cook. No progress can be made till you have discovered
his retreat, when the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">à posteriori</i> argument of boot leather
may be applied with good effect. This is the only form of
entreaty that can impress a low Russian with respect, and
one application will generally suffice.</p>

<p>All things considered, there is not much to complain of in
the culinary department, but the service is enough to blunt
the keenest appetite in the world. Everything is cold, dirty,
and miserable. A good beefsteak is put on the table hot, but
you have to wait twenty minutes for something to eat with
it; then knives and forks are wanting, and when you flatter
yourself all is in order, and you begin your dinner, salt is
found to be missing. All that can be tolerated, but oh take<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
care of the eggs! In Siberia they keep a stock of these in
a fossil state for the entertainment of the unwary, for probably
no Russian would be so green as to ask for them. At
first we doubted whether Russians recognised any difference
between a new-laid egg, and one that had been addled for six
months. But, whatever their own proclivities may be, they
do know a fresh egg when they see it. We succeeded at last
in getting some only "suspicious," by taking hold of the boy
in a menacing manner, and vowing that we would dash in his
face every bad egg he should bring to us.</p>

<p>In a building separate from the hotel is a dining-room and
tap-room, as also a billiard-room, with two tables. This part
of the establishment is almost entirely monopolised by military
officers, who play billiards all the morning, dine at the
table d'hôte at 2 o'clock, and continue billiard-playing all the
afternoon. Their billiard-cues have no leather tips, and the
one table we attempted to play on was so uneven, from about
twenty patches in the cloth, that we soon tired of seeing the
balls steeple-chasing across the table. The dining-room is a
large oblong, the walls covered with pictures of gentlemen in
cocked hats and epaulettes, in a very low gaudy style of art.
In the centre of one wall is a full-length portrait of the present
emperor, which, with all its artistic defects, is nevertheless
a fair likeness of his Imperial Majesty. The Russians
are a loyal race, and naturally fond of pictures, whether of
saints, or tsars, or heroes.</p>

<p>At the Amoor Hotel, I was greatly pleased to meet a friend
and countryman who was travelling from St. Petersburg to
China. The effect of this unexpected meeting was exhilarating,
and I don't know whether it gave us most pleasure to
recount the circumstances of our journey from China, or to
hear our friend's experiences of that part of the road homewards
which still lay before us. We certainly had no comfortable
news to give each other. In exchange for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
horrors of the road through Western Siberia, we threw in the
picture of what a month's ride across the Mongolian steppes
in November would be.</p>

<p>Irkutsk is a town that will bear a close inspection. The
houses are all large, and as handsome as wooden buildings
can well be made. The sombre hue of the external walls is
the only unsightly feature about the place; but the general
aspect of the town is so well relieved by the numerous handsome
churches and other public buildings, that the whole
effect is pleasing. The streets are adorned with many fine
shops, where every European luxury is obtainable for money.
Tailors and milliners are very fond of parading flourishing
sign-boards in French, and even in that remote corner of the
world, Paris is looked to as the seat of fashion. The <em>gostinnoi-dvor</em>
is well supplied with all the staple articles of merchandise,
including every variety of fur. We purchased very
good Congou tea in the bazaar at 1 ruble 35 kopeks per
pound, equal to four shillings.</p>

<p>Bakers are in great force in Irkutsk, many of them Germans.
<em>Frantsooski khleb</em> (French bread) is all the rage in
Siberia, and this sign is adopted by all bakers indiscriminately.
The "French bread" is simply white bread made
into rolls. It is very good, and being unobtainable in the
country villages, travellers carry a supply with them from
one town to another.</p>

<p>The tobacconists of Irkutsk are famed in Eastern Siberia
for their "papiros," or paper cigars, which they make out of
Turkish tobacco. The Russians, almost without exception
of age or sex, smoke quantities of tobacco in the shape of
papiros. In Irkutsk itself, however, "Moscow" is considered
a better brand for papiros than "Irkutsk."</p>

<p>The prison occupies the corner of two streets. It has one
iron-grated window facing the street, at which the prisoners
are always to be seen clamouring for alms. The Russians are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
very charitable and give a great deal to these prisoners. It is
very common also in the streets for passers-by, especially old
ladies, to stop the convicts who are employed under a guard
of Cossacks in carrying water, &amp;c., and give them money.
This is so much a matter of course that when any well-dressed
person, suspected of being charitably disposed, is
seen approaching a convict, the Cossacks halt by instinct.</p>

<p>Every resident in Irkutsk who can afford it keeps a carriage.
Their horses are very showy in harness, and there
are enough of them generally to be seen in the street to be
an ornament to the place. The droshky service is also very
good. The drivers always go fast and their horses are generally
fresh and fiery.</p>

<p>There are several good libraries in Irkutsk, branches of
scientific societies, a theatre, a newspaper, and other concomitants
of cultivation. On the whole, I confess that my pre-conceived
notions of Siberian life proved utterly fallacious.
I had pictured to myself a barren, inhospitable climate, unfit
for the habitation of any except those who were compelled
by law to exist there, and who necessarily had to suffer every
privation. Instead of that, I found settled communities, not
only enjoying all the amenities of civilised life, but living in
expensive luxury, and many of them in extravagance.</p>

<p>Irkutsk, like most other Siberian towns, is named after a
river. It has a settled population of 23,000, but in winter,
when the gold-washing ceases, the population is swelled by
the addition of about 4000 miners, who pass the winter in
town, and manage to spend every farthing of their earnings
before the mining season comes round again. The town
derives great importance from its being the residence of the
governor-general and the capital of Eastern Siberia, which not
only includes the Amoor country, but that large tract recently
acquired from China, and now called Primorsky, or the Maritime
Region. The heads of the police, military, financial, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
post departments, have their offices in Irkutsk, which not
only gives a tone to society, but keeps a large substratum
of subordinate officers, with their families, about the place,
and indirectly tends to promote the general prosperity. An
archbishop also resides in Irkutsk.</p>

<p>On the second day of our stay in Irkutsk we visited the
governor-general, and made the acquaintance of the chief of
police, who put our papers in train. The governor-general
holds a levée once a week, which happened to be on the day
of our visit. About twenty persons in full dress presented
themselves, including a number of officers, among whom we
recognised with difficulty some of our late fellow-travellers.
A number of peasants were assembled in the hall long before
the appointed hour. They wore the most woe-begone visages,
and each seemed to have his own special grievance.
Each was armed with a scroll of paper, probably a petition,
that he had got some one to write for him. These petitions
were being patiently examined by an aide-de-camp, who
seemed to decide on which were fit to be presented to his
chief. The governor-general of Eastern Siberia has no sinecure.
He has on his shoulders the affairs of a region larger
than the whole of Europe, and which is yet but in the
infancy of its development. The population is certainly
scant, but it is composed of heterogeneous tribes, and the
mere scarcity of population enhances the difficulty of general
progress. A scattered population is, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ipso facto</i>, deprived on
the one hand of the great stimulant to improvement which
rivalry imparts to large communities, and on the other, of
the facilities for carrying out the aspirations after better
things which it may have. These disadvantages are a
serious obstacle to any people, but to a race not naturally
progressive, they are doubly so. Russia is not one of those
countries where government ought to hold aloof from the
affairs of the people. It may greatly err in doing too much;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
but something it must do if Russia is to follow even at a
great distance in the march of development. The people
will not put the government in motion, but the government
must lead the people in every step. In Eastern Siberia there
is vast scope for the energy of a man of administrative
ability and singleness of purpose. Untold wealth lies under
its soil. With its iron and coal and lead, and the natural
fertility of a large portion of its soil, it might by well-directed
enterprise, become to a great extent independent of the
world; while the fine rivers that traverse the country offer
means of water-communication perhaps unequalled, certainly
unsurpassed, in any other country. Very much has been done
of late years to utilise these natural privileges; but much
more remains to be done. And it depends greatly on
the governor-general, whose vice-regal power is almost as
absolute as the sway of the Tsar himself, whether the
commercial and productive resources of those regions will
continue to develop under the same enlightened impulse
as heretofore.</p>

<p>Another element of the importance of Irkutsk is to be
found in the circumstance that it is the commercial centre of
Eastern Siberia. The houses of business of the out-stations,
such as Kiachta, have mostly their head-quarters in Irkutsk.
It is the principal dépôt on the highway between Western
Russia, and China and the Amoor provinces; and a great deal
of wealth has been accumulated there by persons engaged in
trade.</p>

<p>The manufactures of this place, and indeed of Siberia generally,
are insignificant and hardly worth alluding to. Manufactures
of all kinds in Irkutsk employ a few hundred workmen,
the principal works being in leather and soap. In a
country so rich in minerals this need not be so. It only
needs an enterprising population to turn the resources of the
country to account, and cheapen many of those articles of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
daily consumption which the land carriage from Europe
makes so exorbitantly dear in Siberia.</p>

<p>This, and the other great towns in Siberia, are well provided
with educational institutions, and every good family
employs private tutors and governesses. Education is prized
by the higher classes, but utterly neglected by the lower,
which include, generally speaking, the merchants. The
society of Siberia is, on the whole, as good as in Russia
proper. The higher class are generally of the Russian nobility,
who, either to retrieve their broken fortunes, or with a
view to more rapid advancement in rank, go out to Siberia
to fill high official stations. Three, and in some cases two,
years of public service in Siberia count for five years in
Russia. There are other inducements to men of rank and
intelligence to seek their fortunes in Siberia, among which
may be named the greater scope for ambition which a half-settled
country affords, and the freedom from the curse of
cliques and intrigue which exist in Petersburg, and which
only a few can hope to turn to their own advantage. A
man's individuality counts for more in a country where he
meets few of his peers, and that consideration may possibly
weigh with some of them.</p>

<p>Many of the proprietors of gold-diggings are scions of the
highest class of Russian aristocracy. These, and most of the
officials, have generally their families with them in Siberia;
and although they never lose their hold of Russia, practically
Siberia is their home. They spare no expense in the education
of their children, and hence the amount of both native
and foreign talent that is employed in teaching. Foreign
artists and men of science are frequently to be met with in
Siberia, and are much sought after and hospitably entertained
in the highest circles. The educated Russians, being conscious
of their native deficiencies, have a high appreciation
of talent, whencesoever it comes. Of late years Siberian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
society has received large accessions of educated people in
the Polish political exiles, who are mostly students and professors
in the universities, members of the Roman Catholic
priesthood, and artists.</p>

<p>But what has done more, perhaps, than anything else to
give a high tone to the upper classes in Siberia, and to stamp
their manners with elegance, is the thirty years' residence of
the political exiles of 1825, so-called Decembrists. On the
day of the accession of the late Emperor Nicholas, a widespread
conspiracy against him was discovered before it was
quite ripe for action. Growing out of the general discontent
which had hatched the abortive plot against the life of
Alexander I., it assumed a definite shape and formidable
magnitude during the three weeks' interregnum which
occurred between the death of Alexander and the accession
of Nicholas, during which time Nicholas had been coquetting
with the crown, before formally intimating his acceptance of
it. The army was involved, and many of the officers of the
Imperial Guard were deeply committed. The premature
discovery of the conspiracy disconcerted the most active
leaders of the malcontents, and when the crisis came, the
rebellious troops were reduced by whole regiments who
backed out at the last moment, and the few thousands who
were left found themselves deserted by many of their officers.
The forlorn hope assembled in St. Isaac's Square on the 26th
of December, and the very first act of Nicholas's reign was to
blow the insurgents to atoms with artillery, and cut up the
flying remnant with cavalry.</p>

<p>A fearful day of reckoning followed this ill-fated attempt.
A searching inquiry was at once instituted, conducted by
commissioners. It lasted nearly half a year. Instigated by
fear, and the thirst for vengeance, the government interpreted
the most trivial circumstances into treason. The
leaders of the insurrection were mostly young men of good<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
families, but they were indirectly encouraged by noblemen of
great wealth and power. All this was ferreted out in the
protracted investigation. The end of it was the capital
punishment of a few of the most active instigators of the
plot, and the exile of the rest to Siberia.</p>

<p>Among these exiles were many members of the highest
aristocracy. Their wives in most instances followed them
into Siberia, which they were permitted by government to
do, on certain conditions. One condition was, that the wives
of exiles should come under an obligation never to return
from the land of their banishment. Another was, that all
their correspondence should pass through the hands of the
governor-general in Siberia, and the ministry of secret police
in St. Petersburg. This latter condition their ingenuity
enabled them easily to evade. These ladies, among whom
were princesses, countesses, and others of rank, fortune, and
refinement, soon began to be influential in Siberia. Their
husbands, who had been condemned to labour in the mines
for various terms, some to ten, others to twenty-five years,
and some others for life, were never detained much more
than one year at any of their penal settlements. None were
ever compelled to labour at all, except a few who were refractory,
or who had committed misdemeanours while in
Siberia. As time wore on, and the fury of the government
abated, the interest of the friends and relations of the exiles
induced the governor-general of Eastern Siberia to look
favourably on them. They were then permitted to reside
in, and to register themselves as residents of, various
villages in the different provinces of Siberia. It was not
long before they were allowed to reside in the larger towns,
and once there, they soon built for themselves elegant houses
in such places as Irkutsk, Krasnoyarsk, and Yeniseisk, where
they lived openly and in comparative comfort, and took up
their natural position as the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">élite</i> of society. But though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
fortune seemed to smile on them, the exiles were politically
dead, that being the inexorable sentence of the law which
drove them from their native country. Children were born
to them in Siberia, but although they took up the position
in society which their birth and education entitled them to,
they were, nevertheless, in the eye of the law, illegitimate,
and incapable of enjoying any social or political rights. The
sins of the fathers were visited on the children to interminable
generations. Not only could the children of exiles
not inherit their father's hereditary titles, but they were
debarred even from bearing their own family name! And
they inherited their parents' exile in never being permitted to
return to Russia. This has, no doubt, been in some instances
evaded, by daughters marrying Russian noblemen, and returning
to Russia under cover of their husband's names, but such
procedure was nevertheless strictly against the law.</p>

<p>Thus did the Decembrists expiate their political offences
in their own persons, and in their descendants', for full thirty
years, until the accession of the present emperor. As the
iron rule of Nicholas was inaugurated by an act of crushing
severity, so the milder sway of Alexander II. was marked at
its outset by an act of mercy to the exiles of his father. A
free pardon, with permission to return to Russia, was granted
to all the survivors. Their children, born in Siberia, had
their father's hereditary honours and full political rights
restored to them. It is by such measures as this that
Alexander II. has made his name respected and beloved by
his people.</p>

<p>The influence of political exiles of various periods has
made an ineradicable impression on the urban communities
of Siberia, but the Decembrists, from their education and
polish, have certainly done most to form the nucleus of good
society there.</p>

<p>The mercantile class in Siberia, and indeed all over Russia,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
stands decidedly low in the social scale. A merchant, though
enormously rich, and doing a very large business, is essentially
a huckster. In manners they are little removed from
the common peasant, from which class they have generally
sprung. They are for the most part illiterate themselves,
and, until very lately, have been incapable of appreciating
the advantages of education for their children.
They are widely separated from the upper classes, who
regard them with unmixed contempt. The line of distinction
between the nobility and the substrata of society is
more broadly drawn in Russia than in any other country,
excepting in the empire of Japan, where, however, the
mercantile, and classes in our estimation below them, are
well educated. This distinction of ranks is undoubtedly a
relic of barbarism, but whether the mean tastes of what ought
to be the middle classes in Russia be the cause, or the effect,
of their relatively low status in society, they both mutually
act and re-act on each other as cause and effect, and so the
evil constantly perpetuates itself.</p>

<p>While resting in Irkutsk, we employed ourselves casting
about for means of attaining the maximum of comfort, that
is to say, the minimum of hardship, for the remaining part
of the journey. We had learned the mode of travelling,
and thought we knew exactly where reform could be applied
with most effect. The greatest annoyance the traveller
experiences in Russia and Siberia, is the necessity of paying
horse hire at each station. It is bad enough during the
day, but to turn out of a warm nest two or three times in
a night, to banter postmasters and yemschiks, settle your fare
to the next station, and see that your wheels are oiled, is
simply intolerable, especially when the thermometer is anything
you like below zero. The postmasters, with the
most laudable desires possible, cannot cheat you. In every
station is exhibited a placard, framed and glazed, signed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
sealed by high functionaries, stating the distance in versts to
each of the two nearest stations, and the fare in roubles and
in kopeks, which, in Eastern Siberia, and also as far west as
Tumen, is one kopek and a-half per verst per horse, that is, a
little over three farthings per mile. Besides this, you are expected
to pay twelve kopeks, or fourpence, for oiling wheels,
which is necessary, on an average, at every third station.
Then, if you use a post-carriage, or <em>kibitka</em>, another fourpence
is due for that at every station. The drink-money, or
<em>navodku</em>, due to the yemschik, must on no account be forgotten,
for the speed with which you will be driven on the
next stage will bear some proportion to the amount of drink-money
which you are reported to have given for the preceding.
Money does not always procure speed, but speed will
always draw money. In the anxiety to award the due meed
of merit a nice estimate must be made of the value of the
service rendered, and the reward fixed at ten, fifteen, or
twenty kopeks, or nothing at all, as the case may require.
The condition of the roads and horses, over which the yemschik
has no control, must be carefully weighed in this important
calculation. But while nobody can attempt to cheat
you with any decent prospect of success, it is always open to
the station-keeper to say he has no change to give you. To
meet this dodge you must carry a bag of coppers, which, unless
it weighs nearly a hundred weight, will not last you from
one town to another where alone the coin is procurable.
Then, again, it was not to be denied that our knowledge of
Russian was too limited for our purpose, in the event of
our getting into any real difficulty, from the thousand and
one accidents to which travellers in such a country are
liable.</p>

<p>We contrived to magnify all these imaginary difficulties in
our own eyes, when a young Russian, bearing the German
name of his father, Schwartz, waited on us to offer his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
services on the road as far as St. Petersburg. He had
literally devoured his patrimony with riotous living, and had
been in all employments, from clerk in a government office in
Irkutsk, to actor in the provincial theatre, and was now bent
on returning to his family, like the prodigal, as he was, without
a shirt to his back. His antecedents were nothing to us:
seeing he was a Russian, spoke German perfectly, French intelligibly,
as also a few words of English which he had picked
up from grooms in St. Petersburg. We settled with him
at once, giving him fifteen roubles down, to furnish him with
clothes to cover his limbs from the cold&mdash;for the rest he was
to work his passage to Petersburg. An agreement was duly
drawn up and signed, and, to conform to Russian formalities,
it was certified by the police, on which a special passport
for him was issued. When all was in order, a creditor of
Schwartz's appeared, and lodged a claim against him for the
sum of ten roubles, which we had of course to pay, or forego
the valuable services of the scamp. The ten roubles was
not very alarming, but the number of similar demands that
might follow, inspired us with sore misgivings on Schwartz's
account. The more we actually paid for him, the stronger
arguments we should have to go on paying. To save the
equivalent of the fifteen roubles we had already given him, it
was well worth while to pay other ten. But when we had
spent twenty-five roubles on him, we should only have a
stronger reason to pay twenty more, which, at that stage of
the proceedings, would be evidently throwing good money
after bad. After grave deliberation we determined, illogically
as I confess, to pay the ten roubles demanded, and stop
there. By good luck we were not called upon for more
roubles. But our experience with Schwartz proved so unsatisfactory,
that it would have been an economy to pay a hundred
roubles to get rid of him. He was a trouble and a dead
loss to us from first to last. His only real use was, as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
standing butt for invective. His follies were, at the same
time, aggravating and amusing. When he left at a post-station
some of the things of which we had given him charge,
it was a solace to us to know that he had also lost an extra
pair of his own boots. And when we missed a preserved
ox tongue, which had been put into water to soak at a previous
station, it relieved our resentful feelings mightily to
make Schwartz go without his dinner.</p>

<p>Snow fell in Irkutsk on the 17th October, and for two
days, sledges were at work in the streets. The sun was
powerful enough on the 18th to melt it a little during the
middle of the day. But still there was the snow, a fortnight
before its regular time, and we were just too late to be able
to get over the rivers while they were still open for boats. It
was an early winter in Eastern Siberia: that world-renowned
individual, the "oldest inhabitant," only recollected one season
in which snow-roads were practicable in Irkutsk as early
as the 1st October, Russian date, or 13th, new style.</p>

<p>The 19th was a fine hard morning, with a sky slightly
overcast; and on that day we resumed our nomad life, after
six days' rest.</p>

<p>The River Angara flows through Irkutsk, but there is only
a small portion of the town on the left bank. The Irkut,
rising in the mountainous region near Kosogol, on the frontier,
south-west of Irkutsk, falls into the Angara opposite the
town. The post-road crosses the Angara below the confluence.
The crossing is effected by means of a most efficient
floating bridge, which consists of a boat held by a strong
warp to an anchor dropped about 500 yards up the stream in
mid-channel. The slack of the warp is buoyed up by three
boats at equal intervals. In crossing, the boat's head is
pointed obliquely across the stream by means of a large oar
over the stem. The strength of the current does the rest.
The boat swings on her anchor until she is laid alongside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
the landing on the opposite bank. The boat is
double-bottomed, with a spacious platform on deck, and a
moveable rail on each side. There is room on deck for
three or four carriages to stand, and the passage is effected
without taking the horses out. The Angara flows as clear
as crystal out of the Baikal, and maintains its purity after
receiving the Irkut. It is deep at Irkutsk, and the current
is nearly six miles an hour.</p>

<p>The town again appears to good advantage from the
left bank of the Angara. The river banks are in themselves
rather picturesque, and when the water, the pretty
white spires of the town, and thick woods around, are combined
in one view, the effect is beautiful, and the traveller
retains a pleasing impression of Irkutsk.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XVI.</h2>

<h3>IRKUTSK TO KRASNOYARSK.</h3>


<p>For the first two stages from Irkutsk we caught occasional
glimpses of high mountain ranges at a great distance
to the south-west. But the dense forest soon shut in our
view. The roads were tolerably good, and we rumbled along
expeditiously and comfortably. The country maintains the
same characteristics as already noted&mdash;thick woods for the
most part, with clear patches here and there, and villages
at intervals of a few miles; while its surface is pleasantly
varied with hill and dale, and if only there were less forest
to enable one to see round him, it would be a very cheerful
drive. Innumerable small rivers have to be crossed in ferry-boats,
which help to break the monotony of the journey.
Reading is next to impossible on Russian roads, and the art
of sleeping&mdash;when there is nothing better to do&mdash;is a most
valuable accomplishment to the traveller. We had attained
considerable proficiency in this, and I have been ferried
across a river amid the hubbub of taking out and putting in
horses, and rolling the carriage into and out of the ferry-boat,
without suffering any interruption of a profound
slumber.</p>

<p>Being eager to make up lost time, we drove our yemschiks
hard with drink-money, and they certainly responded heartily
to the stimulant. The roads are very steep, and nothing
has been done in the way of cuttings or embankments. The
ravines have generally small streamlets running along the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
bottom, which is ragged and broken. These are bridged over
in a rough-and-ready manner. But the ascents and descents
are fearfully steep. When a heavy carriage starts down a
hill with three rats of ponies in front of it, one only bearing
the weight of the vehicle, no earthly power can stop it. The
drag on the wheel is of little use. The only safety is in the
plan the Russian drivers adopt of going full tilt from top to
bottom, to the delight of Siberian ponies&mdash;dashing over the
wooden bridge like madmen, and halfway up the opposite
hill before they draw rein. There is a fascinating excitement
about this mode of charging a ravine which kills all
sense of danger, except, perhaps, when the road is slippery
with snow, well polished with sledges. Under these circumstances
it is only the more necessary to urge the beasts at top
speed; but a qualm of nervousness will occasionally rise,
unbidden, until you have learned to confide implicitly in
the infallibility of the yemschiks and their high-mettled
steeds.</p>

<p>The ponies are always in prime condition for work. Little
or no attention is paid to them in the stable or out of it, but
they have always as much corn as they can eat, and they are
notoriously good feeders. They are capable of a great amount
of continuous hard work. On an average every one of them
travels two stages a day, both ways, for they always return to
their own station. That is equal to about forty miles with a
loaded carriage, and the same distance back, with an empty
one, on the same day. When the roads are tolerable they go
at a good speed. We have travelled eighteen miles at a
stretch within an hour and a half. The roads seldom admit
of this rate of travelling, however, being generally, saving the
bridges and the original cutting through the woods, left pretty
much to nature.</p>

<p>Along the whole length of the post-road the distances from
station to station are marked at every verst by wooden poles,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
painted black and white; and at each station a high post indicates
the distances from the chief towns. A feeling of
depression always came over me on spelling out the interesting
word St. Petersburg, and finding it was more than 6000
versts or 4000 miles off. It was a tedious business to reduce
such an imposing figure as that. After Irkutsk we had got it
under the 6000. When wearied out with rough travelling,
the few versts to the next halt were painful enough, and on
such occasions the 5000 odd were really appalling.</p>

<p>We never stopped by day or night, unless compelled by
force of circumstances. Our meals were consequently uncertain
and irregular, both as to time, quantity, and quality. At
most of the stations shtchee and beef could be had about
mid-day, though unless it was ready we did not wait for it, but
pushed on, trusting to what we might pick up in a chance
way, and having our small stock of preserved meat to fall
back upon, should everything else fail. Twice a day we
drank tea. The Russians lose a great deal of time in tea-drinking
at the post-stations. Give them plenty of tea, and
they care little for food. Indeed they encourage the habit
partly to blunt the appetite. It suits their constitutions, but
it certainly did not answer with us, to be jolted and tumbled
about on bad roads with a stomach full of fluid. Besides the
loss of time was an object to us, but of little account apparently
to the Russians. A sufficiency of solid food can be disposed
of in a very few minutes, not so boiling tea, and I
have constantly seen Russians slowly sipping quarts of the
decoction long after their horses were ready for the road. In
a very cold night the hot tea is no doubt acceptable, but
one tumbler of hot grog is worth a gallon of tea, and occupies
less time and less room.</p>

<p>After three days and nights' travelling we arrived at the
Birusanskaya station, distant from Irkutsk 638 versts, or 426
miles, which was very fair going, all things considered. In<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
that distance we had only passed one town&mdash;Nijni-udinsk.
Birusanskaya stands on the right bank of the river Birusa,
which, at this part of its course, divides the government of
Irkutsk from that of Yenisei. This river, as well as those
crossed to the eastward, rises in the mountain ranges near
the southern frontier of Siberia. They all flow northward,
and fall into the Angara, before its junction with the
Yenisei.</p>

<p>At Birusanskaya we were told that the river was impassable
on account of the ice, and that there were no horses,
with a number of similar stories, more or less true. It was
night, and we were not the only sufferers; so, as soon as we
had fairly exhausted all the persuasive means at our disposal,
we quietly went to roost like the rest. At 10 o'clock next
morning we were furnished with horses, and drove to the
river. It was fast freezing over, and at the regular crossing
there was too much ice at the edges to admit of the ferry-boat's
"communicating." Another crossing had therefore to
be used, where there was no proper road on either side of the
river, and which consequently involved much loss of time.
On leaving the river, and before joining the post-road, a tract
of prairie ground had to be crossed, all holes and hillocks, and
anything but an eligible road for wheeled carriages.</p>

<p>The distance from home seemed to diminish suddenly as
we came in sight of the telegraph wires which had been
carried as far as the river Birusa. The posts were put up at
some parts of the road eastward. Coils of wire were lying at
every station, and the workmen were busy stretching and
carrying it on. The posts are tall rough spars, placed at
intervals of one hundred yards, and only two wires are
used. The telegraph was completed to Irkutsk in December
last.</p>

<p>A marked improvement in the roads was observable in the
government of Yenisei. They had been macadamised, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
although the stones had been overlaid with a coating of mud
during the early part of autumn, it was not so deep as to
become very rough with traffic. In some parts a thin covering
of snow lay on the ground, and sledges were in use in such
places.</p>

<p>In the middle of the night (a very cold one) of the 23rd
October, we arrived at the river Kan, which, from the town
of Kansk, flows nearly west, and joins the Yenisei north of
Krasnoyarsk. The ferrymen were all on the opposite shore
with their boats, and of course asleep, and we were anything
but sanguine of rousing them. We called lustily, but the
echo of our shouts alone responded, as if in mockery. "You
may call spirits from the vasty deep," &amp;c. But either we
must get over, or shiver on the banks of this river Styx till
day-light. Fortunately the yemschiks were as impatient as
ourselves, and possessing stentorian lungs, they plied them
vigorously, until at last a gruff response from the log-hut on
the other side was vouchsafed. Then some low mutterings
were heard (for the air was so still and frosty that you might
have heard a pin fall), then a little rumbling of oars and
heavy footsteps on the loose deck-boards of the ferry-boat,
some splashing in the water, and in due time the boat itself,
with the grim ferrymen in beards and sheepskins, was seen
approaching us. The town of Kansk is a verst and a half
from the ferry. The sharp air had affected all and sundry at
the post-station of Kansk, for a deep sleep had fallen on
them. With a little perseverance we knocked them up, in
anything but an amiable frame of mind, and it was near
4 o'clock, a.m., before the sleepy yemschiks had got the
horses in.</p>

<p>We had picked up a fellow-traveller the day before, and
arranged to travel in company, if possible, as far as Tomsk.
He was carrying gold from Irkutsk to Barnaul, which is the
great place for smelting it. Our first introduction to him was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
at the Birusa river, which he excited our jealousy by crossing
in advance of us. To get a rise out of him we promised extra
drink-money to our yemschik if he would pass him, which he
did. The Russian was annoyed at being passed, and at the
next station he recorded his grievances in the book kept for
that purpose. We left him there drinking tea, and soon
after we missed some things which we had in the hurry left
behind. Our new friend came up with us at the next station,
and brought with him the missing articles. This began to
make us feel kindly to him, and as we encountered him at
every station, we soon got intimate, and he ended by proposing
to keep company with us, dining and drinking tea together.
His name was Vasil Vasilovitch Something or other (I
never could catch his family name), but as his talk turned
greatly on the charms of Barnaul, we gave him the nickname
of Old Barnaul. He tried hard to speak French and
English, but as he had only acquired about ten words of the
former, and five of the latter, we could only get on with
a conglomeration of Russian, French, and English, or through
the interpretation of Schwartz. "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Prendre thé</i>&mdash;very good,"
was about his highest effort in philology. Old Barnaul
talked much of San Francisco, whither he had been carried
as a prisoner on board H.M.S. Pique, during the Crimean
War. He was captured at Sitka, and after spending some
time at San Francisco, studying American character, and
acquiring his modicum of the English language, he found his
way back in an American vessel to Sitka. Old Barnaul had
a cossack in full accoutrements, <em>i. e.</em>, armed with a long
sword, a most kind, good-natured Russian soldier, who
was infinitely more useful to us than the empty-headed
Schwartz.</p>

<p>Travelling in company has its arguments <em>pro</em> and <em>con</em>.
First, <em>pro</em>&mdash;you have the chance of exciting in the respective
yemschiks the noble ambition of landing you first at the next<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
station, by holding out the promise to each of extra drink-money
if he wins. This is also exhilarating to yourself, as in
every stage of the journey you have the excitement of a race
to beguile the tedium of the way. Then, by preconcerted
arrangement, you determine at what station you will dine or
drink tea, so that whichever of you arrives first can make
the necessary preparations. Second, <em>con</em>. You throw a
heavier burden on the yemschiks at the stations, and thereby
protract the usual time required to change horses. And you
run the risk of stopping the whole party by the greater number
of horses you call for all at once, for there may often be
horses for one traveller, where there are not enough for two.
On the whole, it retards progress, just as in the case of vessels
keeping company on the water, the speed obtained is
somewhat less than that of the slowest of the convoy.</p>

<p>To the west of Kansk, the country is nearly cleared of wood,
and is for the most part rather flat. Cultivation becomes
more general, and the clear view occasionally obtained over
the bare country, revealed many large villages dotted here
and there.</p>

<p>The wind rose early in the day, and sent a cold chill
through us as we drove up in its teeth. While halting at a
station, a smart shower of snow fell, and caught our tarantass,
half-open in front, and face to wind. It was fast filling with
snow, and we rebuked Schwartz for his negligence. He at
once transferred the responsibility from his own shoulders, by
going out into the yard and kicking the first yemschik he
met, which seems to be the most civil kind of salutation a
Russian moujik expects. When the shower stopped, it was not
difficult to shake out the snow from our blankets, and what
was left was no great inconvenience to us, for the air was too
cold to allow it to melt. The road was kept clean by the
wind, which drove the snow before it like fine sand drift. But
the wind was a sad inconvenience to us, and this was perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
the only day on which our heavy furs and blankets were
inadequate to retain warmth. The roads were excellent,
however, and we went merrily along. We found the inconvenience
of travelling with Old Barnaul, on coming to a station
where horses were obtainable for us, being privileged,
but none for him. The "cold without," and a good dinner
within, induced us to wait a few hours until he could get horses.
Besides, the Yenisei river was before us, and we were assured
that the passage could not be effected in such a wind.</p>

<p>Very late at night we reached Basailsk, a station ten
versts short of the Yenisei. There we remained all night,
and next morning drove on to the river. Here was one instance,
out of many, of the absurd situations that have been
chosen for many of the post-stations in Siberia, with reference
to the rivers. The station is nearly always placed at
some distance from the river, sometimes only one or two
versts. Horses have to be harnessed and driven to the river,
there unharnessed again, transported across the water, and
put to again on the other side. This extra work and loss of
time would be saved by placing the station on the bank of
the river, and so by having one on each side, the horses need
never be ferried over at all.</p>

<p>The Yenisei is a noble river, the largest in Siberia. Its
banks are bold, but very bare, while the lack of timber, and
general baldness of the country, give the scene a bleak and
inhospitable aspect. The sprinkling of snow that hung about
the crevices served to intensify the gloom.</p>

<p>It was questionable whether we could cross the Yenisei in
the face of the wind, which blew in strong gusts from the
north-west, but we managed to get our establishments into
a boat, rather small for the load she had, but quite large
enough for the power available to propel her. She was
headed straight across the stream, pulled by four men in
the bow, and steered by the usual rudely made oar over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
stern. They made very little way with her, and when we
had reached the right bank of the river, we had dropped
about a mile down stream. A horse was ready on the other
side to tow the boat up to the proper landing-place. A rope
was passed ashore, but before it was properly secured to the
horse, the end slipped, a gust of wind caught the boat, and
she was blown from the shore. This was too good an opportunity
for jabbering and gesticulation to be lost on our lusty
crew, and accordingly to this luxury they abandoned themselves,
while the unfortunate boat, bearing us, the unfortunate
passengers, was being blown out to the middle of the
stream by the wind, and at the same time gliding swiftly
down the river. When the crew had recovered themselves a
little, they hesitated about which shore they ought to make
for; and at last concluded it would be best to go back again
to the left bank, which we reached at a point three miles below
our original starting-place. The men landed, and went
to the town to fetch horses to tow the boat up again. We
walked to the town also to seek some shelter from the biting
wind, and wait the arrival of the boat. She got up at noon,
and we made a fresh start to cross, which was successfully
accomplished the second time. A used-up team of horses
awaited us, and we travelled slowly to Krasnoyarsk.</p>

<p>Amid a great deal of grass and waste land, the country
round Krasnoyarsk is well cultivated, but very bare. The
town is situated on a raised plateau in a large valley. Like
other Siberian towns its streets are wide, straight, and clean,
with dull-looking wooden houses, and handsome churches.
There is something incongruous in this combination. The
churches are undoubtedly highly ornamental to the town&mdash;it
would be poor indeed without them&mdash;but the contrast between
their snow-white walls and spires, and the earth-colour
of the houses, is too great. They seem to have no connection
with each other.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>

<p>Krasnoyarsk, though the government town of Yeniseisk, is
comparatively a small place, its population being something
under 10,000. As an exception to the general rule, its name
is not derived from a river, but means "red cliff."</p>

<p>The station-master at Krasnoyarsk combines with his official
duties the business of hotel-keeper, an arrangement admirably
convenient for travellers. The station hotel is a
very good one from a Siberian point of view, and we were
induced to shake down in it for the night from a variety of
reasons, chiefly because we were very tired, and it was snowing
heavily.</p>

<p>Other travellers from the west were there at the same
time, and we were entertained by their accounts of the state
of the roads from Nijni-novgorod. It was amusing to hear
the different reports of travellers, and compare them. Most
of them were absolutely contradictory, and we were constrained
to come to the conclusion that Russian travellers fill
up the blanks in conversation with whatever comes uppermost,
without taxing their memory to the extent necessary
to give an accurate statement of their experience.</p>

<p>The amount of attention which the efficient management
of the hotel exacted from the landlord left him no time for
the duties of his less remunerative position of postmaster.
All the postal arrangements were in dire confusion in the
morning, when we wished to start on our journey, yemschiks
drunk, and no one at his post. We lost the whole morning
waiting for horses, which was so vexatious that we resolved
to record our complaint in "the book." At every post-station
a black book is kept in a corner of a room on a small table,
to which it is attached by a cord, and sealed. It is open for
public inspection, and every traveller has the privilege of
writing in it any grievance he may have suffered from inattention,
incivility, or unwarrantable delay on the part of
yemschiks or postmasters. The director-general of posts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
makes a periodical tour, and examines the black book of
every station. The complaints of government couriers are,
perhaps, the only ones that excite much attention. Everything
else in the posting system is made subordinate to the
rapid despatch of government intelligence. Horses can
never be refused to a courier on any pretence whatever, for
the station-keepers are obliged, at all times, to keep a certain
number in reserve for such emergencies. When news of
importance has to be transmitted, it can be done with very
great rapidity by means of an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">estafette</i>, which will carry
news from Kiachta to St. Petersburg, a distance of over four
thousand miles, in less than twenty days.</p>

<p>The rapidity with which the Russian government has, on
certain occasions, obtained important news from China, proves
the efficiency of the courier service. The signing of the
treaties at Tientsin in 1858, and the Taku disaster in 1859,
were known at St. Petersburg some two weeks before the
official despatches reached this country. And now that the
telegraph has been extended to Irkutsk, the Russians receive
news from the Chinese commercial ports, on the direct
steamer route, a good many days earlier than we can, even by
telegraph from Suez. The capture of Nanking, for example,
was reported in England <em>viâ</em> St. Petersburg on the 11th September,
while our Suez telegram did not reach till the 23rd.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XVII.</h2>

<h3>KRASNOYARSK TO TOMSK.</h3>


<p>It had snowed all night in Krasnoyarsk, and sledges were
actively employed in the streets next day. The conveyance
given to us for our extra baggage was a sledge.</p>

<p>Old Barnaul could not get horses, so we left him behind.
He managed to hire private horses for one stage, and came
up to us at the next station.</p>

<p>The roads were good, but yemschiks sulky, and we were
driven along at a snail's pace. When drink money was
asked for, we upbraided the yemschik for his contumacy.
He appealed to the "regulations," which only authorise a
speed of eight versts per hour. We had nothing to object to
this. But as the yemschik defended himself by the strict
letter of the law, we could avail ourselves of it also, and there
was nothing about drink money in the "regulations."</p>

<p>The wind had fortunately subsided, but the cold was
intense. The country west of Krasnoyarsk continued very
bare. The crisp snow made travelling easy, and later in the
day we managed to mend our pace, making good way during
the night, and arriving early on the following morning at the
town of Achinsk, 166 versts, or 110 miles, from Krasnoyarsk.
There are two pretty churches in Achinsk, and the houses
are rather handsome for a small town of two or three
thousand inhabitants. It is situated near the river Chulim,
which trends westward and joins the Ob. Achinsk is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
last town of the government of Yenisei, and also stands on
the boundary line between eastern and western Siberia.</p>

<p>The country is more woody near Achinsk, and game of
various kinds is abundant. We here for the first time tasted
the <em>ryabchik</em>, a bird something between a pheasant and a
partridge in size and in flavour.</p>

<p>While at Achinsk we were bluntly told we could not cross
the Chulim, owing to the quantity of floating ice. The river
is one verst and a-half from the town. The postmaster
offered to drive us there, but said we should have to come
back, unless we chose to encamp on the bank of the river.
When we did get there, we succeeded, after a long debate,
in inducing the boatmen to ferry us over. But for a full
hour they stoutly refused to take the tarantass. The large
boats had been laid aside, and smaller and more handy craft,
better fitted for threading their way through thick blocks of
ice, were being used. With patience, however, we gained our
point, and got tarantass and all across the river, though not
without considerable difficulty and danger.</p>

<p>We now entered the government of Tomsk, a fact of which
the state of the roads would have been sufficient evidence.
All through the government of Yenisei, a distance by our
route of 350 miles, the roads are well kept up, with side
drains and cross drains to keep them dry; but in Tomsk
government the roads were far worse than nature made
them, for traffic had ruined them and made them all but
impassable. During the wet weather of early autumn they
had been a mass of soft mud, which was cut up by wheels
and horses' feet to a fearful extent. The frost caught them
in that condition, and the result can be more easily imagined
than described. The main road had been in fact abandoned,
until enough snow should fall to fill up the inequalities; and
in the meantime by-roads had to be struck out through the
forest, that being the only practicable means of travelling at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
all. It is considered that between the autumn and the snow
there are "no roads," and no Russian travels at that season
unless under the most urgent circumstances. In the post
regulations it is laid down that travellers can demand to be
driven at the rate of ten versts per hour in summer, eight in
autumn, and twelve in winter, from December to March.
These rates are, in practice, greatly increased in summer and
winter, but, in the month of October, it is hard work to
average even the government speed. The state of the road
beyond Achinsk had necessitated the subdivision of the
stages, by erecting temporary intermediate stations. The
whole of the arrangements were in confusion; so much so
that after an early breakfast in Achinsk, we found no opportunity
of dining till near midnight.</p>

<p>The cold continued very severe. Our freezing breath kept
our faces in a mass of ice, large icicles formed on the horses'
muzzles, and they were white all over with hoar frost, formed
by the perspiration freezing on their hair. Our bread, and
everything we had, was frozen through.</p>

<p>As we toiled on, painfully and slowly, on the 28th of
October we met travellers who assured us of the impossibility
of crossing the Kiya river at Mariinsk. We had
learned, however, rather to take courage from this kind of
Job's comfort with which we were so often entertained on
the road; and we did not hesitate to advance to the river,
which we reached at seven in the evening. An hour sufficed
to persuade the ferrymen to tempt the crossing, and another
hour saw us over the water and in the town of Mariinsk.
We were fain to rest our aching bones a little, and finding
a very civil but garrulous postmaster, a Pole, we dined comfortably
at the station, and started again at midnight.</p>

<p>On the preceding night we had come to grief, by the
wheel of our tarantass sinking into a pit that had been dug
for a telegraph post, and then filled with snow. With the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
assistance of a peasant whom chance threw in our way, and
a stout pole for a lever, the vehicle was extricated; but we
had not gone two stages from Mariinsk before the same
wheel fell suddenly to pieces without any immediate provocation.
We were a number of miles from any station
when this accident occurred, but the yemschik, being no
doubt accustomed to similar mischances in driving four-wheeled
carriages through tangled woods, proceeded at once
to put us in temporary travelling order. He cut down a
pretty stout tree, one end of which he laid on the axle of
the fore wheels, while the other end rested on the ground
behind the carriage. This formed a bridge for the axle of
the hind wheel (the broken one) to rest upon, and by that
simple expedient we got safely to the station, Berikulskoé.
The accident delayed us a whole day at the station. Old
Barnaul parted company with us to proceed to Tomsk, which
was then only 120 miles distant. On entering the village, a
blacksmith, spying our condition, and smelling a job, followed
us to the station. We settled with him to repair our
wheel, which was equivalent to making a new one all but
the tire, for the sum of six roubles, and it was finished in the
afternoon.</p>

<p>At this point we discovered that our special pass had been
left five stations behind us. It was a serious matter to lose
a document so essential to inspire postmasters with respect,
and we wrote to the station where we supposed it had been
left, requesting it might be forwarded to us. During the
day, however, the post from Irkutsk passed, and brought
us the paper, for which delicate attention we felt duly
grateful.</p>

<p>From Berikulskoé we resumed the circuitous tracks through
the forest. During the night our yemschik contrived to drive
us up against a tree, to the irretrievable injury of the hood
of our tarantass. Misfortunes seemed to come thick upon us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
and our ill-fated tarantass. Indeed, considering the terrible
ordeal it had passed through, it was surprising that it had
held together so long. Apprehension is lively in the dark
hours, and visions of a final break down haunted us all
that night, as we threaded our way in the deep shade of
the forest, pitching and rolling like a ship in a storm. Our
minds were sensibly relieved on reaching the town of Ishimskaya,
at daybreak on the 30th of October.</p>

<p>Here we found Old Barnaul and his Cossack sleeping
soundly on the boards. He had arrived the evening before,
but had allowed himself to be cajoled into resting all night,
and now it was too late to cross the river. The post that
had passed us the day before had crossed the river in a boat
at midnight, but since then the ice had set in so strong that
the passage was impossible. It was therefore necessary to
wait at the station till the ice on the river was strong enough
to bear horses and carriages.</p>

<p>The station-master was a Pole, a very good sort of fellow,
who would talk on any subject but Poland. He was something
of a sportsman, possessed two old guns and some under-bred
pointers. His wealth consisted in three curious old-fashioned
watches, which he offered for sale. One was by
Dent, and he informed us he had bought it of a traveller for
125 roubles.</p>

<p>As the force of circumstances compelled us to spend the
day at Ishimskaya, we endeavoured to make the most of it,
and tried to induce the postmaster to accompany us on a
shooting excursion. This he declined, but proffered us all
the topographical information necessary to enable us to find
the game for ourselves. So armed, we plunged into the
woods, and beat about for hours among the snow without
the satisfaction of seeing a feather, or finding traces on the
snow of anything but vermin. We returned about sunset,
tired and cold, spite of all our walking, and an irreverent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
magpie, on the outskirts of the town, paid the penalty of our
disappointment.</p>

<p>The delay at this outlandish place was the more vexatious
that it was within less than a day's march from Tomsk, where
we purposed resting a day or two to refit. On the second
morning we again stirred up the postmaster, but he absolutely
refused to attempt the crossing with our tarantass.
One traveller had come to grief that same morning trying to
get a carriage over the ice. We resolved, however, to go
without the tarantass, packing up a few necessaries in a
small sledge, which we had drawn over the river by one
horse, two more being sent from the station and put to on
the other side. Old Barnaul accompanied us. The tarantass
we left behind in charge of Schwartz, with orders to follow
on as soon as the ice was strong enough to bear the carriage.
Let it not be supposed that the same place that was open
for boats on the 29th of October was frozen strong enough
to bear horses and sledges thirty-six hours afterwards. When
the river is freezing the ferry is removed to some distance,
where a passage is kept open as long as possible by the
constant traffic of boats. During that time the usual crossing
at the post-road is left to freeze quietly, so that by the
time the temporary ferry is no longer practicable, the ice at
the regular ferry may be thick enough to bear the traffic.</p>

<p>Old Barnaul managed to slip on the ice and fall into a
hole that had been broken by the horses' feet. A more
miserable-looking object, on his emersion from the cold bath,
I never saw. In the sledge his clothes became sheets of
hard ice, but we were, fortunately for him, delayed for want
of horses at the second station from Ishimskaya, so that
the old man had time to melt down his congealed habiliments.</p>

<p>A good deal of snow fell during the day, but still the
roughness of the road was but slightly mitigated thereby.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
The sledge was comparatively easy, however, the runners
lying on two or more hillocks at once, instead of jolting
up and down each separate lump, like the wheel of a
carriage.</p>

<p>During the night we were again stopped, with a number
of other travellers, for want of horses, and it was 3 o'clock
on the morning of the 1st November ere we entered on the
last stage before Tomsk. Our sledges were quite open, and
we could but abandon ourselves to the enjoyment of a night
scene more gorgeous than fancy ever pictured. The snow
had ceased falling, and the sky was clear and cloudless. Not
a breath of wind stirred. It was a little past full moon, and
the pure white surface of the ground sparkled in the bright
moonlight as if it had been strewn with diamonds. Some of
the finest constellations were high above the horizon. Orion,
Taurus, and Gemini were conspicuous; and Sirius was never
seen in greater splendour. Towards daybreak, Venus appeared
in all her glory, and completed the most brilliant
group of celestial phenomena the human eye ever rested on.
There is a peculiar transparency in the Siberian sky, both by
night and by day, but it needs a still frosty night to show it
off to its best advantage.</p>

<p>Long before daylight we passed numerous trains of peasants,
with their sledges, driving towards Tomsk with their
daily supplies of provisions for the market.</p>

<p>Before sunrise we entered the town of Tomsk, and were
not sorry when Old Barnaul conducted us to a lodging-house,
where we could thaw ourselves and take rest. We were
made excessively comfortable there by the old lady and her
daughters. The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cuisine</i> was excellent, attendance good, and
charges very moderate. Our room was adorned with a number
of pictures. Christ and the apostles, with some others
of saints, were most conspicuous. A view of Kazan, the
column of Alexander at St. Petersburg, coloured German<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
lithographs of the bombardment of Sevastopol and the
battle of Inkermann, and, finally, a certificate, signed and
sealed, purporting that the old lady had made a donation to
"the Church" in 1846. Great value appeared to be set on
this document, but whether the lady regarded her good deed
as laying up treasures in heaven, or thought the evidence
of it, given under the hands of holy men, to be proof against
ill luck, is not easy to say. It is difficult to separate the
religion of Russians from the gross superstition with which
it is mixed up. The upper classes, as a whole, keep aloof
from religious observances, while the peasant class are constantly
crossing themselves to churches and saints, and never
will enter a room without uncovering the head and doing
reverence to the picture of the saint that always faces them
as they enter the door. Many excellent men are to be found
in the Russian priesthood, but as a class they certainly do
not stand high. The Russian government has always used
the clergy to work on the illiterate masses by means of
their superstitious fanaticism. The cross was borne in front
of the troops in St. Isaac's Square when Nicholas put down
the insurrection of 1825. And the Empress Catherine II.,
whose life was the reverse of all piety, invoked the protection
of the saints in order to excite the enthusiasm of the people.
The Russian peasants are pharisaical in their observance of
saints' days and fast days, but their sense of religion stops
there. A characteristic anecdote, illustrative of the religious
sentiments of the Russian moujik, was told us at Tomsk.
A moujik killed a traveller on the road, and robbed him. In
his pocket was found a cake made with fat, which the moujik,
being hungry, was preparing to eat, when he suddenly recollected
that it was a fast day, on which it was unlawful to eat
animal food. His religious creed, which placed no obstacle in
the way of murder and robbery, was inexorable in the matter
of eating meat on a fast day.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p>

<p>Tomsk is not equal to Irkutsk in size or population, and
lacks the mathematical symmetry which distinguishes the
latter town. The buildings in Tomsk are also less elegant,
but they have an air of more homely comfort than those of
Irkutsk. Its architectural defects are, however, amply compensated
by the superior advantages of its site, as it is built
upon several hills, sloping on one side to the river Tom,
and on the other side forming deep ravines, which gives the
town a picturesque and even romantic appearance. A good
many houses are built of brick, which the Russians call
<em>stone</em>. On the outskirts there are great assemblages of small,
miserable-looking, wooden huts, which help to disfigure the
town. The principal houses are insured against fire, and
the emblem of the "Salamander" Fire Office, nailed on the
outer wall or over the door, meets the eye everywhere. Fires
are by no means common, which is surprising considering
the combustible material of which the cities are constructed,
and the necessity of keeping up large fires during
at least six months of the year. Nor do the inhabitants
display any extraordinary caution in their habits, for
though smoking in the streets (where it could not possibly
do any harm) is strictly prohibited in Russia and Siberia,
smoking within doors is universally practised by all classes.</p>

<p>Tomsk has been considered the coldest town in Siberia on
the same parallel of latitude. The temperature in winter is
as low as -30° to -40° Réaumur (-35° to -58° Fahrenheit),
but it is becoming milder. An English lady, who had
resided there a dozen years, informed us that during that
period a marked improvement in the climate was noticeable.
The extension of agriculture has probably been the means of
producing this change. During our stay in Tomsk the thermometer
showed -8° to -13° Réaumur (14° to 3° Fahrenheit).</p>

<p>Excellent water is procured from the river. Water-carrying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
is quite a trade, employing a number of people from
morning till night. A large hole in the ice is kept open,
whence the water is carried up the steep bank in buckets,
and conveyed through the town in carts, which are kept perfectly
water-tight by the thick coating of ice that accumulates
from the water dropped in filling.</p>

<p>All classes in Siberia are careful to cover themselves well
from the cold. Wealthy people muffle up in expensive furs,
and the peasants attain the same end by means of sheep-skins
or deer-skins, which cost very little. No peasant is so
poor as to be without very substantial gauntlets, made of
stout leather with some warm substance inside, which protect
both hands and wrists. They make little of the cold,
however, when their avocations necessitate the endurance of
it. In Tomsk, for example, it is not uncommon for the
women to do their washing on the ice. Cutting a hole
with an axe, they will stand or kneel over the water till their
work is done, without even the appearance of hurrying. How
they escape frost-bite it is hard to understand.</p>

<p>A few boys were seen skating on the river at Tomsk, but
so few in number, and so grave in their demeanour, that it
was sad to see them. Elsewhere we had observed skating in
a small way, and in some villages small sledges even were
used as playthings for children, but all so demurely as to be
suggestive of the absence of real enjoyment. It may be
that the Siberians make little of the ice because they have
so much of it. But all roystering games in which the exuberant
spirits of youth in other countries delight, are conspicuous
by their absence in Siberia, and the <em>genus</em>, <em>little boy</em>,
may almost be classed among the extinct mammals. So
much the worse is it for the country. The youth who grow
up without a taste for manly exercises are very likely, in
maturer years, to betake themselves to in-door recreations of
the most unprofitable kind.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p>

<p>Many of the largest mining proprietors have their town
residences in Tomsk, and about four thousand workmen are
in the habit of wintering in the towns, and spending their
earnings there. I will here note a few particulars relative to
mining in Siberia, supplied by a gentleman of extensive personal
experience in that department. Siberia is rich in
nearly all mineral treasures; but little attention has been
paid to any but gold and silver, and even few of the latter
mines have been worked. The richest gold-diggings that
have ever been worked in Siberia are situated in the northern
part of the government of Yeniseisk, but they are now
nearly worked out. Very rich diggings, or mines, have also
been worked in the Altai-saian chain, or "White Mountains,"
in the south of the same province, on the Chinese frontier.
Within a recent period, gold has likewise been worked in the
northern part of the government of Irkutsk, and in the
Trans-baikal regions, which have only lately been thrown
open to private enterprise. Within the last two or three
years, gold discoveries in the Amoor districts have attracted
thither many exploring parties, but I have not ascertained
what success has attended their efforts.</p>

<p>Gold-diggings are to be met with in nearly all the uninhabited
parts of Siberia. But in western Siberia the gold-fields
are almost worked out, so that they are now of little
value, and are carried on only in a small way.</p>

<p>In the Kirghis steppe there is one very rich silver mine,
called the Zmeiewskoi, the property of a private family in
Tomsk, the descendants of the first discoverer of gold in
Siberia. This gentleman turned his discovery to good account.
He was the first who worked gold-diggings in
Siberia, and obtained many immunities from the government,
who have always eagerly promoted the working of that
metal. In his lifetime, he amassed a colossal fortune, and at
his death, left mining property of enormous value. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
successors, however, contrived to dissipate their inheritance
by various means; but the silver mine in the Kirghis steppe
has once more raised them to affluence.</p>

<p>The government gold, silver, copper, and iron mines are
worked by criminals, condemned to hard labour, after having
undergone corporal punishment for capital offences.
They receive no pay for their labour, but only food and
clothing enough to keep body and soul together. The
works are all under the control and management of officers
trained in the mine corps, called Mining Engineers. These
officers are strongly imbued with the national weakness
of peculation, and their position affords them ample
opportunities for promoting their own personal interests.
Generally far removed, in uninhabited regions, from the surveillance
of superiors, no efficient check can be put on their
doings. As a necessary consequence of this state of matters,
all government mining works are very far behind private ones
in machinery, and indeed in everything else essential to their
efficiency, and are therefore unproductive. So far from being
a source of revenue to the government, they are, for the most
part, a constant expense. These mines are all private property
of the Crown, and within the last five years the Emperor,
despairing of being able to work them to a profit, has
proposed leasing them out to private individuals, and would
now gladly do so were persons of sufficient capital and enterprise
to come forward.</p>

<p>Private gold-diggings and mines, and, in a few instances,
silver mines also, generally situated in entirely uninhabited
parts of Siberia, are ceded by government to private individuals
on certain conditions. The applicant must be either a hereditary
nobleman, or he must have the right of doing business
as a merchant of the second class, and must pay the dues of
the second guild. The portion of ground ceded to him is
seven versts (nearly five miles) in length, and one hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
fathoms in breadth. The place always chosen is along the
margin of a stream flowing through the mountains. Hence
the elongated form of the allotment is adopted, in order to include
as much water privilege as possible. The claimant
may, however, if he chooses, take a greater breadth, but in
that case the length must be reduced so as to give the
same area. The river, or stream, is always included in the
claim, as the richest gold is often found in its bed. The land,
once allotted, is the property of the claimant only until it has
been entirely worked out, or has been thrown up and abandoned,
when it reverts to the Crown. Or, if not worked by
the claimant at least one out of every three years, the claim
is forfeited to the government, who may let it out to another
applicant. The object of the government is to promote the
working of gold, in order to secure the revenue from it, which is
of some importance, as all gold must be delivered to the mint
at a fixed price, which leaves a good profit to the government.</p>

<p>Then, as to the manner of working the mines. To get
at the gold-sands an upper layer of earth, varying in depth
from five up to thirty-five or forty feet, must be carted away.
On the depth and extent of earth necessary to be removed
principally depends the value of a gold-digging, and the first
business of the speculator is to discover whether the gold-sands
are rich enough to pay for the removal of the upper
strata. To ascertain this, shafts are sunk at various distances
over the ground where the works are proposed to be opened,
and the exact depth of the upper layer taken. Then the gold-sands
are bored through, and their depth ascertained. The
proportion of gold contained in a given quantity of sand is next
ascertained. With these <em>data</em>, an easy calculation will show
the practical miner whether the claim will be remunerative.</p>

<p>The outlay in buildings and machinery necessary to start
the work is very heavy, the expense of conveying the materials
to the spot being alone a considerable item. For what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
are considered small works, employing from four to five hundred
workmen, at least ten thousand pounds must be laid out
in buildings and machinery. The works require a constant
expense to keep up, and alterations and additions are frequently
needed. After all, the works must be abandoned as
valueless when the claim is worked out, or given up as unremunerative,
as the cost of removing them to an inhabited
region would far exceed the saleable value of the materials.</p>

<p>Many diggings employ as many as two, and even three,
thousand workmen. The largest item in the working expenses
is the wear and tear of horseflesh, and one horse for
every two men employed is considered necessary in the calculation
of the years expenses. Provisions for the men, and
corn and hay for the cattle, are brought during the winter
months from distances of four or five hundred versts, and do
not cost much. The free peasant seldom goes to work at the
diggings, for, if at all industriously inclined, he can earn
much more by agriculture at home. The workmen employed
at the diggings are generally convicts sent to Siberia for theft
and minor offences. Bad characters of all sorts, drunkards,
vagabonds, men who will not settle to any steady work, convicts
who have paid the penalty of the law, but have not
found homes of their own&mdash;these are the kind of men who
find a refuge in the gold-diggings. When all his money is
gone, the digger engages himself to a proprietor for three
roubles per month (equal to nine shillings). This looks a small
sum for an able-bodied man to earn, but his regular wages is
a matter of minor importance to the scapegrace who thus
engages himself. His primary object is to obtain the <em>hand-money</em>,
amounting to five or ten pounds sterling, which is
paid him by his employer on making the contract. Out of
this sum, as much of his debt is paid as the authorities are
cognizant of, and with the whole of the balance he proceeds
deliberately to get drunk, the extent and duration of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>
<em>spree</em> depending solely on the amount of money in his possession.
He is then ready to proceed to the gold-works, and
with one or two hundred comrades, under the charge of a
couple of clerks, he is despatched to the scene of his labours.
On arriving there, the digger has invariably to be clothed
from head to foot by his master, and generally by the opening
of the summer months, the beginning of the gold-washing
season, the workman has contracted a debt to his master
equal to twenty or twenty-five pounds sterling. The working-season
lasts about 110 days in the year, and terminates
invariably on the 11-23 September. To enable the workman
to reduce his debt, and possibly have some money in hand on
receiving his discharge at the end of the season, he is handsomely
paid for all extra work he may do, over and above the
daily task assigned to each. No holidays, Sundays, or Saints'
days are allowed to a workman who is in debt. The law
compels him to work on these days. What with compulsory
and voluntary labour, a workman has it in his power to earn
from five to seven pounds sterling per month. But he must
work very hard to do it. The bell is rung at half-past two in
the morning; by three o'clock he must be at work, all
weathers. He seldom can leave off before nine in the evening.
He is allowed half-an-hour for breakfast, an hour for
dinner, half-an-hour for tea, and he takes his supper after the
labour of the day is finished. The task generally set for the
day is the breaking up and carting away of two cubic fathoms
of earth to every five men and two horses. Extra work is
allowed up to one-half of the daily task, and for extra work
the workman receives pay at nearly ten times the rate of his
contract wages. If a workman finds a piece of gold he is
also paid extra for that according to its value. When not
working "extra," the five men are allowed to leave the
field as soon as their task is done, whatever hour of the
day it may be.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span></p>

<p>The workmen at these gold-diggings are well fed, as indeed
their excessive labour renders it necessary they should be.
Each man is allowed from one pound to one pound and a-half
of beef <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">per diem</i>. This is a luxury to him, for the
Russian peasant at home seldom can afford to eat meat
except on great holidays. Salt, buckwheat or other grain,
and as much bread as he can eat, are daily issued to the
workman. His lodging is made as comfortable as possible,
every care being taken to have the barracks dry, warm, and
well ventilated. Their health is also in a general way well-cared
for. Every gold-digging has a fully equipped hospital,
with a superintendent in charge, who must have some
medical knowledge. A qualified surgeon either resides on
the premises or on a neighbouring establishment, his services
being paid for jointly by two or more proprietors. The
surgeon has then the general superintendence of hospitals,
and the care of the sick over the district. The proprietor
of these works in fact takes as much care of his workmen
as he would do of his horses, knowing well that unless they
are kept healthy and contented, it would be impossible to exact
the desired amount of work out of them. Besides the fixed
rations of food, large stocks of corn-brandy (<em>vodka</em>) are kept
for the men, who each get a tumblerful of the liquor two or
three times a month, by way of counteracting the effect of
the rawness of the climate. Of clothing also, large magazines
are kept by the proprietors, and the workmen supplied
with them as required for winter or summer wear. Tobacco
is also considered a necessary, and is extensively consumed
by all Russians. It is thought to be anti-scorbutic, and good
for the climate. Supplies of brick tea are kept on hand, and
of this article every workman consumes at least one pound
per month. All these articles are supplied to the labourer
in advance of his wages, and reckoned up when he gets his
discharge. But even should he be deeply in debt the supplies<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>
are not withheld, the proprietor wisely considering that
one sick man would be a dead loss far exceeding the cost of
the few extras he might need.</p>

<p>The proprietor obtains all the goods he requires at wholesale
prices, in the principal commercial and manufacturing
towns, and they are supplied to the workmen at lower prices
than they themselves could purchase them. The goods are
always of the best quality, and it would not be considered
respectable for a proprietor of gold-diggings to take a profit
from his workmen on the articles supplied to them. To the
original cost is added the expense of transit, and at the most
an interest of three or four per cent. on the outlay. Even
the latter item is not always charged.</p>

<p>When the gold-washing season is all over, the majority of
the workmen find their way to some of the large towns with
the balance of wages in hand, and spend the winter in riot
and wantonness, often no doubt in great misery, until the
next season comes round. They seldom or never think of
saving money, or of bettering their condition.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2>

<h3>TOMSK TO OMSK.</h3>


<p>While waiting for our servant to come up with the
tarantass, we had sundry matters to look to in Tomsk before
committing ourselves once more to the road, of which we
continued to hear shocking accounts. Our portmanteaus
were so smashed by the concussions the hard rough roads
had exposed us to, as to be unfit for further service, and it
was necessary to replace them with Russian <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">chemadáns</i>.
This is an excellent contrivance for rough travelling; being
constructed of soft leather, hard knocks have no effect, and
it is capable of being so tightly lashed up as to be practically
waterproof. It has also this advantage over an ordinary
trunk or portmanteau, that whether it is full or not, there
is no empty space left in it to block up the carriage where
there is no room to spare.</p>

<p>A few accessories, in the way of fur gloves and such like,
completed our wardrobe so far. To replace a broken thermometer
we were led into an optician's establishment,
managed by some clever Germans. Here we were surprised
to find as good an assortment of instruments as is
usually to be met with in any similar establishment in this
country. Telescopes, microscopes, transit-instruments, theodolites,
and all kinds of surveying instruments, of excellent
workmanship, were there for sale. Everything, except the
very simplest articles, was of foreign make, many of them
German, but mostly French.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p>

<p>We had been strongly advised at the outset of our Siberian
travels to provide ourselves with feather pillows, after the
manner of the Russians, to use as buffers between our prominent
bones and the hard substance of the carriage.
Judging that our bedding would suffice, we, with the
vanity of ignorance, rejected these good counsels in defiance
of the well-known travelling maxim which inculcates
the wisdom of taking your cue from the people of the
country. Our carcases had been so unmercifully knocked
about on the road to Tomsk, that we dared not go farther
without pillows. It was not so easy to find them, however;
for although Tomsk is said to be celebrated for them we
could not hit on the right place to buy them. They are sold
at about fourteen roubles per pood (36 lbs.). Our landlady
was appealed to, but she avowed that there was not, and
never could have been, any such thing in Tomsk, least of all
had she any to dispose of. We were actually beginning to
despair of pillows when a young Russianised German introduced
himself to us, and, as usual in such <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rencontres</i>, the
conversation turned on civilisation. We happened to allude
to the pillow difficulty, as proving the primitive state of
society in Tomsk. On this our friend at once undertook to
provide us. He went first to the old lady, and then to
the younger members, none of whom he had seen before, and
spent full half an hour ingratiating himself with them. The
pillow question was in due time gently hinted at, and
before very long one, and then another, and another, was
produced, until we had pillows to our hearts' content. Delighted
with his success, we begged our friend to tell us how
he had achieved it. "First," he said, in very good English,
"you must beat about the bush with these &mdash;&mdash; Russians;
you must flatter them and humbug them. Then you must
talk about everything but <em>the</em> thing. If you want to buy a
horse, you must pretend you want to sell a cow, and so work<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
gradually round to the point in view." He went on to tell
us how he had coaxed and cajoled the good people into parting
with their pillows, and how he backed up his requests by
a touching appeal to their sense of hospitality. "You have
two distinguished foreigners in your house, they are very
good people, and you ought to treat them with the kindness
due to strangers from distant countries. When Russians go
to their country they are well treated. But if you refuse
this small favour to these people, they will go home and tell
their countrymen what beasts the Russians are," &amp;c.</p>

<p>We were in a dilemma about the mode of travelling from
Tomsk. Our tarantass was very much the worse for the
wear, and on bad roads it might break down at any time.
It would hardly be safe to leave the town with it. It would
be equally imprudent to purchase a sledge, for there was
very little snow; none fell during our stay, and there
was reported to be none to the westward. We might of
course use the post-carriages, but that mode of travelling
has many inconveniences. It is uncomfortable in the extreme
to sit in, and it necessitates changing at every station.
The nuisance of turning out luggage, and turning out one's-self,
every few hours, multiplies tenfold all the horrors of the
road. Had we listened to the advice proffered to us on all
hands in Tomsk we should have remained there till snow
fell, which might be in one week or in six. We were entertained
with terrible accounts of the road through the
Baraba steppe, and the post had been six days coming from
Kolivan, a town only 120 miles from Tomsk. The delay
was attributed entirely to the roads, but making due allowance
for Russian vagueness, we thought it just as likely to
have been due to the difficulty of crossing some of the large
rivers. In this uncertainty a diversion occurred in the
advent of Schwartz, on the third day, minus the tarantass.
He had been talked into the impossibility of getting it over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
the ice, and was induced to sell it for the small sum of ten
roubles silver. The Russians designate their paper money
by the high-sounding term "silver" roubles, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">lucus à non
lucendo</i>. This crowning act of folly, coupled with the fact
of his having left behind (or sold) sundry articles which were
in the tarantass, determined us to give Mr. Schwartz "the
sack," and nothing but reflection on the probable consequences
of his being left with no money, and a blighted
character, to the "cold charity of the world," caused us to
relent.</p>

<p>Old Barnaul left us a few hours after Schwartz's arrival.
His destination lay nearly due south from Tomsk, a few
stations beyond which town the road to Barnaul branches off
from the Moscow road. The old gentleman refused to leave us
entirely by ourselves, and had cheerfully sacrificed two whole
days of his time, simply to keep us company until our own
man came up. There was much genuine kindness in this, as
in all his intercourse with us, and we parted with the pleasantest
recollections on both sides (I hope).</p>

<p>Having made all necessary arrangements for resuming our
journey, and armed ourselves with a pass from the Director-General
of Posts for Western Siberia, we started on the 5th
November in a post kibitka, with the intention of buying a
sledge when we found an opportunity, and snow enough to
use it. It was late in the afternoon before we got away from
Tomsk, and dark before we emerged from the thick wood
into which we plunged on leaving the town. The post-station
had been at a village eighteen versts from Tomsk, but
on arriving there we learned that it had been removed that
very day to a place more convenient for crossing the river
Tom, or on the other side of the Tom, for it was hard to
deduce any positive conclusion from the various and partially
contradictory statements we heard. At all events, be the
new station where it might, our yemschiks refused to drive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
us any further than the old station in the village. To be
cast adrift with our baggage in a village where no accredited
officer of the government was located, would have consigned
us to unknown troubles. We refused, therefore, to let the
yemschiks go, but insisted on their proceeding to the next
station, wherever it might be. The assistance of the starust,
or village elder, was invoked, and he, with a few peasants,
piloted us at our request to the river Tom, that we might
examine for ourselves the state of the crossing. The ice was
good, and apparently strong enough to bear the carriages,
but the yemschiks lapsed into a state of mulish obstinacy,
and refused to stir. The starust and his satellites, all speaking
at once, held forth vigorously on general topics for the
edification of the company, and went to bed. As for us, we
had simply to keep possession of the carriages, and leave the
rest to time. The yemschiks would get hungry, the horses
would certainly have to be fed, and we might hope that when
they got tired of waiting they would go on. With this idea
we committed ourselves to rest in the kibitka. It was sadly
deficient in comfort, as compared with our old tarantass.
The kibitka is open in front, and rather over-ventilated everywhere.
Cold kept sleep from our eyes for a time, while our
ears were regaled with spasmodic bursts of indignation from
the yemschiks, who now threatened to take us back to Tomsk,
bag and baggage. To these attacks we offered nothing but
passive resistance, and even the yemschiks wearied of a discussion
so entirely one-sided. We were lulled to sleep in
time by the chanting of some wild native airs by a Russian
family in a neighbouring house. Their songs, many of them
very sweet, are mostly, if not all, of the plaintive order. A
drunken "brute of a husband," whom his poor wife was
trying to decoy homewards, was the only incident that broke
in upon the dead stillness of the night scene in the village
of Kaltarskaya. There stood our wearied horses in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
street that livelong night, bearing their sufferings from cold
and hunger with resignation. How the yemschiks bestowed
themselves during the night I know not. One at least must
have kept awake to watch the horses. As morning approached
the cold proved too much for my somnolence, and I
was fain to turn out and grope my way into the house that
had until the previous day been the post-station. On getting
the door of a room open, the warm, fulsome exhalations of
closely pent-up human beings that greeted the nostrils were
enough to have produced a revolution in a sensitive stomach.
The hard breathing of some, and the more sonorous articulations
of others, enabled me to ascertain the positions of the
heads of most of the sleepers, but still with every care I
came into collision with sundry legs and trunks in my voyage
across the floor in quest of a clear space where I might
stretch myself. At length I discovered an unoccupied bench
or table, and yielded to the luxury of sleep till daylight.
When I again opened my eyes, my night companions had
begun to stir about. Some were engaged in their toilet,
which consists in stretching legs and arms, yawning a little,
shaking up their clothes, and tightening the scarf which
forms their girdle. By stooping low on entering the room I
had escaped a broken head from a false ceiling which was
used as a sleeping bunk. This is a common arrangement in
post-houses, where the family of the post-master and all the
yemschiks and hangers-on of the establishment are often
jumbled up together, some climbing up to the top of the
brick stove to sleep, and others lying on the boarded floor or
ceiling which overhangs part of the room like a hay-loft.
The Russian houses generally are built on traditional principles,
the first thing aimed at being the exclusion of <em>air</em>, and
consequently cold. They always feel warm, the temperature
during the day being kept up to a pretty uniform scale by
the large stoves. At night the fires go out, but the house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
retains its heat until about daylight in the morning, when it
begins to feel a little chilly. There is scarcely one perfectly
level floor in the country, and many of the houses, especially
the old ones, are tipped up at one end so that the line of the
roof makes a very wide angle with the level ground. Some
indeed tumble over altogether, where the owners are too
poor or too indifferent to take them down before they progress
so far towards demolition. This phenomenon is not
caused by the sinking of one end from the timbers rotting in
the ground, but by the action of frost in the earth, which, unless
the uprights are sunk deep enough, expands with cold so
much as to heave up the foundations of the houses.</p>

<p>Early in the morning our yemschiks had made up their
minds to take us over the river and to the next station.
They had first to obtain the services of some peasants from
the village, to pilot them over the ice. This local knowledge
was necessary to enable them to avoid holes that had been
only recently frozen, and other dangerous places. The Tom
was here a fine broad expanse of ice, white with snow, very
rough and lumpy. The crossing was satisfactorily effected, and
we made the best of our way during the day through a flat,
barren, and most uninteresting country, but still well wooded.
A little snow fell, but only to tantalise us, for the ground
never got covered more than half an inch.</p>

<p>Soon after daylight on the 7th, we arrived at a station on
the right bank of the river Ob, which was the most formidable-looking
obstacle to progress we had yet encountered.
But as we had only ourselves and our baggage to get over,
no serious difficulties were made, though we were threatened
with trouble from a gang of drunken ice-men. The Ob, Obe,
Obi or Oby, for all these spellings are used, is a noble river,
and at the point where we crossed it is nearly half-a-mile
wide. The current is rapid, and ice had only formed along
the edges of the water. The difficulty in crossing arose from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
the huge masses of floating ice that were carried rapidly
down by the current. To avoid being shut in by these small
icebergs required all the dexterity of the adepts who manned
the ferry-boat. Not only skill, but real hard work was necessary.
Poles and boat-hooks were vigorously plied. The short
paddle-oars were of comparatively little use; but by hooking
on to the floating ice and hauling round them, then shoving
off into clear water for a short space, and hooking on to the
next lump of ice, we managed to thread our way through.
The current had carried us down stream, but it was not
nearly so strong on the left side of the channel, and there
was a good breadth of clear water there which enabled the
men to recover their lost ground. On reaching the landing-place,
a rope was passed ashore, that is, to the solid ice, and
the boat hauled up bodily far enough on the ice to enable
horses to fetch the luggage. The sides and bottom of the
boat being thickly coated with ice, enabled the men to slide
her about with great facility.</p>

<p>From Tomsk our course had turned southerly, following
the course of the river Tom, and striking the Ob obliquely.
From the Ob we turned west again, and entered the great
Baraba steppe.</p>

<p>Two stages from the Ob we reached the town of Kolivan,
which is perhaps the most dreary, cold-looking town in
Siberia, situated in a perfectly bare country, and exposed to
every wind that blows. It possessed a peculiar interest for
us, however, as being the then most easterly telegraph station
in Siberia. The Tomsk station had been completed, but the
manager had not arrived to inaugurate the opening when we
left. Kolivan, being a second-rate station, only Russian messages
could be sent; but having got a gentleman in Tomsk to
write one out in that language, I was enabled to send a telegram
from Kolivan to St. Petersburg, a distance of 2700
miles. Many repetitions were necessary in the transmission of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
this message, but it was delivered with perfect accuracy in
thirty-six hours.</p>

<p>The Siberian telegraph, being now completed as far as
Irkutsk, will no doubt be extended in time to the Amoor
country. It is also probable that a branch will be formed
from Irkutsk to Kiachta, and the Russians in Siberia confidently
believe that their government will establish a line
across Mongolia to Peking.</p>

<p>The Baraba steppe is, for the most part, one vast marsh,
extending from the left bank of the river Ob westward to
Tumen. It borders on the Kirghis steppe on the south, and
is apparently a continuation of it. Its natural features are
barren, being at the best a succession of wild prairies. The
grass is long and coarse, but there is so much water on the
ground that, in the summer season, the grass can hardly be
available for pasture. The steppe is bare of wood, with the
exception of strips here and there of dwarf birch-trees,
which struggle for existence. In some of its more elevated
parts, trees grow to a good size, but these spots are like
oases in the desert. The inhabitants of the steppe are
few, and lack the comforts enjoyed by the natives of other
parts of Siberia. Villages are thinly scattered, and poor and
mean-looking. The principal subsistence of the people consists
in their cattle, and at every village a large tract of common
land is fenced in for pasture.</p>

<p>At the stations in Baraba the post-master is seldom
found at home, the domestic part of the establishment being
generally left in charge of women, and the posting-department
in that of the senior yemschik. The women in the
steppe, we were informed, are mostly Kirghis, called by the
Russians by the generic name of Tartars. The Kirghis
women are physically superior to Russian women of the
same class,&mdash;cleaner, better dressed, and handsomer. They
have, in many instances, blue eyes and fair complexions, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
marked contrast to the Kalmuks and Mongols. In manners
they are more cheerful than the Russians.</p>

<p>Game abounds in the steppe. Blackcock were in some
parts met with in great numbers. Pure white pheasants
and <em>ryabchik</em> are plentiful, and, I have been told, though I
did not see any, that the ptarmigan and capercailzie are also
to be found.</p>

<p>The most conspicuous objects in the steppe are the windmills,
a number of which are to be found round every village.
These are the only marks that exist in the country, and
they indicate the positions of the villages long before any
other evidence of habitation is visible. They are primitive
in construction. In order to face the wind the whole
fabric is moved round on its axis by means of a clumsy, but
powerful lever.</p>

<p>The road through Baraba looks like a strip of ploughed land
in a desert, and was frozen so roughly that if solely depended
on, traffic would soon have been brought to a stand. As it
was, the heavy cart caravans were stopped for a time, and very
few travellers were met with on this part of the journey. We
rarely travelled on the road at all, only crossing it occasionally
in quest of tracks through the open country. The frozen
marsh greatly facilitated our progress. There was enough
grass overspreading the ice to enable the horses to keep a
footing, and by taking advantage of every sheet of ice we
came to, we managed, by circuitous paths, to keep clear of
the main road.</p>

<p>The weather was mild in the steppe. The sun was strong
enough in the middle of the day to melt the thin covering of
snow that lay on the ground; and even the nights were
not so cold as we had experienced to the eastward. Snow
fell occasionally, but not enough to make a sledge-road.</p>

<p>Slow as our progress was, it was quicker than we could have
anticipated, and it was some satisfaction to keep ahead of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
the post which left Tomsk at the same time with us. Our
yemschiks in the steppe were an unusually drunken set, but
though often in jeopardy, we escaped without accident, saving
one upset.</p>

<p>Passing Kainsk on the 9th, we reached the town of Omsk
at midnight on the 11th, putting up at the Hôtel Moscow, an
establishment of the same empty, comfortless character as
other Siberian hotels.</p>

<p>Omsk is built round a hill at the junction of the Om river
with the Irtish. It has a population of about 12,000; and is
at present the residence of the Governor-General of Western
Siberia. This functionary had recently made a tour to the
Kirghis frontier, where some disputes had occurred between
the Russian soldiers at the outposts and the Kirghis tribes.
These <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">émeutes</i> are of constant occurrence. The Cossacks at
the Russian stations make raids on their own account on the
Kirghis people, and subject them to very rough treatment.
An outbreak among the Kirghis occurs, which requires a
military force to subdue. An expedition for this purpose is
sent every year to the Kirghis steppe&mdash;the Russian outposts
are pushed further and further south&mdash;more disturbances
occur, and so the frontier is, year by year, extended, on the
pretext of keeping the peace. That has been the system pursued
by the Russian Government in all its aggressions in Asia.
Siberia is dotted all over with old forts, which have become
obsolete as the country has become quiet and settled under
Russian sway. One of the strongest of these works is on the
hill that stands in the middle of the town of Omsk. It is
almost intact, and still kept up after a fashion. On the
Kirghis frontier forts continue to be planted as footholds
on the soil, and centres from which outlying territories may
be subjugated.</p>

<p>A great deal of injustice, oppression, and cruelty have unquestionably
attended the aggressions of Russia among the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
various Asiatic races, but in the long run the results have
been rather beneficial than prejudicial to the tribes. The
Kirghis who live as Russian subjects in the province of
Omsk, are probably more comfortable than their semi-nomad
brethren who feed their cattle on the southern steppes. The
Mongol tribes who dwell under the auspices of Russia
under the name of Bouriats, are more cultivated, and lead a
more civilised life than the Mongols proper. They enjoy
some degree of comfort, and have undoubtedly improved by
their contact with the Russians. The wild hunting tribes,
again, who inhabit the forests of Northern Manchuria, recently
annexed to Russia, are said to have longed greatly to
be transferred from allegiance to the autocrat of China to
that of the Tsar. On the whole, the ambitious projects of
Russia have been the means of spreading the benefits of
civilisation and Christianity (in a much diluted form, it must
be confessed) to many savage tribes. Highroads have been
opened through deserts, and commerce has followed in the
wake of conquest. The tribes who have become Russian
enjoy, under the shelter of a strong government, immunity
from war with neighbouring tribes, to which they were
in former times constantly exposed, and have at least the
opportunity of giving more attention to the arts of peace. Of
course many bad, as well as good, results have flowed from the
contact of Russians with these barbarous people. Those who
were too low in the scale of humanity to bear the shock of a
superior order of life, have been demoralised by it. The Tunguses
and Ostiaks, who live in the northern parts of the
provinces of the Irkutsk and Yeniseisk, are of a very low
order of savages. The Tunguses are thievish, treacherous
and cowardly, and live solely by fishing and hunting. The
Ostiaks live almost entirely on and about the water, eat little
else but fish when they can get it. They wander as far north
as the Frozen Ocean. When deprived of their usual food in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
winter, they are reduced to eating carrion and garbage of all
kinds. In their habits they are filthily dirty. Small-pox
and drunkenness together make frightful havoc in their
numbers. These tribes have been greatly injured by their
contact with Russians. Naturally addicted to drunkenness,
they have been supplied with ardent spirits to their heart's
content by the invaders. The use of money being unknown
to them, they only receive brandy in exchange for their
services and products. They supply the gold-diggings with
game, which brings them in return large quantities of
spirits. They also act as guides to exploring parties, and
such services are invariably requited with brandy. To obtain
this liquor seems indeed to be the main object of their lives,
and they have recourse to the most extraordinary expedients
to gain their purpose. They are low idolaters, but they know
how to turn to account the solicitude of the Russian Church
for proselytising. They will allow themselves to be baptised
in consideration of a bottle of brandy, but on the next favourable
opportunity, they will pass over to another part of the
country, and again offer themselves as candidates for baptism,
if a similar inducement be held out. Brandy is fast ruining
these people, and in a few generations they are likely to become
extinct&mdash;a catastrophe which will have been greatly
accelerated by the Russian settlers.</p>

<p>The reverse of this is the case with the nomad tribes who
are spread over the steppes of the southern districts of Siberia.
Their nomad habits have been so far circumscribed that they
remain for many years together in the same places, moving
only to suit the seasons and the pastures for their horses.
They have a fixed place where they live in spring, but move
off for the summer months, then again to winter quarters.
At each of these encampments they leave their tents of felt
or skins standing, thus evincing great confidence in the security
of life and property. These tribes use tents of the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
construction as those of the Mongols; but, unlike them,
they care little for the rearing of horned cattle or sheep, their
wealth consisting in horses, of which they keep large herds.
They do not practise agriculture, but live a great deal by the
chase, and a few of them carry on a kind of wandering trade.
They obtain bread and other necessaries of life in barter for
the skins of wild animals, but never part with their horses
until hard pressed by necessity. If they have no skins, they
will rather want bread than sell their horses. These tribes
respect themselves, and command the respect of others by
the strict sobriety of their habits, their general honesty, and
cleanliness. They are mostly Mahometans. In many respects
these people stand higher than the Russians, and are
not likely to be demoralised by them.</p>

<p>Another Mahometan tribe may be mentioned in this
category&mdash;the <em>Yakuts</em>, who occupy some of the northern part
of the province of Irkutsk. They are no longer nomads,
although they still live in tents. The Yakuts are very industrious
people, rear large herds of horses and cattle, occupy
themselves with trade, are skilled in ironwork, and have
more recently taken to agriculture. They bear the character
of sobriety, and are much more cleanly in their habits than
any neighbouring tribes. The Yakuts have a tradition that
they were once settled in the province of Kazan, whence
they were expelled during the great irruption of Tartars into
Russia, and wandered to their present habitat before they
settled.</p>

<p>The wildest and most unmanageable of all the Siberian
aborigines are the <em>Khargasses</em>, who live about the Altai
mountains on the Chinese frontiers, in the south of the provinces
of Yeniseisk and Irkutsk. The Khargasses are quite
nomad, carrying tent and all with them when they move.
They are said to be fierce and treacherous, perfectly uncivilised,
and idolaters. It is a common practice with them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
when the time for the collection of their <em>essak</em>, or poll-tax,
comes, to strike their tents, and cross the mountains to
Chinese territory. There they remain until some similar
claim is made on them on behalf of the Emperor of China,
when they again pack up and return to Siberia. The Khargasses
are great hunters, and live on the produce of their
guns. They own no cattle, their riches consisting of reindeer
and guns, like the Tunguses.</p>

<p>We saw two small tug steamers and six huge barges frozen-in
at the junction of the Om with the Irtish. These barges
go as far as Tumen with their cargoes, but of this more
hereafter.</p>

<p>As there was still too little snow on the roads to warrant
us in buying a sledge, we were obliged to continue undergoing
the torture of a small kibitka, changing at every station.
Sleep had now become out of the question, and if we could
get a nap once in forty-eight hours we had to be satisfied.
Eating was almost equally irregular, for the steppe afforded
but few opportunities of enjoying a good meal. And yet this
rough mode of life rather improved my health than otherwise.
The constant exposure to the clear bracing Siberian
air was certainly most beneficial, and I am convinced of this,
that with all its ice and snow, there is no finer&mdash;that is, more
salubrious&mdash;climate in the world than Siberia.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XIX.</h2>

<h3>OMSK TO OCHANSK.</h3>


<p>On the 11th November, we bade adieu to Omsk at an
early hour in the evening. At the end of the second stage,
forty-four versts from Omsk, we came to the river Irtish. At
the station we found an officer travelling with a courier's
<em>padaroshna</em>, who had failed in an attempt to cross the
river in the dark. This was a sufficient hint that <em>we</em> had
no chance, so we quietly lay by till morning, spending the
night in the station in the company of the officer aforesaid.
He was bound to the town of Tara, some distance north of
the place we met him. His mission was to convey recruits
thence to St. Petersburg. They are marched at the rate of
thirty versts a day, which was slow enough to make us feel
grateful for the moderate progress we had ourselves been
making. Recruiting was going on very extensively in Siberia
at this time. In Russia proper, and in the territories subject
to it, recruiting is carried out on similar principles. The
empire is divided into two zones, southern and northern.
In each zone recruits are levied every alternate five years.
They are chosen from among the free peasants and agriculturists,
and when levies are made, every proprietor tries
to get rid of a bad subject. The usual levy is one in every
thousand of the men; but the government always takes into
consideration circumstances that may entitle certain provinces
or districts to partial exemption,&mdash;such as a bad
harvest, or other similar misfortunes, to which agriculture<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
and cattle-breeding are liable. When these circumstances
occur, the suffering districts frequently have the term of the
levy postponed a certain number of years, and in many cases
they are wholly exempted. All that is applicable to times of
peace. In war time, the frequency, as well as the per-centage
of the levies, depends entirely on the exigencies of the government.
For instance, during the Crimean War, recruiting in
Eastern Siberia occurred twice in one year, and beginning at
one man in a thousand, it increased gradually to seven in a
thousand. The peasants on the rivers Lena and Yenisei are
exempted from furnishing recruits on certain conditions, such
as providing horses for travellers, and conveying the post, for
which services they are of course paid besides. The peasants
on the Angara enjoy similar exemption in consideration of
their providing pilots for that very dangerous river.</p>

<p>Next morning we crossed the Irtish on the ice, without
difficulty, and re-entered a frozen marsh, exactly similar to
that part of the steppe which lies east of Omsk, windmills
and all. Late in the evening, we passed through the town
of Tukalinsk. At daylight on the 15th, passed Ishim. It
snowed steadily all that day, and we soon had practicable
sledge-roads, which enabled us to travel 160 miles a day.
Early on the 16th, we passed through Yalootorofsk, and the
same evening arrived at Tumen.</p>

<p>Finding at Tumen a very comfortable covered sledge for
sale at the post-station, we immediately purchased it, as well
as a smaller one for the accommodation of Mr. Schwartz and
the baggage. The posting from Tumen westward is better
organised than in Eastern Siberia. It is managed, not by
government, but by a private company. No scarcity of
horses is ever complained of in the company's line; for
government takes care that the work is well done. But not
the least of the improvements we experienced was, that we
no longer required to pay the fare at every station. At<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
Tumen we paid our <em>progon</em> through to Ekaterineburg, and
had no more trouble about it. In consideration of these
facilities, double the government rate of fare is charged by
the company from Tumen to Perm. Eastward the rate is
about three-farthings per mile per horse. Westward from
Tumen it is three-halfpence per horse.</p>

<div class="figcenter bord" style="width: 600px;"><a name="view" id="view"></a>
<img src="images/i-343.jpg" width="600" height="345" alt="view" />
<div class="caption"><p class="center">VIEW OF EKATERINBURG. SIBERIA.<br />

From a photograph.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
(Page 307.)
</p></div>
</div>

<p>We are now fairly through the great marshy steppe. The
country from Tumen is undulating, and thick pine forests
reappear.</p>

<p>We were in thorough condition to enjoy the soft luxury of
travelling in a warm sledge, gliding so smoothly over the
snow that at times we could not tell whether it was in
motion; and it is not very surprising that we slept the
greater part of the way to Ekaterineburg. Hunger even
could not seduce us out of our snug retreat. The distance
from Tumen to Ekaterineburg is 240 miles,&mdash;time occupied
thirty-five hours. This is far from being a quick rate for
sledge travelling, but the roads had not yet been properly
formed, and in many places even the ground was quite bare
of snow, the little that had fallen having been blown away
by the wind.</p>

<p>Ekaterineburg is first sighted at some miles' distance
through the vista formed by the road. A few scattered
streets of small log houses form the outskirts of the town,
and give one a poor opinion of the place. On emerging
from the forest the town itself bursts on the view, and produces
an impression of elegance, comfort, and even grandeur.
It is spread over a large surface, and is divided into two
parts by the river Irchet, which, though a small stream,
widens out here to the dimensions of a lake. The situation
of the town shows it off to better advantage than the
other towns we had passed through as more of it can be
seen at once. The proportion of brick-built houses to wooden
ones is much larger, and the array of handsome churches and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
public buildings is more imposing. The bridge which connects
the two portions of the town enhances considerably the
beautiful effect of the whole. Although an improvement on
the rest, especially in the matter of stone houses, Ekaterineburg
presents a strong family likeness to the other large
towns in Siberia, and is a fair specimen of the general type.
The population is about 19,000.</p>

<p>The government mint is the most important building in
Ekaterineburg. The principal coinage is copper, and I
think I am right in stating that all the copper currency of
Russia and Siberia is coined there. The Ural (pronounced
by Russians <em>Oo-rál</em>) range, at the foot of which stands the
town, is rich in precious stones, the cutting and setting of
which is a standing occupation for a great number of people.
The government lapidary establishment was formerly celebrated,
but through neglect or mismanagement it has sadly
fallen off of late, and very little of interest is now to be seen
there. Strangers in Ekaterineburg are beset by little boys
of most agreeable address, regular walking polyglots, who
bring for sale amethysts, topazes, and other stones, with
heaps of malachite, which latter is the most abundant in the
neighbourhood.</p>

<p>There are several large iron-foundries in this place, the
best one belonging to an Englishman who has been
many years resident in Siberia. The mention of this
gentleman recalls pleasing recollections of the kindness we
received from him and his family on the day we rested
there. It is refreshing to meet a countryman in such a
far-off region, and this circumstance greatly enhances one's
appreciation of true hospitality. There is a fair sprinkling
of Englishmen scattered over Siberia, and there is considerable
scope for their enterprise, both in private undertakings
and as government servants. One gentleman who
preceded us a few days in the homeward journey had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
lived some years at Stretnoi, the head of the Amoor navigation,
in charge of the government machine-shop there.
His salary is 3000 roubles silver (<em>i.e.</em> paper) per annum, with
the perquisites of a house, fire, and light. He was so well
satisfied with his post that he was then travelling to England
to return with his family to Stretnoi, some 2000 versts beyond
the Baikal lake. This instance out of many shows first that
the English skill in machinery is prized by the Russian
government, and also that even the most remote districts of
Siberia are not very disagreeable as places of residence.</p>

<p>But to return to Ekaterineburg. The iron mines now
being worked are at the convenient distance of 100 miles
from the town, and the cost of transit of the pig-iron is
comparatively small. This town is therefore advantageously
situated for iron-work, and a large quantity is
turned out every year. Most of the iron-work for Siberia
goes from this place. The boilers and engines for the Baikal
steamers are made in Ekaterineburg, and transported nearly
2400 miles to their destination. The workmen in the
English foundries are chiefly Germans and Russians, with
English foremen. Experience has proved the remarkable
fact that English workmen deteriorate in Siberia. The
native Russians are excellent workmen under skilful superintendence.
Some few of them have intellect enough to be
trusted with the more responsible departments of their
business, but such cases are quite exceptional. They are
in general mere imitators, exhibiting no power to think for
themselves.</p>

<p>A large fish-curing trade is carried on here. The fish is
brought from the great rivers, chiefly the Ob, near its mouth.
About 50,000 poods, equal to 1,800,000 lbs. avoirdupois, are
salted annually in this town.</p>

<p>Recruiting was going on actively here also. Having
occasion to call on the master of police on a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span>
matter of business, we drove up in a sledge to his office,
but found the doorway and the portion of the street immediately
adjoining it, so crowded with rough-looking moujiks
wildly vociferating, that we could neither get in, nor even
make our presence known, for some time. These were recruits
who were being registered, passing one by one into the
bureau, and coming out again by the same crowded doorway.
It seemed to be quite an understood thing that each
recruit should drop kopeks into the hands of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gendarmes</i>
who acted as door-keepers. By dint of hard pushing we succeeded
in insinuating ourselves into the passage, but only to
find a yet more impenetrable crowd inside. Sickened by the
exhalations of so many unclean animals in sheep-skins, half
suffocated in the frowsy atmosphere within, and crushed in
the living mass till we had to fight for breath like a person
in a nightmare, we were glad to escape into the fresh air,
and abandon the purpose of our visit. The moujiks were
followed to the rendezvous by their wives, who made confusion
worse confounded by their frantic yelling and pushing,
each one eager to get her own <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">protégé</i> into a good place.
There were many hundreds of them, and one day would not
suffice to register them all at the rate they were then progressing.</p>

<p>The temperature was ominously high on the 18th of
November,&mdash;only one degree of frost. Some days previously
it had been down to -15° Réaumur (-2° Fahrenheit). We
were fairly committed to sledge travelling, and there was so
little snow on the ground that a few hours' thaw would have
melted away our charming sledge road. The frost set in
about the usual time at Ekaterineburg, October 1/13, but the
snow there as elsewhere was late.</p>

<p>The hills and forests in the neighbourhood are well stocked
with game. Black-cock, white partridges, <em>ryabchik</em>, reindeer,
elk, and hares, are more or less abundant. Wolves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
are also common, but there are no wild boar. Game is
plentiful in most parts of Siberia, but the Russians are no
great sportsmen, except those who make a living by hunting.
The nomad tribes are, however, expert in the use of
the rifle.</p>

<p>Ekaterineburg is the most westerly town in Siberia, lying
at the foot of the Ural mountains which separate Europe
from Asia. I had formed great conceptions of this mountain
chain, but the illusion was dispelled when, on inquiring
for the Urals, I was pointed to densely wooded undulating
hills, in appearance not more imposing than the
Lammermoor range in Scotland. I know not why they are
so darkly shaded on most of our maps, and made to look like
a formidable barrier between the two continents. They certainly
cover a broad expanse of country, but in elevation
they are really insignificant, and rendered still more so in
appearance by their very gradual rise from the level country.
The elevation in the latitude of Ekaterineburg is little more
than 2000 feet above the sea, and the plain on the Siberian
side being between 800 and 1000 feet in elevation, the gentle
slope of the mountains makes them look diminutive.</p>

<p>While settling about our horses at the post-station of
Ekaterineburg, we fell in with an elderly German lady, who
was going to start the same day for St. Petersburg. As she
spoke very little Russian, it occurred to her friends that it
would be a good thing for her to travel with us. There was
plenty of room for her in our sledge, and we willingly consented
to take her in. This was arranged accordingly. But
old ladies (and young ones too) like to have their own way,
and she discovered that she had too much luggage to go
comfortably with ours in one sledge, besides little baskets
of sweet cakes and knick-knacks, of which she had laid in
a store for the journey, and which were likely to come to
harm lying under our feet. She therefore determined to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
travel in her own sledge, where she could munch cakes
at pleasure, but keeping company with us for the sake of
the collateral protection our escort afforded.</p>

<p>At six in the evening of the 19th we left Ekaterineburg
with our convoy, and about ten at night we reached the highest
point of the road on the ridge of the Ural. In a heavy fall
of snow we turned out to see the obelisk which has been
erected there, as the boundary stone between Europe and
Asia. It is a plain stone with no other inscription than the
word "Europe" on one side and "Asia" on the other. It is
said to have been erected in honour of Yermak, the Cossack
robber-chief, who atoned for his other offences by discovering,
and partly conquering, Siberia for the Russians in the end of
the sixteenth century.</p>

<p>It is quite unaccountable that the vast country of Siberia
should have been left to be discovered by Yermak at such a
late period. It was well known to the Tartars, for the dynasty
of Genghis had extended their conquests there, and yet the
Russians, during their communications with the Mongols of
the Golden Horde which subsisted for two hundred years, had
never learned what was beyond the Ural mountains.</p>

<p>Yermak compelled by some accident to "leave his country,"
<em>i.e.</em>, being outlawed, found his way, with some two hundred
adventurers, across the Ural. After pillaging the Tartars for
some time, his handful of troops, <em>i.e.</em>, robbers, became so
wasted with constant fighting that he could no longer maintain
himself among his numerous enemies. It then occurred
to Yermak to return to Moscow, announce his discovery, and
make his peace with the Tsar. The robber was promoted to
the rank of a hero, and was appointed to command an expedition
for the conquest of Siberia. Yermak first crossed the
Ural in 1580, and in 1660 nearly all the Siberian tribes
were subjugated by Russia.</p>

<p>After a night's travelling we were still among the outlying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
spurs of the Ural range, well wooded with pine and
birch, the former in greater variety than on the eastern side
of the chain. On the road to Perm we passed through many
cleared spaces, with villages and farms at short intervals.</p>

<p>On the 21st we reached Perm, a very flourishing manufacturing
and commercial town on the left bank of the river
Kama. Perm is the first (or last) town in Europe, and a
little earlier in the season it would have been our last stage
of road travelling. But we were too late and too early all
the way through. The river Kama was not frozen, but so
much floating ice was coming down, that the steamers which
run between Perm and Nijni-novgorod had been taken off
and sent down the Volga to Astrachan for the winter. Only
a few small craft were left for repairs to their machinery.
We met some more English workers in iron in Perm, and
they seemed to have a good winter's work before them. A
few weeks earlier, we should have embarked on one of the
passenger steamers at Perm, steamed down the Kama as
far as Kazan, where it joins the Volga, then up the latter
from Kazan to Nijni-novgorod. This voyage would have
been accomplished in five days, the whole of which time
would have been available for sleep, but no luck fell in our
way. Not only must we continue our journey by land, but
it was very doubtful whether we could even cross the Kama
at all, owing to the velocity of the current and the weight of
ice that was borne downwards. The ferry is not at Perm,
but at a point fifty versts lower down.</p>

<p>The navigation of the Russian and Siberian rivers is
making astonishing progress. There are now no less than
370 tugs on the Kama and Volga, and new steamers are
being added every year. One company runs steamers from
Nijni to Perm, and two from Nijni down the Volga to Astrachan.
The Volga Steam Navigation Company is managed
by an Englishman at Nijni-novgorod, and in his hands has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>
proved a very remunerative undertaking. Under Russian
direction it had been quite the reverse. Nearly all the
steamers are of foreign construction. Many come from the
German ports, and many from England. They are usually
sent to Russia in pieces, but several have steamed across the
North Sea, and have made their own way into the very heart
of the country by means of the canals in communication
with the rivers.</p>

<p>The facilities enjoyed by Russia and Siberia for inland
navigation are so vast, as to afford almost unlimited scope for
capital and enterprise in introducing steam. It is, of course,
a serious disadvantage that vessels have to be built in foreign
countries, but there is no good reason why this should continue.
If the authorities had encouraged the working of
their own iron and coal mines with half the zeal they have
misapplied to the gold-diggings, the country would have been
further advanced in real wealth than it is. The Russian
statesmen must sooner or later learn that mere gold no more
constitutes wealth than tallow or any other article that has a
mercantile value. The capital and labour consumed in procuring
a given quantity of the precious metals would have
probably produced a higher marketable equivalent, if coal
and iron had been the object. At any rate, iron would have
proved a surer basis for the propagation of wealth than gold.
When steamers, for example, are built in Siberia, the manufacturing
profits will, in the first instance, be disseminated in
the country, and the gold that would, as now, be sent abroad
for their purchase, may lie in the bowels of the earth, and
no one be a loser by it. A good deal has already been
done on the Siberian rivers, and the heavy traffic between
Irkutsk and the west is conveyed for the most part in barges,
which on the Om and Irtish are towed by steamers. The
mere navigation of rivers in the Russian dominions is not
new, but in former times the barges were incapable of ascending<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
the rapid streams. They were constructed merely
for the one trip down stream, and on reaching their destination
and discharging their cargoes, they were broken up for
fire-wood. The water communication between Eastern Siberia
and Western Russia is necessarily very circuitous from
the circumstance that the great rivers in Siberia run from
south to north, and fall into the Frozen Ocean. For example,
the distance by water from Omsk to Tumen is 3000 versts,
and by land only 632. The Amoor and its tributaries form
an exception, flowing eastward and falling into the Sea of
Ochotsk. To begin at the extreme east; the grand water-route
now used for goods is from the Pacific up the Amoor
as far as the Shilka. Thence to the Baikal land carriage is
at present used, but the Shilka itself is capable of navigation
much higher up. The London and China Telegraph,
August 15, 1864, reports that a steamer has lately ascended
this river and its tributary the Ingoda as far as Chita, the
government town of Trans-Baikal. From the Baikal the
communication is by water down the Angara to Irkutsk, and
1400 miles beyond that town, to the junction of the Angara
with the Yenisei, in the north of the province of Irkutsk.
The water-route on the Angara below the town of Irkutsk
is only used for traffic to the north. Goods in transit for
Europe go by land from Irkutsk to Tomsk.</p>

<p>From the west, the Siberian water-route begins at Tumen,
proceeding down the Irtish from Tobolsk, then up the Ob
and the Tom as far as Tomsk. Then, if for the northern
part of Eastern Siberia, land carriage from Tomsk to Krasnoyarsk;
from the latter town down the Yenisei to the towns
of Yeniseisk and Turukhansk, beyond which the country is
inhabited only by wandering Tunguses and Ostiaks. There
are other important water-routes in Siberia, such as that
from Tumen by the Ob and Irtish to Semipalatinsk on the
Kirghis steppe; and from Irkutsk down the Lena to Yakutsk,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>
but the lines of greatest traffic are those running east and
west. The ice interposes a serious difficulty in the navigation
of these rivers, especially in the more northern parts,
where the summer is very short, and frost sets in early.
Goods are frequently caught in the ice, and in some parts
of the rivers, they may be frozen up for six, or even eight
months together. This risk would, of course, be greatly diminished
were steam in more general use. The duration of
a voyage could then be calculated with tolerable certainty,
and a convenient port reached after the premonitory indications
of freezing-up had shown themselves. Steam would
also afford the means of expediting goods so much quicker,
that the heavy part of the year's traffic might be conveyed
by the rivers during the open season.</p>

<p>A project for improving the water communication in
Siberia was set on foot by an enterprising Russian in 1859.
The scheme was revived in 1862, and the projector was supported
by a Hamburg banker, and assisted by a Russian
colonel of engineers. Their intention was to form a complete
water route from Tumen to Kiachta, first by the rivers Ob,
Tom, Tchulim and Ket. From the last-named, a canal
thirty to thirty-five miles in length would have to be cut into
the river Yenisei. From the Yenisei, the Angara would be
used to its source in the Baikal lake. From the lake the
route would be up the Selenga to a point about eighteen
miles from Kiachta. Thus, by one cutting, of, at the most,
thirty-five miles, clear and uninterrupted water conveyance
would be established from near the Ural mountains to the
frontier of China. But the difficulties in the way of this
enterprise are very serious. The river Angara is, in its present
state, not navigable except down stream. In a distance of
800 miles below Irkutsk, there are no less than seventy-eight
rapids and dangerous passes, some of which it would be impossible
even for a steamer to ascend. Native craft shoot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>
the rapids when the water is high, and effect a passage down
the river, but of course never return. To render that part of
the river fit for navigation, rocks would have to be blasted
and cleared away. Above Irkutsk also, there are one or two
places on the Angara that would have to be cleared before
the steamers could ply with safety on the river. But supposing
all that accomplished, to carry out the water communication
with efficiency, steamers of various classes suited to the
depth of water, and the nature of the different rivers, would
be necessary, thereby adding greatly to the expense. On the
whole, the cost of clearing out the channel of the Angara, and
other minor items of expense, would be so enormous that it
is highly improbable the scheme will ever be carried out;
certainly not for some generations to come. All that can
now be done is to improve the water communication at present
in use in so far as steam traffic is practicable. Before
the Angara is cleared of rocks, railways will probably traverse
Siberia. Not that I consider the construction of railways in
that region nearer than a remote possibility. For, although
Siberia would be no exception to the general rule that railways
make traffic for themselves, yet the cost must bear some
proportion to the return. The length of railway necessary to
connect the traffic of the various distant parts would be enormous,
and as these matters are managed in Russia, would
probably cost three times the amount that would be required
in any other country. There is no capital in Russia available
for such a purpose, and foreign capital will find many more
attractive investments than Siberian railways.</p>

<p>From Perm we were driven by "Tatárs," who are capital
coachmen. We first met these Western Tatárs at Ekaterineburg,
where they live in peace and good will with the
Russians. They have no apparent affinity with the Mongol
races, but yet they betray, in their manner of life, their
descent from nomad tribes. Many of them are engaged in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span>
trade, but they prefer hawking to settling in a shop; and
even when they have opened shops they like to sally forth
with a "pack" on their shoulders and roam about the great
towns with their merchandise.</p>

<p>The general and sweeping misapplication of the name of
Tartar, or Tatar, to the various wandering tribes of Asia, has
led some persons to doubt whether there ever was any one
tribe properly entitled to the appellation. The name has
been too widespread&mdash;say from China to Russia&mdash;not to
have had a foundation in fact, and there is not much doubt
that an insignificant tribe of the Mongol family was known
to its neighbours, and called its people by the name of Tatars.
But the dominant tribes, even of the Mongols, have
always repudiated the appellative; and although the Russian-speaking
"Tatars" of the west acknowledge the name as applied
to them, it is much in the same sense as an English-speaking
Chinese calls himself a Chinaman (<em>Chee</em>naman) to
accommodate himself to western phraseology, although the
term has no equivalent in his own language.</p>

<p>It is indeed curious to trace old names of countries and
races to merely accidental circumstances. The name of
China in use among the Mongols and Russians, is still <em>Kitai</em>,
which is the <em>Kathay</em> of Marco Polo, and the name of the
northern part of China during the reign of the Mongol
dynasty. The name originated with a northern tribe, also
called the <em>Liau</em>, who pushed the frontiers of their empire into
North China, and held sway there from the tenth to the
thirteenth centuries, and who, defeated by the Niu-ché,
retired into the desert, and at a later period founded the
formidable empire of Khara Khitan, or the Black Khitan,
near the source of the river Obi.</p>

<p>But the name of Tartar has been liberally bestowed on all
those Asiatic tribes who led a roving life, and of whose history
little or nothing was known. The Chinese, for reasons<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span>
somewhat similar, term all "outer" nations "barbarians,"
just as the Jews grouped all who were beyond their own
pale under the comprehensive title of "gentiles;" and the
ancients gave the name of Scythians to all the barbarians of
Asia, of whom they could not give any more definite account.</p>

<p>Arriving at the last station before crossing the Kama, late
at night, we were compelled to wait till morning, as no
inducement would prevail on the men to attempt the ferry at
that hour, although there was a bright moon. The truth was
the men were all so hard worked during the day as to be
unfit for anything at night. In the morning, however, we got
across with our sledges, and proceeded to Ochansk, a small
town three versts from the right bank of the river, where we
breakfasted.</p>

<p>During the 22nd the frost disappeared for a few hours,
and to our confusion the snow vanished so rapidly during the
short time as to leave us in many places bare ground to drive
our sledges over. The sight was really appalling, for all our
hopes of ease and comfort for the journey rested on the snow.
It was absolutely essential to us, seeing we were committed
to sledges, and when we saw the black patches appearing
here and there, we could sympathise in the despair which a
fish must feel when abandoned by its native element and left
panting on dry land. A westerly wind got up, and increased
to a gale in the afternoon, coming round to north in the
evening. This brought cold weather back again, and that
night was one of the most severe we encountered in the
whole journey. With the extreme cold the wind fell, and a
dead calm ensued, which lasted a night and a day. The
hard frost converted the soft, melting snow into a magnificent
sledge-road, so far as it went; but all the way to Kazan we
were plagued with bare places where the wind or sun had
been most powerful.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XX.</h2>

<h3>RUSSIAN AND SIBERIAN PEASANTRY.</h3>


<p>We had not travelled far into Russia proper, before the
difference in the condition of the peasantry there, and in
Siberia, forced itself on our attention. The houses in Russia
are decidedly inferior to those in Siberia. They lack the
air of rude comfort peculiar to the latter. Windows are
broken and stuffed with straw, and roofs are out of repair.
Women and children are ill-clad and squalid. The men are
haggard, abject, and degraded. Everything is suggestive of
poverty, negligence, and misery. In remarkable contrast to
these phenomena are the outward circumstances of the peasants
in Siberia. As I have intimated in the course of
this narrative, these latter are well clad, well housed, and
at least adequately fed. They have something of independence
in their bearing, and the condition of their families, as
well as the tasteful decorations often met with in their
houses, evince a certain amount of self-respect. The difference
is easily accounted for&mdash;the explanation lies in the
words <em>serf</em> and <i>no serf</i>, and it illustrates the inevitable effects
of slavery on a people. And if slavery, in its modified form
of serfdom, can so deeply mark the character of the subjects
of it, what may be expected from the pure, uncompromising
"institution?"</p>

<p>The Siberian free peasant is the descendant of a convict.
This applies to almost the whole Russian population of
Eastern Siberia, as also to the great proportion of that of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>
Western Siberia. In the latter region there are still the
descendants of many of those Cossacks who followed the
renowned Yermak in his victorious march across the Ural,
and who continue in the enjoyment of certain privileges
granted to them by the Empress Catharine. But Eastern
Siberia, by far the richest of the two, may be said to be
entirely peopled by the descendants of convicts. These
belong to two categories&mdash;those who are condemned for
capital crimes, and those who are expatriated for minor
offences. The criminal who belongs to the first category,
when he has undergone the corporal punishment allotted
to him, and served his term (generally mitigated) of hard
labour in the government mines, has a portion of land
granted him, on being released from his confinement. He
may cultivate as much ground as he chooses to clear, using the
timber for building purposes or fuel. He is exempt from the
payment of taxes, and from the conscription. The children
of these convicts, born in Siberia, enjoy the same privileges,
but they are still what are called <em>minors</em>, and do not possess
the rights of a free peasant. For example, they are disqualified
from holding any honorary appointment in the village
or community where they may reside. Such disabilities may
be, and frequently are overcome by means of money; for
an industrious peasant has an opportunity of saving, and
it is not an unusual thing for them to become rich.
Many of the most wealthy men in Siberia at the present
moment&mdash;large gold-digging proprietors, merchants, &amp;c., are
the descendants in the second or third generation of convicts
who have undergone the penalty of the law. These men
generally manage to "write themselves up," by a judicious
application of their money, and then by paying the dues of
one of the three guilds of merchants, they obtain a status in
society, and enjoy the right of trading; they often make fortunes,
either in trade, gold-digging, or other enterprises.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p>

<p>The other class of criminals is composed of those who
have been exiled for minor offences such as theft; and
of serfs, who, before their great emancipation in 1859, were
liable to be sent to Siberia for any offence against their
masters, or even for no offence at all, but from sheer
caprice. I met an old woman in Tomsk who had been
exiled on the latter count. She had inadvertently stuck a
needle into the wall, and her mistress, with the nervousness
that a bad conscience produces, took it into her head
that the serf intended to bewitch her. For this offence
the old wretch (though I dare say she was young then) was
sent to the police, to be despatched to Siberia with the next
batch of government exiles, and the official record stated
she was so sent "by the will of her master."</p>

<p>Well, these convicts not possessing the rights of free citizenship,
are, on arriving in Siberia, appointed to reside in, or
registered as belonging to, a certain district of the province
where the Governor-General may determine to colonise
them. After three years' residence, certain advancement
is held out to these people, if they can produce a certificate
of good behaviour. They are allowed to marry, to become
settlers, to clear and cultivate land at pleasure. They are
exempt from taxes for the space of twelve years; and after
that they only pay a trifle. These convicts are, however,
legally dead, can never hold property in their own name, and
of course can never return to Russia. But so far from this
latter restriction being a real hardship, if a return to their
native air were permitted them, it is highly improbable that
any would avail themselves of the privilege. Siberia is really
the land of promise to them. The descendants of these convicts
become free agriculturists, and live in independence.
They pay to government a tax of from three to four pounds,
sterling, per head,<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> per annum, which is very much higher<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
than the tax levied on the peasants of Russia proper. But
there the peasant had, in addition to the small tax to
government, an <em>obrok</em> to pay to his master, amounting
on an average to about four pounds sterling a year. The
Russian peasant, before the emancipation, got nothing in
return for this tax, but was bound body and soul to his
master, and unable to do anything to better his condition
that was not entirely agreeable to the arbitrary will of his
owner. The peasant in Siberia, on the other hand, is absolutely
free in all things to follow the bent of his own will.
He has no master to dread and serve, and owes obedience to
nothing but the law of the land. The Siberian peasantry
are treated with every liberality by the government, whose
ruling purpose with respect to that country is to colonise
it with industrious communities, who will turn its natural
wealth to account, and become an arm of support to the
state. For the single tax above-mentioned, the peasant receives
as much land as he can clear, as much timber as he
chooses to fell, and no rent is required from him. The land
he has worked is his own. No other person can disturb his
possession, and the government even cannot claim from him
any portion of the land so acquired without his formal renunciation.
The primeval forest may be said to cover the
whole of Siberia&mdash;the cleared spaces are as drops in the
bucket, and the bare steppes, where timber is scant, bear
but an insignificant proportion to the whole. In the immediate
vicinity of some of the large towns, where the people
have been burning wood for two hundred years, a palpable
impression has been made on the forest, and there it has
been found necessary to restrict the cutting of wood to
certain limits, both as to the quantity consumed, and the
boundaries within which trees may be felled. These restrictions
are enforced with a view to securing the growth
of young wood within a convenient distance of the towns.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p>
<p>There is but one Siberian nobleman and proprietor of
serfs in existence,&mdash;Mr. Rodinkoff, Counsellor of State and
Vice-Governor of the Province of Yeniseisk, a kind-hearted,
good old man. His grandfather received from the Empress
Catharine a grant of lands and peasants in Siberia on the
terms of Russian serfdom. But neither he nor his successors
ever attempted to exercise proprietary rights over their
peasants, who lived very much as the free peasants do.
One of the family, the brother of the present proprietor,
broke through the custom of his fathers, and paid the
penalty of his life for his imprudence. He attempted to
put in force his full signorial rights, and to levy contributions
on his peasants, as in Russia proper. The consequence
was that he was murdered in one of his excursions to visit
his estate, within thirty miles of the town of Krasnoyarsk.
The present proprietor seldom interferes with, or visits his
peasants, but contents himself with the modest imposts of
wood for winter fuel for his town residence, and hay for
his horses, with which they cheerfully supply him.</p>

<p>In the matter of recruiting, the Siberian peasants have
always been leniently dealt with. In many parts of the
country they are exempted altogether for certain considerations.
Those who settle on the rivers Lena and Yenisei,
are exempt from all taxes and recruiting, on condition
that they supply travellers with post-horses, and convey
the government post, for both which services they are,
moreover, paid at a higher rate even than in other
parts of the country. This privilege extends from near
Irkutsk to the frozen ocean on the Lena, and from the
town of Yeniseisk to the frozen ocean on the Yenisei. The
extreme severity of the climate, and the inhospitable nature
of the soil in these regions render it necessary to encourage
settlers, and so to secure uninterrupted communication
through the country. There is no spring, and no autumn in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span>
these parts. Three months, and in some districts less, of
summer, is all the time allowed them for cultivation of
the soil. The rest of the year is winter, during which snow
lies to the depth of from seven to upwards of twenty feet.
The temperature then falls to 30°, 40°, and in some parts
50° Reaumur of frost (equal to -35°, -58°, and -80°, Fahrenheit).
No corn grows, and but few vegetables, but the
country abounds with wild animals such as bear, elk, deer,
sables, foxes, squirrels. The inhabitants become expert
hunters, and make a good living out of the furs they obtain.</p>

<p>The settlers in the river Angara are also exempted from
taxes of all kinds, and from recruiting, on condition of their
supplying government and private travellers with skilful pilots
and guides, for which they are of course likewise well requited
by those who employ them. This is necessary on the Angara,
that river being one of the most dangerous in the world.
Being the only river that runs out of the Baikal Lake, a
heavy volume of water is forced down into it, and during its
course from the lake to its confluence with the Yenisei, it is
full of falls and rapids, which can only be passed with safety
under the guidance of pilots of local skill and knowledge.</p>

<p>The amenities of free life enjoyed by the peasants of
Siberia have produced the unmistakeable effect of, in some
measure, eradicating the impress of slavish degradation which
centuries of servility had stamped on the whole race of moujiks.
The hereditary marks of the yoke are still too plainly to be
seen, and many generations will probably pass from the scene
before even the Siberian Russians can claim to be really
civilised. But it is a great thing to have made such a good
start on the road to improvement. The progress made is not
likely to be lost; each stage of advancement rather becomes a
guarantee for still greater, and more rapid progress in the
future. The feeling of independence has taken deep root in
the minds of these freemen, and it would be no longer possible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>
to enslave them, without causing a revolution. Their
ideas have been enlarged. Industry and economy are seen to
have their full reward. The security of life and property, and
the liberation from the arbitrary dictates of a superior will,
give the people encouragement to cultivate their talents in
the full faith that their labours shall not be in vain. Unlimited
wealth is open to all who have the energy to seek it.
Great numbers of the Siberian peasants have amassed fortunes
already. Other tastes naturally flow from worldly prosperity,
and already among the merchants who have enriched
themselves from the ranks of the peasants, education is beginning
to attract attention. In due time mental culture will,
no doubt, spread downwards, and the distinction of classes,
which has so greatly retarded the progress of civilisation in
Russia, may gradually be smoothed away. The amalgamation
of classes will consolidate and strengthen the whole
body politic, and should that happy consummation ever be
realised in Russia, Siberia will have the honour of leading the
way. The barriers that obstruct free intercourse between the
different strata of society are already partially broken down,
greatly to the advantage of all. For slavery or serfdom exercises
a demoralising influence on masters and slaves alike.
The institution in Russia crushed the energy of life out of
the serfs, and almost destroyed their thinking faculties&mdash;so
much so that centuries of freedom may be inadequate to
enable the emancipated to rise to their proper level of
intelligence.</p>

<p>While the serfs were thus degraded and kept down to a
position but little superior to that of domestic animals, their
masters, having no community of feeling with them, were
actuated by the single motive of extorting the maximum
revenues out of their human property. The cares of management
devolved on the serfs, and the masters, being for the
most part almost as much as the serfs shut out from their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span>
legitimate share in public affairs, abandoned themselves to
extravagant pleasures and dissipation, or to mischievous
intrigues. Without any healthy occupation for body or mind,
a highly artificial mode of life developed itself in the ranks of
the wealthy serf-proprietors, the sole refuge from which was
in the military or civil appointments of the government.
Practical education was wanting in the great body of them,
so that when their source of revenue was taken away by the
liberation of their serfs, they broke down from the want of
any resources within themselves by which they might have
maintained their standing in society, and even have improved
their pecuniary condition in other careers. There were
very many exceptions to this, but such was the necessary
tendency of the institution of serfdom, and such was the
actual fate of those proprietors who allowed their energy
to be sapped by the unnatural life to which they were
born.</p>

<p>It was probably the growing prosperity of Siberia, and
the marked superiority of the condition of the population
there, that induced the government to emancipate
the serfs of Russia proper. The importance of this great
measure can hardly be over-estimated, and I doubt whether
the Emperor Alexander II. has received the full credit due to
him for the enlightened liberality which dictated, and the
noble courage which carried into execution, this truly magnificent
conception. It is well known that the most determined
hostility of the great majority of the nobles was arrayed
against the measure, which, from their point of view, threatened
to sweep away at one blow their whole worldly wealth.
The Emperor stood almost alone, being supported by a small,
and not overwise minority. His life was several times in
jeopardy. But he maintained his purpose with singular pertinacity
through three years of discussion and deliberation,
during which the ill-timed zeal of his supporters raised serious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span>
difficulties in his way by trying to drive matters too fast. At
the end of three years the ukase was signed, and in two years
more twenty-three millions of male serfs, with the corresponding
number of females, were set free. Whether we consider the
vast numbers of men and women whose destiny was involved,
the radical character of the change effected, the formidable opposition
which had to be borne down, or the germs of expansion
which it implanted into the Russian people, moulding the
whole future history of the nation, this act of the Emperor of
Russia stands unrivalled as a measure of reform in the history
of the world. Many other reforms have been introduced
during the present reign, but the emancipation of the serfs is
an achievement in itself worthy of a lifetime.</p>

<p>Peter the Great did much to promote the progress of the
material prosperity of his country, and considering the barbarous
character of his education, and of the age in which he
lived, more than established his claim to the title of <em>Great</em>.
Catharine made her reign "glorious;" Nicholas made his
name terrible; but to Alexander II. belongs the immortal
honour of liberating his people from slavery. The full results
of this great work will only be manifested in future ages. The
serfs have now, as it were, been born to political life&mdash;their
education is but beginning. With freedom, industry will
grow; the comforts of life will be enjoyed; intelligence will
spread, and higher aspirations will be infused into the servile
millions. In course of time the Russian population will
be capable of exercising the rights of freemen, and the day
may come when even the despotism of the government may
yield something to the claims of the people for representation.
Already a change for the better is observable among the
liberated serfs. Each had a piece of land allotted to him,
varying from eight to twenty acres, with the right to farm or
purchase more. Residents in Russia have noted an increase
in the productiveness of many parts of the country, in consequence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span>
of the improved system of agriculture that has been
initiated since every man began to grow his own crops,
instead of slaving his life away for behoof of a master whom
he seldom saw, and who took little interest in the management
of his property. Even the character of the people is
already sensibly ameliorated. They show more self-reliance
and self-respect than formerly, and their increased industry
is implied in the greater production of the country.</p>

<p>The effect of the emancipation on the nobles has been
various. The spendthrift portion of them have been ruined
by it, as also those who had not the ability, foresight, or
resolution to take timely measures to meet the consequences
of the social revolution. Others lost heavily, to the extent
of half or two-thirds of their incomes; but, facing the emergency
in a practical spirit, they betook themselves to useful
employments, with a view to improving their circumstances;
and many of these have regained by such means all that they
had lost. The more prudent and economical proprietors, who
devoted themselves to the improvement of their estates, and
were fully prepared for the change, have been positively
gainers by the movement; for, besides making more out of
their property by efficient management and free labour than
they could extort from their serfs, they have the indemnity
paid by government to the credit side of their accounts.</p>

<p>The highly exasperated feelings displayed by the majority
in the first instance cooled down considerably during the
five years which elapsed between the first notice of the
intended reform and the actual consummation of it. The
Russians are tolerably well accustomed to arbitrary measures,
and their feelings are not naturally very deep. But the
nobles were still far from being satisfied, and the mutterings
of general discontent that were heard long after the inauguration
of the new regime, continued to be a cause of anxiety
to the Emperor. The dissatisfaction of the nobles was fed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>
from various causes apart from the serf question. A pretty
general reform of abuses was instituted about the same period.
Many time-honoured privileges and monopolies were invaded,
to the prejudice of those who were battening on the spoils of
office. Matters continued in a critical state until the perpetration
of the infamous deeds of incendiarism which preceded
the Polish insurrection. These occurrences brought all the
best part of the population to the side of the government,
and restored the wavering loyalty of the nobles and military
officers; and the malcontents, whose nefarious gains in public
offices of trust and otherwise were put an end to, were fain
to sink their grievances in oblivion.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XXI.</h2>

<h3>KAZAN&mdash;POLISH EXILES.</h3>


<p>We passed through a great deal of bare, flat and uninteresting
country on the road to Kazan. The ground being
covered with snow, we could not judge of the soil, but
farming villages were tolerably numerous, and a fair amount
of population seemed to find a subsistence there. Oaks,
of which we saw none on the Siberian side of the Ural
range, now began to appear. The birch trees grow straight
and tall, and pines were less conspicuous in the woods.</p>

<p>The number of Polish prisoners we found on the road
threatened seriously to impede our march. We had met
them occasionally in Siberia, but between Perm and Kazan
we encountered companies of them on the way, and at
almost every station. The resources of the posting establishment
were severely taxed to provide horses for so
many travellers at once, and we had frequently to wait till
the Poles were gone, and then take the tired horses they had
brought from the last station. The Poles travelled in the
same manner as we did, in large sledges containing three
or four people, sometimes more. Those who could not be
accommodated with sledges had carts, or <em>telégas</em>, which were
more or less crowded. None of them travelled a-foot. All
were well clothed in furs. On the whole I was surprised to
find such a number of people travelling with so much comfort.
When we met a party of them in a post-station we were
very short of room, unless when we happened to be there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span>
first. Then the cooking establishment was entirely monopolised
by the exiles when it pleased the officer in charge to
dine them. On such occasions we postponed our repast to
the next station. The prisoners are invariably treated with
kindness and consideration by the officer in charge and by the
<em>gensdarmes</em>. They are under close surveillance, but I did
not see any of the prisoners in irons, though I was informed
that some of them were so. I remember one fat, jolly fellow
in charge of one of the detachments of prisoners. He was a
captain in the army, and had hard work to console himself in
his forlorn situation. He did not at all like the service he
was engaged in; indeed he seemed to feel his banishment to
Siberia more than the exiles themselves. He envied our
destination homewards, and took occasion to bemoan himself
a little. "Ah! you are happy," said he; "in a few days
you will be in Moscow, but I, poor devil, must go to Tobolsk
with <em>gensdarmes</em>"&mdash;accompanied by an expressive shrug
of the shoulders, and downcasting of the eyes. He made
companions of some of the prisoners; one in particular he
seemed to be on cordial terms with. The officer told us this
prisoner had held a commission under Garibaldi, and had
been lately captured leading a band in Poland. He was a
handsome young fellow, with a wild look in his eye. As for
the rest of the prisoners, there was nothing remarkable about
them. They ate well and talked loudly; the din of their
voices at a post-station was intolerable. They joked and
laughed a great deal, by way of keeping their spirits up I
suppose; but no indication whatever was given that they
were exiles undergoing the process of banishment. If one
might judge from appearances, I should say they rather
liked it.</p>

<p>On the 24th of November, late at night, we reached Kazan,
a fine old town, the name of which is closely bound up with
the ancient history of Russia. I found a letter waiting me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span>
at the post-office there, in answer to my telegram from
Kolyvan, which was a comfort. How I got into the post-office
at eleven o'clock at night, and how the men happened
to be there in their places at that hour, I was not very clear
about. But it was explained that two posts were then expected,
one from the east and one from the west, and that
when I hammered at the door they thought it was at least
one of them. Arriving in Kazan very late, we took up our
quarters for the night at the station hotel, where we were
half suffocated as usual by the close fusty atmosphere of a
room kept up to + 16° Reaumur (68° Fahrenheit), no air
being ever allowed to enter.</p>

<p>In the morning we began to hear ominous warnings about
the Volga. The ice was coming down in big lumps, and our
sledge could not be got across&mdash;so we were informed. It was
seven versts from the station to the ferry. We might drive
there and see for ourselves, but then it would have been
excessively disagreeable to have to return defeated. We consulted
a Russian gentleman to whom we had a letter of introduction,
but no comfort was to be got from him. The
state of the river was as bad as it could be, and he strongly
advised us not to leave Kazan until the Volga was hard
frozen. The voice of the tempter had been saying "wait,
wait," at every point of our journey from Kiachta to Kazan,
but as we had not listened before, we were not likely to do it
now, when so near the end of our journey. I could not help
remarking how singularly we had been baulked by contumacious
rivers during the two months that had passed since
we encountered the Tolla in Mongolia. They were always
just in the impassable crisis when we happened to reach
them, and last of all the Volga gave us trouble, a river that
we never reckoned on crossing at all. A little earlier we
should have passed up the river in a steamboat. A little
later we should have driven up the Volga on the ice, for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span>
is an almost direct road to Nijni-Novgorod. But of course we
hit the wrong time, just betwixt and between. The river
must however be crossed if we would proceed.</p>

<p>An offer of twenty roubles being made for the sledge, we
sold it to the post-master. It was he who persuaded us
that we could not take it further, and of course we
thought ourselves "done" in consequence. We got our traps
stowed in two post-chaises and drove towards the ferry on
the Volga. In leaving the main town of Kazan we crossed
over a causeway, or embanked road, through a marsh which
connects the town with a kind of suburb. The view of
Kazan from the other side of the swamp is very fine.
It is built on high ground, and its spires and domes
show to great advantage from a distance. In the summer
season, when tree leaves and green grass are out, the environs
of Kazan must be very pleasing to the eye; for even in
November, when the country was one great snowy waste,
bleak and cheerless, the town looked really handsome. The
best houses, as well as public buildings, are built of brick,
indeed a wooden house is rather the exception there.
Having crossed a flat tract of country, we reached the Volga
at a point about five miles from Kazan, and as many above
its confluence with the Kama. It is truly a noble river, and
the high banks enable one to get a sort of bird's-eye view of
the broad sheet of water. I should rather say a compound
of water, ice, and snow, for the surface of the river was
covered with large blocks of ice, loaded with snow, moving
rapidly down the stream, with a few open spots of clear
water here and there. There was great commotion at the
ferry among moujiks, Cossacks, and Tartars. Several boats
were busy conveying passengers across, but they made
slow work of it. The men refused to start from either side
until they saw, or thought they saw, sufficient space clear to
hold out some hope of their being able to effect the passage.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span>
They would wait an hour or more for a favourable opportunity
to start, and even then they were just as likely to be carried
down by the driving ice as to fetch the opposite landing.
One boat was jammed in mid-channel and borne down in a
perfectly unmanageable condition for two or three miles,
until the moving icebergs voluntarily released her, when she
was got to land at a place where it was impossible to get
horses or sledges near, owing to the precipitous nature of
the bank. The model of these boats is beautifully adapted to
this kind of iceberg navigation. Their sides are cut away,
so that a straight line is drawn from the gunwale to the
keel. A section of the boat is represented by the letter V,
but the angle formed by the two sides is much greater than
that in the usual form of that letter, so that the boats are
very flat. They may be nipped between two fields and no
damage be done, as there is nothing for the ice to get hold
of. Did the boats present a perpendicular side to the edge
of it, they could not escape destruction. We unfortunately
had ample time to make observations on the navigation
of the Volga and other matters that came under our
notice, for we were compelled to kick our heels about the
whole day, without finding a boat disengaged. Long before
dark the men stopped work for the day, to make sure they
would not be caught in the dusk of the evening essaying a
passage which demanded all their wits in broad daylight.
The first hour or two passed pleasantly enough while we
entertained ourselves watching the process of a river freezing.
A margin of thick ice had already formed along the bank,
strong enough to arrest the progress of the "pack" in its
downward course, when borne against the projecting points.
The floating ice-fields crashed with great impetuosity on the
fixed ice, were shattered by the shock, and, urged by the
force of the current, the fragments were piled up one above
another in huge chaotic masses. When left still for a short<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span>
time the pile congealed, and in a few hours was ready to
serve as a barrier to stop more of the pack and annex it to
the mass. During that one day the solid ice was extended
six or eight feet, and with continued frost a very few days
would suffice to freeze over the whole river.</p>

<p>The military were in great force on the banks of the Volga,
and carried everything their own way, regardless of the
interests of the general public, as represented by the few
civilians who presented themselves as candidates for the
middle passage. We had seen some of the soldiery before
this time, but they were so-called "Cossacks" of the old
type. Those we encountered at Kazan, and on the Volga,
were smartly set off with French military caps, and had
really a soldier-like bearing. The traditional grey over-coat
was universal, but there was enough of innovation in their
get-up to mark the recent improvement that has taken place
in the Russian soldier. I shall probably allude in the sequel
to the army reforms introduced into Russia during the
present reign.</p>

<p>A good many Tartars were sprinkled among the crowd
that infested the landing-place at the Volga ferry. They
usually wear a round fur cap, somewhat different from that
worn by the Russian moujik. Their physiognomy is widely
removed from the Sclavonic type. They have the flat features
of the Mongol races, but are not to be confounded with any
of them.</p>

<p>The ferry-boats were engaged the whole day in conveying
Polish exiles across the river, bound for Siberia. It is a sad
sight to see so many people in captivity, and still more so to
see a number of women accompanying the exiles. It is quite
common for the wives, daughters, and mothers of the political
convicts to follow their relatives into Siberia. This is not discouraged
by the Russian government; on the contrary, every
facility is granted to enable the families to emigrate, and they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span>
have always the means of travelling in company. The object
of the government is to colonise Siberia, so that the more
people go there the better. Besides, the residence of families
in exile offers some guarantee against any attempt at a return
to their native country. Two old ladies I particularly
noticed coming out of a boat, accompanied by two soldiers.
They were both well dressed in black silk and warm fur
cloaks. One of them was extremely old, and unable to walk.
She stooped a great deal, and leaned on a crutch while standing
on the ice. The other was also very frail. We pitied these
old creatures, exposed as they were day after day in such
inclement weather, compelled to undergo the hardships and
privations inseparable from all Russian and Siberian travelling.
They were treated with great kindness by the soldiers,
who lifted them carefully out of the boat, carried them to
their sledges, which were in waiting, and put them in as tenderly
as if they had been their own mothers. After carefully
wrapping them up with their furs, a Cossack got in beside
each of the ladies, and they drove off to Kazan. A girl who
was with them was equally well attended to by the officer in
command of the party, who seemed to consider the Polish
maiden to be his especial charge.</p>

<p>Much has been said and written on this Polish question,
and an unusual number of distorted and exaggerated statements
have gained currency in Europe on the subject. It is
certain that neither the oppressors nor the oppressed are to
be implicitly trusted as regards their veracity, and it is not
easy, in consequence, to sift out the bare unvarnished truth.
But, leaving out of sight for a moment the actual merits of
the question, as between the Russian government and the
rebellious Poles, the fate of the exiles is by no means such a
hard one as is too commonly supposed. I have taken pains
to inquire into this, and the more I have heard about it from
persons well able to judge, the more have I been convinced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span>
that the Poles in Siberia are very much better off than the
average of those in Poland. The Russians to a man condemn
them, and justify their government in the measures that
have been adopted to put down the insurrection. But their
feelings of loyalty to the Emperor may possibly warp their
judgment. The foreign residents who have no such influence
to sway their opinions, may be considered impartial in
the matter; and they, on the whole, indorse the Russian views
as regards the Poles. Those English residents in Siberia with
whom I have conversed, assert that the Polish exiles enjoy a
degree of peace, comfort, and prosperity, that they were altogether
strangers to in their own country. Wealth, talent, industry,
and education have the most ample scope in Siberia,
and are set free from those distractions which sap healthy enterprise
in a country torn with civil wars. I have already given
some hints of the position occupied by Russian political exiles
in Siberia, and I need not dwell on the subject now, further
than to say that the Poles are treated with still greater
leniency and consideration.</p>

<p>That the exiles are, on the whole, dissatisfied, there can be
no doubt. But the more sensible of them admit that their
worldly circumstances are improved by going to Siberia. Many
of them are pleased at the change, and would not willingly return
home if it were open to them to do so. So long as they
remain in Poland, they say, they are at the mercy of every
band of malcontents, who have nothing of their own to lose.
In revolutionary times they are constrained, in spite of themselves,
to take part in the proceedings, and to sacrifice their
time, property, and everything else to schemes of which
they may strongly disapprove. They never feel secure from
the consequences of the folly of their hot-headed countrymen.
They have no heart to work, when they are liable, at any moment,
to be involved in ruin by the rashness of some insurrectionary
party. But Siberia offers an escape from all this strife<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span>
and endless conspiracy, and some of them hail with delight
the sentence that exiles them to a more congenial soil. No
one, indeed, who has observed, in an impartial manner, the
conditions of life in Siberia and Russia respectively, will
be disposed to doubt that the former is really the more attractive
residence, and although it is remarkable, it is not incredible,
that many Poles should deliberately prefer it to their
own country.</p>

<p>As a precautionary measure, the Russian government has
always studied to scatter the exiles over Siberia, to prevent
any large communities of them from congregating in one
place. The governor-general of Western Siberia has the
power of distributing them as he may see fit. All the exiles
are taken to Tobolsk as a rendezvous, and are there told off to
the various districts they are destined to reside in. In their
final distribution there is great room for favouritism, as well
as for the gratification of malevolence on the part of the
governor; some of the exiles may be sent to the large towns,
and others to wild, uninhabited regions, and inhospitable
climates. Oppression and cruelty have doubtless been in
former days practised on them, and may possibly still, to some
extent, exist. But, in the main, they are treated kindly,
both while travelling, and in their appointed residences.
Whatever sentence may have been awarded (speaking of
criminals), it is invariably mitigated in practice. The stigma
of exile is no bar to their well-doing in Siberia. Everything
combines to make their lives pleasant, except that one element
of bitterness, the ever-present consciousness that they
are under the ban of the law, and doomed never to return to
their own unhappy country. That one consideration is, no
doubt, powerful enough, in ardent and sensitive minds, to
neutralise all the elements of happiness that their banishment
affords; but time mellows it down to a vague, latent
feeling of oppression, and sympathy with those of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span>
countrymen who may still be engaged in the hopeless struggle
for independence. Those of the exiles who have sense
enough to accept their lot in a philosophical spirit, and
do not weary their lives out in chafing under their fate,
have comparatively little cause for dissatisfaction. The
object of the Russian government is not so much to punish
the insurgents, as to colonise Siberia with people of education
and intelligence. Attempts to escape are punished with the
utmost severity; but these attempts are rare.</p>

<p>Mrs. Atkinson relates a story of a Pole who was caught
in a desperate effort to return to Europe, and sent to the
mines. The same is still the stock-story served up for
the entertainment of travellers, the ten years or more
that have elapsed not having apparently supplied another
instance.</p>

<p>There cannot be much difference of opinion on the question
of the spoliation of Poland by the three great powers.
Although the vices inherent in the Polish constitution rendered
the subjugation of the country by its powerful neighbours
almost inevitable, nothing can justify the unscrupulous
proceedings of Russia and her two satellites in seizing it.
But in the immediate causes that prompted the recent
insurrection, and the measures adopted by the Russian
government to quell it, the Poles have perhaps received more
sympathy, and the Russians more odium, than they deserved.
It is certain that the Emperor was liberally disposed
towards the Poles; but they aspired, not to greater liberty,
but to absolute independence of Russia. As was well shown
by the correspondent of the "Times," no reform, however
radical, would conciliate them while they were connected with
Russia, and the easy rule of Alexander II. was the very thing
that enabled the Poles to rebel, which, under the iron hand of
Nicholas, was impossible.</p>

<p>It is, doubtless, a legitimate grievance that a highly cultured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span>
people, as the Poles are, should be governed by semi-barbarous
Russians; but, on the other hand, the superior
intelligence of the Poles found its full value in Russia. They
were rapidly gaining posts of trust and emolument in the
imperial service, and I have heard it said, by a person eminently
qualified to judge, that if they had but postponed
their insurrection for ten years, they would then have had no
cause to rebel, because by that time they would have virtually
governed Russia as much as Russia governs Poland. If
the Poles had possessed the practical philosophy of the
Chinese, they might have overcome their conquerors by a process
somewhat analogous to that by which the latter people
have successively out-civilised the various Tartar powers, and
overrun their territories. But they cast to the winds their
opportunities, and committed their destiny to the hazard of a
desperate venture, in which success was, humanly speaking,
impossible. The only result, indeed, that could reasonably
have been expected from this fatal enterprise was that the
old relations between the two countries should be replaced
on the footing of a rigorous despotism on the one hand, and
absolute subjection on the other.</p>

<p>Without attempting to extenuate the severities, often arbitrary,
and cruelly unjust, that have been practised on the
Poles by the Russian officials in the later stages of the insurrection,
due allowance should be made for the exaggerations
inseparable from one-sided accounts, especially in times of
great excitement. And it is reasonable that their fair share
of responsibility for the blood that has been needlessly shed,
should be borne by the leaders of the movement, who with
suicidal rashness plunged their country into a war, which a
little calm reflection might have shown them was hopeless
from the beginning.</p>

<p>It is well also to note that, since the rebellion has been
finally put down, the Russian government has evinced no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span>
vindictive feeling towards the subjugated Poles; but, on the
contrary, has set itself to improve their condition by the
establishment of many liberal measures, social and educational,
the progress of which was interrupted by the outbreak of the
insurrection.</p>

<p>But supposing even that the insurrection had been successful,
what substantial advantage would have accrued to
Poland? A return to the conditions existing before the
partition, the hostile factions and the confederations more
tyrannical even than Russia, would not have been a great
improvement. And Poland would then have been a small,
weak, and poor kingdom, surrounded by three powerful enemies,
who would never want a <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">casus belli</i>. How long would
the kingdom have been likely to maintain its existence under
such conditions?</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XXII.</h2>

<h3>KAZAN TO PETERSBURG.</h3>


<p>When, far on in the afternoon, we saw no prospect of
effecting a crossing of the Volga that day, we were glad to
pack our traps into the first sledge that offered, and make
our way back to Kazan. We were not the only disappointed
ones, but the other westward-bound travellers, having more
practical knowledge than ourselves, took the precaution to
drive down in a town sledge, without their baggage, to reconnoitre
the ferry. With our bulky <em>impedimenta</em>, we were in
a condition eminently favourable for being victimised by the
rapacious rascals who repaired to the spot with horses and
sledges, attracted thither by the same instinct that brings
the eagles to the carcase. In the first instance, we had been
charged the fare for fourteen versts, for a stage that was
acknowledged to be only seven&mdash;no better reason being
alleged for the charge than that it was "necessary." The
sledge had been sent back to the post-station, after being
discharged of our persons and appurtenances, and at the end
of the day we found ourselves at the mercy of a set of
wide-mouthed moujiks, with the most exalted ideas of the
value of their services.</p>

<p>The hotel "Ryazin," where we took up our quarters, had
the reputation of being one of the most fashionable in
Kazan, as was made apparent to us by the thick atmosphere
of stale tobacco-smoke that pervaded the long narrow corridors,
and close pent-up rooms. Deeming ourselves to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span>
entered a country so far civilised that we could get anything
for money, and feeling greatly in need of consolation under
the defeat we had sustained, we mustered courage to order a
bottle of wine with our dinner. We had carefully eschewed
liquor at the hotels in Siberia, not expecting great things
there, and from a desire to discourage a taste which we
should rarely have the means of gratifying. In old Kazan
we had more confidence, and the classical names and aristocratic
prices on the "wine card" of the Ryazin gave promise
of something good. But we were only tantalised&mdash;the wine
was not only of no recognisable species, but positively
nauseous. We did get good fresh butter, however, an
article, strange to say, scarce in Siberia, notwithstanding
the abundance of milk. It is worth notice that the Russians
have but one word, <em>maslo</em>, to signify butter, cart-grease, and
oil in general. Can it be possible that the confusion of ideas
frequently caused by this circumstance has given rise to the
exaggerated, but generally believed, reports of the foul
feeding of the Russians?</p>

<p>A diorama was being exhibited in a distant part of the
huge building of the hotel. The pictures were mostly copies
of originals in the Hermitage at St. Petersburg, and their
merits were extolled after the usual fashion by the exhibitor
in French and Russian. The attendance was fair, but the
entertainment very so-so. The only impression I carried away
was that the Russians of Kazan were easily amused.</p>

<p>On the following morning we again proceeded to the
Volga to try our luck. The river had totally changed its
appearance during the night. The thick masses of conglomerated
ice and snow had disappeared. The open water had
shifted from the right to the left bank, and the middle of
the river was covered with a thin sheet of new ice, floating
downwards. A boat was soon loaded by ourselves and a few
other passengers, and half-a-dozen lusty moujiks tracked us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span>
slowly up the stream by means of a rope. Sometimes a
towing path on the high bank was used, and sometimes a
path was extemporised on the margin of solid ice, which in
places was piled up in high sharp peaks that entangled the
towing-rope. The master of the boat urged on his team,
familiarly addressing them as "dogs," which I am bound in
charity to consider as a term of endearment, when applied to
Russian moujiks. When we had gained a position whence
we could cross the river easily, the crew was brought on
board, and the boat launched into mid-stream. The thin
ice was easily broken up by poles and boat-hooks, and no
great difficulty was experienced in effecting this passage.
The Russian ferrymen have a very inconvenient habit of
stopping to cross themselves, and mutter invocations to the
saints while in the most critical situation. They do this
sometimes at starting, but invariably when in the middle
of the river. I frequently felt that we were put in peril by
this ultra-superstitious practice, for often at the moment
when the greatest care is needed to pilot the boat through
treacherous ice-fields, the whole crew lay down their oars,
take off their hats, and perform the ceremony. The Chinese
sailors beat gongs and burn joss paper to ensure good luck
on their voyage, but they are too sensible to endanger themselves
by such superstitious observances, and on the whole,
show less confidence in supernatural aid than in the appliances
within their own control. "Prayer and provender
never hinder a journey," is an excellent maxim within reasonable
limits, but the practice of Russian ferrymen shows how
the best of rules may be abused.</p>

<p>A number of small steamers were frozen in on the right
bank of the Volga, as also a fleet of hulks elegantly fitted up
with rooms on deck. These were the floating steam-boat
and other offices, government offices, &amp;c. In the season,
when the navigation is open, and passenger steamers, tugs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span>
and barges are plying to and fro, this part of the Volga must
be a busy scene.</p>

<p>A sledge was sent for us at the farther side, and we were
once more <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en route</i>. A tap-room, kept by a very low kind
of Jew, is conveniently situated near the ferry on the right
bank. Here the boatmen indulge themselves freely in liquor
out of the proceeds of the harvest they make while the ice
is forming. We got slightly warmed with tea in this house,
but the publican objected to our drinking our own brandy
"on the premises." The law was on his side, and we could
say nothing, but the alternative of drinking the poison
which he was licensed to sell was too repulsive, even had our
need been greater than it was.</p>

<p>At Kazan and the Volga we observed that the Russian
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pourboire</i> changed from <em>na vodku</em> ("for brandy") to <em>na tsai</em>
("for tea"), the latter being the common expression in
Russia proper, and the former the current phrase in Siberia.
Tea drinking is considered a matter of superlative importance
in Russia. When a cab is hired for the day, the driver
will ask for a quarter of an hour "to drink tea," and a little
money on account to provide the means of doing so. People
repair at stated times to a <em>trakteer</em>, or tavern, in Moscow and
Petersburg to drink tea. After the opera, parties retire for the
same purpose. It does not follow that tea is always the beverage
patronised on these occasions. The tea drinking at midnight
is more likely to consist of caviar, ryabchick, and champagne.</p>

<p>Our road lay parallel with the general line of the Volga,
occasionally approaching near to some of the elbows of the
river. The country is flat and marshy, but well cultivated,
and farming villages are numerous. The villages and small
towns are built on raised ground, whether naturally or artificially
raised, I am uncertain. The most remarkable feature
in the towns is the extraordinary number of churches. In
one very small place I counted eight.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span></p>

<p>Oaks are abundant in the country between Kazan and
Nijni-Novgorod, and the beech trees grow to a good size, and
in beautiful form. The forest has been cleared away to make
room for agriculture, and the bare flat is only relieved by the
clumps of gnarled oak and the fine avenues of birch, which
are planted in double rows on each side of the post-road. In
winter, they looked handsome in their nakedness, and in the
summer heats they will afford a grateful shade to travellers
on the road for some hundreds of miles.</p>

<p>The roads were bad; but habit had inured us to that. The
postal arrangements were, however, worse than anything we
had experienced. The reason was obvious. This part of the
road being only used for a few weeks, between the closing of
the Volga navigation and the complete freezing of the river,
no provision is made for the comfort of travellers in the way
of covered conveyances. Having parted with our own sledge,
we travelled <em>peracladnoi</em>, that is, changing at every station.
No covered sledges could be procured for love or money, but
so long as we could use sledges, the discomfort was not intolerable,
although the snow became gradually scantier as we
advanced westward. On the 28th, however, the little snow
that remained melted, and some rain and sleet fell. Sledge-travelling
was discontinued, and we had to resort to the
<em>telega</em>, simply an open cart without any springs. For the
whole day we did dreadful penance in these lumbering vehicles,
over the most atrocious roads that can be imagined.
Our progress was, of course, slow in the extreme, and to
complete the catalogue of our miseries, a heavy shower of
sleet fell, which soaked our furs and wraps to such an extent
that we could hardly bear their weight. In this pitiable
condition we reached the last station before Nijni at 10
o'clock at night. We had resolved to pass the night there,
and get our clothes dried before morning, deeming further
exposure to the cold dangerous to our health. The surly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span>
brute of a postmaster, whom it was our misfortune to meet,
put his veto on our intentions. I shall never forget his face,
nor his blue coat and brass buttons. He was one of those
slaves, dressed in a little brief authority, whose sole experience
had been the iron heel of tyranny planted on his
neck, and whose one idea, when not licking the dust himself,
was to make others do so if possible. It is a necessary result
of a slavish education in some minds, that they cannot conceive
of any other relation in life, than that of oppressor and
oppressed. For the honour of Russian postmasters in
general, I am glad to say that such specimens as the jack-in-office
at Kstavo are rare. He refused us a fire, or a room, or
any means of making ourselves decently comfortable, so
after shivering for an hour we determined to resume our
journey to Nijni. A hard frost had set in, accompanied by
a keen wind that cut us to the bone. The misery we suffered
during the last stage of our journey, was beyond all description.
Never was I more grateful than when we
gained admission to the hotel "Russia" at Nijni-Novgorod,
at four o'clock next morning. Under the genial influence
of a warm room and a dry bed, our miseries were soon
forgotten, and the horrible experiences of the night dissolved
into a dream that helped to intensify present enjoyment.
"Sweet is pleasure after pain." There is no rest without
labour, and happiness itself would be insipid without a seasoning
of misery. Life, to be really enjoyed, must be chequered
with light and shadow. The bright passages remain vivid in
the memory, while the darker shades fade into forgetfulness.</p>

<p>The time to see Nijni-Novgorod is during the great fair
which is held in July, and which attracts to the spot people
of every race and language. The Nijni fair is one of the
great commercial events in Russia. Goods are brought to it
from vast distances, and as much business is done there in a
few days as in many months in the larger cities. There are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span>
several other great fairs still held in Russia, such as the one
at Irbit, in the west of Siberia. They are relics of an unsettled
state of society, and will no doubt gradually give way
before modern civilisation. The enormous cost of transport
necessarily incurred in bringing merchandise to the fair, and
in carrying it away again to its destination, does not equal
the guild dues, and other charges, which the traders would
have to bear, in order to do the same business in Moscow or
Petersburg. The consuming population are, therefore, taxed
out of all reason, with no advantage to the merchants, or to
the government revenue. One merchant may, for example,
take his wares from Moscow or Kiev to the fair at Nijni, and
sell them to another, who carries them back to the point
whence they were originally despatched, and the double
expense of carriage may still be less than the cost of transacting
the same business in the towns.<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> It cannot be that
such a state of affairs can long withstand the inevitable
march of enlightenment.</p>

<p>We of course saw Nijni-Novgorod at a disadvantage. The
town was comparatively empty; the steam traffic which
keeps the neighbourhood alive during the summer was all
over for the season, and the rivers Volga and Oka looked
deserted. The snow was melting fast, and the streets were a
mass of slush. This, with a leaden sky and drizzling rain,
rendered the town as miserable as can be imagined. The
Oka joins the Volga at Nijni, and the town is situated on a
high peninsula between the two rivers. The suburb in which
the great fair is held is opposite the town, on the other side
of the Oka, and there also is the terminus of the railway.
At the time we passed, there was but one train a day to
Moscow. It started at about four o'clock in the afternoon, and
was calculated to arrive at Moscow&mdash;three hundred miles&mdash;about
six or seven next morning.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span></p>

<p>Our journey virtually terminated with our joining the
railway, for though still some 2500 miles from London, we
had no more hardships to look forward to, no toilsome days,
or sleepless nights, no hard fare, and no struggles with the
elements. It was hard to realise the superlative comfort of
a railway carriage in our shaken and shattered condition. It
seemed too good to be true. The varied incidents of our
four months of travel crowded on the memory, and we soon
dropped into a delicious sleep amid confused visions of
drunken yemschiks, broken wheels, diabolical roads, icebergs,
and ferry-boats, with deserts and strings of camels dimly
shadowed in the back ground. In the grey of the morning,
we found ourselves in Moscow the Holy, and were soon comfortably
settled in M. Billet's hotel. Our progress towards
civilised comfort culminated here, and the luxury of bed
and board at M. Billet's seemed a full compensation for the
miseries of the road.</p>

<p>To do justice to the delights of Moscow would require a
higher inspiration than I am blessed with, and all I could
say about the Kremlin, its palaces and churches, the
theatres, operas, &amp;c., has been much better said already.
The few days spent there seemed very short. Should I ever
be tempted to revisit the fine old city, however, I hope the
municipal council will have made some arrangement for lighting
the streets with gas. In this respect they are sadly behind
the age; and in a gay population like that of Moscow, which
lives mostly at night, it is surprising that illumination has not
before now been demanded by the popular voice. The portable
gas which is carted about the streets in hogsheads, is a wretched
makeshift. The sudden exhaustion of the supply of light frequently
causes a theatrical performance to be interrupted
until another hogshead of gas is procured; and during the interregnum
young Russia delights in electrifying the audience
by yelling and whistling, as if they would bring the house down.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span></p>

<p>A large building on the outskirts of Moscow was pointed
out to us as the foundling hospital, a great institution in
Russia, one of whose chief uses seems to be to rear ballet-girls,
and most efficiently does it perform its functions.</p>

<p>From Moscow to Petersburg by railway is a monotonous
and uninteresting journey, especially in winter. The country
is flat and bare; here and there a patch of winter wheat
struggled through the thin covering of snow, but the general
aspect in the month of December was that of a desert. The
only town of note on the line is Tver, on the Volga, where
the railway crosses that river. In the construction of the
line, the convenience of the various small towns has not
been consulted. It was a purely imperial project to connect
Moscow with Petersburg. It is said that when the engineers,
who were engaged in the construction of the line, applied to
the Emperor to know what curves they should make so as to
pass through the most populous towns, he laid a ruler on the
map, drew a straight line from Petersburg to Moscow, and
bade them follow it.</p>

<p>Railways, like all other public works in Russia, have been
constructed at enormous expense, from the peculations of
the officials who had to do with them. It is related of the
Emperor Nicholas, that when he had failed to impress certain
Persian ambassadors with the magnificence of his capital, he
turned in despair to Prince Menschikoff, and asked him
whether there was nothing that would astonish them. The
prince suggested that they might be shown the accounts of
the Moscow railway.</p>

<p>We were not so favourably impressed with Petersburg, as
a place of residence, as we had been with Moscow. It is a
magnificent city, no doubt; its quays, bridges, "perspectives,"
palaces, and squares present a faultless exterior, and leave an
impression of grandeur on the memory that makes other
things small by comparison. But the chill of officialism<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>
rests on the place; it was created out of a swamp by the
fiat of an emperor, and the imperial will is all-pervading
still; you cannot shake off the idea. Looking down the
"Nevsky," you take in at a glance miles of street laid out
with mathematical accuracy, and the effect is very striking;
you admire the magnificent Nicholas bridge that spans the
Neva, a work that made the fortune of others besides the
architect; in short, you admire everything separately and
collectively about the capital, but the reflection always crops
up that this fine city and the glory of it exists by the will of
the emperor. Moscow is antiquated; its streets are not so
straight, nor so wide, nor so regular; its buildings are not
so imposing; but it is a natural and spontaneous growth;
there is a more homely and comfortable air about it than
Petersburg; and it was not built for the admiration of the
world, but because people wanted houses to live in. Petersburg
lacks the historical interest that invests the old capital,
and it will be long before it displaces the holy city in the
affections of the Russians, who one and all have a kind of
superstitious reverence for Moscow. The Czars also hold
the old city in high esteem, and are said to regard the Kremlin
as the focus and ultimate asylum of their power.</p>

<p>The season was late in Petersburg. Up to the middle of
December the little snow that fell melted. The temperature
varied from a little above to a little below the freezing point.
Some days the Neva brought down masses of floating ice
from Lake Ladoga, and on other days the river was quite
clear. I fear the pork-butchers of the interior were premature
in sending in their supplies of frozen pigs, for they
seemed very likely to get thawed in the mild atmosphere of
Petersburg. The sky was constantly overcast, and the few
hours of daylight were consequently cut short at both ends.
Everything conspired to throw a gloom over the place, and
the people were longing for their snow roads and their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span>
sledges, their races and games on the Neva, and the
pleasures of their winter season. The "Court" was at
Tsarskoe-selo, writing despatches, while the Polish insurrection,
the proposed congress of Paris, and the financial
difficulties of the government, supplied food for gossip to all
circles in the city. The reply of the Emperor to the invitation
of his "good brother," as published in the <cite>Journal</cite>,
excited universal admiration. And as for the currency crisis,
everyone had some nostrum of his own which would infallibly
put things right, but none of them seemed to touch the essential
point, the supply of bullion.</p>

<p>Great activity prevailed in the government dockyards,
where a number of iron-clads were being built. One of
these building yards was close to Miss Benson's, where I
lived, and we got the full benefit of the clanging of hammers,
from a very early hour in the morning, till the latest hour at
night at which we happened to be awake. I believe they
worked day and night, as if busily preparing for war. Some
vessels had been hurried out of England unfinished, and
enormous quantities of iron-plating, and other materials, had
been imported from England for vessels to be constructed in
Russia. The yards we were shown through were all under
the superintendence of English firms, and Englishmen occupy
responsible positions in the admiralty. The number of iron-cased
frigates in progress at Petersburg and Kronstadt, is
sufficient to account for the abstraction of bullion from the
government treasury in such amounts as to derange the
paper currency of the country.</p>

<p>But the financial disturbance is of some years' standing,
although it has gradually been getting worse. It dates
from the Crimean war, which drained the resources of
Russia, both in men and treasure, to an extent which the
government has been reluctant to admit. The difficulty was
met at the time by the increased issue of paper-money,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span>
which government has never been able to redeem. The
crisis was not much felt until the Polish insurrection again
taxed the energies of the government, while it was still languishing
under the effects of the Crimean war, and unprepared
for this fresh demand on its resources. This was
probably the real reason why the government was so slow to
meet the emergency in Poland with adequate means. More
paper-money had to be issued, unrepresented by bullion, and
unconvertible. The paper currency became depreciated
twelve to fifteen per cent. below its ostensible value, and in
the uncertainty that prevailed as to the future, business was
for a time brought almost to a stand. All the financiers of
Russia have been labouring to restore the equilibrium,
but as yet their best laid schemes have failed, for none of
them has discovered the means of replenishing the bank
treasury.</p>

<p>The most casual observer cannot fail to mark the respect
in which all classes in Russia hold the Emperor. In the most
distant provinces, indeed, the peasants regard the Czar as a
kind of demi-god who, if he could only be informed of their
grievances, would set all to rights. But in Petersburg, where
his majesty may be seen any day in the street, divested of
ethereal attributes, the people love him. The contrast between
the reign of the present emperor and that of his father
is very striking. Formerly the interests of agriculture, manufactures,
and commerce were sacrificed to the ambitious
schemes of the Czar. The military glory of the empire, and
the imperial projects of aggrandisement absorbed the energies
of government; and to promote these ends the substance
of the country was wasted. That is all changed now. The
Emperor Alexander II. from the time of his accession has
devoted his energies to the amelioration of the condition of
the people, to the encouragement of native industry, to the
economising of the national resources, and to promoting the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span>
efficiency of the executive. Reforms have been set on foot
in all departments of the state,&mdash;military, legislative, financial,
and social. Success has attended many of these new
measures; many are still in progress; but the great work
is only begun. It is an important step gained, however,
that the government has become alive to the need of administrative
reform, and if the life of the present monarch be
spared to the age of his father, he will have left his country
a century in advance of where he found it.</p>

<p>The Russian soldier is now smart and well equipped, well
armed, well fed, and well treated. Military discipline has
been greatly improved, and the men have now to go
through regular courses of gymnastics. The army is undergoing
a transformation. Recruiting is more regular. The
term of service has been reduced to fifteen years, but practically
it is much less. The soldiers begin to look like civilised
beings, and to acquire self-respect.</p>

<p>Important reforms in the legislature of Russia have also
been introduced. The term of penal servitude has been
greatly reduced. A project of law-reform which will include
trial by jury is under deliberation. This, if carried, will be
a startling innovation in Russia; and will no doubt be the
precursor of many other popular measures.</p>

<p>A budget is now published yearly, which, though it is not
of much practical utility, is nevertheless in some sort a recognition
of the political rights of the people.</p>

<p>The police, customs, and the navy are all being subjected to
improvements more or less important; in short, the spirit of
reform has been so active, that its influence pervades every
institution, except perhaps the Church. Some evils have
necessarily attended the recent changes. For example, the
abolition of the brandy farm, and the substitution of a system
of excise, by reducing the cost, has increased the consumption
of spirits among the peasantry. The fatal consequences<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span>
of excess threatened to be alarming in some parts of
the country, and I heard great complaints in Siberia of the
increase of drunkenness. But as a financial measure it has
been very successful. The excise duty on spirits in 1863
gave the government 117,000,000 silver (<em>i.e.</em>, paper) roubles,
which is more than one-third of its gross annual revenue.</p>

<p>The revenues of the Russian government are still susceptible
of great development. The system of corruption that
prevailed so long that it had become almost respectable, has
been attacked, but it must be rooted up before the government
can reap the full harvest of its own financial resources.
This is not a matter of easy accomplishment, however, as the
men from whom the Emperor is entitled to look for support
are themselves directly interested in the continuance of the
old system of universal peculation. The vast extent of territory
also over which the government executive is diffused,
adds greatly to the difficulty of the radical reform of time-honoured
abuses.</p>

<p>No annoyance of any kind, either about passports or luggage
was experienced by us in arriving at, or departing from
Petersburg; but the pleasantest impression the Czarish
capital left on my mind was that of the kindness and hospitality
of my own countrymen, and of all others whom I happened
to meet there.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2>

<h3>RUSSIA AND CHINA.</h3>


<p>One cannot travel for four months through the two
largest empires in the world, without reflecting on the
analogies and contrasts which they mutually present, and
trying to figure out the causes which have been working
such different results in each, since they first became acquainted
with one another. Analogies in the manners, customs,
and modes of thought of the two races are constantly
turning up; and their resemblance to the Chinese has
become a proverb among the Russians themselves.</p>

<p>Both empires were subjugated in the thirteenth century
by the Mongol-Tartar hordes under the descendants of
Genghis; and both succeeded in expelling the invaders from
their respective territories.</p>

<p>From that time the histories of Russia and China have
been closely interwoven; their frontiers have been gradually
approaching each other, as Russia extended her conquests
eastward, and China westward; and for the last two hundred
years the advancing wave of Russian aggression has impinged
on the whole northern line of the outlying deserts and
wildernesses which own the sway of China.</p>

<p>The triumphal advance of the Russians over the aboriginal
tribes of Siberia was checked when it came in contact with
the superior civilisation and higher military organisation of
the Chinese; and, after a five years' war, China was in a
position to impose conditions on Russia, which was done by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span>
the treaty of Nerchinsk, 1689. But the Russian schemes
have never been abandoned. With the patience of the
Asiatic, combined with the determination of the European,
Russia has contested the frontiers of China with slow and
fluctuating, but ultimately certain, success. Sometimes by
force of arms, sometimes by diplomatic craft, by every device
that cunning could suggest, Russia has made good her progress
in Chinese territory from point to point, until the last
grand <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coup</i> of General Ignatieff in 1860 crowned all her
endeavours with success. By making dexterous use of the
victory of the Anglo-French troops at Peking, he, with a
stroke of the pen, transferred to Russia the whole coast of
Manchu-Tartary, from the mouth of the Amur river to the
frontier of Corea.</p>

<p>When China first encountered Russia in the debates about
the frontier, every advantage was on the side of the former.
China was in the position of a powerful, wealthy, populous,
and civilised nation, dealing with barbarians. If men were
wanted, the warlike Manchus were ready at call. If money
was wanted, the resources of China, with her vast producing
population, were immeasurably superior to those of
Russia, and perhaps to any country in the world at that
time. The Chinese were acting on the defensive, and near
home. The government was vigorous and intelligent, and
naturally confident of its own superiority. The Russian
people were, on the other hand, ignorant, servile, and
degraded. Their government was not much better; and their
military resources could only be drawn from vast, thinly
peopled, unproductive steppes.</p>

<p>Peter the Great infused new life into Russia by the energy
of his own character, and the judicious encouragement of
foreigners, by which means he tried to graft civilisation on
his unpromising stock. Amid his varied cares he did not
forget his supposed interests in the far east; but both he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span>
and his successors found China too hard a nut to crack. The
Manchu emperors had consolidated their power in China,
and from the days of Kanghi, who drove the Russians from
the districts they had occupied on the Amoor in 1688, till the
early part of the present century, China was strong and
prosperous. The Czars could do no more than send embassies,
chiefly charged with mercantile questions, to the
"Khan of Khans," at Peking.</p>

<p>The Russian ambassadors were treated as suppliants at
Peking; their reception was such as was accorded to the
missions from subject states&mdash;in Chinese phrase, "tribute
bearers."</p>

<p>But Russia was all the while making rapid strides in her
own internal progress; foreign inventions, and foreign enterprise,
were largely subsidised, and Russia became a great
military power.</p>

<p>The passion for aggrandisement was strongly developed
in Peter, in Catherine II., and in Nicholas; but still Russia
could only knock at the gates of China by means of peaceful
missions, and China could still afford to be supercilious.
But while Russia progressed, China at the best was stationary;
and, since the first English war in 1839-41, the
germ of decay which the effeminate luxury of the Chinese
court had implanted into the Manchu dynasty, born in a
hardier climate, has rapidly spread over the whole complex
machine of Chinese government.</p>

<p>The degenerate Manchu emperors, forgetting the wisdom
of their fathers, abandoned themselves to flatterers, discontinued
the manly sports to which their predecessors
attached so much importance, neglected the affairs of
government, and wallowed in sensuality.</p>

<p>The last emperor, Hienfung, died almost in the prime of
life of the grossest debauchery. A wide-spread corruption
was the natural result of the demoralisation of the court,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span>
and injustice and oppression pressed heavily on the people.
Brigandage on a gigantic scale appeared, and soon wasted
the fairest provinces of China, running riot for ten years
almost unchecked by the imbeciles who ruled at the capital
and in the provinces. The whole fabric was ready to fall to
pieces, and only waited for some determined will to take the
reins out of the hands that were no longer able to hold
them.</p>

<p>Up to the last, however, the self-blinded rulers of China
refused to believe in their vulnerability, until the fatal
delusion was rudely dissipated by the capture of Peking
itself by the Anglo-French forces in 1860.</p>

<p>The empire lay prostrate at the feet of her conquerors,
whose moderation in the hour of victory was the marvel of
the vanquished. But China's extremity was Russia's opportunity;
and the subtlety of Russian diplomacy was never
exhibited to greater advantage than on this occasion.</p>

<p>The Russian minister had affected warm friendship to the
Chinese government in its troubles, and volunteered indirect
assistance to it in the impending struggle with the
foreigner. But the moment he saw the Chinese government
at its wits' end, he swooped down on it with unscrupulous
demands, which included the cession to Russia of the whole
sea-coast of Manchuria, and the large tract of country from
the Usuri and Amoor rivers to the Sea of Japan. The
Chinese were in no condition to demur, and to aid them
in coming to a conclusion, they were gently told that in the
event of non-compliance, the vengeance of the Czar would be
more terrible than the chastisement they were then smarting
from. The treaty was made, and Russia triumphed.</p>

<p>The substantial loss to China of the Manchurian forests
was inconsiderable; but the importance of the gain to Russia
can hardly be over-rated. Up to that time, Russia had
possessed no harbours on the Pacific that were not closed by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span>
ice for half the year. This new accession of maritime territory
gives to Russia many excellent harbours, particularly
towards its southern extremity, which are open several
months longer than the harbour of Nikolaefsk at the mouth
of the Amoor. The new harbours in Manchuria are moreover
of easier access, not only shortening the voyage from
Europe or China by some 600 or 700 miles, but affording
great advantages over Nikolaefsk in the simplicity of navigation.</p>

<p>The present helpless condition of China is in a great measure
owing to the contempt of military affairs which a long
peace had engendered. The Chinese people are eminently
averse to fighting, and consequently to all military matters.
They have a proverb which illustrates this:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i10">"Haou tih pu ta ting;</span>
<span class="i10">&nbsp;Haou jin pu tso-ping."</span>
</div>

<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Of good iron you don't make a nail;</span>
<span class="i2">Of a good man you don't make a soldier.</span>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noind">They are too intent on industrial pursuits to waste men,
time, or money in feeding armies. Hence they are at the
mercy not only of foreign armed powers, but of any band
of native ruffians who may organise a pillaging expedition.
An enlightened and energetic government, alive to the progress
of other nations, would have seen that an efficient
standing army was not only compatible with the prosperity
of the country, but absolutely essential to its existence; and
would have made a military nation of the Chinese in spite
of their more peaceful proclivities.</p>

<p>But the government of China has for half a century been
the reverse of this. Blind and deluded, it has wrapped itself
up in false security, trusting to ancient prestige and adroitness
in negotiation to keep the wolf from the door, and has
let the military element slip through its fingers. The paper
wall collapsed at the first touch of the hostile foreigner. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span>
government lost the respect of its own people, and became
more than ever a by-word among the nations.</p>

<p>The ascendancy of Russia, on the other hand, is due
directly to her military organisation. Her frequent struggles
in Europe compelled her to look well to her armies; and
the ambition of universal dominion, deeply rooted in the
Russian autocrats from Peter downwards, and probably even
long before Peter's time, was a powerful stimulant to military
enterprise. The constant wars of aggression in Asia gave
employment to large armies, wasted them, and called for
continual drafts of new troops. Everything combined to
make Russia a great military nation. The absolute despotism
of the Czars, allied to projects of vast ambition, was eminently
favourable to such a result. This very despotism and
lust of conquest probably grew up under the all-pervading
influence of the Mongols. Genghis bequeathed to his successors
the sovereignty of the world, just as Peter the Great
did five centuries later. The Mongol khans taught the
Russian princes how to oppress the people. The extortion
which these vassals practised under the sanction of the
dreaded Mongol name, inured the rulers to tyranny, and the
people to submission. When the invaders were expelled,
therefore, it was natural that the arbitrary habits of the
Russian princes should be retained. It was also a natural
reaction of ideas for the Russians, when their time came, to
turn the tables on their late conquerors. They had seen
Tartar hordes, moved by one strong will, overrun Asia, and
rule a large portion of Europe. Why should not emancipated
Russia issue forth from Europe and subjugate Asia?
But whencesoever the idea of the conquest of Asia had its
origin, the history of Russia for the last two centuries shows
how persistently it has been followed up through each successive
reign, and how remarkably it has ruled the policy of
the Czars from Peter to Nicholas.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span></p>

<p>It was no small advantage to Russia, considered as an
Asiatic nation, and not the least barbarous among them, to
live on the confines of European civilisation. The Czars
have been wise enough to avail themselves of the advanced
knowledge, and the energy to apply it, which their European
neighbours possessed. They cannot be said to have civilised
Russia by this fusion of foreign materials, but they have certainly
succeeded in making her a powerful nation. It is not
probable that the Russian government could ever have held
its head so high in the counsels of Europe without this extraneous
aid; and although they might, from their native
resources, have overcome the nomad tribes of the Asiatic
steppes, they could hardly have been in a position to dictate
terms to China.</p>

<p>The Chinese government has had similar opportunities of
using foreign science, and mechanical and other inventions,
though in a less degree. But it has, till lately, despised
and rejected them, and has paid dearly for its mistake.</p>

<p>In one respect the two empires greatly resemble each
other, and that is in the general venality of their officials,
high and low. The fact is recognised, to a certain extent,
by the governments, and being probably considered irremediable,
they seem to make the best of it by placing men in
responsible positions, with salaries ludicrously inadequate to
provide for the ordinary necessities of life. This has proved
one potent cause of the decline of China.</p>

<p>In Russia the vigour of the government has risen superior
to the evil. Official dishonesty may have done incalculable
injury to the prosperity of the country, but the will of the
Czars makes its voice heard to the remotest corner of their
unwieldy empire. The provincial officers have great latitude
for defeating the ends of justice and good government from
sordid motives, and, in a general way, the government will
not scrutinise their conduct very closely. But nothing is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span>
allowed to obstruct the execution of an ukase from Petersburg,
and the government is, on the whole, well served.
Everything in Russia has been made subservient to the
glory of the Czars and the military status of the country,
and every consideration is sacrificed to the furtherance of that
one object.</p>

<p>It cannot be denied that the warlike and aggressive policy
of Russia has been productive of much good. The hidden
wealth of desert regions has been to some extent at least developed,
and highways of commerce have been opened up
through forests peopled with wild animals and their hunters.
The plough has been driven over old battle-fields, and populations
have been settled where all was desolation before.
These, and such like, have been the good results which may
be considered as a set-off against the evils of war. How
different have been the issues of the infatuated "peace at any
price" policy of China, where fertile plains are being daily
converted into battle-fields!</p>

<p>These, however, are but some of the external or accidental
circumstances which have modified the characters of the two
empires, and variously influenced their destinies. The essential
causes of the progress of Russia and the decadence of
China lie much deeper. Some people would tell us that
Russia is in the young, vigorous and growing stage of its
national life, just emerging from barbarism, when every step
must be towards improvement, because, from their low starting
point, deterioration would be impossible; while China,
on the contrary, has long since reached maturity, has outlived
the natural term of national existence; its industries, arts,
learning, social life, and all that constitutes civilisation, have
reached a point beyond which they cannot advance; that the
zenith of its glory has been passed; and that, in the natural
course of things, the only advance it can now make must be
towards decay and dissolution.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span></p>

<p>But that theory of the decline of China does not hold good.
The mass of the people have not degenerated; they are as
fresh and vigorous as ever they were. It is the government
only that has become old and feeble; and a change of
dynasty may yet restore to China the lustre which legitimately
belongs to so great a nation.</p>

<p>The indestructible vitality of Chinese institutions has preserved
the country unchanged through many revolutions.
The high civilisation of the people, and their earnestness
in the pursuit of peaceful industries, have enabled them
to maintain their national existence through more dynastic
changes than, perhaps, any other country or nation has experienced.</p>

<p>"La nation (chinoise)," says De Guignes, "s'est trouvée
renfermée dans des bornes naturelles et fortifiée, jusqu'à un
certain point, contre les étrangers. D'ailleurs ces étrangers
ont toujours été barbares; ainsi lorsque quelquefois ils ont
été assez puissants pour pénétrer dans la Chine et pour s'emparer
de cet empire, l'attachement inviolable des Chinois à
leurs anciens usages a forcé les vainqueurs d'adopter les lois
des vaincus. L'empire a changé de maîtres sans changer de
lois. Lorsqu'un jour les Tartares, qui le possèdent à présent,
seront chassés par une famille chinoise, il n'y aura que le
nom de Tartare d'aboli; le gouvernement sera toujours le
même, et la nation se retrouvera dans l'état où elle était il y
a deux mille ans."<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a></p>

<p>The barbarian invaders had nothing to substitute for the
institutions of the Chinese, and they made no permanent impression
on the nation. So far from being able to grind down
the people, the result of their successive conquests has been
rather to open up new fields of enterprise to the industrious
Chinese, who have gradually appropriated to themselves the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span>
territories of their conquerors. Thus the Manchu Tartars
have been edged back into the forests by the energetic
Chinese colonists, have lost their influence, become absorbed
in many parts of their country, and are now almost extinct
as a nation.</p>

<p>The unprecedentedly long existence of the Chinese nation,
of their language and literature, their laws and their philosophy,
has naturally produced in the people a high veneration
for antiquity. Their geographical position isolated them
from all the rest of the world, excepting the rude nomads of
Tartary. So, for many ages, they saw no people equal to themselves
in education and intelligence, and no laws like their own.
They were constrained to despise the barbarism, even while
they feared the power, of their neighbours or their enemies.
Their intercourse with the Romans was not sufficiently close
to give them much idea of the culture of that people, and
they judged of mankind at large by their experience of the
Tartars. It was therefore in the nature of things that an
overweening self-satisfaction should spring up among them,
which would ripen into arrogance. They came to think themselves
<em>the</em> nation, the "middle kingdom," the centre of the
world, and to look upon all foreign races as "outer barbarians."
Whatever <em>we</em> may think of this national conceit
now, there can be no question that, up to a recent period,
the Chinese were justified in their high opinion of themselves,
and their contempt for all other races, languages and
laws.</p>

<p>It is necessary to keep this in view, in order rightly to appreciate
the character of the Chinese. They are very generally
supposed to be so proud and bigoted that they cling
with blind affection to the traditions of the past, insensible to
excellence of any kind that is new, or of extraneous origin.
But this notion of their character is wide of the truth. As
their own greatness comes from ancient times, and they have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span>
passed the culminating point of their civilisation, so their
reason dictates to them reverence for the past, just as
their experience has taught them to despise everything external.</p>

<p>The intercourse between the Chinese and the civilised
nations of Europe has, in the first instance, brought out the
weak side of the Chinese character into prominent relief, and
held it up to the derision of the world; but as that intercourse
has become more intimate and thorough, it has afforded a
rational explanation of some apparently anomalous traits of
character, and has produced among those of the Chinese who
have come within its influence, modifications in their views of
relative superiority. Ideas that have grown with the growth
of a people, through many ages, are not likely to be eradicated
in a day; but, if founded on reason, they will yield to
reason, when it has shown them to be erroneous; and the
adoption of new ideas is likely to be permanent in proportion
to the slow and gradual nature of the transition.</p>

<p>The Chinese first encountered modern Europeans in small
numbers, and in the outposts of their empire. They naturally
applied to these visitors the rules whereby they had
from time immemorial been taught to manage strangers or
barbarians. The Western adventurers who repaired to the
shores of China were actuated by purely utilitarian motives;
and to promote their own objects they were not above pandering
to the arrogance of the Chinese. Had their policy
been different, indeed, they had but slight opportunities of
exhibiting their superiority in culture and civilisation; and
their numbers were too insignificant to have made any
marked impression. The result of the earlier intercourse
between Europeans and Chinese was, therefore, rather to confirm
than destroy the self-esteem of the latter, who continued
to regard the new tribe as belonging to the category of barbarians.
The East India Company did its share in perpetuating<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span>
the Chinese conceit, by submitting to every indignity that
was offered to it for the sake of trade. The natural tendency
of this course of action, so soon as the controlling
power of the company was removed, was to bring on quarrels,
the history of which everyone knows. In these wars, which
succeeded each other between 1839 and 1860, the superiority
of European civilisation asserted itself in China; the government
was first compelled to acknowledge the power of the
foreigner, and it is now learning something of the moral
qualities of nations whom it had affected to regard as beasts.<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a>
For the first time in their history, the Chinese came into
contact with a people superior to themselves. No precedent
could be found to guide them in the great emergency, and
hence the aggression of Europeans inevitably entailed disaster
on China, which experience alone could have enabled
them to avoid. The ascendancy of Europeans in China is
now a fact accomplished and irrevocable, accepted by the
natives themselves, and therefore destined to work important
changes on the condition of the people and their government.</p>

<p>The people have been quick to appreciate the advantages
which foreign appliances offered to them in the conduct of
their business. For many years their merchants have been
employing European vessels in the coasting trade, induced
by economy, despatch, and the facilities for insurance thus
secured. The extension of sea-board opened to foreign enterprise
by Lord Elgin's treaty, and the free navigation of the
great river Yangtsze-Kiang, have attracted a large fleet of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span>
steamers to the coast and rivers of China. These are chiefly
employed, and in many instances owned, by natives. In
everything the Chinese have exhibited a remarkable freedom
from prejudice. They are much too practical to allow
any freak of fancy to influence them in matters in which
they have a tangible interest.</p>

<p>The Chinese government also has shown, in the most emphatic
manner, the high value it sets on European aid, both
in civil and military affairs. The alacrity with which it
has adopted the modern engines of war at the dictation
of foreigners in whom it had confidence, proves conclusively
that the conservative government of China is not so wedded
to its own traditions as to reject innovations indiscriminately.
It may be slow in coming to a conclusion, and is naturally
jealous of any reform which is imperfectly understood. But
it only wants convincing evidence of the utility of any measure
that may be suggested to ensure its adoption. And on
those occasions when the government may appear most
reluctant to leave the beaten track, there may be other motives
for this besides mere obstinacy. Its prestige is in peril;
indeed, may be said to be already to a great extent lost. The
wholesale introduction of foreign improvements would place
the government at the mercy of its foreign <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">employés</i>, and its
existence as an active and responsible power would be virtually
destroyed. The attempt to amalgamate foreign ideas
of progress with ancient precedent and stagnation is at best
a hazardous experiment, if any value is to be attached to the
preservation of the integrity of the government. Great allowance
must therefore be made for the difficult position in
which Chinese statesmen find themselves. Reforms they
know to be necessary; but their duty is so to temper them
that they may be adopted with the least possible shock to
indigenous institutions. And, even if they foresee the ultimate
collapse of these institutions, still their prudence would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span>
lead them so to restrain the influx of new ideas, that changes
might not be too sudden or sweeping.</p>

<p>The Chinese nation is at present in a crisis of its history,
in which it is peculiarly susceptible of external influences;
and as its foreign relations become more and more consolidated,
these influences are brought to bear from various
quarters and in constantly increasing force. Great Britain
having by far the largest stake in the country, and the
largest share of the responsibility attaching to the necessary
interference in its affairs, the state and prospects of China
demand from us a little more attention than is usually
bestowed upon them; for the destiny of that great empire,
and our own future interests, will be to some extent moulded
by our present policy.</p>

<p>The problem that is now being worked out in that country
is one of which history affords no clue to the solution. The
nation has been convulsed for fourteen years by a great
insurrection. That is nothing new to the Chinese; but the
conditions are vastly altered. According to precedent, some
powerful Tartar or Chinese prince would have appeared to
aid the government in quelling the rebellion, and then seat
himself on the throne. Or the empire might have been dismembered
between two independent dynasties. Some such
solution may still be found, though it is not easy to see
whence the movement is to come. Were the other European
powers out of the way, Russia would be almost in a
position to grasp at the sovereignty of China. Had the
crisis occurred a hundred years ago, and our interest in the
country been as great as it is now, China might have become
a second India. But none of these contingencies is now
feasible. The integrity of China, and the independence of its
government, are sufficiently hedged round by the jealousies
of rival powers.</p>

<p>The cause of the insurrection, and the great difficulty in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span>
the way of a settlement of Chinese affairs, and of the re-establishment
of order, lie in the utter prostration of the
Imperial government. This circumstance, which would have
been the strength of the insurrectionary party had they possessed
the elements of cohesion or administrative capacity,
tends only to prolong the weary struggle. The rebels have
forfeited the respect of all classes, except the most profligate,
or the most ignorant. Their dynastic ambition has been made
a convenient battle-cry to cover their crimes. They have no
policy but devastation, and have neither the disposition nor
the ability to govern. Even if they succeeded in crushing
the existing government, they would still have to be subjugated
in their turn by some other power, before tranquillity
could be restored to the country.</p>

<p>The Imperial government has been at last awakened to
the importance of quelling the rebellion, which for many
years was only trifled with. The division of authority in the
provinces prevented that combined action which alone could
have met the exigencies of the situation. It was considered
a great success, if a body of insurgents was merely chased
out of one province into another. The efforts of the Imperial
government were, and are still, constantly nullified by the
private interests of the provincial authorities. That is one
of the greatest abuses that their peculiar system of government
is liable to. The armies that are levied from time to
time to defend the provinces are mere local bands, under the
control of the governor or his deputies, over whose acts the
Imperial government has little or no check. If left entirely
to itself, it is doubtful whether the present government would
ever have been able to make head against the rebellion at
all. What has been accomplished towards that end has been
mainly due to the moral support of foreign powers, and the
active services of European military officers. The necessity
of centralising the government more and more has been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span>
made obvious to the Prince Regent. That is one of the reforms
most urgently needed to secure efficiency and economy
in the administration. The old system worked well enough
in quiet times, and as long as there was no disturbing element.
But the extension of foreign influence along the
coast, and in the interior of the country, is constantly stirring
up questions of Imperial interest, the inevitable result
of which is to sink local customs, and to place foreign relations
at all the ports on one level. The embassies at Peking
have helped to bring all local and provincial questions home
to the Imperial government in a more direct manner than
ever was done before. The British minister, deeply impressed
with the advantages that must result to China from
the centralisation of the government, has striven by all legitimate
means to promote it. He has only been partially
successful, it is true, and in his despatches of June last he
betrays disappointment at the result of his efforts. But still
a good deal has been done, and every day's experience must
teach the government the necessity of strengthening its own
authority, and of exercising a more direct and active control
over the provincial governors than heretofore.</p>

<p>The attitude of France and England towards the belligerents
in China is anomalous. Their principle at first was
strict neutrality, but the rapid extension of commercial intercourse
has rendered this course impracticable. The Imperial
government has been tamed into granting us a treaty
advantageous to us, but much more so to China herself. By
this treaty several new ports of trade were opened on the
coast; access to Peking, and the residence of foreign ministers
there, were secured. But above all, the Yang-tsze-Kiang
was thrown open to foreign trade and navigation. That noble
river had been closed to commerce for about eight years.
The rebellion had devastated the country on both sides; the
cities on its banks were in ruins, and their populations dispersed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span>
or destroyed. From a point five hundred miles from
the sea, downwards, to Chin-Kiangfoo, scarcely a sail was seen
on that vast expanse of water. Such was the state of things
in 1861, when the navigation was opened to foreigners. Now
the muddy waters are ploughed by a large fleet of steamers;
the greatest activity prevails everywhere; cities are being
rapidly rebuilt, and populations are returning. The products
of the interior are freely interchanged with those of the
sea-board, and a new life has been imparted to great tracts
of country. The lion's share of this new trade has as usual
fallen to the natives. It is they who chiefly supply cargoes
for the foreign steamers, and native trading craft everywhere
crowd the river.</p>

<p>These events brought us into contact with the rebels, who
held, and still hold, Nanking as their head-quarters. From
that point they commanded the river on both sides, and it
became necessary that the British authorities should make
arrangements for the protection of commerce. Amicable
relations with them were attempted to be established, but, as
was natural, it soon appeared that our interests clashed with
the assumed rights of the insurgents, and that our close
alliance with the Imperial government was incompatible with
similar relations with its enemies. But the programme which
the Taepings announced touched us more nearly than that.
The conquests which they proposed to themselves included
some of the very ports which were then being opened on the
river, an event which would have nipped the root of that new
development of trade.</p>

<p>Our interest in China, as politicians are constantly telling
us, is purely commercial. But peace is essential to the prosperity
of commerce, and the present state of confusion and
civil war is inimical to it.</p>

<p>Early in 1862 the rebels menaced Shanghae in great force,
drawing a cordon of forts round the city, and cutting off<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[374]</a></span>
the supplies from the interior. Provisions rose to famine
prices, and the vast population of the city and suburbs was
forced to undergo a siege. Some years before that time circumstances
had compelled the British government to undertake
the protection of the treaty-ports, and more especially
Shanghae, as being the most important of them, and the most
open to attack from the rebels, who held the whole country
in rear of it. But, in 1862, it became imperative to do more
than that. The little garrison placed there for the defence of
the city, might be kept under arms for months, or even years,
ready to repel an attack when the invaders should come
within range of the city walls; the population would live in
a chronic state of panic, many of them would leave (as they
did); trade would be paralysed; the city and foreign settlement
would be a mere fortified camp, cut off from all communication
with the interior of the country.</p>

<p>In this crisis Sir James Hope, then naval commander-in-chief,
came to the front. That officer was well acquainted
with the character of the Taepings; he had had a great deal
of communication with them, and had tried every means in
his power to induce them to change their manners, so as
to secure the respect of their countrymen and of foreigners.
He had also repeatedly warned them of the disastrous
consequences which would follow any demonstration on
their part against the consular ports, Shanghae in particular.</p>

<p>The state of affairs in Shanghae, in the beginning of 1862,
made it clear to Sir James Hope that the effective protection
of the city involved the necessity of such aggressive operations
as would clear the country in the immediate vicinity.
Without waiting for instructions, therefore, he assumed the
responsibility of immediate action, and commenced a campaign
against the Taeping strongholds, which extended over
a space of nine months, and ended in the dispersion of these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span>
marauders from that portion of country included in a radius
of thirty miles from Shanghae.</p>

<p>This is a practical illustration of what the policy of the
British government has been, and how it has from time
to time submitted to circumstances. At first we have the
theoretical principle of strict neutrality broadly asserted;
then we are compelled to violate that principle in our own
defence; an emergency arises in which the officers on the spot
have to choose the alternative of an armed protection of
British property, necessarily including a portion of the territories
of the Imperial government, or the abandonment of
British interests to destruction. Our own government confirms
the decision of its officers&mdash;hence, first the ports themselves,
and then the arbitrary thirty-mile radius are placed
under foreign protection. At such a distance from the scene
of operations, amid such rapid changes in the posture of
affairs, and with such important interests at stake, it would
be impossible for Downing Street to frame a code of instructions
for officers in China which would apply to all possible
contingencies, and impolitic to frame them on the pattern of
the laws of the Medes and Persians. The abstract principle of
non-intervention is very excellent in itself, but to adhere to
it when our own material interests are directly assailed,
would be pure infatuation. Expediency and self-interest
must, after all, be our rule in China as elsewhere.</p>

<p>Our government at home, and its officers abroad, have
always had a dread of complications in China, but much as
they have studied to steer clear of them, they have step by
step been sucked in, and the end is not yet.</p>

<p>The disturbances that have ruined so many of the richest
districts in China are incompatible with the free course of
trade. We have, therefore, a direct interest in the restoration
of peace. The present government of China is on
friendly, and even confidential, terms with us; it has shown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[376]</a></span>
great readiness to cement still closer our mutual relations.
It is, moreover, such as it is, and with all its rottenness,
the representative of order, and the rallying point for whatever
remains of patriotism in the country.</p>

<p>The insurgents, on the other hand, are hopelessly given up
to their propensities for desolation. If, therefore, peace is to
be restored to China at all, within the present generation, it
can only be by the subjugation of the insurgents, and the ascendancy
of the Imperial government. With this view
Admiral Hope first supported the American, Ward, a soldier
of fortune, but a man of energy and genius, who disciplined
and led a Chinese force in the service of the Imperial government.
Following up the same line of policy, men and material
were subsequently lent to the force, and, after Ward's
death, a great number of her Majesty's officers and men were
permitted to join it, and the little army was placed under the
command of Captain (now Lieutenant-Colonel) Gordon of
the Engineers. Under that officer the force grew to be a formidable
power. Its career during the twelve months or so of
Gordon's command was, with one or two exceptions, a series of
brilliant successes.</p>

<p>It can no longer be said that the Chinese do not make
good soldiers. Under leaders in whom they have confidence,
they exhibit the highest military qualities. Gordon was,
perhaps, the first who taught Chinese troops to overcome a
repulse.</p>

<p>The result of Gordon's campaign has been to recover from
the rebels the whole of the province of Keangsoo, between
the Grand Canal and the sea. He has cut the Taeping rebellion
in halves. The capture of Soochow, last December,
gave him the command of the Grand Canal, and enabled him
to interrupt communications thereby between the rebel garrisons
of Nanking and Hangchow. Leaving the latter point
to be acted on by the Franco-Chinese, who had Ningpo for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[377]</a></span>
their base, Gordon followed the Grand Canal towards Nanking,
and captured all the cities that lay between. Nanking
itself would probably have fallen an easy prey to him, but at
that juncture he was compelled to resign his commission in
the Chinese army. The service was, from the first, distasteful
to him, from the position he occupied in relation to the
Chinese officers with whom he had to act. The treachery
perpetrated by the foo-tai, or governor of the province, at the
capture of Soochow, in putting to death the rebel chiefs who
had surrendered to Gordon, disgusted him; and, failing to
obtain satisfaction from the government for this outrage on
his own good faith, he determined to quit the service. The
Queen's order in council which permitted him to serve the
Emperor of China was withdrawn, and the "ever victorious"
army has been disbanded, with what consequences the future
will disclose.</p>

<p>It will be always a difficult thing for an officer with a high
sense of honour, and with proper self-respect, to serve the
Chinese government on its own terms, though it would be
comparatively easy for a military adventurer, who is less particular,
to build up his own fortunes in such a career. The
system of management which places the forces of the empire
under the control of local authorities, whose interests are
frequently antagonistic to those of the nation and the Imperial
government, precludes foreign officers from attaining
their proper position. They are liable to be called upon to
participate in proceedings of which their humanity disapproves.
They have to listen to the constant complaints of
disaffected troops in arrears of pay. They never can calculate
with certainty on next month's supplies, and their men
are always on the verge of mutiny. The disbursements for
troops are provided out of the provincial treasuries, and hence
the provincial authorities have a direct interest in levying as
small a number of men as possible, and in doling out their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[378]</a></span>
pay in such measure only as may suffice to prevent a general
rising. The scheme of supplying the Chinese government
with a steam fleet failed for this, among other reasons, that
Captain Osborn declined to serve under any mere provincial
authority.</p>

<p>Whether the Chinese government will now of itself be
able to give the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coup-de-grace</i> to the Taepings, or whether,
through the incapacity and venality of local officials, anarchy
will again distress the newly-conquered districts, is a question
of serious import both to them and to us. The policy to be
pursued by the British government in China, in any emergency
that may arise, will demand honest consideration. It has
been too much the fashion of political agitators to treat the
subject flippantly, and to make the "China question" a parliamentary
shuttle-cock. The general indifference to the
subject which prevails in and out of Parliament, affords ample
scope for misrepresentation, and some of the men to whom
the country looks for sound views are often guilty of hiding
their light under a bushel.</p>

<p>To go no further back than the last debate on China, as
reported in the "Times," June 1st, 1864, we there find ample
illustration of the fallacious arguments advanced by a certain
class of politicians when dealing with this subject. Mr.
Bright is very solicitous to clear his friends, who had preceded
him in the debate, from the imputation of party motives, that
their statements may carry the more weight. The disclaimer
will naturally apply <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">à fortiori</i> to himself. But "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">qui s'excuse
s'accuse</i>." How does Mr. Bright treat those who ventured to
express opinions at variance with his own? An honourable
member, desirous of obtaining light on the question, sought
for it in the prosaic region of fact. Applying to the most
authentic sources within his reach, he had collected opinions
from a number of persons who had a practical knowledge of
the country. These various opinions were remarkably concurrent,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[379]</a></span>
but they did not suit Mr. Bright's argument. He therefore
considers them "uninteresting," and accounts for their
unanimity by insinuating that the honourable member had
concocted them all himself!</p>

<p>The ponderous speech of Mr. Cobden is as remarkable for
what it omits as for what it contains. His object seemed to
be to show, first, that our commerce in China was not worth
protecting at all; and, secondly, that he had an infallible
scheme of his own which would secure the ends that the
policy of the government had failed in attaining. The facts
he adduces in support of his argument are judiciously
selected; the inferences he draws from them are framed to
suit his foregone conclusions, but have no kind of reference to
the relation between one fact and another. Causes and
effects are blended in a fantastic medley, well calculated to
throw dust in the eyes of the unwary, but fatal to the elucidation
of truth. Mr. Cobden excludes from his view of the
China trade the most important part of it, selecting the
smallest item&mdash;the direct exports from this country&mdash;as a
criterion of our commercial progress in China. His deductions
from such a partial view of facts must necessarily be
worthless. But, even on the narrow ground he has chosen,
his conclusions are all forced. He avoids saying so in plain
language, but the only inference that can be drawn from his
line of argument, is that the successive re-actions that have
occurred in the advancement of our export trade to China
have been the result of our war policy there, and of the
closer intimacy of our political and social relations with that
country. If Mr. Cobden means anything, he means that.
Now what do the facts say, even as Mr. Cobden himself has
stated them?</p>

<p>After the peace of 1842, our exports increased steadily up
to 1845, in which year they doubled the value of 1835, the
year that followed the abolition of the East India Company's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[380]</a></span>
monopoly. For ten years, after 1845, the value of our exports
fell to a lower level. Yet during that time we were at peace
with China. A marked falling off occurred in 1854, but that
was caused by the prostration of trade consequent on the
outbreak of the Taeping rebellion, a circumstance wholly
overlooked by Mr. Cobden. The wars of 1856-60 were
followed by an unprecedented increase in our exports in
1859, 1860 and 1861. Mr. Cobden is perfectly right in saying
that the trade of these years was vastly overdone, and a
recoil was inevitable. But even in the two following years,
when the re-action was operating in full force, the export returns
showed a vast increase beyond the highest point reached
in 1845, or in any year previous to 1859. At this point,
Mr. Cobden, probably discovering that he had <em>proved too
much</em>, shifts his ground to the single article&mdash;cotton. If, as
the member for Portsmouth said, Mr. Cobden considers Manchester
as the centre of the world, the cotton test is probably
to his mind the most infallible. The exports of cotton goods
to China fell from 243,000,000 yards in 1861, to 80,000,000
yards in 1862; and to 46,000,000 yards in 1863. "That,"
says Mr. Cobden, "is the character of the business you are
transacting in China."</p>

<p>A word from Mr. Cobden would have explained the diminution
of the export of cotton goods on an hypothesis, not at
all involving the general decadence of our trade with China.
The cotton famine had raised the value of the raw material
to two shillings per pound, and the enhanced price which the
manufactured goods cost to the Chinese naturally diminished
consumption. Again, the Chinese happened, at the beginning of
the cotton famine, to be over supplied with cheaper and better
goods, and old stocks had to be used up before a response to
the exorbitant prices paid in Manchester or an active resumption
of business could be looked for.</p>

<p>While surveying our relations with China from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[381]</a></span>
"cotton" point of view, Mr. Cobden might have had the
candour to acknowledge the handsome contributions of the
raw material which Lancashire has received <em>from</em> China
during the last three years.</p>

<p>Sir Frederick Bruce is a better authority than Mr. Cobden
on Chinese affairs, and he says, in a report to the Foreign
Office, dated Peking, June 7th, and published in the
"Times," September 7th, 1864, "The import trade has increased
from 41,000,000 taels (about 13,000,000<em>l.</em>) in 1860
(the last year before the opening of the Yang-tsze and the
northern ports), to 81,000,000 taels (about 27,000,000<em>l.</em>), in
1863. The increase is due in a great measure to the large
and increasing trade from the ports on the Yang-tsze in
Chinese produce of all descriptions."</p>

<p>The vastly increasing trade in imports into this country
from China, compared with which the exports are a bagatelle,
Mr. Cobden passes over as having no bearing on the
question. The opium revenue to the Indian government is
also overlooked. The large shipping interest engaged in the
China trade goes for nothing in Mr. Cobden's estimate, but
it is nevertheless of great importance to the country, even
though the vessels are not all owned in Lancashire, and do not
all carry cotton. The amount of capital that British ship-owners
find employment for in connection with China, is not limited
to the large fleet of vessels engaged in the direct trade with
this country, but is spread all over the coast and rivers of
China. In the dispatch above quoted, Sir F. Bruce states
that the entries of foreign shipping in China have increased
from 293,568 tons, in 1860, to 996,890 tons in 1863.</p>

<p>The interest which British merchants, and through them the
nation at large, possess in the prosperity of China is widely
ramified. They are closely involved in the local and coasting
trade; large amounts of British capital are sunk in fixed
property of various kinds at all the open ports; and such investments<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[382]</a></span>
are increasing at a rapid rate. These things lie
under the surface, and are not generally considered in estimates
that are formed in this country of the actual stake
Great Britain has in China. But they are none the less real
on that account. Theorists may say what they will, but our
establishment on the territory of China is a great and important
fact; and whether the process which led to it was
theoretically correct or not, it will be impossible to undo it.</p>

<p>Not only are we fixed in China ourselves, but large native
populations at the treaty parts have thrown in their fortunes
with ours, to abandon whom would bring calamities on the
Chinese for which it would baffle Mr. Cobden to find a
remedy.</p>

<p>To reverse our progress is, however, the policy or the
hobby of Mr. Cobden. He would not only undo what has
been done, but he would urge the Government on to a new
career of conquest in China, without even a pretext for war.
He would seize two more islands on the coast in order to
make free ports which would draw trade away from those
now established. "Get two other small islands ... merely
establish them as free ports; I don't ask you to do more."
Mr. Cobden does not commit himself to say how the islands
are to be acquired, but he knows very well there is but one
way of acquiring them. And supposing we took possession
of two islands, how many would France take? and if England
were to lead the way in such schemes of aggrandisement,
would the ambition of France stop short at islands? Many
high-handed proceedings have been laid to the charge of
this country, but this scheme of spoliation would surpass
everything else of the kind. Mr. Cobden would probably
suggest purchasing the islands, which would be, at least, a
civil way of putting it.</p>

<p>But the whole scheme is so purely utopian that one marvels
that a practical thinker could have shown such contempt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[383]</a></span>
for his audience as to propound it. Hong-Kong is the model
on which Mr. Cobden would shape his new colonies; very
flattering to Hong-Kong, perhaps, but betraying an incredible
forgetfulness of the whole history of that colony. The
"London and China Telegraph," of 13th June last, in commenting
on Mr. Cobden's speech, shows clearly that the advancement
of Hong-Kong as a port of trade was due to
purely adventitious circumstances; and that for many years,
when it rested on its own merits for success, it was an absolute
failure, and a constant expense to the country. If Mr.
Cobden aspires to be a second Stamford Raffles, he is beginning
at the wrong end. Our policy in China will be more
safely left to the chapter of accidents than to visionaries.
We have hard facts to deal with, and not phantoms of a
lively imagination.</p>

<p>The suppression of the Taeping rebellion cannot fail to
produce remarkable effects on the condition of the Chinese
people. They are ripe for great changes, not in the government
or social institutions (the first is of little or no importance
to the people, and the second are stereotyped), but in
their relation to the progress of the world. Amid all political
convulsions the people have remained unchanged, and
that mainly because they are a non-political people. They
are indifferent to affairs of state, but intent on their own
business. Yet they have the faculty of self-government developed
in an eminent degree. They are quiet, orderly, and
industrious; averse to agitation of any kind, and ready to
endure great sacrifices for the sake of peace. Such a people
are easily governed, and their instinct of self-government is
one important element in their longevity as a nation; it has
enabled successive dynasties, often weak and vacillating, arbitrary
and corrupt, to control three hundred millions of
people. This constitutes the elasticity by which they regain
lost ground after any temporary disturbance. Let the present<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[384]</a></span>
reign of brigandage be destroyed, and the people will soon
rise again; like pent-up waters they will flow into their
former channels, and in a few years scarcely a trace of desolation
would be left.</p>

<p>In this prediction we have the experience of various
episodes, even of the present rebellion, to guide us. The
rapidity with which the city of Shanghae was re-built, after
its destruction during the rebel occupation of 1853-5, was
astonishing. Other cities have been re-built and re-peopled
with equal rapidity. Han-Kow, on the great river, has been
several times sacked and destroyed by the rebels, and in a
short time after each visitation it was worth plundering
again. The important city of Soo-chow, captured from the
rebels last December, is reported in June following to be
showing signs of commercial life, although the surrounding
country was still the theatre of war.</p>

<p>The Chinese people have, however, little cause for confidence
in the efficiency or the stability of their own government;
they have on the other hand implicit faith in foreigners.
It is obvious, therefore, that any guarantee from Western
powers that peace should be maintained in the districts once
recovered from the rebels, would stimulate the commercial
and industrial energies of the people, and materially contribute
to the renewed prosperity of the country.</p>

<p>The prosperity of China is, then, intimately interwoven
with our own, for vast fields of enterprise would now be
opened out to Europeans which have heretofore been closed.
Its resources have been developed to the utmost, perhaps,
that a fossil civilisation, unaided by modern invention,
is capable of. The Chinese have been ahead of the world
from time immemorial in agriculture, commercial economy,
manufactures, and all industries; in short, in everything that
constitutes material wealth; but now in these later days the
world has in some things got a little ahead, and is waiting to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[385]</a></span>
impart its new accomplishments to them. The vast mineral
wealth of the country has been but partially taken advantage
of. Its coal, iron, gold, and silver have hitherto been
worked by the most primitive and inadequate machinery.
But we are prepared to teach the natives how to economise
their forces, and to make the most of the natural resources
of their country; and they are being prepared to receive the
lesson.</p>

<p>The avidity with which the Chinese have grasped at the
advantages offered to them by the steamers that now ply on
the coast, and on the great river, is an earnest of their readiness
to appreciate any other western inventions that are commended
by their practical utility. The favourable introduction
of steam on the Chinese rivers, and the popularity with
which their earlier career was attended, were indeed due to
fortuitous circumstances. On the Yangtsze Kiang steamers
had not to compete with an old-established native trade&mdash;that
had been for many years dead&mdash;but they reopened a
commercial route that had been closed, and, at the time,
they offered the only feasible means of navigating the great
river. Under different conditions they would have had to
work their way slowly into the favour of the Chinese; but
now, having established a foothold, they will certainly
maintain the position they have assumed, and the Chinese
would be sorry to return to their former <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">régime</i>, under which
they could hardly hope to accomplish in a month what is
now easily performed in three or four days.<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p>

<p>There is still great room for the extension of steam traffic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[386]</a></span>
in the interior of China, and great need of it. For the present,
however, foreigners are limited by the provisions of the
existing treaties, to the ports formally opened by those
treaties. Steamers may penetrate as far up the great river as
Hankow, 600 miles from the sea; but the upper Yangtsze,
which is navigable by steamers for 500 miles above that,
must still be left to the monopoly of uncouth barges, which
are slowly tracked up-stream by men who labour like beasts
of burden. The navigation of the Poyang and Tung-ting
lakes which communicate with the Yang-tsze; the Peiho
river between Tientsin and Tungchow; the western river
from Canton to the province of Kwangsi, and many other
water routes&mdash;all practicable for properly constructed vessels&mdash;are
equally excluded from foreign enterprise. The native
traders on these routes are deprived of the aid which steam has
afforded them in other quarters, and that by a decision of their
government which, from a cosmopolitan point of view, is
arbitrary and unjust. Inexperience may excuse the Chinese
government for this narrow and pernicious jealousy, but
what shall we say of European diplomatists who, in full view
of the advantages which, as the past has shown, must accrue
to natives and foreigners alike from the spread of foreign intercourse
in China, would diminish "the points of contact"
from a nervous, and not very rational, apprehension of possible
complications?</p>

<p>Much has been said of the ruffianism that our newly established
commerce on the Yangtsze Kiang has let loose on the
great river. It cannot be denied; but it would be singular
indeed if, with a weak government, a deplorably inefficient
executive, and a timid people, outrages should not be committed.
In every community there must be lawless characters<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[387]</a></span>
whom physical force, or the dread of it, alone can
restrain from criminal acts. Under existing circumstances
in China, it is the duty of each foreign state to control its
own subjects; but it is manifestly unfair to circumscribe the
legitimate privileges of a whole community, in order to punish
a few unworthy members of it. Such a policy can only
be dictated by indolence in seeking out and punishing
offenders. But the instances on record of piracy and other
crimes on the Yangtsze Kiang, although authentic, are apt
to engender exaggerated views of their relative importance.
They are made unduly conspicuous by rhetoricians, who, on
the other hand, ignore the smooth under-current of affairs
which is silently conveying blessings to many thousands of
people. These occasional outrages are, after all, mere excrescences
on a system that, in an essential manner, ministers
to the well-being of whole populations who would otherwise
be in penury. At the worst, the good vastly outbalances
the evil; and, to take the lowest view of the
matter, it were better even that the lawless proceedings of
a few rowdies should go on unchecked, rather than that the
remedy for them should be found in the curtailment of a
trade of such great promise. It must never be forgotten that
it is the natives of China who derive the chief benefit from
foreign commercial intercourse; and that, while arbitrary
restrictions on the plain meaning of treaties, by which it has
been sought to limit the application of their provisions, are
unjust to foreigners, the refusal to extend foreign intercourse
is an injustice of which the Chinese people have a right to
complain.</p>

<p>The unexampled success of steamers in China, within the
three past years, has paved the way for a similar result for
railways. The Chinese, having satisfied themselves of the
advantages that accrue to them from the former, will be perfectly
ready to avail themselves of the latter. They are not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[388]</a></span>
naturally given to travel, that is, they travel for profit and
not for pleasure. But the facilities for locomotion which
steamers now afford them have created a large and increasing
passenger traffic. The steamers on the coast and on the
rivers are usually crowded with Chinese passengers, who
seek very moderate accommodation, and therefore can be
carried economically. The shortening of a month's journey
to one of a few days has induced many thousands to travel
who did not think of it before. It is, therefore, a fair inference
that the greater economy of time which railways would
secure would enable millions to travel who are at present
excluded from it. The mere monopolising by railways of the
revenues of the present passage-boats, and other means of
passenger communication, in certain districts, would be but
a trifle compared with the new traffic which railways
would create for themselves in such a populous and eminently
commercial country.</p>

<p>And, perhaps, no other country of equal area presents
fewer natural obstacles to the construction of long lines of
railway. This has been shown by the investigations of Sir
Macdonald Stephenson, who has lately published a full
report on the subject. The labour, and many of the materials,
are to be found in the localities where they would be
wanted.</p>

<p>It may safely be assumed, also, that in no other country
would railway investments be more remunerative, if organised
on a uniform and comprehensive plan, such as that proposed
by Sir M. Stephenson.</p>

<p>The most populous parts of China are alluvial plains,
either fed by great navigable rivers, or intersected in all directions
by networks of canals. With regard to the great water
routes, which are open to large vessels, it is very problematical
whether railways could supersede, or even compete with,
navigation in the carrying of bulky goods. It could not be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[389]</a></span>
expected, for example, that on the proposed line from Hankow
to Shanghae, following the course of the great river for
650 miles, goods should be conveyed as economically as in
steamers that can navigate the river easily, carrying 2000
tons of cargo.</p>

<p>But in those parts of the plain where very small craft only
can be used, a railway may easily supersede the present
means of transport.</p>

<p>The saving of time would, perhaps, in all cases attract
the passenger traffic to the railways, and that alone would
probably be amply sufficient to support them remuneratively.</p>

<p>There are many large tracts of country in China less
thickly peopled than the rich plains, and which do not possess
the same facilities of water communication. In the north
the traffic is conducted by means of caravans, necessarily
slow and expensive; and in some parts of central China, goods
are transported on men's backs. In such regions railways
would not only be highly remunerative, but would be an
inestimable boon in opening up those parts of the country
which, being less favoured by nature, have been kept far
behind in wealth and prosperity. To compensate for these
natural disadvantages of the north, the Grand Canal was
cut to connect the city of Hang-chow with Peking. That
stupendous work required constant repairs to maintain its
efficiency, and a considerable annual outlay of money. In
the disorders of the last ten years the necessary funds for
this purpose have either not been raised, or have been misappropriated,
and the Grand Canal has consequently gone to
ruin. The importance which has been attached to this great
line of communication by successive dynasties for 900 years,
point to the track of the canal as favourable for a line of
railway. Of all the branches of Sir M. Stephenson's scheme
this is the most obviously desirable. A railway that would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[390]</a></span>
restore, and vastly increase the old traffic on the Grand
Canal, would do for the forty populous cities it would touch
at, what steam navigation has done for the marts on the
banks of the great river. Although Peking and the commercial
cities of North China are accessible by sea for eight
months in the year, and in the direct communication between
them and the southern coast ports, there is less urgent need
of improvement, yet the time now occupied in travelling from
Peking to its nearest shipping port is as great as the whole
journey to Nanking or Shanghae by railway would take.
The benefits which the railway would bring to the inland
cities, more remote from the sea or from navigable rivers than
Peking, would be incalculable.</p>

<p>In the correspondence published by Sir M. Stephenson,
to show the prospective results of the introduction of railways
into China, rather too much stress has been laid on
their bearing on foreign trade, and especially on the transport
of tea from the interior to the shipping ports. There
is nothing in the saving of a few hundred miles of a long
sea voyage to compensate for the cost of transporting goods
by railway. And the conveyance of tea would be a more
insignificant item in the whole traffic of railways than it has
already become in that of the steamers that trade in the
heart of the tea districts.</p>

<p>The whole question of the foreign trade of China may be
put on one side so far as the railway scheme is concerned.
The success of railways, and the need of them, rest on a
much broader and surer basis. The internal trade of China;
the interchange of the products of the diverse climates and
soils that are included in the limits of the empire itself&mdash;is
what really gives life and activity to the people. It is to
that source alone that the promoters of railways ought to
look for a guarantee of their success. The whole foreign
trade in tea does not probably exceed one tenth of the native;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[391]</a></span>
and yet tea forms but a small proportion of the inland
trade of China.</p>

<p>In the consideration of the railway question, therefore, the
more such irrelevant matter is kept out of account, the more
likely are sound general conclusions to be arrived at. The
lines to be established should be determined solely with a
view to supplying the wants of the Chinese in the broadest
sense. But if a desire to benefit this or that port, or this or
that party, be permitted to influence the direction of the
undertaking, it will probably be at the expense of its ultimate
success.</p>

<p>The political advantages that would flow from the use of
railways would be no less important than the commercial. It
would bring the distant provinces within reach of the government,
and enable it more effectually to centralise its authority,
without which it is no longer possible to govern China
well.</p>

<p>Peking is in the worst situation that could have been
selected for the seat of government; that is, from a Chinese
point of view. It was convenient as a citadel for the Tartars
while they were consolidating their power, as its vicinity
to their native wilds kept open for them an easy retreat in
the event of revolution. And, while their vigour remained
fresh, the enfeebling influence of distance from the provinces
was neutralised by the energy of the executive. But in the
process of degeneracy which the Manchu dynasty, like its
predecessors, has undergone, the remoteness of the capital
has been a fertile cause of misrule, corruption, and distress in
the provinces. The natural capital of China is Nanking or
Hang-chow, or some other easily accessible point in the
central provinces.</p>

<p>The railway scheme, by connecting all parts of the empire
in rapid daily communication, would bring the government
face to face with its officers; local abuses would be exposed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[392]</a></span>
if not corrected, and imperial and national interests would
cease to be at the mercy of corrupt, mendacious, and
treacherous provincial authorities. Nothing would so surely
save the existing government from the annihilation which
threatens it; restore order throughout the country; and
promote the well-being of all classes.</p>

<p>The local famines and inundations to which China has in
all ages been liable, and which, from the absence of proper
communications, have occasionally entailed great suffering
on the people, would, under the reign of railways, lose their
horrors. The brigandage with which the government keeps
up a desultory and unsatisfactory struggle over an area too
wide for rapid or decisive results, would die a natural death,
were railways in operation. Their moral effect alone would
do much to keep down local risings, and the facility they
would afford for the transport of troops would enable the
government to act with promptitude at the point required;
and instead of keeping up half-disciplined, disaffected, and
idle hordes, often worse than useless, and yet very expensive,
a small, compact, well-equipped force, with the power of
motion which railways would supply, would do the work
better, and at a mere fraction of the expense.</p>

<p>Railways would be very popular with the Chinese people,
whose readiness to support them is proved by their capitalists
offering to invest in shares. But will the consent of the Imperial
government be granted to the project? Without its
co-operation nothing can be done; and this therefore is the
question which will have to be primarily decided.</p>

<p>In the first place there is the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vis inertiæ</i>&mdash;the aversion to
innovation&mdash;to be got over. That can be accomplished if the
government can be convinced of the advantage of the proposed
scheme. Then, on the other hand, the representatives
of foreign powers at the court of Peking may, from national
jealousy, influence the government against any reform emanating<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[393]</a></span>
from Great Britain. But the determination of the
Chinese government will depend most of all on the view
which the British minister or <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chargé d'affaires</i> may happen
to take of it; and he may meet the projectors with active or
lukewarm support, or with positive opposition. The conciliatory
and upright spirit which has ruled Sir Frederick Bruce's
intercourse with the Chinese government has inspired it with
unlimited confidence in the British minister, whose counsels
have in consequence acquired great weight in Peking. It
is earnestly to be hoped that his successor will avail himself
of the good impressions Sir Frederick leaves behind him to
promote with all assiduity those reforms and improvements
which, while subserving the best interests of China, will also
redound to the honour and the profit of our own country.</p>

<p>It is the duty of our ministers to maintain the legitimate
influence of this country in China. Our actual interest
in that empire greatly outweighs that of any other people;
but we are in some danger of losing our prestige, and allowing
other powers to rival us. We failed in the telegraphic
scheme through Mongolia, but the Russians will certainly
accomplish it. The Lay-Osborn fleet failed, but the
French and the Americans will supply its place. We
have withdrawn British officers from the Chinese service;
but the French and Americans remain. Railways will, some
day, be established in China; the people are as ripe for their
introduction now as they ever will be; if we miss the opportunity,
some other nation will seize it, and, with or without
us, China will have railways.</p>

<p>The electric telegraph would of course accompany railways,
if, indeed, it does not precede them. I am not prepared to speak
of the adaptability of the Chinese hieroglyphics to telegraphy,
but the Chinese people and government have a keen appreciation
of the importance of the rapid transmission of intelligence.
This is shown by the admirable system of government<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[394]</a></span>
expresses, and the extent to which carrier-pigeons have been
used to influence the exchange markets of China. The vast
area of the Chinese empire would render telegraphic communication
more than ordinarily acceptable, and, in the present
age of the world, even necessary.</p>

<p>It needs no great stretch of imagination to predict that the
free use of machinery in China will yet do much to enrich
the nation, and to ameliorate the condition of the poorer
classes. Many parts of the country are suffering from overpopulation.
Their economy in food, clothing, and housing,
together with the great fertility of the soil in such districts as
the plains of Che-kiang and Keang-soo, enable an incredibly
large population to find a subsistence there. But 800 persons
on the square mile is too much, even for the richest part of
China, to support efficiently. A large proportion of these
people is consequently underfed, poorly clad, and miserably
lodged; they suffer the penalties of civilised life without its
comforts, and their physical and mental development are
seriously impaired. The Chinese do not possess within themselves
any remedy for this state of things; economy of their
means and moderation in their desires have already been cultivated
to perfection. Their manual industry is unexampled,
and leaves no room for improvement. Their diligence in
taxing the resources of their soil cannot be exceeded. The
surplus population might certainly find an outlet in foreign
lands, but the Chinese people as a whole are singularly averse
to emigration.</p>

<p>The greatest boon that could be conferred on these people,
and the only feasible means of raising many thousands of
them from the lowest depths of poverty, would be the introduction
of new industries which would give them profitable
employment, which at present they are excluded from. A
promising field is open for this. The perseverance of the
Chinese is proverbial, and the perfection they have attained<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[395]</a></span>
in making the most out of the means at their disposal has
been the admiration of the whole world. But they are still
strangers to the modern mechanical appliances of Europe and
America for economising human labour. Compared therefore
with the attainments of western nations, the material resources
of China are wasted. The division of labour, as practised
in the agricultural districts of China, is diametrically
opposed to the principle advanced by Adam Smith. Each
family grows, spins, weaves, and wears its own cotton; and so
with many other products. This system has the advantage
of keeping the people employed all the year round, and
there may no doubt be a great deal to be said in its
favour.</p>

<p>But to what purpose&mdash;with what results&mdash;is all this labour
spent?</p>

<p>The practical answer to this is, that it has happened
that England has imported raw cotton from China, manufactured
it, returned it to China two years afterwards, and
sold the cotton cloth cheaper than the article could be
produced by domestic labour on the spot where it is grown.
It is, of course, to a small extent only, that England
can compete in manufactured cotton with the native product
of China. But that it should be possible at all, first
to buy the raw material at such an enhanced price over the
cost to the natives as will induce them to part with it, then
to send it 15,000 miles across the sea, and the same distance
back again, and spite of the enormous expenses incurred in
the operation, still to supply the manufactured article at a
lower cost than the natives produce it at, proves that a vast
amount of labour is misapplied in this branch of Chinese industry.
And yet their manufacture of cotton has, perhaps,
been brought to a higher state of efficiency than any
other.</p>

<p>Their coal and iron are worked in the most primitive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[396]</a></span>
manner. Both articles are supplied from abroad, although
existing in great abundance in the country. The native coal
that is sold in the markets of China costs from thirty to
forty shillings per ton, and is so poor in quality that English
coal is more economical at double the price. By proper
appliances, and a better system of working, the quality of
Chinese coal might be greatly improved, and the cost
diminished.</p>

<p>It would be endless to enumerate the various departments
in which steam and machinery might be advantageously
applied in China. Sugar and paper may be mentioned, as
also the various oils used by the Chinese, all produced and
consumed in the country in enormous quantities, and all susceptible
of great improvement both in the cost and quality
of the preparations.</p>

<p>In everything that constitutes the wealth of the country
we see the same disproportion between the power expended,
and the results obtained, as has been instanced in the case of
cotton. The waste of human labour is multiplied by the
vast and varied products of the country; and the field
offered for the expansion of new enterprises is commensurate
with the size and population of the Chinese empire.</p>

<p>The introduction of machinery into the interior of the
country, and its application to the manufactures that now
employ the people, will only be secured by a slow and
gradual process. Great opposition would be met with, particularly
at the outset; for, though we may claim for the
Chinese a freedom from prejudice equal to any other people,
it would be absurd to expect of them more enlightenment
than our own countrymen have shown, when put to the test
by innovations which threatened to supersede manual labour.
The Chinese will be convinced, as usual, by results. When
they find the materials of wealth which they now possess multiplied
to them by the cheapness of the necessaries of life, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[397]</a></span>
will not be slow in following up the idea. The elevation of
the poorer classes, when profitable occupation is supplied to
them, will create new wants, while it provides the means of
gratifying them. The benefits accruing to China will naturally
react on this country precisely to that extent to
which a commercial nation must always profit by the increasing
wealth of its customers.</p>

<p>In small matters also, the social condition of the Chinese
people is in a fair way of being improved by their contact
with restless and progressive foreigners. Gas, which is now
being introduced into Hong-Kong and Shanghae&mdash;a simple
thing in itself&mdash;may nevertheless do something towards
elevating the Chinese, and preparing them for more important
advances. The erection of water-works, for the supply
of the large cities, would be a boon of no ordinary value to
those populations who live on the alluvial plains. The impure
water, drawn from turbid rivers and canals which are
the receptacles of filth, is a fertile cause of disease in many
localities. These communities might be supplied with pure
filtered water at a lower cost than is at present paid for the
mere carriage of the unwholesome compound now obtained
from sources as putrid as the Thames. One successful
experiment would probably demonstrate the necessity of
extending water-works to most of the populous cities in the
empire.<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[398]</a></span></p>
<p>Nor is the influence of European intercourse with China
limited in its scope to the mere commercial, manufacturing,
and other material pursuits of the people. Their notions of
good government must be inevitably modified by it, and no
one can estimate the extent to which a few Europeans, by
their superior force of character, may impress the huge multitudes
of China. Circumstances have rendered Shanghae
the great focus from which these external influences are
brought to bear on the natives. The distracted state of the
surrounding country first brought numbers of fugitives, both
rich and poor, to seek shelter under the ægis of foreign flags,
until an enormous population has accumulated on the ground
set apart for the residence of foreigners. The kind of small
republic which the Europeans set up for their own protection,
and for the due regulation of the natives who crowded into
the settlement, became popular with the Chinese; its functions
became more and more important; and accessions of
power were from time to time added to it, but always inadequate
to the efficient discharge of its constantly increasing
duties. The Chinese like the municipal administration of
Shanghae, because, although heavily taxed, they at least
know how the revenue is applied, and they enjoy more or
less personal protection, and immunity from extortion. The
system has worked with more harmony than could have been
expected, considering that it to a certain extent rivals the
provincial government. It has at any rate taken deep root,
and may possibly be the precursor of similar growths at
other commercial towns. In any disruption of the Chinese
power that may result from the present disorganised condition
of the empire, these anomalous foreign "settlements"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[399]</a></span>
will certainly play an important part. The weakness of the
government of the country and the disorders which accompany
it, while impairing the prosperity of the settlements as
commercial <em>emporia</em>, tend to strengthen their political influence.
The prestige which naturally accompanies a European
residence, and the guarantee of security to life and
property, with or without armed protection, which it holds
out to the Chinese people, render these consular ports
asylums of authority in times of anarchy, and will naturally
maintain them as commercial centres when the government
of the country has crumbled away. In them a nucleus of
power will be preserved, which will facilitate the reconstruction
of a government, should the present one be broken up,
and in this way these commercial settlements may yet prove
of essential service to the Chinese nation. They may possibly
grow into free, independent republics, an issue which
the leading journal has more than once predicted. In an
article of June 2, 1864, the "Times" says:&mdash;"The free cities
we hope to see are those which grow of their own accord,
and which arise out of the circumstances of an abundant
commerce and an unsettled country. If the nations of Europe
would agree to stand aloof, we should very soon see little
commercial republics intrenching themselves and extending
themselves upon the shores of China; just such cities as arose
upon the coast of Africa, and in later history upon the coasts
of Italy, when similar dangers compelled traders to draw
together for defence and self-government. We believe that our
cheapest and our best policy is not to establish, but to favour
the growth of such communities as may develop themselves
into free cities. Nor can we expect that this development
will be the work of a day, or that so great a ruin as that
which is mouldering over the heads of one-third of the
human race can fall, and be reformed into modern habitations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[400]</a></span>
without many clouds of dust and some terrible catastrophes."</p>

<p>Should such be the destiny of these trading ports, no class
will have more cause for satisfaction than the body of
Chinese who may reside in them, who regard with pleasure
every advance of foreign influence, and would be glad to live
in peace under any power strong enough to maintain it.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">&nbsp;</a></span></p>




<h2>POSTSCRIPT.</h2>


<p>Events have progressed rapidly in China since the foregoing
chapter was written. Lieutenant-Colonel Gordon,
after resigning his commission in the Chinese army for the
reasons I have mentioned, apparently considered that it would
be too hazardous at such a juncture to leave the Government
entirely to its own devices. He accordingly remained, with
the approval of Major-General Brown, to instruct and advise
them, and he has had the satisfaction to witness the crowning
success of all his labours, in the fall of Nanking, and the
extinction of the Taeping rebellion.</p>

<p>The two provinces of Che-Kiang and Keang-soo&mdash;the
richest and most populous in China&mdash;are now freed from
rebels, and have had peace and order once more restored to
them. It may require some little time entirely to reassure
the populations of these provinces of the security of life and
property in districts that have so long languished under the
devastating effects of civil war; but there is now every reason
to suppose that the reign of anarchy has been banished for
many years to come, and that the pacified region will soon
enjoy the prosperity which its natural advantages must
bring, enhanced, as it must inevitably be, by the extended
intercourse with foreigners which has not yet had an opportunity
of bearing its full fruit.</p>

<p>This success of the Imperial arms has naturally resulted
from the acceptance of foreign Ministers at the Court of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[402]</a></span>
Peking, and the introduction of China into the family of
nations, which is the great triumph of the policy inaugurated
by Lord Palmerston twenty-four years ago, and steadfastly
followed up by that statesman through good and evil report.</p>

<p>Whether the scattered remnants of the Taepings will
again become formidable from their concentration in the
province of Kiang-si, beyond the reach of the immediate
foreign aid which has led to their dispersion, will depend
very much on the vigour of the Imperial Government at
Peking. If it realises the gravity of the position, and the
truth of the maxim that prevention is better than cure, it
will adopt timely and energetic measures to anticipate a
reorganisation of the Taepings.</p>

<p>But, however that may be, it is pretty certain that if the
provisions of the Treaty were carried out in the broad sense
evidently contemplated by the framers of it; if the Poyang
lake and the rivers which communicate with it were freely
opened to foreign trade; if Europeans were permitted to
reside at the commercial marts of Kiang-si, their moral
weight alone, especially after the campaign just concluded
in Keang-soo and Che-Kiang, would go far to prevent any
further demonstration of the rebels in that quarter. The
authorities at Peking may yet find cause to regret that their
suspicion of friendly foreigners has deprived them of such
important auxiliaries at many of their most vulnerable
points.</p>

<p>
<em>October 27.</em><br />
</p>


<div class="figcenter">
  <a href="images/i-440big.jpg">
    <img src="images/i-440thumb.jpg" alt="WATER" title="WATER" />
  </a>
</div>


<p class="center">THE WATER COMMUNICATION OF NORTHERN ASIA, BETWEEN KIAKHTA &amp; THE URAL MOUN<sup>T</sup>.<sup>S</sup><br />
<em>London. John Murray Albemarle Street.</em><br />

<em>Stanford's Geographical Estab<sup>t</sup> London</em></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The first Emperor of the Manchu line originated the scheme, but it has
been greatly extended by his successors.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> 1 tael equal to 6s. 6d.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Father Gerbillon, a Jesuit, was the Chinese plenipotentiary who concluded
the treaty of Nerchinsk with the Russians, in 1689.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> These cabbages are said to have been originally introduced from Russia.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> See Bell of Antermony.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Huc.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Histoire des Huns, De Guignes, Paris, 1756.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Bell.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Un. Hist., vol. iv. p. 77.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> De Guignes. Hist. des Huns.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Memoirs of Baber. Erskine's Introd.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Un Hist. vol. iii. p. 365.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Gibbon, vol. iii. p. 363.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Ibid. p. 371.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> The title of Khan was first assumed by the Geougen, in the fifth century.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Gibbon, vol. ix. p. 10.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> Gibbon, vol. iv. p. 322, and note.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> Un. Hist. vol. v. p. 57.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> "Il est certain que les grands mangeurs de viande sont en général cruels
et féroces plus que les autres hommes. Cette observation est de tous les lieux
et de tous les temps; la barbarie anglaise est connue."&mdash;Emile de Rousseau.
Gibbon, iii. p. 350.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> Scottish Congreg. Mag., Dec. 1841.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> Scot. Cong. Mag., Feb. 1842.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> First-fruits of a Mission to Siberia. Cape Town. 1847.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> This tax is levied on every male above 18 years of age.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> "Russ. Shores of the Black Sea."&mdash;L. Oliphant.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> Hist. des Huns, tom. iii. p. 93.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> Soo-tung-po (a celebrated Chinese classic author), says, "The E and the
Teih" (the former term being used to designate foreigners), "are like the
brute creation, and cannot be governed by the same rules of government as
those of the central nation. If liberal rules of government were applied to
them, it would infallibly give rise to rebellious confusion. The ancient kings
knew this well, and therefore ruled them without laws (or by misrule). This
is therefore the most judicious mode of governing them."&mdash;<cite>Amherst's Voyage;
Lindsay's Report.</cite></p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> "Owing to the violence of the winds, and the rapidity of the current in
certain places, the application of steam to navigation was required before the
Yangtsze could be made available as a highway for transport. The decks of
the steamers are now crowded with Chinese passengers, and their holds are
filled with produce destined, not for foreign export, but for Chinese consumption.
The practical advantages of foreign inventions are thus brought home
to masses of the population in the very centre of China, and they can now
avail themselves of the natural outlet for the productions of those rich internal
provinces, instead of being driven to the slow and circuitous method of artificial
water communication, and exposed to the exactions of the officials of the
different provinces they had to pass through."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Sir F. Bruce.</span></p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> Shanghae, from its situation and over-crowded population, is one of the
greatest sufferers from the want of pure water; and there cannot be a doubt
that this circumstance has contributed, in no slight degree, to the sickliness
that has prevailed there for several years past, as the increase in the population
tends more and more to the defilement of the river,&mdash;the only source
whence water is obtained. The question of water-supply for that settlement
having been submitted to practical and experienced engineers in London, the
result of their calculations is, that a system of water-works, with reservoirs
beyond the influence of sewage, would provide each household with an unlimited
supply of pure, filtered water, at about one-fourth of the expense
which is at present incurred in merely carrying water from the river to the
houses. Messrs. Simpson and Giles have further demonstrated that, at the
proposed rate of one shilling per 1,000 gallons, a large return would be secured
on the capital necessary to be invested in the works. We may therefore hope
that at no distant day the inhabitants of Shanghae, at least, will enjoy this
great blessing.</p></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="tn"><h3>Transcriber's note:</h3>

<p>Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies (such as hyphenation) in the text have been retained as printed.</p>

<p>The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs, thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the List of Illustrations.</p>

<p>Missing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the original text.</p>

<p>The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p>

<p>Page 30: "which leads them to make great sacrifices when required to
do honour to the manes of their ancestors" ... "manes" has been changed to "names".</p>


</div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45167 ***</div>
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