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Title: The face of Manchuria, Korea, & Russian Turkestan
Author: Kemp, E. G. (Emily Georgiana)
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The face of Manchuria, Korea, & Russian Turkestan" ***
THE FACE OF
MANCHURIA
KOREA
& RUSSIAN TURKESTAN
[Illustration: TAMERLANE’S TOMB]
THE FACE OF
MANCHURIA
KOREA
& RUSSIAN
TURKESTAN
WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED WITH
XXIV PLATES BY E. G. KEMP, F.R.S.G.S.
AUTHOR OF “THE FACE OF CHINA”
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
1911
_All rights reserved_
DEDICATED TO MY THREE SISTERS
PREFACE
Less than three years ago I made a journey with a friend, Miss
MacDougall, across the Chinese Empire from north-east to south-west,
and while my interests in the changes going on there was intensified,
a profound anxiety took possession of my mind as to the effect these
changes would produce in the national life. The European and other
Powers who had wrangled over the possibility of commercial and political
advantages to be obtained from the Chinese Government (after the Boxer
troubles) have withdrawn to a certain extent, but like snarling dogs
dragged from their prey, they still keep covetous eyes upon it, and both
Russia and Japan continue steadily but silently to strengthen their
hold upon its borders. These borders are Manchuria and Korea, and it is
in this direction that fresh developments must be expected. I read all
the available literature bearing on the subject, but so rapidly had the
changes occurred that books were already out of date, and they failed to
make me _see_ the country as it now is.
As an instance of this, let me quote Whigham’s (correspondent to the
_Morning Post_) “Manchuria and Korea,” published in 1904.[1] “One cannot
seriously believe that Japan would ever invade Manchuria, unless,
indeed, she be caught by the madness with which the gods first visit
those whom they wish to destroy; but if ever her army did occupy Moukden
she would only find another Moscow in the ancient capital of the Manchus,
and when all is said and done what would be the use? She could never hope
to hold the Liao valley for ever against Russia; Great Britain might just
as well try to hold Normandy again against France.... The conclusion is
that as far as Manchuria is concerned, Russia is even now more or less
invulnerable,” &c. &c. This was published the year the Russo-Japanese war
took place.
Taking heart of grace by the kind reception of my former book on China,
I determined to visit Manchuria and Korea, and to try and describe
them by pen and brush as I had described the Face of China. My former
fellow-traveller was willing and eager to repeat our wanderings, so
we set out on February 1st of this year, 1910, via the Trans-Siberian
Railway. Much has been written by various travellers about this part of
the journey, but the questions that I wanted answered are mostly ignored
by them. Baedeker is wholly inadequate. I begin therefore my tale from
the point where we crossed the border into Manchuria, so as to give more
continuity to the narrative and avoid repetition. On our return journey
across Siberia I give details which may possibly be of service to those
who intend travelling on that line, and also the general information
about the condition of the country at the present time, which I have
gathered from reliable sources since my return.
When we started for our four months’ tour we had no intention of
extending it to Turkestan, but finding that a railway line connected it
with the one on which we were travelling, and that it could be reached in
three days from Samara on the Trans-Siberian line, we decided to include
it in our programme and so vary the journey home. It proved to be of
extraordinary artistic interest, not to mention its historical importance
both as the centre of Moslem learning and of Russian experiments in
civilizing Central Asia. Russia looks with a jealous eye upon the
traveller, and a special permit has to be obtained in order to travel
through Turkestan, even on the railway line. Not only is it necessary
to apply for this through the British Embassy at St. Petersburg, but
several weeks elapse before a notification can be received that the
Russian Government graciously permits the traveller to cross Turkestan.
We were informed also that when all these formalities had been duly
observed, the traveller was still liable to be stopped by the police on
the ground that they (the police) had not received official notice of the
traveller’s coming, and in that case he would be ordered to return by the
way he came. Despite this discouraging information we determined to try
our luck, and in due course received a “note verbale” from the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs at St. Petersburg, addressed to the British Embassy,
permitting us to visit Tashkent, Samarkand, and Bokhara. In point of
fact our difficulty proved to be not that of getting _in_, but that of
getting _out_ of Russian territory, as will be seen later on.
Despite the difficulties, Russian Turkestan is well worth visiting, and
had the scope of this book permitted, I should like to have added further
illustrations of Samarkand. All the illustrations suffer from lack of
time, and the earlier ones from the inclemency of the weather, but they
are an attempt to show as accurately as possible what the countries and
people are like, and especially to give correct colouring, in this way
supplementing the photographs with which many previous works on these
countries have been illustrated.
We were warned before undertaking the journey that great dangers would
lie in our path. I should indeed regret depriving the arm-chair critic
of the pleasure of threatening us with tigers, brigands, Hun Hutzes, and
the lowest class of Japanese ruffian, or of his special satisfaction
in shaking his head over the follies of those who run into unnecessary
danger; but in the interest of other travellers I must confess that we
met none of these things, though doubtless it would have added to the
piquancy of the narrative to have done so. The only striped beasts we saw
in the forests were chipmunks, and the only people who were to be feared
were the monks in a certain Buddhist monastery.
I cannot omit a word of thanks to the many missionaries who helped to
make our journey such a pleasant one, and without whose kindly aid we
should have missed a large part of its interest. The Medical Mission
work of the Irish and Scotch Presbyterians in Manchuria, and the various
branches of work of American and Australian Presbyterians in Korea have
been briefly described in this book, but their profound value can only
be appreciated by those who have come in personal contact with them. In
the troublous times of the last decade they have proved their worth, and
I only hope that the ominous cloud still overhanging the land may be
dispersed and a time of prosperous growth succeed the trials which they
have triumphantly endured.
As I write these words the June number _World’s Work_ falls into my
hands, and I read what Japanese writers have to say upon the Manchurian
question. Adachi Kinnosuke points out that, despite the immense
financial strain of the war with Russia, Japan has trebled her army and
strengthened her navy to an equal extent during the few years that have
elapsed since that struggle, which cost her the lives of 300,000 men. The
reason which he assigns for these military preparations is the necessity
of being able to face China. At the close of the Russo-Japanese war
Baron Komura tried to induce the Chinese Government to open Manchuria
to Japanese colonists, but as Manchuria is imperatively needed by China
for her own surplus population, which are pouring into it daily by
thousands in the early spring, it was only natural that she should resent
the proposal, and refuse to grant the desired permission. Hence the
present attitude of Japan. “If you do not allow our people to colonise
Manchuria peacefully, there is only one thing for us to do: to enter it
anyhow.” Yet the density of population in Japan at the present time is
considerably less than that of Great Britain, of Belgium, of Holland,
of Saxony, of Alsace Lorraine, of Hesse, of Baden; not to mention other
non-European countries. The new Russo-Japanese Alliance is concerned
mainly with their railways, and Japan insists on China relinquishing
her project of a railway into Mongolia. Now it is an open secret that
Russia is to have a railway direct from Irkutsk to Peking—the inference
is obvious. The situation is an interesting one; but I have neither the
knowledge nor the impertinence requisite for prophesying the course
of events. My object will be attained if I can in any way succeed in
describing the condition of affairs at the present moment.
The latest step in advance is the annexation of Korea, the highroad into
Manchuria.
_August 26, 1910._
CONTENTS
Preface vij
PART I
The Face of Manchuria
I. Hulan 3
II. Moukden 11
III. Hsin Muntun 34
IV. Liao Yang 42
V. A Visit to the Thousand Peaks 51
VI. From Moukden to Korea 58
XIV. Ashiho 141
(For narrative purposes included in Part II.)
PART II
The Face of Korea
VII. Pyöng Yang 67
VIII. Sunday at Pyöng Yang 74
IX. The History of Roman Catholicism in Korea 84
X. Seoul 93
XI. Fusan 107
XII. The Diamond Mountains 113
XIII. Seoul to Dalny 134
XIV. Ashiho 141
PART III
The Face of Russian Turkestan
XV. Through Siberia 151
XVI. Into Turkestan 171
XVII. Tashkent 178
XVIII. The Home of Tamerlane 188
XIX. Samarkand 201
XX. Bokhara 220
XXI. Through the Caucasus 230
Index 241
Map _To face page_ 248
ILLUSTRATIONS
Tamerlane’s Tomb _Frontispiece_
Foo Ling Tomb _To face page_ 12
Imperial Tomb, Moukden 28
Manchu Ladies’ Greeting 36
Korean Gate, Liao Yang 42
Blind Buddhist Nun 49
Buddhist Monastery 53
Korean in Mourning 69
Coy Korean Maiden 76
Korean Woman 94
Empress’s Tomb 102
Korean Graves 103
(A) Fusan; (B) Korean Village 108
(A) Devil Posts; (B) “Ten Parts Imperfect One” 118
North Gate, Seoul 131
Mohammedan Mosque 145
Prayer at a Saint’s Tomb 184
Tamerlane’s Tomb (Interior) 190
Samarkand 211
Hazréti Shah Zindeh 215
Mosque at Bokhara 226
Baku 231
(A) Tiflis; (B) A Persian 233
Mount Kasbec 236
PART I
The Face of Manchuria
CHAPTER I
Hulan
There is always a thrill of expectation for the genuine traveller on
crossing the frontier into an unknown country, which even the sight
of the custom-house fails to dispel. In the case of Manchuria we were
fortunate enough to escape the custom-house altogether, as having no
registered luggage we only received a perfunctory visit from the politest
of officials in our railway carriage at about 11 P.M. While all the
rest of the travellers had to turn out and spend an hour or more in an
offensive-smelling office, we comfortably went to bed and awoke next
morning to find a glorious, dazzling sun shining on the snowy plain
between Manchuria (town) and our terminus, Kharbin. The railway station
is in the Russian town, which has been built up round it, and still
looks painfully new: it lies on the banks of the great Sungari River,
at the junction of the Trans-Siberian line with the line to Moukden and
Peking. After a night’s rest in the Russian hotel we started for Hulan,
a Chinese town about sixteen miles to the north of Kharbin.
No Chinese vehicle is allowed in the Russian quarter, so we were obliged
to take a droshky to the Chinese town, about a half mile distant,
where our belongings were transferred to the sleigh, which was the
only possible vehicle for crossing the open country. It was of a most
primitive description, a sort of raft on runners, with a little straw
on it covered with a rug. Our luggage was somewhat insecurely corded
on, and we seated ourselves in the midst of it, only too soon to become
acutely aware of the extraordinary number of corners which it possessed.
Between the shafts, which consisted of two sapling birches denuded
of their branches, was a shaggy pony, and another little pony ran
alongside to give what further assistance he could, both animals having
a miscellaneous harness of bits of old cord, which looked incapable of
enduring any strain, though the event proved quite the contrary. We
passed through the old town, which was gay with New Year decorations, the
doors all bright with tutelary deities, freshly pasted up. Already the
streets were filled with traffic, heavily-laden waggons of corn drawn
by teams varying from four to eight, stacks of straw on rafts, fitted
with runners similar to those of the one we were on, and all the various
equipages likely to be found in such a nondescript place. The drollest
of all was a little wooden house on runners, with a tall chimney, which
we supposed to be on its way to some other permanent position. This,
however, proved to be the bus plying daily between Kharbin and Hulan,
the place of our destination. It contained eleven passengers inside, and
a stove. Outside was a heap of bedding on a wooden box tied on a narrow
ledge at the back, upon which lounged another passenger.
It was desperately cold and almost impossible to keep one’s extremities
warm, but the Chinese cope successfully with this difficulty. Nearly
every one wears ear muffs (some of them beautifully embroidered and
fur-lined), or big turned-up collars as high as their heads, or caps
coming over the ears, and at the other extremity large felt boots.
Passing through the busy town we plunged down into the river-bed of
the Sungari, a most perilous descent, as the sledges slither away and
sometimes turn completely round, unless the driver dexterously contrives
to push them into a convenient rut. We passed one heavy cart that had
turned completely on to its side, while yet another was being dug out
of a rut with a pickaxe. The ponies show their mettle, and though they
have the worst of tempers, and not infrequently give a sudden bite to the
passers-by, they work with a will to drag their often too heavy loads
over the difficult ground. We passed the landing-stage, whence in summer
the steamers ply daily up to Hulan.
After struggling up the farther bank we passed over a bumpy plain for
several hours, with various incidents to mark the road. Our umbrellas
soon disappeared, then a collision sent a basket flying. Sometimes we
were in imminent peril as some passing vehicle would skid violently;
once I thought escape was impossible, as a large cart crashed into our
side, missing my arm by a hair’s-breadth, but we strove—I hope not
unsuccessfully—to imitate the Chinese imperturbability of appearance.
During one of our halts for repairs we were overtaken by the
above-mentioned bus, and, behold! there was the Chinaman still on the
back of it, trying to take a nap. We passed and repassed the vehicle, and
he was always in the act of _trying_ to sleep in some different attitude,
but apparently never succeeding—the only Chinaman I have ever met who
failed to sleep in any attitude whatever!
These plains are very fertile, and as soon as spring comes there is
a steady stream of workers to be seen arriving from China proper,
especially from the province of Shantung, to which they return when the
harvest is ended. Many come to accumulate enough money during eight or
nine years to buy land and bring their families up to live here. In fact
we met some emigrants already arriving with all their scanty possessions.
The Chinese Government is now waking up to the importance of colonisation
on the borders of the empire, in order to check the sure and steady
pressure of the Russians from without.
As we approached Hulan we came to another river to be crossed, but not
nearly so large a one as the Sungari. Few foreigners come to such an
out-of-the-way corner of the empire, so people came hurrying out to see
us, calling to one another, “Come and see the shaggy women!” “These
shaggy women are tip-top!” The expression “shaggy” seems to have been
first applied to the Russians, who wear their hair somewhat loose
and long, but it is now the common designation for foreigners of all
nationalities.
We travelled slowly, though occasionally our little ponies would break
into a trot; then the driver would leap into the air, fold his legs
beneath him and alight seated cross-legged on the cart, with a solid
thud, like some gigantic frog. Hulan is quite a Chinese town, and indeed
Manchuria is rapidly becoming populated with the Chinese, for whom its
fertile plains offer an excellent home. The old Manchu towns are in
a decadent condition, and can only hope for a fresh lease of life by
new blood being introduced from the south. No wonder the Japanese cast
covetous eyes on the land where crops produce an increase of 100 per
cent. The crops are mainly wheat and beans, both of which are being
largely exported to Britain. Great quantities of oil are obtained from
the beans, and the refuse is made into large flat cakes, nearly as big as
cart wheels, which form excellent fuel. The price of beans in the north
is three times as great as it was a year ago, and the people in Manchuria
are on the whole more prosperous than elsewhere in the Chinese Empire.
On Sunday morning we attended service in the Mission Hall, and received
a warm welcome from the people, to whom we were formally presented at
the conclusion of the service. The Mission is still in its infancy, but
promises well, and when the medical side is started will make more rapid
progress. The next day “the faithful of Hulan” sent us gifts of cakes,
and asked when we were leaving, that they might speed us on our way. We
left too early, however, to go and thank them in person, as we had a
four hours’ sleigh ride in order to catch the express at Kharbin, which
only goes twice a week direct to Moukden. Unfortunately we had mistaken
the day, and we doubly regretted that we had not waited to return the
courtesies shown to us.
The first section of the railway line running southwards is still in
the hands of Russia, and one’s attention is continually arrested by the
large numbers of soldiers who are kept all along the line to guard it.
Kwan-cheng-tze is the terminus of the Russian line: it is not quite
half-way from Kharbin to Moukden. The Japanese call their station at
Kwan-cheng-tze Changchun, which is rather puzzling to the traveller who
is unaware that the place boasts two names. All passengers have to change
trains here.
We had a leisurely journey across the plains, and arrived at
Kwan-cheng-tze about 8.30, our halting-place for the night. It boasts a
brand new Japanese hotel just opposite the station, which was radiantly
clean and fresh, such a contrast to the Russian one at Kharbin. There
was no lack of attention, for the Chinese boys flew to do our bidding,
and fetched us tea unbidden. In the morning we started at 8.30 on the
Japanese section of the line. The cars are long open corridor ones,
and kept admirably clean, but one misses the privacy so dear to the
Englishman. All day long we slowly wended our way southward, stopping
at many stations of a mushroom growth: it requires no imagination to
fancy yourself back in Europe as far as the houses are concerned, but
the people are quite out of keeping with them. The train had a sonorous
bell attached to the engine, absolutely like that of a church, which
heralded our approach to the stations. At almost every station there is
a little house where hot water is to be obtained; the moment the train
stops out dash numbers of Chinese, carrying their teapots, which they get
replenished. We had no need to bestir ourselves, as the conductor was
most attentive and kept us well supplied. The trains always have Japanese
military officials on board, who usually go only short stages, being
replaced by others whenever they get out. The trains are very crowded,
and in the third class they are packed like monkeys in cages: some of the
carriages have three shelves one above the other, on which the passengers
lie, and as they are lighted at the top by a single dim candle, at night
the top man certainly has the best of it.
At 6 P.M. we steamed into Moukden punctual to the minute, and found a
deafening crowd ready to lay hold of the passengers. We were greeted by
a man possessing a few words of English, and able to understand where we
wanted to go, so we were glad to entrust ourselves to his care. He even
satisfied any curiosity we might have had as to the personal appearance
of our host, whose main feature, judging from the description, was a
huge moustache. The drive was thrilling, and the five miles were none
too long; it was the New Year festival, and all sorts of things were to
be seen in the thronged streets. Brilliant moonlight illuminated the
city from above, and lanterns and fireworks lit it up intermittently
from within. A short drive brought us near a thoroughly Burmese dagoba
of old times, and then through a horrible iron archway of the worst type
of modern times. Farther on we passed through the gloomy gateway in the
big city wall, and found an almost impenetrable throng of sightseers.
Our driver had no longer a chance of pointing out interesting buildings,
and giving us details of his faith, &c., with which he had varied the
earlier part of the drive, for he was obliged to keep up a monotonous
shout of “hech! hech! hech!” only varied by what sounded like “hurry on,
hurry on!” a much needed injunction to his steed. After about an hour’s
drive we reached the group of Mission buildings, hospitals, schools, and
dwelling-houses situated on the river bank, which is radiant with lotus
blossom in the summer-time. But I must not begin describing the charms
of Moukden at the end of a chapter: it demands one to itself. As the
relation of Manchuria to China is but little known, it may be of interest
to the reader to have the brief account which forms the beginning of the
next chapter, but after this warning it is easy for those who are not
interested to skip the next four pages.
CHAPTER II
Moukden
The story of the rise of the Manchu dynasty is like a romance, and no
parallel to it is to be found in the pages of history. In the middle
of the sixteenth century there was no Manchu Empire, and the Manchus
themselves were wild, uncultured barbarians without any written language,
living in caves which they hollowed in the earth, and engaged in constant
warfare with other tribes living like themselves in the northern part of
that country which we call Manchuria, the central and southern part being
inhabited by the Chinese. In the year 1559 Noorhachu was born, with the
prospect of becoming ruler over six little hamlets; by the year 1616 he
had conquered all the adjacent tribes and founded the Manchu kingdom,
receiving from the “great Ministers” the title of Ying Ming—“brave and
illustrious.” Noorhachu’s military conquests and singular political
sagacity alarmed the Chinese, whose frequent attacks and whose murder of
his father and grandfather had roused his deep-seated enmity. He prepared
an army of picked men, and drew up a paper of “seven hates,” addressed
to the Emperor of China. Instead of despatching it to the Emperor, he
addressed it to Heaven, burning the document with full sacrificial rites,
after which he started his campaign (1617) by attacking the Chinese in
the territory east of Moukden. In the midst of this campaign he was
recalled to his capital, Hingking, by the news that a Chinese army of
200,000 men was approaching. On reaching Moukden this force divided into
four armies of equal size: they were all in turn defeated by the smaller
forces of Noorhachu within the space of five days, the number of killed
being computed at 45,000. After one month’s rest he led his victorious
troops to the conquest of Moukden and Liao Yang, and at the latter place
he built a palace for himself and made it the seat of government.
Noorhachu, or as he was afterwards styled, Taidsoo = the Great Ancestor,
was far-sighted enough to recognise that his only means of holding the
large territory which he had won was by wise and good administration,
and in this he was successful. In 1625 he retired to Moukden and made it
his capital; in the following year he died there, after an unsuccessful
campaign against the Chinese. They were led by a determined general who
brought (for the first time) “terrific western cannon” against him, which
had been cast by Jesuit missionaries.
[Illustration: FOO LING TOMB, MOUKDEN]
Noorhachu was buried in the Foo Ling tomb, east of Moukden, a fitting
resting-place for the great founder of the Manchu dynasty. It was during
his son’s reign that the Manchu dynasty was firmly placed upon the
throne of China in the person of Noorhachu’s grandson, a boy of five
years old (1644). His father had been summoned by the Chinese to aid them
against several hordes of rebels who had devastated the empire, and he
sent a powerful army led by his brother. The Manchus, after defeating
the rebel army, marched on Peking, where Li Dsuchung, the most noted
rebel leader, had entrenched himself, and where the last of the Ming
Emperors had in consequence committed suicide. Li Dsuchung had indeed
proclaimed himself Emperor in his stead, but after a reign of one day
he fled from the city at the approach of the Manchus, was pursued by
them, and severely defeated. The Manchu general at once sent for his
nephew—the ninth son of the reigning monarch, a child of five years
old—and placed him upon the throne, himself acting as Regent. The new
Emperor received the title of Ta-tsing, or “Great Pure”—the name of the
present dynasty. The Regent was an able ruler, and soon succeeded in
dispersing the rebels and restoring order throughout the empire. At the
end of six months comparative peace had been established, and the Regent
issued a proclamation that all who submitted to the new rule would enjoy
the same rank, position, and emoluments, as they had done under the Ming
dynasty.[2] He ordered sacrifices to be offered at the Ming tombs, and
that a tomb should be erected for the last of them, where sacrifices
should also be offered. He postponed the enforcement of the humiliating
law requiring change of dress, the shaving of the head, and wearing of
the queue and Manchu cap, and he promised those who complained of the
neglect of etiquette and music among officials, that proper attention
should be given to this matter as soon as war was at an end. It is an
interesting fact that the Manchus should afterwards have so completely
succeeded in imposing their dress on the Chinaman, the wearing of the
queue becoming universal; but equally interesting is it to observe that
the women never could be made to adopt it. The Manchu woman’s dress
is to this day quite different from the Chinese, from its wonderful
wing-like head-dress down to its large shoes. The Chinese woman refused
to unbind her feet, and was in consequence never admitted within the
precincts of the palace at Peking. In fact it may be stated that whereas
it is impossible to distinguish between a Chinaman and a Manchu, there
is no part of a Chinese woman’s dress which is quite the same as a
Manchu’s. The latter have different styles of arranging their hair from
the spreadeagle style, so commonly seen in Peking, to the curious one
shown in the sketch (see next chapter), and also wear different kinds of
shoes—some with a heel attached to the centre of the sole, others with a
flat white sole some two inches thick.
The foregoing historical details are mainly drawn from Dr. Ross’s book,
“The Manchus, or the Reigning Dynasty of China.” The uniqueness of the
story lies in the fact that when the Manchus conquered China they were
merely a horde of savages attacking a highly educated people, infinitely
their superiors in number and resources. They not only conquered them,
but for centuries they imposed their yoke upon them, always hated, yet
always obeyed. As the centuries elapsed the Manchus grew weaker in their
own country, and never fused with the conquered race. In China proper
they still live apart; walled Manchu cities may be found within many
walled Chinese cities; and it is only last year that the stringent rule
forbidding Manchu women to marry Chinese husbands has been rescinded.
It needs no explanation to see why the opposite rule held with regard
to Manchu men marrying Chinese wives, who, _ipso facto_, lost their
nationality.
I have tried to show in the foregoing pages how the Manchus won their
position in China, and also how the southern part of Manchuria, including
Moukden, was originally Chinese. Those who wish to wrest it from China
are seeking to take an integral part of the empire. No one who visits
Moukden can fail to see that it is a thoroughly Chinese city, with its
magnificent walls and gateways, and the big drum tower and bell, like
the one at Peking. Alas for the modern utilitarian spirit! Already they
are beginning to pull down the fine old gateways, and to replace the
inimitable shop fronts with shabby imitations of European ones.
It was cold weather when we walked through those fascinating streets,
and in the fish shops we saw quantities of frozen as well as dried
comestibles. Game was plentiful and cheap, and the frozen deer had quite
a life-like appearance, standing waiting for a customer. In one street
nothing but boots was being sold, and the fact was evident from afar, for
outside the shops were hung gaily painted effigies of boots, some two
feet in length. Above some shops were dragons, over others tigers, or the
phœnix, or lotus blossoms all painted in every colour of the rainbow, and
hanging from them signboards bearing the name of the shopkeepers. The
cash shops have almost a screen of strings of gigantic cash dependent
from the eaves. The curio shops still contain things to charm the soul
of the artist, though every day sees their treasures diminishing, to
be replaced by modern imitations. The glorious jade that used to be
obtainable is scarcely to be found, and the bronzes have mostly been
carried off to the West; still one hopes for the best, and carries off
a few things, which if not so old as they boast to be, have at least an
air of antiquity and some noble suggestion of the glory of the art of the
Ming dynasty.
Our first expedition at Moukden was naturally to the Foo Ling tombs to
see where the great founder of the Manchu dynasty lies buried. It is
disappointing to be unable to gain information as to the date of the
tomb, but no doubt the Manchus adopted the architecture and arts of China
at an early stage of their conquest.
It was by no means a promising morning when we set out, but our time was
limited, and we had persuaded the doctor to take an unwonted holiday from
his strenuous labours, so delay was impossible. Where no guide-books
are obtainable, it is doubly valuable to have kind friends willing to
place their knowledge at your disposal, and doctors are skilful at
smoothing other things as well as pillows; in fact I can give no better
advice to travellers than to try and secure the help of the medical
missionary—the busier the better—as a guide to all that is best worth
seeing in the foreign field. Dr. Young had kindly procured for us the
requisite permit to visit the tombs, which can only be obtained through
the British Consul. We set out in a weird glass chariot, quite suggestive
of Cinderella’s coach; it had windows the whole way round, and was lined
with mouse-coloured plush, not to mention a fine mirror opposite to us.
We had a retainer standing on a step behind, who spent all his time
jumping on and off, as he required to lead the horse round every corner
and over every obstacle in the road. Passing outside the city we saw an
endless stretch of graves beyond graves; then we came to a beautiful
park-like place where lilies of the valley grow thickly in the spring—but
alas! people are digging them up so ruthlessly, that it is to be feared
there will soon be none left. The trees seemed to grow finer and finer as
we neared the tombs. The wall surrounding them has been damaged by its
occupation during the war, when the Japanese troops took possession and
were attacked by the Russians: the wall is riddled by bullets, but it is
astonishing how comparatively little damage had been done. The gateway
is beautifully decorated with green tiles, and there are handsome large
green medallions set in the Venetian red wall. Inside is a fine avenue of
hoary trees leading to the main avenue, in which are some curious stone
animals; these are so familiar to us by photos and by the description
of other travellers, that it is unnecessary for me to attempt it. They
form but a detail of the fine effect which is created by the lofty
buildings among the trees, enclosed within a high wall. The colouring of
the building—mellowed by time—is superb, and as we saw it under the fast
falling snow, was most impressive.
Some difficulty attended our entrance despite the permit, but the
doctor’s tact overcame it, and once inside they were most civil to us,
and became quite interested when I began to sketch. The actual grave
of Noorhachu, or Taidsoo, the grandfather of the first Manchu Emperor
of China (Ching dynasty 1644), is a lofty mound at the far end of the
enclosure, and surrounded by a wall of its own. The entrance by which
the ruling Emperor approaches the tomb is very fine, a handsomely carved
marble pailow surrounded by trees, and as we looked at the whole group
of buildings from the top of the wall, along which there is an excellent
walk, they form a most impressive sight. The trees are full of mistletoe,
but of a different species from ours; it has either yellow or scarlet
berries, and in some trees we saw both varieties.
There are many interesting monuments in Moukden, but I venture to think
this is the finest of all. The design is copied from the Ming tombs near
Peking, and it is said that it was originally planned to carry away
the stone animals from the former in order to use them for the Moukden
tombs. This design was frustrated, however, for a descendant of the
Mings accidentally heard of it, whereupon he at once went and mutilated
all the stone beasts, knocking off the ear of one and the beard from
another, and thereby rendering them useless. While this explanation is
merely a tradition, the fact remains. The Ming tombs, forty miles north
of Peking, are designed on a much larger scale than the Moukden ones, and
cover a distance of several miles in length, as compared with acres in
the case of the latter. In my opinion this detracts considerably from the
effect, as only one detail can be properly seen at a time; first the fine
marble pailow of five gateways, then at varying distances other gateways
(very dilapidated), then a square tower containing a stone tablet on a
tortoise, then a dromos of stone animals and warriors facing one another,
with a considerable space between each couple, so that the sixteen
couples extend over a space nearly a mile in length. Between them and the
tombs is a considerably greater distance, and whereas the above-mentioned
memorials are all in a straight line, the thirteen tombs are arranged in
a fan shape at the base of the hills which enclose the end of the valley.
These Peking tombs date back to the time of the Ming dynasty, which ended
in 1644, and the Moukden tombs are considerably later. Their whole design
is taken direct from the former, and there is no attempt to introduce any
Manchu characteristics. The reason for this is obvious; the Manchus were
emerging from a state of barbarism, and possessed no architecture worthy
of the name.
After the tombs the most interesting building at Moukden is the palace,
for which also an order has to be obtained through the Consul. We visited
it twice.
This palace is thoroughly Chinese in appearance (I failed to ascertain
its date, but it is at least some centuries old), with its gorgeous
golden roofs and Venetian red walls. The façades are decorated with
coloured tiles of great beauty and infinite variety of detail: they
challenge comparison with some of the majolica most highly prized in
Europe. Under the wide eaves there are finely carved dragons, stretching
their sinuous length from end to end. The buildings are ranged court
beyond court, with a fine staircase leading to the innermost one at
the back. But the main object of the visitor is to see the priceless
treasures locked up in its rooms, for they contain the most valuable
possessions of the Chinese throne. Unfortunately, when admittance
has been obtained, it is not easy to see the treasures, for they are
carefully wrapped up in cases, or stacked in hopeless confusion in
cupboards, and are taken out one by one and laid on a table for the
visitor to see them, and then put away again. First we were shown
imperial robes, studded with pearls and jewels, then jade-mounted swords.
Jade is considered by the Chinese to be the most precious of all stones,
and it is one of the hardest to cut. “It was first brought to England
from Spanish America by Sir Walter Raleigh,” says Bushnell (“Chinese
Art,” p. 134), and he derived the word “jade” from the Spanish _piedra
de hijade_—“stone of the loins.” Vessels of jade are always used in
the Chinese Imperial ritual worship, and must be of various colours,
according to the particular ceremonial in which they are employed.
After showing us these things the officials began to lose their
distrust, and invited us to come inside the enclosure and peer into the
dark cupboards, whence we picked out things that looked particularly
attractive, but found that the waning light prevented our doing justice
to the opportunity.
It was on our second visit that we were shown the much more valuable
collection of bronzes and porcelain, the door to which could only
be unlocked after prolonged effort, and in the presence of special
officials. Other visitors besides ourselves were anxious to enter, but
a special permit was required, and they were sent away disappointed.
The porcelain was piled in endless heaps in glass cases, which
probably remained unopened for decades, and there was no attempt at
classification. The beauty of colour and design could be but imperfectly
realised, as sets of bowls or dishes were all piled in one another, so
as to occupy the least possible space, and there was but little variety
in proportion to the large quantity of china displayed. A visit to the
British Museum gives a much better conception of this form of Chinese
art. It was much the same case with the bronzes, and it was even more
difficult to see them than the china. There was one fine example of the
“gold splash,” which is so well represented at the South Kensington
Museum in Mr. Behren’s collection. To my great disappointment there
was little variety of design. It is to be hoped that the Chinese may
be sufficiently imbued by the modern spirit to make them copy (to a
certain extent) the arrangement of our museums, so that the art treasures
contained in the palace may be more accessible to visitors. Outside the
palace were the curious fences known as “deer’s horns,” which are also to
be seen at the great tombs and outside official buildings. They are long
pieces of wood set at right angles to one another as closely as possible,
and running through a long heavy beam. The lower ends of the cross pieces
are heavy, and are set into the ground, the upper ones taper to a point:
altogether the “deer’s horns” form a strong, though simple, barrier. They
are usually painted red.
After seeing the palace we visited the fine church, built by the native
Christians after the destruction of the former one by the Boxers in
1800. It seats several hundred people, and has a native pastor. It
may interest readers to know that among the State papers found during
the Russian occupation of Moukden was a description of the destruction
of the property of the Christians. This was written in Manchu, which
is quite different from Chinese writing, and bound in imperial yellow
silk, enclosed in a yellow silk box and sent to Peking. There it was
countersigned by the late Emperor and late Dowager Empress, and sent back
to Moukden to be placed in the State archives. Could any more conclusive
proof be found that the Boxer outrages were sanctioned by the Court at
Peking? We were privileged to see this interesting historical document.
At the time of the Boxers all the missionaries in Manchuria were obliged
to flee, some without time to take even necessary clothing with them.
One of the most popular doctors learnt afterwards that the robbers in a
certain village had planned to carry him off in order to save him from
the Boxers! It is impossible to overestimate the influence of the medical
missionary, and no mission field has been more favoured in this respect
than Manchuria. The medical mission work was started at Moukden in 1882
by Dr. Christie, who has steadily built up the work there, and whose new
hospital is the model for what such institutions should be. Despite the
prejudices of the people, the work has steadily grown. The renown of the
foreign doctor has spread for hundreds of miles, and the message which is
nearest to his heart has been carried into remote villages in the Long
White Mountains by patients who return from the hospital not only cured,
but also imbued with the missionary spirit which has brought a new life
to them. The respect which is felt for this work is shown in no way more
clearly than in the fact that when the hospital was obliged to be left
for ten months during the war between China and Japan, the buildings with
their contents were left absolutely unharmed.
Not so fortunate, however, was the hospital during the Boxer time, for
all the buildings were destroyed by fire, and when they might have been
rebuilt, another desolating war swept over the country. The missionaries
had returned and had their hands more than full, for Moukden was the
refuge to which crowds of destitute Chinese were driven. No less than
seventeen refuges, containing some 10,000 people, were under the care of
the missionaries, for the officials thankfully recognised their efforts
and cooperated with them, doing similar work themselves. There were as
many as four hospitals being carried on at the same time, for not only
were there numbers of wounded, but epidemics of smallpox and fever spread
among the refugees.
When at last the time came for building the new hospital, the money
granted as an indemnity for the destruction of the former ones by the
Boxers was wholly inadequate, for the price of everything was more than
quadrupled. The Chinese were not slow to show their sense of indebtedness
for the unstinted labours on their behalf, and the new buildings, owing
to their generosity, were built on a larger scale than before. The
Japanese, too, came forward with most generous aid, in return for the
work that had been done for their wounded during the war. Marshal Oyama
sent a donation of about £100 for the Red Cross work, and ordered all the
wood required for the buildings to be sent up by rail, free of charge,
from Newchwang. This was of the greatest importance, as there was no
seasoned wood to be obtained in Moukden, and it meant a saving of several
hundred pounds. The Viceroy sent a gift of over £600, to which he added
another £150 when he opened the new hospital. Another friend carted all
the bricks and tiles; a director of the Chinese railway ordered all the
requisite Portland cement and floor tiles to be brought up free of charge
from Tang Shan to Hsin Muntun, and others helped in various ways. No
wonder the hospital is such a splendid success, when it has such workers
and such friends! It has several wings radiating out from a long central
corridor, with a fine operating theatre at the end. There is an X-ray
apparatus and other special furnishings.[3] There are outbuildings for
students, &c., a laboratory and class-rooms, besides the preaching hall,
where service goes on daily.
But what, it may be asked, is the staff for this large work? The
surprising answer is _one_ man; only last year has a second been
appointed, to give a part of his time to assisting Dr. Christie. He has,
of course, trained Chinese assistants to help him in the work, and very
efficient some of them are, and two Chinese hospital evangelists, who
follow up the cases, but the bulk of the work falls on himself. What
would our doctors at home think of having to perform ten operations in a
day, after handing over nine minor ones to the assistants? But that was
the case the day we visited the hospital. It accommodates 110 patients,
and the beds do not lack occupants. The attendance of out-patients is
frequently 200 or 300 per morning, so that the attendance for the year is
very large, last year numbering over 26,000. After the recent visit of
the Naval Commission returning from Europe, a request came for medical
aid for 200 men with badly frost-bitten ears, as the soldiers are not
allowed to wear ear-muffs when on parade. It is not etiquette to wear
ear-muffs or spectacles when speaking to any one, and the curious custom
is now coming into fashion of touching the glasses instead of removing
them. The hospital is a free one, but poor as are many of the patients,
few of the in-patients leave without giving an offering, and many
out-patients do the same. Some of the beds are supported from home, and
it only requires £5 per annum to support one.
It will be seen from these figures how requisite it is to have a larger
staff, and to undertake (what is now being planned) a training college
for the Chinese. The late Viceroy promised a yearly sum of about £420 for
this purpose, but as he has been replaced by an anti-foreign Viceroy,
it was feared that his promise would not be ratified by his successor.
Despite the further fact that the new buildings are not yet begun,
when the matter was placed before him he promised to consider it, and
shortly afterwards sent word that the sum had been duly placed in the
bank to the credit of the mission. The college will be a union one of
the Irish Presbyterians and the United Free Church of Scotland, and may
draw students also from the Danish Lutheran stations, the only other
missionary society working in Manchuria. As there are now some 40,000
Christians there will be no difficulty in finding students, though it
will not be entirely confined to Christians.
The course will be a thorough one, extending over five years after the
preliminary examination, and diplomas will be given. The estimated
cost of the new buildings and equipment is £2500, and two houses for
professors £1500. An excellent site has already been obtained through the
generosity of the Chinese, which is close to the hospital.
I have described at some length the medical mission here, and yet have
done scant justice to it; of the women’s work a word must also be said.
There are two fully qualified women doctors, and their hospital, with
accommodation for seventy patients, is so crowded, that a new wing is
now being added. They do a large amount of work in the people’s homes,
as many of the ladies are not to be reached otherwise, also they do work
as far as time allows in the district round Moukden. When it is known
that the doctor is coming, patients crowd to see her; and one realises a
little the magnitude of the work when one chances to see the missionary
come back utterly worn out by a two days’ visitation, having interviewed
over 900 patients in that short space of time.
Women’s work in Moukden is not merely medical, but also educational.
Besides the training of Bible women there is an excellent girls’ boarding
school, for which new buildings (badly needed) are in course of erection.
Great excitement was caused in the little community by the girls being
taken, for the first time in their lives, to see an exhibition. It is
rather disappointing to the traveller who thinks he is going to the
genuine Far East to find it invaded by industrial exhibitions and school
excursions, but alas, such is the prosaic fact.
We devoted a day to visiting the imperial tombs on the north of the city,
and although it was the end of March, we suffered intensely from the
cold, and had not the advantage of going in a glass coach as we did on
the occasion of visiting the eastern tombs. The road was too rough, and
even the solid droshky built in Odessa, and drawn by two sturdy beasts,
was severely tested by the frightful ruts into which we were frequently
plunged. The Russian driver was a capital, good-tempered fellow, and
never hesitated to drive through a quagmire or up a bank into a ploughed
field when necessity compelled. After three hours’ driving we approached
a fine bluff crowned with pine-trees, among which gleamed the golden
roofs of the tombs, so we knew that our destination was at hand.
[Illustration: IMPERIAL TOMB, MOUKDEN]
“Deer’s horns” palisades enclosed the wood at the base of the cliff, and
we turned up a gully to the left of it. The road soon became very steep,
and we left the carriage to climb up on foot. The view of the entrance
gate among the trees as seen in the accompanying sketch, was peculiarly
striking after the long drive over the dun-coloured plain, for as yet
there was no sign of spring. Passing through the gateway we soon came
to the lofty façade of the main enclosure, and a surly old guardian of
the place came to challenge our entry. We produced the permit, which
we had obtained through the Consul, and were kept a long time waiting
before we were allowed to enter, but there was plenty to interest us in
the scene. It was a sort of square, with the dwellings of the officials
on either side, and at the lower end a small temple facing the plain
below, down to which were long flights of steps, and then a steep paved
incline the same width as the steps and with balustrades at the sides.
Lofty pine-trees surrounded the place, and scattered amongst them at the
bottom were stone animals and figures. At a short distance from the steps
was the State entrance gateway, but that was closed. One could imagine
how fine the effect would be to see a gorgeous royal procession enter
the gateway from the plain, cross the short level space under the avenue
of pine-trees, and mount the long ascent to the towering, golden-roofed
temples behind which the imperial tomb stands. The colouring in the
brilliant sunlight looked very rich as it gleamed among the dark
pine-trees.
Before leaving, we asked the man who had showed us round if we could have
some hot water for tea, but he said there was none, so we took our things
outside, and sat down to sketch and lunch. At first I could not think
what was the matter, for the paint seemed thoroughly intractable; then
it suddenly dawned on me that no sooner was a wet wash laid on the paper
than it froze. Yet this was the last week of March, and midday, with
the sun shining full on us. Sketching generally seems to be done under
difficulties, and this trip more so than ever. It will be understood
how doubly welcome was the sight of our guide returning to say that he
had got hot water for us, and he took away our teapot and filled it,
for all Chinese understand the right making of tea. As we were drinking
it shortly afterwards, a pitiable figure came creeping up the hill,
evidently suffering acutely from asthma. When we offered him a cup of hot
tea a look of intense gratitude shone in his eyes, and when he had drunk
it, still speechless, he drew himself up and made a European military
salute, then passed slowly on to the gateway.
As we returned to the city we agreed that no one should fail to visit
the tombs who comes to Moukden. It is of course tiresome to have to get
permits, and takes a little time, but there is nothing within the city
that is half so picturesque as these two groups of tombs, to each of
which a whole day should be devoted. Some inscriptions at the Foo Ling
tomb, we were told, are quite unique, but the heavy snow when we were
there prevented our doing justice to the fine details of architecture.
There is an unpromising-looking hotel at Moukden called the Astor House,
but Americans who stayed there assured us it was quite comfortable, and
every one passing through Moukden ought certainly to stop and see it,
especially in view of its being so rapidly modernised. The old temples
seem to be in a state of utter disrepair, and the most interesting one,
the Fox Temple, will soon cease to exist. The worship of the fox is
very common in Manchuria, and is especially incumbent upon officials,
all Mandarins being supposed to do it, as the fox is the keeper of
the seals of office. Doolittle, in his “Social Life of the Chinese,”
says: “There is in connection with some of the principal civil yamens
a small two-storied building devoted to the worship of his Majesty,
Master Reynard. There is no image or picture of a fox to be worshipped,
but simply an imaginary fox somewhere. Incense, candles, and wine are
placed upon a table in the room of the second storey of this building,
and before this table the Mandarin kneels down and bows his head in the
customary manner, as an act of reverence to Reynard, the keeper of his
seals of office. This sacrifice, it is affirmed, is never performed by
deputy. The Chinese believe the official seal of the Mandarin, after he
has arrived at his yamen, to be in the keeping of the fox. They assert
with great earnestness, and apparent sincerity, that if the Mandarin did
not worship the fox on his arrival at his residence, his seal of office
would shortly disappear in some inexplicable way, or some singular and
strange calamity would certainly befall him or his yamen.”
We visited the Temple of Hell, where all sorts of horrible penalties are
vividly depicted in stucco, and these are more terrible as indicating
what Chinese punishments have been, than in suggesting what may be
expected in the future world. The temples seem to be little frequented
by the people, and it is only on certain occasions that the people flock
to them. The ancestral tablets in his own home have the main part of a
Chinaman’s devotions.
On our second visit to Moukden we had rather a rickety droshky, and were
amused to see the way the driver arranged the luggage. The Chinese never
make any difficulty about the quantity, for fear by so doing of losing
a fare. The man therefore entirely filled his footboard with luggage,
and seated himself on it with a large bag of bedding on his lap. We had
not gone far when a wheel rolled off into the gutter, and we waited some
time for it to be put on again, the luggage meanwhile being deposited
in the road. The job was not satisfactorily managed, for we had to go
very, very slowly, and have the wheel continually hammered on. It began
to rain, and in order to put up the hood most of the luggage had to be
piled on the top of ourselves, and we found it, to say the least, both
hot and heavy. At last our driver gave up in despair, and by means of
signs made us understand that he would go and fetch another vehicle. When
he returned with a cart the transfer was soon made, and our driver with
great secrecy explained that he had bargained with the carter to take
us to our destination for a certain sum. The difficulty then arose as
to how we were to pay him, for we only possessed Japanese and Pekingese
money, which he eyed with distrust, and declined to accept. We gave him,
however, a rather liberal fare, and pointed to him to take it to a big
shop, opposite which we were standing. There he was reassured as to its
value, and came back smiling; he thrust his head into the cart with a
final rejoinder to us only to pay the right fare to the carter, evidently
feeling that we were liable to spend our money too lavishly.
CHAPTER III
Hsin Muntun
From Moukden we made a flying visit to Peking and into Shansi, but as
that does not come within the scope of this book, I shall take up my
narrative from the point where we re-entered Manchuria on our return by
the South Manchurian Railway. We were astonished to see the hundreds of
emigrants going north: every train was packed with them. There was an
accident on the line, a young lad of twenty having his leg badly crushed
by the train preceding ours. First aid was rendered by the officials, who
are trained to give it, and by means of a chunk of coal and some cord
the bleeding was stopped, the ligature being so tight as completely to
stop the circulation. The lad was put on a big sort of door and placed in
the luggage van of our train, and the conductor came round as soon as we
had started again to see if a doctor was aboard to give further aid. Our
party provided one, and there were all necessary requisites in the shape
of bandages, splints, permanganate of potash, &c., in the surgery at the
junction farther up the line, so that the patient was made as comfortable
as possible when he arrived there, and a message was telegraphed to the
medical mission at Hsin Muntun, which happened to be both his and also
our destination. On arrival the doctor and assistants were waiting, and
the young man was carried away at once to the hospital. Amputation was
necessary, but the lad would not at first agree to it; however, just as
we had finished dinner a message came to say that his friends had been
summoned, and that both they and he were willing for the operation to
take place, so no time was lost in performing it.
Next morning we visited him in the hospital, and found him looking quite
comfortable, and not at all pale even.
In the early days of the railway there were countless accidents; people
would drop things on to the line, and then creep under the train to
pick them out, or step in front of it just as it was starting. We
were surprised to find blue glass windows in many of the trains, but
the explanation of that was, that being unaccustomed to glass, people
were continually putting their heads through them as long as they were
uncoloured! Even now the trains all approach and leave the stations
extraordinarily slowly, and there is a great bell ringing in order to
warn people off the line. Of course there are no overhead or underground
passages for crossing the line, so that it makes accidents almost
inevitable. They are taken with the usual Chinese stolid imperturbability.
Hsin Muntun is an interesting little town not far distant from Moukden,
which we visited in order to see the admirable mission work carried on
there by members of the Irish Presbyterian Mission, having received a
cordial invitation from one of the staff whom we happened to meet on the
railway as we travelled south. The Irish and Scotch Presbyterians may
be said to have federated in Manchuria, and work together with hearty
goodwill. Though Hsin Muntun offered no striking characteristics, I had
the good fortune to make sketches of the women there, with their curious
head-dress, similar to that worn throughout the country.
In the women’s hospital were two widows, acting as assistants; they
donned their best garments for my benefit, and may be seen in the
accompanying sketch, saluting one another in the Manchu style. The
Manchus always wear the hair dressed over a metal framework, either as in
the sketch, or like a wide flat bow, and with both styles of head-dress
a large bunch of artificial flowers is worn, and gold ornaments in
addition. In winter a cap is worn out of doors, with fur round it, and
embroidered strings hanging down behind, not to mention ear-muffs, an
imperative necessity where the cold is so intense. We found that in the
women’s hospital they decided to have the bulk of the accommodation in
the shape of heated khangs, as in the homes of the people; these are
brick platforms, used instead of bedsteads: they are greatly preferred by
the patients. It may not be so sanitary, but the people feel much more
at home on the khang, and as physical health is not the main object of
medical mission work, it is obvious that due regard must be paid to the
likings or prejudices of the people among whom the missionary is working.
The cost of medical mission work is heavy, and we were touched by the
efforts to utilise to the utmost the money which had been sent from home
for the buildings. The funds had not been sufficient to provide for a
porch or front door, so a mat shed had been erected till the requisite
money should be forthcoming. Efficiency does not depend on these things,
but workers would be much encouraged if their supporters were more
numerous, or more generous.
[Illustration: MANCHU LADIES’ GREETING]
The men’s hospital is larger, and is complete—very simple, but thoroughly
practical, and attracting patients from all the country round. Our visit
took place at rather a slack time of year, and it was undergoing a New
Year’s cleaning, as that is the occasion when all patients, if possible,
return to their own homes. After visiting both the men’s and the women’s
hospitals we went to the girls’ school, and met with a great surprise.
Three years ago the school was not in existence, and when the children
first came, mostly from Christian homes in neighbouring villages, they
were absolutely ignorant of reading and writing. Now we saw them examined
in geography, arithmetic, algebra, singing, and drilling. There are about
fifty boarders: they are under the charge of a Chinese matron, with four
senior girls as monitors to help her. These girls were examined last
term along with the boys, who had been studying many years. The best
girl pupil obtained an average of 84 per cent. marks, coming out ahead
of the boys in arithmetic, Scripture, and algebra. She got 100 per cent.
for arithmetic, 95 for an essay, 96 for Chinese classics (memorised),
and 85 for explaining the Chinese classics. The children’s sums were as
neat and the figures as well written as one could wish to see, their maps
excellent, and they answered the questions in geography on all parts
of the world, pointing out the places on the charts on the wall. I am
forced to admit that the examination in geography was more painful to
us than to the examined, for we were required, without book or map, to
ask questions on Australasia and South America, parts of the world with
which I was sadly unfamiliar. We happened to go back into the schoolroom
after school had been dismissed, and found a child who had not been able
to point out on the map the way from Shanghai to England now receiving
a lesson on it from the monitor. The Irish master told us the girls are
“tigers” for work, and far keener than the boys, to whom education has
always been open. We went into the courtyard to watch them drill, and
here again we were struck with the success of the monitress, who had
learnt the exercises from a book, with merely an explanation from the
foreign teacher when she failed to understand it. The singing is entirely
taught on the sol-fa system, and the children have already learnt to sing
creditably simple part music. They are nearly all Chinese, but apparently
there is little appreciable difference between the intellectual ability
of Chinese and Manchus. Morning school closed with two or three short
prayers by the girls, and the repetition of the Lord’s Prayer: they
always dismiss themselves. The education is free, but the children’s food
is provided by the parents: they looked thoroughly well and happy, and
comparatively clean, and none are allowed to have bound feet. They have
a large measure of freedom, except that they are not allowed outside the
large compound. The money for the building came in a way as unexpected
as welcome. The missionary received word that an official desired him to
come to the railway station to see him on his way through Hsin Muntun,
and when they met, the official presented him with a cheque for 3000
taels in aid of the excellent educational work that he was doing. This
enabled him to start building the girls’ school, of which he had to be
not only the founder, but also the architect. In the same way the doctor
had to design his house and hospitals, and superintend the building of
them; no doubt the labour is far greater for a man without architectural
training; otherwise the buildings seem to be quite as well done as the
majority of houses, and at considerably smaller cost.
Leaving Hsin Muntun we started for Moukden, where the Chinese
stationmaster had been asked to give us assistance in changing stations,
so that we might not miss the train. He spoke a little English, and sent
a man with us to look after our luggage in one cart, while we went in
another. The road was indescribable, for a thaw had set in, and oceans
of mud added to the horrors of the way, emitting a stench which had lost
nothing by six months’ frost. We were flung to and fro in the cart, and
it seemed an endless drive. On arrival we rejoiced to see that the clock
had not yet struck, though it was just approaching the hour for the train
to start. As this was the Japanese line (the one which extends from Dalny
to Kwan Chengtze), we had to get our money changed into Japanese yen
before we could buy tickets, and were then told there was no train for
three and a half hours. As our friends had sent to the station at Hsin
Muntun to inquire, and been told that this train was running, we felt
rather provoked, but found the explanation in the fact that it only ran
three times a week, and this was not the right day. A pleasant little
fellow took us to a comfortable waiting-room, and fetched us a kettle
of hot water to make tea, but no sooner had we done this than another
official came and turned us out in order to prepare a meal for a Japanese
family, and we had to retire to a miserable little office. The Japanese
line is well managed and clean: the Chinese attendant comes round at
intervals with his feather brush, and is ready to provide you with hot
water whenever you want it, and comes to brush you down before you leave
the train. We were thankful to betake ourselves to the train as soon as
it came in, although there was still an hour before it was due to start
for Liao Yang. The journey is only thirty miles, but the ordinary trains
take nearly three hours, and one finds it rather slow and monotonous.
When one thinks, however, of the pre-railway days, when you might not
infrequently take the same length of time to do three miles, thanks to
the ocean of mud which constitutes a road as soon as the spring thaw sets
in, ten miles an hour seems wild speed.
CHAPTER IV
Liao Yang
Liao Yang was the ancient capital of the Liao Tong province of Southern
Manchuria, and it is the most beautiful of Manchurian cities, for within
the walls are orchards of plum, cherry, apricot, and pear, which look
radiantly lovely against the sombre background of the walls. Originally
it was not Manchu but Chinese, as I have pointed out on page 15. The
Manchus tried to gain possession of it, but, failing in the attempt, they
built a city for themselves on the other side of the river, which is
called the New Liao Yang. In addition to the four usual gateways into the
city—north, south, east, and west—there is one which is quite different
in appearance, called the Korean Gate, through which the Korean envoys
used to pass when bringing tribute. Through it there is a lovely view on
to the river, with low-lying hills in the distance: the sketch is looking
not out of the city, but inwards. Just within the gate is a dusty sort of
waste place at the foot of the wall, frequented by scavenger dogs, and
you may see, as we did, a wisp of straw in which a dead baby has been
wrapped and cast out, for the Chinese do not bury them, in the hopes
that the ill-luck caused by the death of the child may be averted.[4] To
this day the cart may be seen going round Peking to collect the little
corpses, just like a scavenger’s cart.
[Illustration: KOREAN GATE, LIAO YANG]
Just outside the Korean Gate we saw a cadet corps marching along in
good style, with drums beating, and creating just as much interest as a
similar one does at home. These city walls were in existence before the
Manchu dynasty came (in 1644), and yet the bricks look as new in most
parts as if they had just been built, and it is only where the Russians
made breaches in them that they are at all ruinous; we found this to
our cost when we wanted to climb down them after seeing the view. The
dust had accumulated somewhat on the outer side, so we climbed up with
comparatively little difficulty, and were well rewarded by the glorious
panorama illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. The Liao River runs
just outside the east wall, and the fields and distant hills wore the
lovely golden colour of an Egyptian scene. Just below us the ferry-boat
was conveying passengers, carts, mules, cows, donkeys, &c., from one
shore to the other, and we watched a carter first getting his cart up
the steep bank and then returning to carry his fare, an old lady, up
the bank on his back. A recalcitrant cow had to be hauled aboard by a
cord tied to its front leg and by its bridle, but most of the animals
seemed quite accustomed to the job. After watching them awhile we turned
southward to where a range of hills bounded the horizon, ending with a
peak loftier than the rest, and known by the Japanese as “Kuropatkin’s
eye.” This ridge was held by the Russians during the war, and for
six months previous to the battle of Liao Yang they were busy making
defences between the hills and the city. The trenches and barbed wire
entanglements were admirably executed, and it cost seven days of hard
fighting before the Japanese were able to enter the city. Point after
point was taken and retaken; the Russian ranks were mowed down like
standing corn, and the Japanese displayed an equal courage, so that
during those seven days the loss of the two armies was reckoned at 25,000
men left dead on the field. The Japanese general sat in a temple some
miles away from the scene of action, directing the operations, but with
the information coming steadily in from all points by telephone. He had
pushed forward, leaving no means of retreat, and by the end of the battle
he was at the end of his resources, victorious, but unable to follow
up the victory. In England few people realised the tremendous struggle
that was going on, and the magnificent prowess of the two nations. The
Russian soldier mournfully asked, “Why do we come out here to fight?” but
he fought valiantly all the same. Eighteen months ago Kitchener sent a
party of forty young officers from India to visit these battlefields,
with Japanese lecturers to instruct them daily, while they sat taking
notes on the hill-sides overlooking the plain. There was always one
Japanese soldier present, who had taken part in the action, to describe
his own personal experiences, which must have added a vivid touch to
the technical details. The Japanese travelled lightly, and, fortunately
for them, the standing crops rendered cavalry practically useless. The
principal crop is millet, which grows fifteen feet in height, and the
Russians crushed it down by means of improvised rollers drawn by horses.
In the Japanese army everything is utilised, and is as compact as
possible. A general was seen lost in study one day, and he explained that
he had found a use for the little boxes in which the rations were carried
and for the paper in them, but he could not think what to do with the
string! During a plague of rats in the north the Japanese all provided
themselves with ear-muffs, which they manufactured out of the rat skins.
One of the interesting sights at Liao Yang is the Fox Temple, which
stands on a little hill, and is reached by a fine flight of steps. The
worship of the fox is a purely indigenous form of worship in China; but
it is mixed up with the other religions, and fox shrines may be seen in
Buddhist or Taoist temples.
In the principal building was a Buddha, before which worshippers were
offering cakes and incense, and there was also a large bag of paper
money on the altar. In an adjoining shrine were three large figures of
the fox family, dressed as officials, with literary badges on the front
of their robes. The old priest came in to remove some of the offerings
for his midday meal, and on inquiry said he had often seen the fox come
in, and that it was white. In one of the side doors is a hole, just like
those to be seen for cats in old French castles, through which the fox is
supposed to enter.
As we returned from the walls we watched a man flying a wonderful
centipede kite, some sixty feet in length. The head was that of a dragon,
with wide open jaws, and a red tongue; its eyes rotated in their sockets
with a whirring sound, and it was painted gold, and pink, and blue.
The sections of the body were round discs of green and pink paper on a
light bamboo framework, with a stick about four feet long protruding on
each side, and a tuft of feathers at the ends to represent the legs of
the beast. This kite is a graceful object serpentining in the sky, and
when at a considerable height, a messenger kite was sent up to it, which
discharged a shower of crackers (?) on its arrival and then sped swiftly
down the string again, having accomplished its errand. These kites
sometimes require as many as six men to hold them, and a very strong cord
is necessary.
Passing along the street we came to an interesting medicine stall, where
four bears’ paws and some stags’ antlers were the most prominent goods.
The latter are in great request when they are in velvet, and hunters
dig pits for the deer in the eastern mountains of Manchuria. Sometimes
the hunter is robbed of his prey by the wily bear, who finds the antlers
a tasty morsel, and gnaws them off before the hunter comes round to
visit the pit. As medicine the antlers are dried and ground into powder.
Other medicines on the stall were eagles’ claws, deers’ hoofs, and dried
centipedes, about four inches long, attached to bits of bamboo. We bought
one of these, and inquired what disease it is used for; “wind in the
stomach,” was the reply.
All diseases in China seem to have their root in an evil temper, and
it is not uncommon for patients so afflicted to come for medicinal
treatment to the dispensary. The prescription of one of the lady doctors
is as follows: “Go into a room alone, take a mouthful of mixture (a
nice pleasant one), and hold it in the mouth twenty minutes before
swallowing.” This remedy has excellent effects, and may be used in
England with equal efficacy.
We were so charmed with the city of Liao Yang, that it required small
persuasion to induce us to return there a month later in order to visit
the neighbouring mountains of Chang Shan (a thousand peaks), and I
shall let the account of it follow the present chapter. It was the last
week in April, and all the fruit-trees and the elms were bursting into
blossom and leaf, as we walked from the station outside the gate to the
mission premises within it, embowered among orchards, and the scent of
lilac filling the air. The mission gardens were beginning to show signs
of the loveliness which has won them a well-deserved reputation among
travellers, and we returned like old friends to our former quarters.
Life on the mission field soon cements friendship, and medical mission
work must appeal even to the stubbornest heart. We had already visited
the two hospitals, models of practical, unostentatious usefulness, with
the excellent native staff trained by Dr. Westwater, whose name is a
household word in the land. To him was due the fact that the town was
saved from the horrors of bombardment by the Russian troops, and one
has but to walk through the streets of Liao Yang with him to see how
universal is the respect in which he is held.
There are various temples of different religions in Liao Yang, and we
visited the Temple of Hell, where are depicted all the horrors of future
punishment, than which nothing could be more ghastly than the Chinese
conception. The grotesqueness of their realistic execution in coloured
plaster fortunately took away some of the gruesomeness, and in one of
the side shrines we found the extraordinary figure of the popular deity,
called the “Ten Parts Imperfect One.” The sketch in Chapter XII. hardly
does justice to the hideousness of the figure, which represents the
main woes to which flesh is heir in China—lameness, blindness, dropsy,
harelip, boils, &c. &c., and to this deity the people come to pray in all
cases of sickness.
[Illustration: BLIND BUDDHIST NUN]
We also visited a picturesque Buddhist shrine, where an old blind nun
lives, the owner of much property, and of the orchards adjacent to the
mission property. We found her seated on the khang immediately behind the
figure of the Buddha, where she has spent many, many years in meditation.
She welcomed us with cordiality, and made us sit down beside her, while
she entered into a long and intimate conversation with our host, whom
she had not met for some years. The nun had a remarkable head, closely
shaven, of course, under her black cap, and looked more like a man than
a woman. She told us that she became blind when she was only six years
old, and now she was seventy-nine. She felt our hands with the subtle,
searching touch of the blind, and had not a little to say on them; we
much regretted our ignorance of Chinese, as our feminine curiosity to
know what she said was left ungratified. The conversation then turned
on the great problems of life, both this life and the next, but she
seemed entirely ignorant of Buddhist philosophy, and took refuge in
futile platitudes; as regards the future she said, “We die, and there is
nothing more.” It is disappointing to find how utterly ignorant they are
of anything beyond the externals of their religion. The Taoist monks, on
the contrary, boast many men of learning, and have more conception of
real religion. I understand this is also the case in other parts of the
Chinese Empire.
In contrast with the various temples nothing more charming could be found
than the simple beauty of the mission church. It is always difficult to
arrange for parts of a building to be screened off without spoiling the
effect of it as a whole; at the present time this is still considered
necessary in China, so that the men and women may be separated from one
another, also they have separate entrances. In the Liao Yang church the
difficulty was ingeniously conquered by making the transept the women’s
part, and diminishing the space of the nave where it joins the transept,
by erecting a smaller arch on either side containing a screen. The
pulpit, being in the centre, commands the whole building. This church was
designed by an architect specially sent out by the mission committee,
and it is of no small importance that such buildings should be carefully
designed to be in harmony with the architecture of the country, and not
to seem European. At the great World Missionary Conference at Edinburgh,
stress was laid by speakers from all lands on the growing desire of
native Christians to have their own national churches. To this end every
detail must be studied; not only must religion be taught them in their
own language, but the churches in which they worship must have a homelike
feeling, so that nothing may suggest to them that Christianity is a
foreign religion. When all is said and done it came from the East and
not from the West, so that its externals at least should have as little
Western colouring as possible.
CHAPTER V
A Visit to the Thousand Peaks
Next morning we made an early start for the Changsha Valley, in which is
an interesting group of monasteries, both Taoist and Buddhist. The former
do not admit women visitors, but the latter do. The carts containing
our luggage and bedding had started about 3 A.M., as we were to do the
first few miles by rail across a monotonous plain. There was only a
goods train at that early hour, 7.25, but one car is attached to it for
passengers, and in this we travelled for nearly an hour. It contains but
one small seat at each end, occupied by Japanese and guards, so the rest
of the company mainly squatted on the floor. Some had nice skin rugs or
parcels on which to sit, and looked eminently comfortable, but we had
to make the best of narrow window ledges, and were glad enough to reach
the roadside station where we got out. There was a little waiting-room
in which we sat, as the cart had not yet arrived, but thanks to the care
of a charming hospital assistant, who came to look after us from Liao
Yang, we were promptly invited into the booking-office, where several
smart Japanese officials were seated round a stove, and European chairs
were given to us. A bullfinch was piping cheerfully in a corner, and
they brought us tea to beguile the time. In about half-an-hour the carts
turned up, but our hearts sank at the thought that they had required
four hours to do considerably less than half the journey. We were soon
packed into the carts, each with our bedding and various odds and ends.
We promptly became aware that the more padding we had the better, as the
jolts of the carts grew worse as time went on. For three hours we crossed
the plain and then halted for lunch. This was our first experience of
a Manchurian inn, which certainly falls far short of Chinese inns. The
kitchen and guest-room are always combined, the khang running along each
side of the room, and the fires are at one end of it, at right angles to
the khangs. We were installed comfortably on one side of the room, and
enjoyed a discreet investigation by the other guests and villagers from
the other side of the room. Dr. Westwater’s excellent servant acted as
vigilant guardian, and made us quite break the tenth commandment before
the end of our excursion. It took nearly another two hours before we
came to the mouth of the valley, where the monasteries lay, and the dull
monotony of the plain gave way to a ravishing scene of craggy and abrupt
hills clothed with vegetation.
[Illustration: BUDDHIST MONASTERY]
The wild flowers were beginning to come out, purple anemones, white
violets, &c., but nothing like the wealth of the woods we had just left
in Korea. The monasteries were pitched aloft in inaccessible-looking
spots, terrace above terrace. When we reached the gorge where we were to
stay, it looked well-nigh impossible for the carts to make the ascent. At
the entrance gate they halted, and a group of men came forward to help
push them up over the rocks. Each cart had two mules, and they pulled
with right goodwill, so that in a few minutes of pushing, pulling, and
shouting, the carts had been rushed up through the second gateway on
to the platform where they were to be housed. Much disappointment was
shown by the monks at the non-appearance of our friend the doctor, who
was evidently a favourite here as everywhere, but heavy work at the
hospital and other reasons had prevented his accompanying us. Up and up
the rock-cut steps we climbed to the guest-room, which had been bespoken
for our use, and a more attractive spot it would have been impossible
to find. Far below the mountain torrent murmured, and wild pigeons and
kites added their notes to the music of the brook. I sat down to sketch
shortly after our arrival, and the scene was precisely the one to charm
a Chinese artist of the old school. I found myself insensibly imitating
the reproductions I possess of work done by noted artists of three
hundred years ago. A tiny bright green bird perched on a tree close by,
and soon the gong began to sound for evening worship. A few monks made
their way up the flights of steps to where a faint glimmer of light
showed from within the main temple, bowing and kneeling at intervals on
the way. Evening settled down and we repaired to our cell, thinking of
the lovely rose-coloured dawn when I would paint the scene. Alas! next
morning showed a leaden sky, and by the time we had finished breakfast
large snowflakes came floating down. The scene melted away before our
eyes, and soon the ground was white with snow, and the weather showed no
signs of clearing. The disappointment was a bitter one; our one day, our
only opportunity gone, and the long cold hours of the day without any
occupation to fill them. Fidus Achates brought us a charcoal brazier,
but it was poor comfort. After lunch, however, the clouds broke and the
snow ceased falling, so we went out to prospect. We were guided by our
servant Jim down the gorge and up another, where we came to a long flight
of steps leading up to a small Taoist temple, with beautiful wooden
carvings round the shrines, and a thoroughly picturesque little courtyard
with various plants in it, and brass ornaments brilliantly polished.
Altogether it formed a charming picture, and had all the appearance of
being carefully tended. A curious sundial and various ornamental tablets
were arranged in the court, and there were also the conventional pair of
trees on either side of the steps leading to the principal shrine. The
sun began to shine fitfully, and the snow to melt from sunny spots, so we
hastened back to sketch.
Scarcely were we settled when the gorge began to resound with periodic
whistle calls, and then we saw men in a kind of blue uniform, and each
with a scarlet blanket slung across one shoulder, beginning to ascend
the temple steps. They continued to arrive till the whole place was
swarming with them, and finally we saw our little platform invaded. It
seemed time to interfere, so my friend went back and told our servant
we could not possibly have them established in our outer room, which
was already full of their things, and strewn with orange peel; for the
time being remonstrance was effectual, but after a short evacuation they
returned and took fresh possession. I then went to the charge and told
Jim to send them away. He went instead to fetch an official in European
tourist’s dress, with field-glasses slung over his shoulder, and to my
surprise he spoke excellent English. He explained that this was a party
of one hundred students from a commercial college at New Chwang who had
come for an excursion, and were going to spend three days here. I pointed
out that these rooms had been engaged for us before we came, and that
it was impossible for us to have people filling the outer one, our only
means of exit. He asked if we should object to having a party of little
boys in it, and we said we certainly did object, and that for this night
they must sleep elsewhere. He promised to arrange it so, and all their
things were taken away, leaving us in peace and content. Alas! it was
only for an hour; then he returned to say that they had sent to try and
find accommodation in another monastery but in vain; that the carts had
arrived bringing the little boys who were _very_ tired, and he begged
they might have our outer room, promising they should be quite quiet. We
were compelled to give in, though sorely against our will, as the next
day we were starting on a long journey to Kharbin, not to mention the
fatiguing six hours’ cart journey. I must admit that the boys behaved
perfectly: they came in like mice, and were sound asleep before we knew
they had arrived: only gentle snores proclaimed their presence. In the
morning they were up and out by 5.30 in perfect silence. As we started at
6 o’clock we could only admire the excellent discipline and good manners
which they displayed, and almost regret that we had not seen more of them.
It was a lovely morning, and we were sorry to quit the peaceful valley,
the more so as we emerged into a raging dust-storm on the plain. Our
return journey was much more rapid than the previous one, and we reached
the station one and a half hours before the train started. The tiny
waiting-room was already crowded, and the atmosphere dense, for the
people have the vaguest conception of time, and are accustomed to wait
hours at the station. We had no longer our previous escort to find us
more comfortable accommodation, so we had to exercise patience. The
bookstall does not yet form part of the equipment of a Chinese railway
station; we were reduced to the study of humanity. We returned to Liao
Yang for the third and last time, and found the same kind welcome and
sense of home-coming which is familiar to all visitors at Liao Yang.
We were told that the good monks at Changsha had refused to take any
remuneration for our accommodation, but had sent word to the doctor that
it was time to think of it when he came again. Perhaps that was a gentle
hint for him to come soon, but it was a different experience from the one
we had in the Buddhist monastery that we visited in Korea.
A few hours later we took the bi-weekly express train for the north, and
reached Kharbin in about eighteen hours.
I must now take my narrative back to the time after our first visit
to Liao Yang when we returned to Moukden, as the base from which to
go to Korea. In the map at the end of the volume it will be seen that
the single line from the north to Moukden is replaced by three lines
spreading out fan shape, one to Korea, one to Dalny (both of these are
Japanese), and one to Tientsin, which is Chinese.
CHAPTER VI
Moukden to Korea
We left Moukden at 8 A.M. by the ordinary Japanese train, but the
permanent line to Antung is only completed for a short distance. In
our carriage there was a framed notice in Japanese, of which there was
apparently an abbreviated form in English below, which ran, “Hands off
the rope, please.” No rope or check-string was visible, so the order
was rather a dead letter. After travelling two and a half hours we had
to change to the light railway on which are no first-class carriages.
The accommodation was limited in every way, and the narrow benches made
us long for the “cushioned seats” which Maggie’s brothers found so
reposeful in “What every woman knows.” Despite the beauty of the scenery
the way seemed long: hour after hour passed by, while still we crept up
the mountain gorges. The Manchurian side showed little vegetation on
the crags, except some stunted pine-trees. On all the Japanese lines we
were struck with the large number of soldiers hanging about. The Chinese
Government granted permission for one soldier to every ten miles of
railway; but there are 15,000 men to 703 miles of railway, according to
Mr. Tyenaga’s reckoning in an article entitled “Manchuria’s Strategic
Railway.” They are quartered in various places. Yet Japan notified to the
Powers the withdrawal of her troops from Manchuria only a few months ago!
At midday we made a short halt, and the Japanese officers had tea served
to them, and produced their “luncheon baskets.” These consisted of three
neat little trays, a paper serviette, and chopsticks: the top tray was
filled with rice, the next with a vegetable salad, and the third with
rissoles, fish, and other savouries. Another Japanese passenger produced
from his sleeve a toothpick, knife, fruit, &c. It was a continual source
of interest to us to see what came out of that receptacle—note-book,
pencil, handkerchief, cigarettes, matches, a veritable box of tricks;
finally he selected a lump of coal from a truck attached to the rear of
the carriage, wrapped it in paper, and added it to the other treasures up
his sleeve, or perhaps it would be more correct to say down his sleeve,
for it formed a sort of pouch. He was an interesting specimen of the
indeterminate Jap, so common in Manchuria; his clothes, the first day
of the journey, were a mixture of European, Chinese, and Japanese, but
next day he appeared in a sort of European clerical black suit and white
shirt, a costume which was by no means adapted to his mode of sitting.
He took off his elastic-sided boots, climbed on to the narrow seat on
which he had previously placed a folded blanket, gathered his clothing
carefully together, and sat down cross-legged. If it had not been for
the large felt wideawake hat which rested on his ears, he would have
looked, with his folded arms, like some contemplative Buddha. Much of the
time he spent in sleep, but every now and then he woke up, and at once
set to work with feverish energy, writing rapidly in his note-book.
As we zig-zagged up the mountain the air grew colder and denser, for our
carriage was full, and every one smoked but ourselves. We managed to
light the stove with the remains of the luncheon boxes, and fortunately
there was a scuttle of coal with which to replenish it. The main drawback
was the difficulty of escaping being burnt owing to the narrow space, and
one’s dress paid with a couple of holes.
At 7.40 P.M. the train stopped for the night, and we betook ourselves
to a Japanese inn tinctured with Europeanism. It consisted of a squat
tower with ten sides, of which the centre, also ten-sided, formed the
parlour. Each of these inner walls formed a door, seven of which opened
into bedrooms. As they were all alike, no one seemed able to remember
which was his room, so we had to barricade our door if we wanted to
exclude visitors. The other guests were led off in turns to have a
bath, and returned in due course arrayed in hotel dressing-gowns and
slippers to sit before the stove and smoke. Next morning we started again
at 8 o’clock, and spent a similar day to the previous one, climbing
through mountain gorges and crossing and recrossing the same river.
The hill-sides boasted more vegetation, and the brown autumn leaves
still clung to the trees, of which a number are wild mulberry, which
grows freely in these mountains. We reached Antung soon after 6 o’clock,
and went to a Japanese inn, recommended by the proprietor of the one
where we had spent the previous night: he telegraphed to them to meet
us at the station. Antung is a considerable place, and the Japanese
town is situated quite apart from the Chinese; the railway and ferry
were near the hotel, and we started betimes for the latter, which runs
in connection with the train at Wiju on the south bank of the Yalu
River. We took our tickets, but they possessed literally no change at
the ticket-office. I was able to pay almost the correct sum, only three
farthings in excess of the full price, and the man offered to give me
the change later on. It did not seem worth while struggling through a
dirty crowd for this magnificent sum afterwards, so I did not return,
but an hour later, when we were seated in the train at Wiju, an official
solemnly presented the three farthings to me!
The river was full of ominous-looking blocks of ice, and the tug looked
sadly unequal to making its way through it: in fact it had missed
running on that account more than one day the same week, so we thought
ourselves fortunate in getting across the river at once. There is often
considerable delay, both at the time of the freezing and of the thawing
of the river, and unfortunately there is no bridge of any kind. The
permanent line will necessitate the building of a bridge, but it is not
expected to be ready within the next two years, though the Japanese
are straining every nerve to complete the line. The tug was wretchedly
small and crowded, but performed its journey valiantly, crunching
through the ice, and landing us in about a quarter of an hour on the
Korean bank of the Yalu, where a well-appointed train awaited us. Never
was a first-class carriage more welcome to weary travellers, never
was an excellently cooked lunch which was served in due course more
highly appreciated, and the attendant gave the finishing touch to our
contentment by administering a much-needed brush down before our arrival
at Pyöng Yang. Everything was a strange contrast from what we had left;
the cold colouring of Manchuria was replaced by a warm red soil, through
which the first tokens of spring green were beginning to appear. Instead
of the blue clothing to which we had been accustomed, every one here
was clad in white, both in town and country. Rice fields greet the eye
at every turn, for this is the main cereal grown. The only things that
were the same were the Japanese line and the Japanese official, no more
conspicuous here than in Manchuria, and apparently firmly rooted in both.
Korea is somewhat larger in extent than Great Britain, about 80,000
square miles in size, and the population is estimated at about twelve
to thirteen millions. Owing to the mountainous character of Korea, a
large part of it, especially in the north, is uninhabitable; in fact
some people estimate that only one quarter is occupied. No census of
the population was taken till that made by the Japanese in 1904. As
the people feared that this was preliminary to a tax, they made every
effort to prevent correct numbers being ascertained, and consequently the
returns were less than nine and a half millions. Another census is now
being taken, which, in all probability, will be much more accurate.
Korea is a country abounding in valuable products, one of the chief
of which is gold. There are also excellent anthracite coal and other
minerals, but as yet these resources have been little utilised. At the
present time no less than one hundred and eighty-four mining concessions
have been granted to British, American, German, and French companies, and
their prospects are thoroughly encouraging. Korea is the fifth largest
cotton producing country in the world, and now that it is opening up
to trade, with fresh facilities of transport by land and sea, it is
likely to make rapid progress. The people are naturally peaceful and
diligent, and under a wise rule the land ought to become an ideal one.
Christianity and education are spreading rapidly, the former being said
to have already 200,000 adherents. The written language is alphabetical,
and consists of twenty-five letters, but the literate Koreans use Chinese
characters, and all of them are expected to know that language. The
missionaries decided to use the _Un Mum_, the native script, and most
of the Christian literature is published in that form. The Protestant
Missions have been working only about twenty-five years in Korea, but the
Roman Catholics were there long ago, and the terrible persecutions they
underwent form one of the most striking chapters in Korean history. The
former have had remarkable success, and have introduced fresh methods
of missionary enterprise, which will be described in the next chapter,
as they are likely to have great influence on the future development
of missions in other countries. Nowhere have the people of a country
more thoroughly recognised their duty of handing on the gift they have
received, or of accepting their personal responsibility for evangelising
their own people.
PART II
The Face of Korea
CHAPTER VII
Pyöng Yang
We reached Pyöng Yang (written Ping Yang by the war correspondents,
and universally pronounced Piang) in the early afternoon, and found
chairs sent by our kind hosts to take us from the station to the town,
a distance of about one and a half miles. Other passengers got into
rickshas, and others again into the drollest little trolleys on wheels,
like boxes with the front side missing, and containing a bench to seat
two persons. These trolleys run on the narrowest gauge tram lines, and
are propelled with great rapidity by a coolie running on each side: I
have never seen them anywhere but at Pyöng Yang.
We set off in our chairs, our luggage being carried on frames called
“giggies” on the backs of coolies, and the Chinese interpreter, whom we
had brought from Tai Yuan Fu (Mr. Chiao, pronounced “jow,” as in jowl)
walking with a friendly Korean evangelist sent to meet us. We had been
told that Chinese was understood everywhere, but this proved entirely
incorrect (like most of the information we had received), and we were
vastly entertained to see that these two could only communicate by
writing; this they did on the surface of the dusty road as they went
along. Our pace was fortunately slow, as Korean carriers are not like
the Chinese, and they set us down pretty frequently for a rest, which
was an opportunity for communication eagerly seized by the writers. Near
the station are handsome large new red brick barracks, and a Japanese
suburb is growing up: it is sad to see every place being disfigured by
European-looking erections of the ugliest and most aggressive type. The
American Presbyterian group of buildings are a delightful contrast to
these, and are Korean in style with necessary adaptation for Western
requirements, but there is a hideous new school on the brow of the hill
facing them, which stands in conspicuous nakedness like a blot on the
landscape. A sort of building epidemic seems to have broken out, which
threatens to sweep away all picturesqueness from the important towns in
Korea.
The city of Pyöng Yang is of great antiquity, and is said to date back as
far as 1122 B.C., when the celebrated Ki Cha reigned there.
[Illustration: KOREAN IN MOURNING]
The streets still retain a great charm, but each day sees it lessening.
The stalls contain all sorts of strange comestibles, among which
fish occupy a prominent position, and various seaweeds are a natural
accompaniment to them. Dried cuttle fish hang up in rows, and are a tasty
dish in the eyes of the natives, and all kinds of other fish are dried
and hung up in strings to form artistic designs for the adornment of the
shops, as well as for the benefit of purchasers. Next in number to fish
shops are those for hats, I should think, and these are quite unique.
I understand that a book has been written on the subject, so numerous
are the varieties in Korea. The common hat is made of black crinoline,
rather like the old Welsh hat, but not so tall, and it is tied with black
strings under the chin. As the whole of the rest of a Korean’s costume
is white, the black hat forms a telling contrast. The hair is allowed to
grow long, and is gathered into a top knot, which is visible within the
transparent crown of the hat. A closely fitting cap of horsehair rising
into a peak is worn indoors, and below it is a tight band of horsehair
about a quarter of an inch wide, bound round the head, greatly to the
detriment of the circulation. The mourning cap or hat is white, or rather
cream colour, and still more commonly is a large hat worn as mourning,
looking like an inverted flower, and accompanied by a long coat of
stiff undressed cotton to match (see sketch). Scholars wear a somewhat
different shaped crinoline hat, and boys celebrate their engagement
by wearing a special little straw hat. Official hats again are quite
different, of which an example may be seen in the design on the book
cover.
One of the most familiar sights passing along the streets is the
water-carrier, for up to the present time the water-supply of Pyöng Yang
has been entirely drawn from the river, and the men carry the water in
pails on their backs; in fact, unlike China, everything almost is carried
on the back in Korea, and frequently the loads are of a great weight.
The old tradition is that Pyöng Yang is a floating city (it was built
boat-shaped), and no one is supposed to dig in it, for fear of sinking
the ship.
One of the most interesting places outside the town is a famous temple
beautifully situated on the brow of a hill, set up to the god of war.
It was small and fairly well kept, and the priest made some fuss before
allowing us to enter. Like all the temples here, there is but scant space
within the building for any worshippers, but as they have no conception
of congregational worship, this is a matter of no importance. The
original religion of Korea was Shamanism, the worship of evil spirits,
and although it is supposed to have been superseded first by Confucianism
and later on by Buddhism (A.D. 550), it still retains its hold over the
people, and is carried on side by side with Confucianism and Buddhism.
Its shrines are to be found in Seoul itself and also by the wayside in
all parts of the country. The main point in the religion of the educated
Korean, as of the Chinese, is ancestor worship, and in the courtyard
of every large house may be seen the ancestral tablet house, where are
the tablets of two or three generations. There seem to be considerably
fewer temples in Korea than in China; they are less imposing, and less
frequented.
We next visited the fine new waterworks built by the Japanese, and they
have selected a beautiful spot on the summit of a hill overlooking the
town, as well as an island in the river which they have connected
with the mainland by a bridge. Soon that picturesque being—the
water-carrier—will be nothing more than a memory; but undoubtedly the
advantages of a good water-supply will reconcile the inhabitants to the
change. I am greatly astonished at the charge of dirtiness so frequently
brought against the Koreans, for on the whole they would bear comparison
with almost any European nation. They lavish endless time and energy on
getting their clothes white and well laundered, for which they possess
the most primitive implements imaginable. The garment is folded quite
wet, placed on a board, and beaten rapidly with two flat sticks for any
length of time. The sound greets one’s ears all day and every day in the
streets, and resembles that of a stick being drawn across palings; if you
happen to be lying ill, the endless sound is apt to be as nerve racking
as the notes of the brain-fever bird in India.
After climbing down to the river-bed by the waterworks, we proceeded
to climb up the opposite slope, where numbers of people seemed bent
on holiday-making, and there was a Japanese tea-house half-way up to
Pioneer Point, whence a magnificent view is gained over a large stretch
of country. The old city walls and a watch-tower surmount the pine-clad
hill, and a short walk brings one to a tomb of historic interest. In the
heart of the pine forest is Kicha’s grave, but the entrance was tightly
shut and barred, so that we were only able to get a glimpse of it. Like
all important Korean graves, it is a mound surrounded by stone animals
and figures of servants for the use of the deceased, and an altar on
which sacrificial food is placed. Kicha is said to have come to Korea in
1122 B.C. as a refugee from China, to be the founder of the empire, and
to have given it its name of “Land of Morning Freshness.” His dynasty
lasted nearly a thousand years. The old city wall of Pyöng Yang is said
to date from Kicha or Kuei-ja’s reign, but it is, alas, now in course
of demolition. This synchronises with the coming of the first party of
Cook’s personally conducted tours!
SHORT SUMMARY OF RECENT KOREAN HISTORY.
It is possible that some readers of this book may wish to have their
memories refreshed about the events which have crowded so rapidly on one
another’s heels during the last half century, so I have ventured to set
down a table of dates with notes, which can easily be skipped by those
whose memories do not require it.
1876. First foreign treaty with Japan—unsuccessful attempts had
previously been made by the Russians and Americans to obtain permission
to trade.
1883. Trade relations opened with Great Britain, America, and Germany.
Owing to internal factions, the Chinese, representing the conservative
forces of government, got decided hold in Korea over the radical party,
represented by Japanese factions.
1885. Treaty between China and Japan guaranteeing that neither country
should send troops to Korea without previous consultation.
1890 (approximately). First Protestant missions sent to Korea—mainly
American.
1894. China sent troops (without advising Japan) to put down the Tonghak
rebellion; hence resulted the war with Japan, in which China was
completely defeated.
1896. Russian influence became powerful. The Emperor took refuge in
Russian legation. Lobanoff Yamaga agreement between Russians and Japanese
to respect the independence of Korea, and not to send troops except by
mutual agreement.
1903. Russian intrigue won large timber concessions on the Yalu, and
demanded port on the N.W. coast opposite Antung-Yongampo, which they
renamed Port Nicholas. This was applied for by Great Britain and United
States of America as an open port, but Russian influence prevented this
being granted.
1904. War declared between Russia and Japan; Korea made agreement with
Japan to facilitate its campaign on the basis of Korea’s independence.
Since then the Japanese have steadily increased their control over Korean
affairs.
1907. The Emperor forced by the Japanese to abdicate in favour of his
nephew.
CHAPTER VIII
Sunday at Pyöng Yang
Sunday is a busy day for missionary workers at Pyöng Yang, as the
rapid growth of the work and the need for consolidation by constant
instruction, taxes the resources even of the large staff of foreign
as well as native helpers. We were told that in many cases before the
building of a church is completed the congregation has outgrown it, and
that from one church alone (the central one at Pyöng Yang) no less than
thirty-nine others have “swarmed” merely for lack of space, not from any
discord. Thirty-five of these churches are in the district round the
town, four others are in the town itself; the youngest of them already
has a membership of 561. This is the result of sixteen years of work,
for the missionaries settled there in 1894, and the first convert was
baptized that year.
We started out about 10 o’clock to make a round of some of the places
of worship. The first visited was a women’s institute, where we found a
large upper room filled with about 500 women and nearly as many babies
and little children. At the door of the Korean churches and schools the
first thing to be noticed is the shoe stand, where each comer deposits
shoes before entering. The floors are covered with matting, and every one
sits cross-legged: the babies are noisy, but their crying is not nearly
so sharp as that of Europeans, though sufficiently disturbing to any
ordinary speaker. At the harmonium a sweet-faced Korean girl sat, whose
playing was very superior to the singing. What it lacked in harmony,
however, was atoned for by its earnestness, and in all the services the
reverent attention of the whole audience was most impressive; even the
little children covered their eyes with their hands during prayer. From
below stairs came the lusty tones of children singing “Hold the Fort,”
and we found a Sunday school in progress, the classes sitting in circles
on the floor, each with a girl teacher in the centre. The children
have been less cared for than the adults hitherto, but they look most
attractive and winning, and greater efforts are now being made to provide
for their instruction.
We next visited the central church, where the men had just finished
their morning session of Bible instruction (9-10.30), and the women were
rapidly gathering. Nowhere could there be found a more attractive sight
than the hundreds of white clad women, carrying their books wrapped
in cloth tied round their waists in front, or their children tied on
behind, the little ones dressed in every colour of the rainbow. The
service is much like Sunday school at home; after the opening hymn and
prayers, the women are divided into classes, and the older children,
like a gay group of butterflies, are gathered at the back of the church
to be taught separately. Some of the girls had hats which take up
space, as they are much larger than umbrellas, and are carried by both
hands, extending over the head in front and to the knees behind. These
are peculiar to this district, and are used not mainly for protection
from the sun or rain, but from the vulgar gaze of man. I sketched one
of the school girls on the verandah, wearing the big hat. They have
to be left outside the church in the verandah with the shoes. Some of
the young women of the wealthier classes look quite charming in their
nun-like coifs, and dressed from head to foot in dazzling white silk,
with smart little sleeveless coats lined with white fur; the fur also
forms a border all round the coat and outlines the arm-holes. Womankind
in Korea suffers from a strange lack—the absence of names. A woman _may_
possess a pet name, otherwise she has none; frequently she does not
even know her husband’s name. If she becomes a Christian and receives
baptism she acquires a name, and this must give her quite a new sense of
dignity. The Korean woman has not been considered of much value in the
past, but she is awakening (under Christian influences) to a sense of
responsibility, and she takes her share in the work of evangelisation
among her people. There had been a fortnight’s Bible study for women just
before our arrival at Pyöng Yang, attended by over 500, many of whom had
come long distances on foot to attend it. Some had travelled no less
than seventy miles on foot, carrying their supply of food with them;
they were lodged by the Christians in the city without charge, and after
earnest study they set out on their long homeward journey. There is also
a special Bible school for a fortnight for those women who wish to become
teachers or Bible women, many of whom are supported by the native church.
The Women’s Missionary Society of the Central Church has supported two
missionaries for some years.
[Illustration: COY KOREAN MAIDEN]
The morning school in the Central Church numbered five or six hundred, so
that when both men and women come in the afternoon to a united service of
worship the church is full to overflowing: it holds 1500 to 1700.
The venerable pastor, Kil Moksa, is a Korean of solid character, who has
done much to lessen the evils incident to the coming of the Japanese.
Seeing the utter hopelessness of resistance, he persuaded the people
neither to flee nor to resist, so that the bloodshed which took place
in the south of the country was avoided in the north. His influence is
not only powerful but widespread, and it is sad to see the curtailing
of his work owing to increasing blindness. He was originally an ardent
Confucian, and not content with a passive faith he practised rigorous
austerities in order to obtain peace of mind. In describing this time,
Kil Moksa said: “I was trying to put away every thought of worldly
advancement and every filthy or unclean impulse, for I knew right and
wrong then just as well as I do now. I endeavoured to keep my mind pure
by concentrating upon the idea of a full moon in my stomach. By centring
my thoughts upon this I endeavoured to shut out the world and secure
a view of spiritual truth. I wanted to get a vision of some spiritual
being, but all the time, in spite of my efforts, my mind was filled with
thoughts I would fain have dismissed. I could not get the victory. At
the end of my stay on the mountain side, when I went to the homes of my
friends, I was filled with disgust because their conversation was all
about worldly advancement or interspersed with filthy stories.” When
Kil Moksa became a Christian he was equally filled with this passionate
desire for righteousness, not for himself only, but for his people.
When his people seemed to be growing careless, he started a daily
prayer-meeting at 4 o’clock in the morning, and this was soon attended by
six or seven hundred people, with the result that a great revival took
place, and his people promised to spend over 3000 days in trying to win
others to a knowledge of Christ.
We next visited the Union Theological Seminary, vacated by the students
on Sunday and used as a church, where we found numbers of men all seated
on the floor with the teacher in the centre. The bulk of the teaching
and preaching in Korea is done by natives, and every church has a native
pastor; the foreign missionary acts as superintendent of groups of
churches (sometimes as many as fifty or sixty) extending over a large
area of the province. The college students were all busy on Sunday
either preaching or itinerating in town and country, and in order to
facilitate this arrangement they have no classes on Saturday afternoon
or Monday morning. They remain at college only three months in the year,
and spend the remaining nine in practical work. Their course extends
over five years, and by this arrangement the four missions which it
represents are able to supply the requisite number of teachers from their
ordinary staff of workers; these teachers can be spared from their other
work for three months in the year, though it is only in cases of special
qualification that the same man is sent three years in succession. The
head of the college is, of course, a permanent official, and lives at
Pyöng Yang. This is Dr. Moffett, who was stoned out of Pyöng Yang when
he first came; he frequently used to hear the remark at he passed along
the streets on those early days, “Look at this black rascal! why did he
come here? let us kill him.” Nowhere was the opposition to Christianity
fiercer than at Pyöng Yang; it was a notoriously bad city. The students
at the present time number 126, and the missions represented are the
American Presbyterian (North and South), the Australian Presbyterian,
and the Canadian Presbyterian. The college is a modest and unpretentious
building in native style, and it is proposed to build dormitories round
the compound as soon as the ground has been levelled.
From this point we crossed the town to the imposing group of buildings
of the Methodist Episcopal Mission, which are in American style. The fine
large church has a belfry, which can be seen as well as heard from afar.
We entered at the back of the women’s side, divided from the men’s by a
screen, and found it well filled. One of the missionaries told us that it
had the largest “floor space” of any church in Korea. As we entered four
young men mounted the platform and sang an anthem, but none of our party
could decide whether it was in Korean or English. Then the sermon began,
and we slipped out to continue our pilgrimage. The greatest harmony
exists between the different missions, and the preacher for the day
belonged to the Presbyterians. The main difference between the missions
is one of policy. The Presbyterians encourage the Koreans to rely upon
their own efforts for support, to build their own churches in native
style, and to undertake the work of evangelisation at their own expense.
The offerings of the Korean church (that is of _all_ the missions) is
said to be already £25,000 per annum, and the number of converts 200,000;
not a bad result to show for only twenty-five years of missionary work.
(These figures are drawn from the report for the World Missionary
Conference at Edinburgh.) The American Episcopal Mission do not expect as
much from the native church as do the Presbyterians, and they keep the
pastorate and general control to a greater extent in their own hands.
They have larger funds at their disposal, and do not require the village
communities to build their own churches, whereas the Presbyterians only
help them with a loan, which is repaid in two years. Even the primary
schools are entirely supported by the Koreans. The Methodist Episcopal
Mission has initiated work among the blind, and it has a promising school
of blind girls, who are already preparing text-books in Braille with a
view to the opening of other schools for the blind. The Presbyterians
have also started a class for blind boys, but it is more difficult to
know what to teach them as a means of livelihood than it is in the case
of girls. They have begun to prepare a New Testament in Braille type, but
it will require a great deal of revision; the British and Foreign Bible
Society has promised to print it as soon as it is ready, at cost price.
The lot of the blind in Korea is a sad one; their sole means of earning a
living is by practising sorcery.
In conclusion, I must add a word as to the character of the native
Christians in Pyöng Yang, but which is equally applicable to the rest
of the Korean Church. It is not only remarkable to see the _number_
of Christians, but still more so to see their _character_. One of the
ablest speakers at the Edinburgh Conference was the Hon. T. H. Yun of
Songdo, Minister of Education, and leader of the native church, a man
of culture and refinement, of whom any country might well be proud.
He spoke of the danger due to the extraordinarily rapid growth of the
church, yet nevertheless urged the desirability of trusting it with
enlarged responsibilities. As far as my experience goes this has been
done in Korea to a greater extent than anywhere else in the many mission
fields that I have visited. The Christians have shown such a keen desire
for instruction, together with such an aptitude for learning, that they
are much more capable of self-government, and of forming a national
church, than would be conceived possible by those who have not seen this
wonderful people. They have devoted themselves with extraordinary ardour
to the study of the Bible. The membership of a great Bible class at Syen
Chun is over thirteen hundred, and the Bible is the most read book in
Korea to-day. They memorise it apparently as well as do the Chinese; two
school girls may be mentioned as having learnt by heart the whole of the
New Testament, with the exception of St. Matthew’s Gospel, in the course
of a year. Yet less than thirty years ago it was prohibited to sell it in
the Hermit Kingdom, as Korea has so justly been called, and it was only
possible to do so by having the Gospels done up in bundles, unbound, and
distributed through the country by the natives. To them is mainly due the
introduction of Christianity into Korea.
Another striking feature of the Korean church is the importance they
attach to _prayer_, and their implicit belief in its efficacy. Where else
in the world is to be found a weekly prayer-meeting which habitually
numbers thirteen or fourteen hundred? Yet such is the case at the Central
Church at Pyöng Yang. Mention has already been made (page 78) of an
early morning prayer-meeting, which cannot find a parallel, I think, in
any of our home churches.
No less important is the characteristic of generosity both in the matter
of money and labour. In some churches they are hardly willing to admit
any one as a member who has not already won at least one convert to
Christianity. A form of contribution was started by which people promise
to give a day’s work during a certain specified time. Last year there
were over 67,000 days promised throughout the country. It is hardly
necessary to give further details as to the generosity of the Koreans
with regard to money, because of what has already been related, but I
must point out that the majority of the Korean Christians are extremely
poor, and great self-sacrifice is involved by the amount of work which
they support, as well as by what they do personally.
CHAPTER IX
The History of Roman Catholicism in Korea
The extraordinarily rapid progress of Protestant missions in Korea makes
one turn with interest to the past history of the country in its attitude
towards Christianity, as shown in the work of the Roman Catholics. This
history is a very unique one, and is characterised by some of the same
features as we see to-day; the zeal, self-sacrifice, and faith, the
independent spirit which makes the Koreans able, if need be, to carry
on the work without foreign aid, are to be seen on every page of its
history. No church has had to pass through more ceaseless and relentless
persecution for the first century of its existence, nor has counted more
heroic martyrs among its members. The story has been fully told in Père
Dallet’s _Histoire de l’Église de Korée_, and I was so impressed with
that work that I have ventured to make a brief sketch of it, in the hope
that it will be of interest to those who are unable to study that history
for themselves.
The first introduction of Christianity into Korea was a strange one.
In 1592 Japan sent an army of 200,000 men to conquer the country, and
a large number of these men had been selected for the purpose because
they were Roman Catholics, and Japan was anxious to get rid of them. The
great general known as Taïko Sama thought this was an excellent method
of extermination, but when the war was prolonged, the Christian admiral
of the fleet sent to Japan for priests and commenced missionary work.
Many converts were baptized, and things looked promising, when the sudden
recall of the army to Japan, followed by a fierce persecution, completely
stamped out the work in both countries.
Korea continued her policy of jealously excluding all foreigners from
entering the country, and only occasionally were a few books (printed
in Chinese) sent over by the Jesuits from Peking. Not until 1784 was
the work recommenced, and then it emanated from a purely Korean source.
A young man called Piek-i, of great physical strength and intellectual
keenness, heard that the father of a friend of his was going as
ambassador to the court of China, and that his son was to accompany him.
He therefore begged his friend, Senghoun-i, to use the opportunity to
visit the foreigners there, in order to study their science and religion.
Senghoun-i not only fulfilled his friend’s request, but was so deeply
impressed by what he heard that he became a Christian and was baptized,
after which he returned to his native land, carrying books, crosses, and
pictures with him. He at once sent books to Piek-i, who retired into
solitude to study them, and was soon convinced by pondering over the life
of Christ of the truth of what he read. No sooner did Piek-i become a
Christian than he set out to tell his friend, Senghoun-i, the good news.
“The great God of Heaven,” he said, “has had pity on the millions of our
fellow-countrymen, and He desires us to make them share in the benefits
of the Redemption of the world. It is the command of God. We cannot be
deaf to His call. We must spread this religion and evangelise the whole
world.” How thoroughly these words express the feelings and action of the
Korean Christians of the present day!
Piek-i at once commenced the work of evangelisation, and success attended
his labours; but close upon its heels came that persecution which was to
continue down to the present day. There were no foreign missionaries to
help or instruct the youthful disciples, and naturally they were unable
to see the bearing of Christian teaching upon the customs to which they
had always been accustomed. They evolved from their books a conception
of the priesthood, and elected from their number a sort of religious
hierarchy, which existed for some years undisturbed. When eventually
they heard that this was not sanctioned by the authorities at Peking,
and that they must utterly renounce the ancestor worship, which formed
the basis of their former religious belief, and was so integral a part
of the national life, it was a severe blow to them. They loyally obeyed,
however, the mandate to destroy the ancestral tablets, and a storm of
persecution swept over the church.
The leaders were tortured and executed, firmly refusing to renounce their
faith. Nevertheless the number of converts increased, and ten years after
the baptism of Senghoun-i at Peking there were 4000 Christians in Korea.
A time of comparative peace followed, and the church was consolidated.
At last a priest was sent over from China called Jean dos Remedios, in
1791; but he was unable to penetrate into the country, and was obliged to
return to Peking. No further attempt to send a missionary was made for
several years. Then a young Chinaman called Tsiou was selected for the
perilous task, and during a stormy night he succeeded in crossing the
closely guarded frontier disguised as a Korean. Some months later the
news of his arrival became known to the authorities, and they ordered
his arrest. But the Koreans who had long been asking for a missionary to
be sent to them guarded him with the utmost loyalty, and the authorities
seized instead the Koreans who had brought him into the country, and
after cruel tortures which utterly failed to make them confess his
whereabouts, they were put to death.
Tsiou, meanwhile, mainly owed his safety to a devoted Christian woman,
and continued his labours unremittingly in secret, while she prosecuted
an important work in teaching a large number of girls. During the reign
of the king at that time on the throne of Korea, the persecution was
somewhat limited, but as soon as he died in 1800 it broke out afresh
with redoubled energy. Tsiou was at last captured, and with many others
laid down his life, not only willingly, but joyfully. He was only
twenty-five years of age. The persecution raged till the next year, when
the king issued a strange edict, to the effect that he was determined to
have done with the matter; that the Christians filling the prisons should
at once be judged and executed, and after that no more trials were to be
instituted. Many were publicly executed, while others were strangled in
the prisons in order to expedite matters. Then followed a lull, and the
church had a breathing space, but all its leaders had been put to death,
and it was reduced to a pitiable condition.
The church sent a fresh appeal to the bishop at Peking to send them
another priest, but he was utterly unable to grant their request, for the
mission itself was at a low ebb on account of the French Revolution. No
missionaries were coming out to the foreign field, and no promise even
could be held out to the Koreans of any one coming to them in the future.
Again and again their messenger braved untold risks to carry their
piteous appeal to China, but in vain. To those who like myself intensely
dislike the system and many of the tenets of the Roman Catholic Church,
while loving and profoundly venerating many of its adherents, this
absence of the priesthood may well seem a blessing in disguise.
In 1816, for the fifth time, the messenger of the Korean Church arrived
in Peking, and the bishop, touched by their importunity, promised
to send them a priest. Plans were arranged that he should be met and
secretly taken into the country, for persecution still raged. The time
came, but at the rendezvous the Koreans found no priest awaiting them; it
had proved impossible to find any one willing to undertake the well-nigh
hopeless mission. Years elapsed: they were all marked by the same
record of faith and suffering, heroically borne, until the year 1827.
Then followed three or four years of comparative peace, and the church
steadily grew in numbers.
A letter was sent by it to the Pope, beseeching him to send
reinforcements to the suffering Christians. He forwarded the appeal
to the directors of the “Missions Etrangères” in France, which had
recently been re-established, after its destruction by Napoleon in 1805.
The directors forwarded the appeal, making it known throughout their
missions, with the result that Monseigneur Brugnière, a missionary
in Siam, volunteered for the perilous task in a letter burning with
apostolic love and zeal. His offer was accepted by the society, and after
some delay he set out accompanied by a young Chinese priest, educated in
Naples, who had also volunteered for the service.
Three years were spent by them in weary journeyings without success,
owing partly to the jealousy of a Chinese priest who had been sent
meanwhile to Korea by the Sacrée Congrégation de la Propagande, and when
at last the difficulties were on the eve of being overcome, Monseigneur
Brugnière was taken suddenly ill and died on the very threshold of the
promised land.
In 1836 the first European missionary penetrated into the country, and he
was soon followed by others in steady succession. Despite the ceaseless
persecutions the number of Christians in 1838 was estimated at 9000. The
following year a more violent persecution than ever broke out, and the
three French missionaries were betrayed and executed, beside many Koreans
of all ranks. The authorities were firmly resolved to exterminate them;
but the attitude of the Korean people in general towards the Christians
was no longer what it had been. Whereas previously they had been
despised, now they were respected, for the people realised that there was
a power in this religion which nothing could annihilate. The Christians
had been decimated as to numbers, and such as had escaped destruction
were reduced to a state of utter destitution, yet still they remained
loyal to their convictions. The non-Christian Koreans came to the rescue
and lent them the necessary grain to sow their fields, well assured that
they would honestly repay the loan, unlike what would have been the case
with some others of their fellow-countrymen.
The foreign missionaries having been murdered, there was a new
development in the life of the Korean Church; for the first time they
had two priests of their own nationality consecrated in China. They came
to the church at a time of great need, for persecution was raging more
hotly than ever. The time for labour was but brief in the case of one of
them, André Kim. His undaunted courage and zeal led him, at the age of
twenty-five, to the crown of martyrdom, “he being made perfect in a short
time, fulfilled a long time. For his soul pleased the Lord.”
In 1850 we again find two French missionaries at work, who gave their
testimony as to the steady growth of the church, despite ceaseless
persecution. European missionaries could only enter the country
by stealth, and they always had to endure untold hardships in the
prosecution of the work, which could never be carried on openly.
Monseigneur Daveluy described it in these words: “Our year (1859) may
be summed up thus—miseries upon miseries, but everywhere the great
protection of God, and in the midst of tribulations the advance of the
apostolic work.”
The aggressiveness of the Russians in the north in 1866 goaded the Korean
Emperor into a fierce determination to exterminate the Christians once
for all. He began by putting to death all the French missionaries upon
whom he could lay his hands, and nine out of twelve were taken. They seem
to have been put to the torture before execution; one was Bishop Daveluy,
who had spent twenty-one years in the country, and another was the latest
recruit who had only been there nine months. The three other missionaries
succeeded in escaping from the country, and one of them told the whole
sorrowful story to the French admiral at Tientsin, which resulted in the
sending of an expedition against Korea.
Meanwhile the church in Korea was exposed to relentless persecution, and
was again left to carry on unaided the long struggle to win her people
to the Catholic faith. Here Père Dallet’s narrative ends; but it would
not be complete without adding one word as to the position and numbers
of the Roman Catholics in Korea at the present day. I regret that it
only amounts to a statistical statement drawn from Krose’s _Katholische
Missions Statistik_, 1908.
The mission is that of the Paris Seminary, and there are 45 European
priests, 53 sisters, and 10 native priests now working in different parts
of the country. Their native membership numbers 64,070 and they have 8220
catechumens. They have 45 stations, and a considerably larger number of
schools. I hoped to have visited the sisters working at Seoul, and to
have been able to give some personal details, but was prevented from
doing so, as well as from visiting various institutions, owing to the
fact of having a severe chill, which confined me to bed during much of
the time I was there.
CHAPTER X
Seoul
Unlike Venice, Seoul should not be approached after dark, but we arrived
late at night, and drove in rickshas through ill-lighted streets and
over endless stones to our destination, Miss Finder’s rest-house for
missionaries, excellently situated in the upper part of the town.
With morning light we received a different and beautiful impression of
the town. It is encircled within lofty hills of granite that change
in colour at different times of day from gold and steel to deep blue.
Formerly high walls surrounded it, pierced by noble gateways, but these
walls are rapidly disappearing to form material for building Japanese
houses of truly Philistine ugliness. Every day sees new and deplorable
changes in the way of picturesqueness, and one is tempted to say that
even sanitation may be too dearly bought.
We started on a lovely spring morning to visit the old palace, which,
subject to certain rules, is now thrown open to the public at a small
charge. The first rule is that visitors must be respectably dressed, the
next that they must not catch birds or fish, and so on. The Imperial
Palace covers a large area of ground, and is surrounded by lofty walls,
in which there are eight or ten doorways, surmounted by the typical
curved and tiled roofs. It looks like a small walled town, and used to
contain some 3000 persons. The main entrance to the palace is at the end
of a wide thoroughfare, adorned with fine stone animals on pedestals,
and flanked by official buildings on each side, which, alas, are being
pulled down to be replaced by Japanese buildings. This thoroughfare was
a gay and busy scene. The Korean dress is eminently picturesque, and
many of the women wear brilliant cloaks of lettuce or apple green with
scarlet streamers; this cloak depends from the crown of the head to below
the knees; the sleeves are never used, nor indeed could they be used, as
the space for the neck is filled in with a piece of white material which
acts as a cap and raises the coat several inches above the proper height.
This strange garment is said to have been originally a man’s coat, and
the wives used to wear it (as so many Eastern women do) to conceal their
figures in the streets. It certainly adds a most charming note of colour
to the streets of Seoul. The ordinary dress of the women is entirely
white; it consists of a short coat, baggy trousers, and large pleated
apron completely enclosing them and acting as a skirt. The lower class
women are not careful to prevent there being a gap between the upper and
lower garments; as they seem to be always nursing a baby, they no doubt
think the costume was devised to suit that purpose. My sketch shows the
dress with the addition of the winter cap.
[Illustration: KOREAN WOMAN]
On passing from the square into the precincts of the palace by the
main gateway you have a vision of harmony in green; a delicate, subtle
blending of greens in courtyard buildings, and pine-trees behind them,
while the range of hills towers in the background. A beautiful bridge
spans a sort of moat, over which grotesque stone creatures lean towards
the water as if about to plunge into it. On the right there is an
entrance to an open space of ground where the Japanese are erecting a
boys’ school. This is a hard blow to Korean pride, but unfortunately our
Japanese allies are apparently reckless of such details, and instead
of trying to make their protectorate as conciliatory as possible, they
too often do the reverse; indeed it is only in rare instances that they
seem to do otherwise. In many ways they are doing a great deal which
should benefit the country, but in such a manner as to make it thoroughly
obnoxious. It is of little use to repudiate the idea of annexation,
when they trample on the dearest wishes of the Korean, and treat him as
a vanquished foe. From this courtyard one passes into others where the
sewing women used to live, for there are numbers of courts surrounded
by houses varying in size and importance, but all of them in a state of
decay.
The palace is the most beautiful and cherished spot in the capital, and
it is sad to see it falling to pieces with alarming rapidity, while the
part inhabited by the Empress was absolutely destroyed and its very
stones used in the construction of other buildings.
The great audience chamber is a glorious colour study in green, Venetian
red, gold, and blue, with lofty pillars stretching up to the ornate roof,
which culminates in a centrepiece of gold dragons, somewhat different
in design from the Chinese dragon. Although it is only one storey, the
roof has been so built so as to give it a great appearance of height.
All round the hall are latticed windows, which could be set open for
large audiences. The hall is surrounded on three sides by a fine large
paved court, through the centre of which runs a double line of stones
like milestones; they mark the places where the courtiers used to stand
according to their rank when waiting their turn for audience on state
occasions.
Court beyond court the palace stretches to the Emperor’s private
apartments, which were more modest in size than the public halls.
The Emperor used to rise about noon, so the morning hours were quite
quiet, no unnecessary labour being permitted. The imperial réveillé was
announced by a roll of drums, summoning all courtiers, physicians, and
attendants to be in readiness for his Majesty’s appearance. Then the
courts became thronged like a busy hive of bees; the courtiers got out
of their chairs at the entrance, and were only allowed to bring in one
or two attendants, while the remainder of their retinue waited outside.
The court dress consists of a beautiful myrtle green coat, a square
breastplate (betokening the official rank) fastened on by a thick belt
standing out several inches from the body, black velvet top-boots with
white soles, and a peculiar tall black cap made of horsehair, with ears
of the same material standing out on each side of it. This costume forms
the design on the cover of the book, and it was a Korean gentleman who
kindly gave me the opportunity of sketching it. This costume was also
worn by eunuchs when on duty in the palace. As in China, eunuchs have
played a sorry part in the political game in Korea.
The ordinary business of the court used to be transacted during the
afternoon. Sometimes one of the ministers of the foreign legations would
be received in audience by his Majesty, and sometimes there would be
a special function with regard to ancestral worship. Once a year the
Emperor would go to a certain field outside Seoul (which was pointed out
to us near the east gate of the city) to plough the first furrow of the
year.
After sundown the gates of the palace were shut and barred, and no one
might go in or out without special permission of the Emperor. During
the night state business was transacted, and not only was his Majesty
informed of matters of importance, but he was also entertained with the
small talk of the palace. There were always one or two Ministers of State
on duty throughout the night, and they left the palace at daybreak, when
the Emperor retired to rest.
To the left of the Emperor’s private apartments there is a gateway
leading out into a place of delight, a large walled garden containing
a spacious open summer-house surrounded by water. It is on a stone
platform, and consists of two storeys, supported on handsome pillars and
devoid of walls. The roof was of the usual Chinese type, with overhanging
eaves enriched with carvings painted blue, green, and gold, contrasting
finely with the Venetian red of the balcony and ceilings. A flight of
steps leads down from it to the pond which is full of lotus blossoms,
below which gold fish may be discerned in peaceful security. Here again
the hand of time is heavy, walls are falling down, steps dropping
asunder, and the brickwork beginning to crumble at the present time. It
is only used for Japanese garden parties, and one would fain hope that
the Japanese love of beauty will conquer prejudice sufficiently to save
it from the ravages of time and neglect before it is too late. Beautiful
pine-trees and hills form a worthy setting to this jewel.
The Dowager Empress Hong had her own residence and separate establishment
in the rear of this part of the palace, where she was frequently visited
by the Emperor, usually accompanied by the Crown Prince. In Korea it is
considered the duty of every son, or adopted son, to visit his mother
daily. Every afternoon the Dowager Empress sent two or three of her
ladies-in-waiting to present her compliments to his Majesty, and to
inquire after his health. The ladies who were sent on this errand had
to wear some additional garment for the purpose, or to have their hair
dressed over an immense frame. The residence of the Dowager Empress was
enclosed within high walls, and the entrance gate was hung with dark
blue cloth, ornamented with balls of white cotton wool, so that when the
gates were open no one should be able to see into the courtyard. Two of
the palace police, men of superior position to the city police, were
stationed as guards outside the gates. After the death of the Empress
Min, the Crown Prince occupied the same residence as the Emperor, and
they were rarely separated from one another. During the Russo-Japanese
war it was reported by some of the war correspondents that the Emperor
had married the daughter of an American missionary, and that she was
called the Empress Emily Brown. As this story obtained a certain amount
of credence in America I am glad to be able to state publicly that there
was not a word of truth in the rumour. The Emperor was devoted to the
memory of the Empress Min, and has not married again. For this and the
other details of palace life I am indebted to a friend who was at that
time closely connected with the court, and who continued so for many
years afterwards.
The Crown Princess had her own house and establishment like the Dowager
Empress, but on a smaller scale. Every afternoon she went to pay her
respects to the Emperor, attended by her ladies-in-waiting and eunuchs,
and they might not leave the royal presence until dismissed. This custom
was not confined to royalty, but in the Korean nobility etiquette
demands that daughters should pay their respects to fathers, and
daughters-in-law to their fathers-in-law, and that they should remain
standing until dismissed or asked to sit down. According to the usual
custom in the East the wives of the sons live in the same compound as the
father, frequently in the same building as his wife and daughters, so the
carrying out of this custom is a simple matter.
It may be of interest to know some details of the life of the women in
an eastern palace. They come into the palace as children of nine or ten
years old, bright, good-looking (the Korean ideal of beauty is very
different from ours), and intelligent girls. They are trained by other
girls a year or two older than themselves, each for her own department.
As soon as the children enter service the pigtail of childhood is
abandoned, and the hair is dressed in a knot, resting on the nape of the
neck. This signifies marriage in the case of all other Korean maidens;
but marriage is prohibited in the case of those who enter service in the
palace, although it is admittedly the duty of every woman. The girls are
dressed in white silk jackets and long mazarine blue silk skirts. The
little ones are sometimes allowed to wear pink or yellow silk jackets,
but never the elder ones.
If the attendants commit any serious offence, it is reported to the
head of the department; those, for instance, who act as ladies’ maids
are reported to the head lady in waiting, those in the kitchen to the
head housekeeper. One particular woman in this department had been
responsible for over fifty years for the dressing of the fish, yet she
was only sixty-five when she mentioned the fact, so her responsibilities
had begun early.
There are, however, alleviations to the lot of the palace attendants, for
they have alternately ten days’ duty and ten days’ holiday. The royal
ladies have not only women attendants, but also eunuchs, one of the worst
curses of life in an eastern palace. They are required to carry messages
from one department to another, and also to perform other duties. One of
the eunuchs belonging to the household of the Dowager Empress used to
read aloud to her a small daily Korean newspaper. While so doing he sat
outside the window, where he could be heard, but whence he could not see
inside, because the window was of paper. Korea is like China in respect
of windows, and is only now beginning to replace paper by glass.
All this old palace life which I have been describing came to an end
not long after the death of the Dowager Empress in 1904. We wandered
among the desolate ruins which marked the site of her residence. Finally
we reached a grove of pines where is a strange memorial—more like a
bandstand than anything else—it marks the site where the remains of the
late Empress Min were burned, after she had been cruelly done to death
by the Japanese in 1895. In vain her ladies had closed up round her and
tried to save her; in vain had one of them declared herself to be the
Empress and paid the penalty—in vain, alas!—with her own life. She was
hunted from the very presence of the Emperor to her own apartments in
the middle of the night, and there put to the sword. In 1897 the court
removed to the new palace in the western section of the city, where the
deposed Emperor still lives.
Another day we visited the mausoleum erected to her memory, in a
beautiful spot some miles to the east of the city. Passing through
the east gate we took a tram through the suburbs till we reached the
terminus, and there turning off into the woods we walked along a
beautiful shady road for nearly a mile. One or two parties of Japanese
were the only people we met, and they were evidently bent on picnicking,
a favourite form of amusement among them. We had an American friend with
us, and when we got to our destination she feared we would not be allowed
to climb the hill on which the monument stood. I decided not to wait for
permission, and hastily ran up to a beautiful spot commanding a fine view
over the plain with the tomb immediately below me, and set to work with
the utmost despatch. I had the pleasure of seeing the other visitors
arrive and get sent away, and then the guard came up to dislodge me. I
met him with a disarming smile, and showed him the sketch, ignoring his
obvious intention. Our American friend was greatly concerned as to the
righteousness of feigning ignorance, for she understood and translated
all they were saying, such as that no one was allowed there except people
of great importance, &c. &c. Further shouting from below to send us
away was followed by the slow climbing of the hill by other officials.
I greeted them in the same way as the first, and it had an equally
disarming effect; they seemed quite nonplussed, and before they could
decide how to act the sketch was finished, and I presented them with an
acceptable _douceur_, and said good-bye. Their refusal to allow people to
approach the tomb, where only the little finger of the Empress is buried,
is quite reasonable, for the dearest Korean feelings have been outraged
by the wanton disregard shown by visitors who have amused themselves by
pretending to ride the stone animals and otherwise “fooling” about the
spot.
[Illustration: EMPRESS’S TOMB]
Outside Seoul there are many graves of humbler persons, but selected with
equal care, and I have made a sketch of one showing the kind of horseshoe
mound within which they are most frequently placed. It was a beautiful
spot, fragrant with wild azalea just coming into bloom. It is well
described in Dr. Gale’s “Korean Sketches” (p. 216). “A grave is chosen on
a mountain front if possible, having two arm-like ridges on either hand,
one called the dragon side and one the tiger. There should be a mountain
directly in the foreground called the An-san, to stand as a support to
the family of the dead, otherwise the grave luck would flow down the
valley and be dissipated. There must be free exit for streams or surface
waters. This is the grave site in outline. Then come the special mountain
peaks that are looked for on either side of the An-san. One will mean
long life to the family, another a numerous posterity, another rank,
another wealth. Every mountain peak to right or left hand has its special
message, which the geomancer (the man who has selected the site) holds in
his professional grasp.”
There is not much to be seen in the town of Seoul, though it boasts a
museum and zoological gardens. The present palace is beautifully situated
near the east gate amongst fine pine-trees, and the present Emperor lives
a secluded life there since the Japanese insisted upon his ascending the
throne. Naturally these buildings are not open to the public.
There are various missionary bodies at work in the capital, where they
have their headquarters, but all the leading people seemed to be away
itinerating in the country. The Roman Catholics and Anglican Missions are
active, but, as one of its members informed me, the work of the latter
has only been fully developed during the last few years. The Young Men’s
Christian Association have fine premises presented by an American, and
the Salvation Army are the newest comers in the field.
[Illustration: KOREAN GRAVES]
The Japanese have built fine banks, post-office, railway station, and
other public offices, but they prove desperately slow in transacting
business. I had already experienced in Moukden that it required nearly
an hour to get a few pounds on a letter of credit at a Japanese bank,
and here they were equally slow. To my joy I saw a nice slab of Indian
ink and a brush on the counter for signing names, for the Japanese, and
Chinese, and Koreans still paint instead of writing their signatures. I
thought I would utilise the time by completing a sketch in my book while
the clerk was busy calculating how much the sum I wanted would come to
in Japanese money. I was soon disabused of the idea, for the whole staff
of the bank collected round to watch the proceeding, including the clerk
who was doing my business. No doubt they found it a pleasant distraction,
and time seemed to be of no importance. Their calculations are all done
with an abacus, and when I asked them simply to double the sum I had
originally asked for, it took exactly eighteen minutes to calculate twice
five! It is obvious that the interests charged on banking transactions
must be large to cover the cost of stately buildings and numberless
clerks, combined apparently with a minimum of business. The Japanese have
imposed a Japanese currency on the country, and the bulk of the money
used does equally for both countries, but there is a small quantity of
coin bearing the Korean stamp which is not current in Japan.
It seems absurd to the traveller to hear the Japanese pretending that
they have not annexed Korea, for they have, practically speaking,
taken possession of _everything_ in the most high-handed manner; they
have dispossessed the Koreans of all riparian rights, of fishing, game
shooting, of the coasting trade, of large quantities of land, for which
a purely nominal price has been given, and which the Koreans have
been forced to sell contrary to their wishes. The railways, post, and
telegraph, the currency, taxation, and customs, are entirely in their
hands; what is left for them to appropriate? The bitterness of the
bondage is aggravated by the fact that so few of the Japanese trouble to
learn the language, so that misunderstandings constantly arise. They have
given different names to the places, even to the capital. The courtesy,
which is such a universal characteristic of the Japanese at home, he has
left behind. However, it is to be remembered that this is a transitional
period, and it is ardently to be desired that the Japanese Government
will continue their good attempts to withdraw those who have been
creating disturbances and to place a better class of officials in power.
Some progress has already been made in this direction, especially with
regard to the judges. The Koreans are reaping the harvest of neglected
opportunities and churlish exclusiveness, and it is a bitter harvest.
One of the saddest losses Koreans have suffered of late has been that of
Prince Ito, their best friend amongst their rulers, the irony of fate
being shown in the fact that it was a Korean who murdered the Japanese
prince. The murderer was taken for trial to Japan, and faced his death
sentence with great equanimity. As he was engaged at the time in writing
a poem, the authorities postponed his execution for ten days in order
that he might have time to finish it!
CHAPTER XI
Fusan
The journey from Seoul to Fusan is through lovely cultivated land,
everywhere varied by hill scenery, of which it has been estimated
that three-fourths of Korea consists. The largest proportion of grain
cultivated is rice, but wheat, barley, beans, millet, and other cereals
grow equally well. It is truly a land flowing with milk and honey, has
a beautiful climate, and if well governed ought to be most happy and
prosperous. It is not subject to earthquakes, nor to any other great
disasters, such as floods and plagues. Last year, it is true, cholera
broke out in Seoul, but by the splendid exertions of the Japanese it was
quickly brought under control with small loss of life.
As we travelled southward the land gradually became greener and the
fruit-trees showed their delicate blossoms. Over the willows there was a
delicate film of green, and the pink azaleas on the hill-sides glowed in
the evening light. The journey of twenty hours seemed long, however, for
we were travelling in an American car, and it taxed the ingenuity even of
the small and supple Japanese officers, who were our fellow-travellers,
to make themselves comfortable in the first-class carriage. The attendant
brought slippers all round, and when the officers had divested themselves
of their boots and unrolled their rugs and eiderdowns, it became an
interesting study to see them try to accommodate their forms to the small
seats for two. As they found a resting-place for their heads, their feet
crept up to the window-panes, or had to curl up like a spring. Happy the
man who can sleep undisturbed in such quarters, with the constant noise
of slamming doors and traffic passing through the car, which is the
American ideal of railway comfort!
The day wore away, and as we were nearing Fusan the attendant came to
brush us up and help us on with our coats; he also brought the surprising
news that our friends at the next station had telephoned up the line
to say they were coming to meet us, and that we should be ready to get
out at the next station. Accordingly we did so, and our friends told us
they had learnt that the boat by which we were going to Wonsan would not
start till the following morning, and that we should not even be allowed
to go on board till the next day. We were only too glad to accept the
kind hospitality which they offered us instead of the cold comfort of
a Japanese hotel at the port. It was very interesting to hear of work
being carried on by the Australian Presbyterians in this part of the
peninsula, though they have not had as rapid a success as their friends
in the north. They follow the same policy, the result being a strong
self-supporting church.
[Illustration: FUSAN]
[Illustration: A KOREAN VILLAGE]
I cannot omit a word about the experience of one of their new workers,
as it shows the extraordinary results of Christianity in another mission
field. This Scotsman only went to the New Hebrides some twelve years ago
to work among the former cannibals. In order to do this more effectually
they gave him, some time since, a motor boat to prosecute work among the
islands; this boat he found invaluable, being an experienced seaman and
working it himself. Unfortunately, owing to an attack of black-water
fever, he was obliged to give up work there by the doctor’s orders,
consequently the boat was left for the use of his successor. The natives
were greatly distressed at his leaving, and presented him with no less
a sum than £250 to commence work in his new sphere. He has decided to
start a similar work among the countless islands round the Southern
coast of Korea as soon as he has sufficiently mastered the language. The
generosity involved in such a gift is hard to overestimate.
It may interest people to know that the working expenses of the motor
boat comes to less than one penny a mile, namely about half the cost of
itinerating on the mainland.
Fusan is a beautiful spot, in an ideal situation for a harbour, but the
town itself has all the ugly characteristics of a busy seaport. The bay
is surrounded with high hills, showing a picturesque and varied outline,
with fruit-trees and other vegetation, giving a brighter note of colour
to the sombre pine-trees which cling to their rugged sides. The natural
excellence of the harbour, which is almost closed by an island, leaving
a channel for ships on both sides, has been further improved by the
removal of some of the spurs of the hills so as to give larger space for
wharfage. There is no doubt that Fusan will continue to grow in size
and importance, as it is the terminus of the railway and the nearest
point for reaching Japan. The ferry to Shimonoseki only takes twenty
hours, and plies daily in both directions. In the centre of the town is
a beautifully wooded little hill which has been laid out by the Japanese
with great taste. Long flights of handsome stone steps lead directly
upwards under the shade of overhanging pine-trees, and winding paths
lead more gently to the summit, offering alluring seats from which to
admire the bay. There is a succession of Shinto shrines which seem to be
much frequented. The worshipper approaches, claps his hands loudly, or
rings the bell to call the attention of the deity, and then kneels for a
moment in prayer. Some of the worshippers tossed up beans as they knelt,
or offered money, and there were not a few more costly offerings hanging
up—long tresses of black hair. These temples are of recent date, and war
trophies were also placed in front of them. Some of the passers-by paid
no further attention to the shrine than to bow and remove their hats,
but on the whole they elicited a considerable amount of worship, and
it is clear that the Japanese are more attached to their religion than
some people give them credit for. In this case they have selected the
most beautiful and most conspicuous place in the town for their temples;
have made a noble approach to them, and planted the little terraces with
lovely flowering shrubs, which were just bursting into blossom. The
hill-sides were gay with wild azalea and fragrant with the scent of the
pines.
We made an early start, as they assured us that it would be too late if
we went into town by the morning train, so a primeval bus was chartered
to convey us over the rugged roads, and we arrived at the office at 9.30,
only to be told that the steamer would not start till 4 or 5 o’clock in
the afternoon. We learnt afterwards that a large fine steamer left the
night before, although they so confidently assured us there was none. It
is a hard trial of patience to travel in Korea.
At the office of the Steamship Company we procured tickets, and were
amused at having to give our ages to be inscribed on the tickets, which
cost yen 14.70 (about twenty-nine shillings) to Wonsan, first class,
a passage of between thirty to forty hours in length. The boat was a
fair size, and was heavily laden with timber and petroleum. The staff
was entirely Japanese, and little English was understood, but European
requirements and wishes did not need to be explained, so we had no
difficulty. A more lovely sight than the bay as we steamed out of it
past the four sentinel rocks at the entrance in the level rays of the
setting sun would be hard to imagine, and one could not but remember how
securely hidden the Japanese fleet lay there in wait for the Russian
before the great battle in which the Baltic fleet was destroyed.
Our course followed the outline of the coast pretty closely, and the
mountains still had touches of snow on them, like veins outlining their
shapes. The mountains come quite close down on to the shore, and little
cultivation is to be seen on this side of the peninsula. On the eastern
coast of Korea there is a tide of only six or eight inches, whereas on
the western coast it is no less than twenty-seven feet three inches, one
of the highest tides in the world.
There were few birds visible—only an occasional seagull or cormorant, and
the white-sailed boats that we had seen thronging the bay of Fusan were
conspicuous by their absence. Hour after hour passed without a sign of
life being visible. Fortunately the sea was calm, and the next morning
but one we reached Wonsan at about 6 A.M. We had to land in small boats,
and were met by a party of missionaries, with whom we walked through a
good part of the modern town. It is well laid out, and has wide roads
leading to the quarters where the American missionaries live on the
slopes of hills overlooking the sea and embowered in trees. The Japanese
name for Wonsan is Gensan.
CHAPTER XII
The Diamond Mountains
Our friends had kindly begun before our arrival at Wonsan to make
arrangements for the trip which we wished to take through the Diamond
Mountains, so that a few hours sufficed to complete them. An attractive
route was suggested by a native who knew the passes; the time at our
disposal was only eight days, so we were obliged to give up all hope of
doing the principal pass, which is lofty and very arduous for travellers.
The one selected took us through a fine part of the chain of mountains
which runs down the eastern coast of Korea, and enabled us to visit an
important monastery. We started with four ponies and three men to look
after them, and the price stipulated was 64 yen (a little over £6), the
distance to be covered being approximately 225 miles. It was probable
that the men would get some loads for the return journey, but that could
not be counted on. We had no saddles, so our bed bags had to take their
place, but they made precarious seats. At first one thought it would be
only possible to retain one’s seat by holding on all the time, and the
thought of the necessity of using a handkerchief owing to a severe cold
in the head was an anxious one, but time soon made us able to dispense
with any grip. Mr. Chiao found his bedding a much more satisfactory seat
than ours, for the usual Chinese bed bag seems to have been specially
devised for the purpose; he looked completely at his ease, though he had
never ridden before, and he hopped on and off his pony with astonishing
rapidity. The fourth beast carried our two modest baskets of stores and
clothing, and the cots which had been kindly lent to us for the occasion.
Having lost our umbrellas we bought Korean paper waterproof coats, at
the cost of about one shilling each, and waterproof paper for lining our
other things, as there was some fear of wet weather on the mountains.
We set off about 2 o’clock with the intention of doing fifteen miles that
evening, but it is always difficult to make a good start, and various
hindrances delayed us, such as a ferry-boat with no ferryman, and the
boat on the wrong side of the river. After a little time a woman came
slowly down to the ferry and got into the boat, so our men exhorted her
to pull herself across by means of the rope; this, however, she declined
to do, and sat patiently waiting for some one else to come and take her
across. It was only when we saw her close at hand that we discovered she
was blind, so probably that had made her afraid of crossing alone. We
became very impatient as time went on and no one appeared; I urged our
men to ford the stream higher up, which was evidently a frequented route.
However, they were too timorous, and were afraid of trying an unknown
path, so we lost much valuable time. It was only at the close of our
journey that we learned that none of the men had traversed any part of
our route previously; naturally the result was that they constantly made
mistakes and took us out of the direct route. At last, just as we were
beginning to despair, some one arrived who towed the ferry-boat over the
river, and we set off across some ploughed fields towards the foot of
the hills. It was dusk when we reached a village which our men said was
the halting-place, and only next day we discovered that they had stopped
three miles short of the right stage. We were shown into a small room
about twelve feet square, from which the women of the house were ejected
though their clothing draped the walls, and big chests further diminished
our space. All Korean houses have a small platform outside them, either
planking or made of dried mud, on which the shoes are left before any
one enters. The floors are heated from below and covered with matting,
so that chairs are considered unnecessary, and the Koreans enjoy the
heat which penetrates through the bedding on which they lie at nights.
We found it decidedly trying, despite having the door open and cots
to sleep on; but we were delighted to find the houses so much cleaner
than we expected. On the whole they look unquestionably cleaner in the
country villages than in the corresponding ones at home. It was a little
difficult to sleep, what with the heat and the noise, for the men require
two hours to get up and breakfast, and we were off by 6 o’clock.
The second day we travelled mostly parallel with the seashore, and got
more accustomed to riding our steeds. It was a perfect day with radiant
sunshine, and one received an impression of universal content and
comfort. The people looked for the most part respectably dressed and
housed, and “every prospect pleased.” The villages seemed well supplied
with cattle, pigs, fowls, and firewood, and within the houses were
goodly array of bowls and brass utensils brilliantly polished. When we
stopped at midday the horses were unloaded and given a hot sort of bran
mash. The Korean pony is a hardy creature, capable of great labour and
wonderfully sure-footed, but he requires three hot meals per day, that
is to say, a large quantity of hot water with more or less of boiled
beans and rice chaff in it. He appears to be eating all night long except
when he is fighting his next-door neighbour. His mapoo or groom brushes
him assiduously with a little round brush before loading, though it
never has any visible effect on the beast’s coat—a more unkempt-looking
animal is not to be found anywhere. The stable and kitchen of Korean inns
seem to consist in a single room, one wall having a long row of stoves
so that various big pans can be cooking at the same time. The chimney
of a house is generally quite detached from the building, for it is
connected with flues which underlie the whole house, heating every room
(see illustration, p. 10). At meal-times the men each had a little round
table, about four inches in diameter, on which were a large brass bowl
of rice, another of water, and two or three small earthenware dishes of
vegetable, or fish, or other condiments. These little tables are very
neat, and the food attractively served. The Koreans required two hours
always at midday, for the men lie down and go to sleep after they have
eaten.
Our way led us up hill and down dale, and in the course of the day we
walked down five precipitous hills, on two of which there were large
gangs of navvies making the road. They use a peculiar spade with a long
handle, partly shod at the spatula-shaped end with iron, to which was
attached a rope on each side worked by separate individuals, so that it
required three men to wield it. Everywhere the country was being prepared
for the crops. The rice fields seemed to occupy the main part of the land
under cultivation, and were being ploughed by cattle. None of the ground
was pasture land—we have not seen a single sheep since we came to Korea;
there were some flocks of goats to be seen from the railway, but no other
animals grazing. The cattle are singularly fine, but are only used in
agriculture and as beasts of burden; the loads of wood that they carry
are so large that hardly more of the beast is to be seen than the legs.
The same may be said of the loads carried by men and boys.
We were delighted by the wild flowers just coming into blossom—hepaticas
of shades varying from purest white to deep blue; large round-faced
yellow heartsease; various colours of violets, and the sweetest large
white ones; deep-red hairy anemones, and white crocus.
As we had only come twelve instead of fifteen miles the previous night
we decided that we must make it up, or the other stages arranged would
be impossible, but at such a suggestion our men looked black and greatly
demurred. They said thirty-seven miles was too long a journey; and when
we came to a village nestling under the slope of a hill covered with
fine pine-trees in which numbers of herons were clamorously preparing
to roost, we were obliged to admit that it was no wonder the men were
anxious to stop there. The place was thoroughly picturesque and showed
signs of activity; there was even a police officer standing near the
invariable notice board which adorns every village in Korea since the
Japanese occupation. We pushed on and only stopped a moment to sketch a
particularly good specimen of devil posts, of which we had seen numbers
on the road. It is considered meritorious to add a stone to one of these
wayside heaps, which takes the place of shrines. We spent the night at
a small village, only arriving at dusk after thirteen and a half hours’
travelling; and we were not sorry to tumble into our cots after a short
meal, to put out our lights, and so escape the curiosity of the natives,
which we find a great trial. It is well-nigh impossible to shut the doors
for more than a few minutes, or you feel asphyxiated, and it is only when
the light is out that the eager villagers cease to gaze. One was reduced
to the necessity of washing in the dark or getting up in the middle of
the night to do it.
[Illustration: DEVIL POSTS]
[Illustration: ‘TEN PARTS IMPERFECT ONE’]
The third day’s journey began under a grey and uncertain-looking sky, but
the sun shone out at intervals as we made our way along the seashore. My
guide insisted I should ride with a foot on each side of my good beast’s
neck, but that brought disaster, for it meant nothing to cling to, so a
sudden spring forward of the beast, resultant on an unseen prod in the
back, landed me promptly in the dust. My mapoo tried to break the fall,
but only succeeded in getting a blow on his mouth. Seeing I was not
seriously damaged he made a pitiable appeal to my sympathy, opening a
wide mouth in which I expected to see several teeth lying about. There
was no sign of disaster except a few drops of blood, which seemed to
distress him acutely, but the other men all roared with laughter and
told him to wash in the stream close by. He didn’t cease being sorry for
himself for quite a long while, and the weird songs with which he had
previously beguiled the road ceased for half a day. We passed many small
fishing hamlets, and were interested to see what a variety of fish the
women had in their baskets, of which many were unknown to us. Flounders
seem quite common, and in Seoul we noticed much larger herrings than any
seen at home; all fish is much more expensive there than in London, owing
to the Japanese monopoly, but happily for the little villages, they are
so far beyond the beat of the foreigner that they are left unmolested;
indeed we saw no Japanese after leaving Wonsan till that afternoon,
when we were astonished at the sound of a siren, and turning a corner
came into an exquisite little land-locked harbour, evidently a naval
base, and completely concealed from the sea. Numbers of sea-gulls and
oyster-catchers were disporting themselves in the shallow basin leading
from it, but our attention was riveted on the boats where gun practice
was going on, though it sounded muffled.
The village of Tschagu-Tschiendogu (accordingly to the spelling in our
German map) boasts of a Japanese post-office, and a Japanese woman was
trotting along with a baby on her back. Passing through it we plodded
through deep silver sand for some distance before turning inland, but we
had a long way still to go to reach the secluded monastery, which was our
resting-place for the night. We wound in among the precipitous mountains
of granite formation. The rocks stood out like mammoth beasts in all
sorts of strange shapes, and they looked black and forbidding in the
gloom. A green serpent mottled with black gave our men quite a fright,
and they continually asked the way, getting not much enlightenment. At
last we penetrated into an ideal valley with cliffs towering steeply
upwards to a considerable height, and showing the jagged outlines
which have given the Diamond Mountains their name. The narrow track
changed into a broad well-kept road, leading through a pine forest, and
we had not gone more than a mile or so when we met a party of monks
taking their evening stroll. The youthful looking abbot wore a chain
which distinguished him from the rest, and he stepped forward, bowing
politely. It was rather difficult to know how next to proceed, as none of
the party seemed to understand English or Chinese; however, Mr. Chiao at
once began a conversation by writing on the ground and asking if we could
receive accommodation for the night. The request was readily granted, and
the party of monks escorted us back.
As we approached the monastery there was a small open space by the
roadside in which were stone vases and tablets, but with the exception
of that and the avenue there was no sign to mark the neighbourhood of
the buildings. They were situated up a short path at right angles to
the road, and were by no means impressive. The temple stood slightly to
the rear, and we were taken to a series of rooms opening on to a raised
terrace, and ushered into the central one, where a Buddha occupied the
post of honour. A screen was produced to divide off a part of the room
for us, and the monks arranged themselves all round to watch proceedings,
namely, the cooking of our supper. One of them wrote an inquiry whether
we were “Jesus missionaries,” another brought us a Japanese-English
primer, and said a few sentences which he had learned fairly accurately,
but could not understand anything we said.
While we had our supper in one part of the room some monks had theirs
in another, and it became obvious that we should have no privacy, so we
had our things removed to a small room which had been allotted to Mr.
Chiao, which was very hot but clean, and which possessed some rings on
the door that we could padlock and yet get fresh air. Mr. Chiao was kept
busy writing for a long time, and we begged him to find out what they
considered the best route to Seoul. However, they said that none of their
number had ever been there, and that the monastery to which we proposed
going next day was forty miles distant over a lofty pass, so we had to
give it up. We were glad to have Mr. Chiao sleeping in the verandah just
outside our door to guard us. They showed the rapacity which is said to
characterise the Buddhist monks in Korea, and we heard none too good an
account of them. The night stillness was only disturbed by the croaking
of frogs in quite a different tongue from that of European ones, and the
periodic beating of the fish gong which betokens the hour of prayer.
In the morning we were up betimes and off before 6 o’clock; already
the monks were busy outside spreading great heaps of grain on matting,
perhaps in preparation for sowing. It was a perfect morning as we wended
our way down the valley for about three miles of the same way we had
come the night before, and soon we left the lovely valley behind us. Our
pathway was full of funny little green frogs spotted with black, and with
their underside brilliant scarlet. Heavy clouds hung over the precipitous
ravine through which lay our way, and we soon outdistanced our ponies as
we tramped over a rough path surrounded by most fascinating flowers.
Besides those mentioned above there were glades full of large cyclamen,
white crocus and wood anemones, purple iris, saxifrage, &c.
Lilies of the valley and strawberry leaves showed promise of future
beauty, and many kinds of ferns were beginning to unfold their fronds.
Pheasants and wood-pigeons were calling from the rocks, and many birds
trying their notes in a tentative way. Chipmunks sat up eyeing us with
great unconcern, and the treasures of the woods seemed limitless. A
babbling brook kept us in constant temptation as our path crossed and
recrossed it, and before we reached the top we passed through more than
one drift of snow. The views were wonderful, but we could have seen them
better by travelling in the opposite direction, and one of the great
charms in that case is the way that the traveller suddenly gets a view
of the distant sea as he climbs over the summit of the pass. We were
three hours climbing up, for the ascent is very stiff, but the descent
is much more gradual, and we were glad to be able to mount our beasts,
for the midday halt only came after a stage of seven hours. Brilliant
gleams of sunshine occasionally burst forth, but the clouds blew up for
rain, and we were thankful to reach our resting-place at night before the
storm broke. We only managed 90 li (27 miles) in eleven hours, and on our
arrival we were surprised and provoked to find in the little village a
Japanese encampment, and officers occupying the best inn. After a slight
demur we were taken in, and were soon after discussing a light meal, when
the door was thrust rudely open, and a Japanese soldier prepared to watch
us have it. As he declined to take our hint to go, it became necessary to
shut the door in his face. The rain fell heavily in the night, and the
wind blew, but a dark morning was a prelude to a fine day.
We started late next morning, and only got as far as the end of the
village when two Japanese officers, who seemed to be superintending the
building of a house, stopped us and inquired our destination. They went
into long explanations in writing on the ground with Mr. Chiao. They said
there was a much better road than the one we were on, and that by it
the distance was only 80 li. They spoke a few words of English, and we
hoped that they had no ulterior object in sending us the other way, as
it proved an execrable road and at least 110 li as to distance. We soon
found ourselves going up another pass, but not nearly so long and arduous
as the last. The flowers were not so numerous, and we found nothing much
of fresh interest. Swallow-tails and butterflies of various colours
flitted about the path, and the panoramic view as we gained the summit
was fine, showing what a land of hills this is. As we descended into the
valleys we found them scantily populated and cultivated, but the singular
number of streams and brooks kept many grinding-mills at work. The
commonest kind of mill is worked by a runnel of water discharging itself
into a wooden cradle; when this is full it descends and empties itself,
then rises again, bringing down its other end, as a hammer on the grain
beneath. The hammer is inside a little round hut with a pointed roof
thatched with straw. Others of the mills are worked by wheels, and there
is a constant sound of groaning and hammering in every valley. Ploughing
and sowing go on simultaneously, and this requires a gang of from four to
six men; they work on a cooperative system, and one man treads along the
newly-turned furrow, with bare feet, widening it out, and dropping in the
grain and fertiliser mixed, while another follows to cover it with soil,
and it is finally stamped down by yet another man. The birds have a poor
chance of getting any grain. Some fresh ground was being brought under
cultivation by having the brushwood on it burnt and then being ploughed,
but to judge from appearances there is no little ground still left waste,
which would be cultivated if, for example, it were in Chinese hands. The
Koreans take life much more easily, and there is none of the elaborate
care and use of materials which are such a striking feature of Chinese
industry.
It was only after a somewhat prolonged midday halt that we made the
trying discovery that we still had fifteen miles to travel to Tschang Do,
where we joined the main road, and meanwhile it became darker and darker.
Happily later on the moon shone out brightly and illumined us across a
barren moor. Passengers were few and far between, but a couple of men
came along silently carrying a white swathed corpse on a stretcher. Our
own party had fallen silent, for we were tired and disappointed; the
gloom prevented our seeing the steepness of some of the descents, but we
clung desperately to our steeds, for we were too weary to walk. At last
we came into a high road, which proved to be the main road running from
Seoul to Wonsan, and on this it was easy travelling. Few gleams of light
were to be seen in the village, but the inhabitants had not gone to rest,
so our men set about finding quarters—a not altogether easy matter. While
we were discussing it outside an inn, the beasts began quarrelling, and a
man was sent flying headlong into the ditch by the heels of one of them.
He picked himself up without any ado, and as if it were quite a matter of
course. Perhaps this settled the vexed question, for we were forthwith
admitted to the house, and the family turned out of a room which they
allotted to our use. This sort of thing happened wherever we stayed, for
apparently there are no spare rooms for travellers, and as there is no
furniture in the living rooms it is not so objectionable an arrangement
as it sounds. The best hats of the family are hung on the rafters, a
shelf runs round the wall about two feet from the ceiling; it is full of
miscellaneous objects, while the clothing of the family appears to be
stored in boxes piled on one another. There is generally a door on each
side of the room consisting of papered lattice work, and in the side a
glass peep-hole varying in size from one to four inches.
The night passed all too soon, and we woke to the consciousness of a
sharp frosty morning. As we wended our way down the valley it might
easily have been midwinter. The brown hill-sides, and the brown earth and
stubble thick with rime, showed no suggestion of spring, though it was
nearing the end of April. On every side the pheasants were calling, and
the bold fellows were hardly to be put up by a well-aimed stone from my
man, but trotted unconcernedly away, as though conscious that now they
are under Japanese protection. We met a man with a falcon, but even the
falconer’s trade is eyed with suspicion, lest he use it as a blind. There
have been several cases of poisoned pheasants noted lately in Seoul, so
that it is necessary to be careful in buying them, to see that they have
really been shot.
Our sixth day was again a thirteen hours’ journey, and as we sat resting
by a rill of water at midday, a young mother with a baby on her back came
up, beaming with eagerness to talk to us. No doubt she expected we could
understand and answer, and we were doubly sorry not to be able to do so
when she carefully unfolded a handkerchief and showed us her Testament
and hymn book. The only possibly means of sympathy was by dumb show, and
by the headings of the hymns, which were in English as well as Korean.
That evening we found our innkeeper was a Christian, by whom we were
received with the utmost warm-heartedness, and every request so
willingly granted, that it was quite cheering after a tiring day. One
of the girls had thoroughly acquired the English hand-shake, and when I
stretched out a hand to shut the door, to my great surprise I found it
warmly grasped instead. A little clucking on my friend’s part caused them
to go out and fetch us lovely new-laid eggs, a great contrast to most of
those we had been able to buy on the road, and they watched my cooking
operations with lively interest. We began to feel it would be difficult
to shut the door at all on their friendly faces, when an interruption
came and rendered it unnecessary; this was a summons to them from the
head of the house to come to family worship. First they sang a hymn
(would that our good missionary friends could be content to let them sing
their own tunes!)—then came Scripture reading, prayer, and the Lord’s
Prayer repeated by all; I imagine that what followed next must have been
exhortation and a suggestion of another hymn, but they decided not to
sing it. The utmost devoutness characterised their worship, which was
carried on in the adjoining room, so that we felt we were sharers in it,
and it was good to be there.
We parted next morning with hearty hand-shakes, and we wished we had
met with more Christian innkeepers on our journey, if this were a
typical one. Just as we were starting a nice-looking young girl showed
us her Bible with great pride, and I found that she could write quite
well. Education seems to be almost entirely neglected in the country
districts, and we have only passed one school so far as we know during
our eight days’ journey. The road continued excellent, but always winds
through narrow valleys and over ridges into other valleys, showing how
large a part of the country is uninhabited. The hill-sides are only used
as cemeteries and for producing firewood. Until we reached the high road
at the end of our fifth day’s journey we met no ponies and only few
pedlars; after that there were many people and animals. The pedlars seem
to carry mainly cotton goods (“superior sheeting K K K” being much to
the fore), summer hats, umbrellas, haberdashery, mirrors, matches, and
cigarettes. The people have little money, and the things they use are of
the cheapest.
Shortly after starting we met three mounted soldiers, evidently the
military escort of a weary-looking Westerner seated in a ricksha,
followed by another ricksha in which was seated a Korean in pale blue
attire. This was the only Westerner we met during our eight days’
journey, and from this time onward we occasionally met a ricksha, though
on some parts of the road it looks quite impossible for them to travel.
For a distance of perhaps twenty miles the road has been planted on both
sides with twigs at a distance of about a foot from one another. They
look unpromising, but we were assured that they are likely to grow all
right, in which case they will convert the dull road in the course of a
few years to a pleasant shady avenue. Towards dusk we came to Po Chan,
a Japanese military outpost. It struck us that this was probably the
last opportunity of sending a telegram to announce our return to Seoul,
so we at once dismounted at the telegraph office. Almost everywhere
the one notice up in English is “Post—Telegraph,” but here it was in
Japanese. When our wishes, however, had been explained by Mr. Chiao in
writing, a telegraph form entirely made out in English was produced and
the message written. It seemed such a simple matter to send it, that we
were astonished at the amount of correspondence it entailed. Our names,
destinations, ages, &c. &c. were demanded by the military authorities,
and the little job took at least twenty minutes. At last we got away and
it was quite dark before we reached our destination.
We sighed for our friendly hosts of the night before, for this time we
encountered a horde of inquisitive people, who allowed us no peace; in
vain we closed three doors out of the four which led from one tiny room
eighteen feet square, and the paper on them was soon in shreds. At last
we were driven to distraction, and closed all the peep-holes by curtains,
preferring to be stifled than to endure the people any longer.
[Illustration: NORTH GATE, SEOUL]
The eighth and last morning of our journey dawned grey and unpromising.
How often have we sighed for our comfortable Chinese travelling chairs,
never more than as the weary hours wore slowly away under a drizzling
rain. For the last few days we had seen scarcely a flower and heard few
birds; the dear larks were silent, and the passengers hurried along under
umbrellas, waterproof-covered hats, and an occasional grass coat. The
villages were more numerous, and wonderful groups of devil posts, ten
or twelve in a row, faced each other at each end of them; many of these
looked comparatively new, and were painted brick-red and green, with
white markings. A noticeable feature of Korea is the absence of temples,
and the disrepair of the shrines; we never saw any sign of worship by the
people at these wayside shrines. They are, many of them, simply empty
huts, or have a little writing on the walls, and occasionally a picture.
On sacred trees strips of paper are hung, and the passer-by, if devout,
adds a stone to the heap round its roots.
We donned our shilling paper coats and found them an admirable protection
from the rain, but we must have been a funny sight. As we rode along
we came to a Japanese regiment on the march, headed by its officers in
military capes. One of the officers, despite the rain, threw his cape
back in a _négligé_ way before he met us, so that a dazzling row of
decorations should not pass unobserved. Certainly his appearance was in
striking contrast to ours.
We entered the city of Seoul from the north by a fine old gateway, the
whole scene being most picturesque. I returned to sketch it the following
day.
The impression of the country people gained by our trip was that they
were not particularly friendly, but thoroughly inquisitive; it looked as
if there were little extreme poverty, but a general air of comfort seemed
to prevail everywhere. The village street is swept daily, so that in the
early morning there is a pleasant look of tidiness about it. The cattle
are sleek and well cared for, and even the dogs have a prosperous air.
Any one thinking of visiting the Diamond Mountains would do well to
try and secure a competent Korean to go with them, who would be able
to secure the daily fowl for dinner of which we heard, but which we
never met, and to procure any other requisite. We saw no cultivation of
vegetables, except small plots of onions, so that we had to rely entirely
on the stores that we took with us for everything except eggs. We were
told (too late) that a guide may easily be heard of at the Y.M.C.A. in
Seoul. As to means of transit—there are only three; a _pony_, but let me
add a warning on this score, namely, that one gets deadly tired of its
slow walk; a _native chair_, consisting of a square box like an Indian
dhoolie, with carriers who groan all the time; and _shanks’s pony_, which
in the mountains is the only pleasant one. Residents in Korea have their
own carrying chairs, but these are not to be hired. As regards the time
of year most suitable for travelling in Korea, May is the most beautiful,
or early autumn we were told, but in case of the former, mosquito
curtains are a necessity. We found winter clothing requisite for April;
thick tweeds and fur coat were none too warm.
We had been told that the country districts were quite unsafe on account
of Japanese vagrants, but we saw nothing of them, and as far as we could
judge there is excellent order everywhere. Although Mr. Chiao was unable
to communicate directly with the Koreans, his presence was of undoubted
value to us in more ways than one. It lent prestige to our small party,
for the Koreans hold the Chinese in great respect; and for them to see
such a man as Mr. Chiao in a subordinate position to us, was equivalent
to raising us to high rank.
CHAPTER XIII
Seoul to Dalny
The slowness and discomfort of the journey from Manchuria by railway to
Seoul determined us to take another route on our return, and as there was
a boat going from Chemulpo to Dalny about the time we wanted to start we
decided to take it. We booked our places in good time, paid for tickets,
and the agent promised to wire at once to Yokohama to have the berths
reserved for us. On our return to Seoul, however, after our trip across
the country, we saw that another steamer was advertised to sail the day
following the one for which we had booked. This was not only a larger
steamer, but also boasted European food, instead of Japanese, no small
matter when one is sea-sick. We at once decided to change our tickets if
possible, and went to the agent from whom they had been obtained. He said
it was impossible to make any alteration as the berths had been already
secured on the other steamer; however, after some demur, he telephoned
to the agent at Chemulpo to ascertain what answer he had received from
Yokohama. The agent declared that he had never been asked to secure any
berths, and that none had been reserved. This made the way plain for
us, and we were glad for once of the hopelessly unbusinesslike habits
prevailing in Korea. I have related this incident to show how difficult
it is to travel comfortably; for our friends said that ours was no
uncommon experience, and that various of their friends, with places
already engaged, had gone to take their boat at Chemulpo, as we should
have done, and found that all the berths were full, so that they were
obliged to return to Seoul and wait for the next. As boats only run to
Dalny once in three or four weeks this is a serious matter.
We started in the early afternoon and found a large crowd of passengers
waiting to go by the train; it duly came into the station, and the
luggage was put in the van, but the passengers were kept cooped up within
railings for fifteen minutes, actually to within five minutes of the
starting of the train. When they were at last allowed on the platform
there was a perfect stampede, and the discovery was made that there were
no first-class carriages, though we and other passengers had first-class
tickets. The officials were applied to, but they said if we wanted
first-class accommodation we could wait a couple of hours and take the
next train. We were not sorry when our short journey of one and three
quarter hours came to an end to think that it was our last experience of
Korean railways. On arrival at Chemulpo we passed through a door labelled
“wicket,” which was surely strangely unlike the wicket gate with which
we are all so familiar by name from the days of our childhood, though we
certainly felt like pilgrims.
Chemulpo is a cosmopolitan sort of place and has an unenviable
reputation, but it has certain charming features. The first is that there
is always a cool breeze; the second is that it extends up a hill-side,
and from the British Consulate, perched on the edge of the cliff,
there is a fine view over the harbour. From there a group of thrilled
spectators watched the dramatic opening of the war between Russia and
Japan. They saw the two gallant Russian warships steam out of the inner
bay to meet the Japanese fleet and certain destruction. Whatever may
be thought of the action, no one can fail to admire the unflinching
courage—so characteristic of both armies—which dictated it.
As we climbed up the hill we saw towering above us a fine red church
belonging to the Roman Catholics, and we reached the mission hospital of
the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. No one who is unacquainted
with Eastern seaports can understand the arduous character of the work
carried on by the tiny handful of workers stationed at such places; but
where could there be a greater need of that Christian demonstration which
a hospital affords? Only once a month an ordained clergyman comes down
to take the services; at other times the doctor has to conduct them, as
well as attend to all the medical work. It is difficult for him to get
an occasional holiday of even a couple of days, for at the present time
the medical work among the Koreans has not progressed far in the training
of assistants. The hospital is small and lacking many of the things
which our ordinary general practitioners would consider essential to a
hospital, but the results are nevertheless satisfactory.
As we left the doctor’s house we found that a boatman had dogged our
steps, and been waiting a couple of hours to secure possible passengers
on the way to the S.S. _Santo Maru_, for he had no doubt seen Mr. Chiao
taking our luggage from the station to the ship. We could not resist such
pertinacity, and after some half-hour’s rowing in his sampan, we reached
the outer harbour where the _Santo Maru_ lay.
Next morning at 5 A.M. punctually we started for Dalny in heavy rain,
which thickened into fog in the course of the day. The Nippon Yusen
Kaisha is at present the best Japanese line of steamers, and has ships
plying all round the world. The accommodation was quite comfortable,
and the staff, from the captain downwards, most kind and polite to the
passengers. There was an excellent Chinese _chef_ on board, and he
prepared an elaborate Sunday dinner for the thirteen passengers—composed
of Americans, Spaniards, Australians, and ourselves—such as would have
been more suitable for Christmas Day; the menu included roast beef,
turkey, and plum-pudding. Tiny birds kept haunting the ship all day long,
so tame that they alighted on people’s shoulders, and sea swallows came
darting into the saloon during dinner.
We were grateful for a smooth sea, even though the fog delayed our
passage somewhat, and we only reached Dalny twenty-five hours after
leaving Chemulpo. The rain was gone, and was followed by “clear shining”
as we drew up beside the wharf. The agent of the pleasant Yamato
hotel took charge of our things, and put us into a comfortable little
carriage with india-rubber tyres in which we drove through the town.
How delightful it is after roughing it to meet once again such simple
home comforts (too simple even to be noticed at home), and to drive over
well-made roads! Dalny, or Dairen as it is called by the Japanese, is
pre-eminently a new town, full of handsome buildings, from the Sailors’
Rest to the Yokohama Specie Bank, situated in wide, well-made roads, and
showing plain proof of the nascent prosperity of the place. The shops
are not quite up to what might be expected, but that is only a matter
of time, and well-known firms such as Butterfield and Swire, and Samuel
Macgregor & Co. are already established there. Dalny is an interesting
and remarkable place. Ten years ago it did not exist, but was merely a
dream in some Russian brain; and how that brain conceived it, it is hard
to imagine. Dalny lies at the base of the Liaotong Peninsula, a rocky,
barren spot without any shelter from the tempests; but having the great
advantage over its nearest neighbouring seaport, Newchwang, of being open
all the year round, whereas Newchwang is ice-bound four months in the
winter. _This_ is the reason why Russia was willing to pour out money
like water to convert the wilderness into a great commercial port at the
southern terminus of the railway line. The harbour alone has been an
enormous expense, for the bank is very shelving, and there are now dry
docks, moles, breakwaters, and warehouses, with a vast amount of space
available for the requisites for that commerce which Russia expected to
obtain. But it is not Russia, but Japan, who is now the owner of Dalny;
it is Japanese ships that ply between China, Korea, and Japan, not to
mention the trade with more distant countries, which is steadily growing.
As it is the only port north of Hong Kong where large steamers can
conveniently discharge their cargoes, it ought to have good prospects,
and the increasing exports from Manchuria are certain to pass through it.
Not only did Russia expend its money upon making Dalny a fine port, but
also in making it a fine city and pleasant to live in. The residential
quarter has been hewn out of the hill-side for about a couple of miles,
and handsomely laid out, while a beautiful shady drive of seven or eight
miles leads to the seashore facing the ocean.
The town is full of little carriages and rickshas, and a network of trams
takes the passenger for an hour’s drive for the lordly sum of twopence,
first class, and a penny farthing second class. As we drove in a tram
to Chinatown in order to view the outskirts, we saw the beginnings of
a park, a golf course, a baseball ground, a chrysanthemum garden, and
various other things, but more amusing were the little bazaars and shops
with their English notices—“To sell Flesh,” “Boots and Shoesmakea,” “High
Barber,” “Royal House Hair Cutting,” &c. &c. English is the one European
language which makes its way into every corner of the earth, and will
with ever-increasing rapidity tend to become the universal means of
communication. As an instance of this fact, the Chinese Government has
just issued an order that henceforth English is to be the language in
which science shall be taught throughout the Chinese Empire. This will,
I fear, be a severe blow to our German friends, who were confidently
expecting China to follow the example of Japan and take German as the
scientific medium of instruction.
We left Dalny by the evening train for Liao Yang, _en route_ for Ashiho,
which forms the subject of the next chapter.
CHAPTER XIV
Ashiho
As we journeyed northward once more the cold steadily increased, and a
biting wind found its way even into the railway carriages. At Kharbin a
perfect blizzard had been blowing the previous day, and as it happened
to be the Russian Easter, banks were closed and the tickets for the
Russian State express train were not to be purchased. We discovered that
the train service was all to be changed the next day, May 1st, and no
time-tables were obtainable. The British Consul kindly promised to get
our tickets on the Monday, and ascertained that we could join the express
at Ashiho, a few stations down the Vladivostock line, where we were going
to spend the week end.
We reached Ashiho about 9 o’clock, and set out for our destination in a
droshky. It was a most perilous drive in the dark, for the roads—or what
pass muster as roads—were in the worst possible condition; the spring
thaw had set in, and the surface of the ground was a hopeless quagmire
destined to last until there should be sufficient sunshine to dry it, for
the wet was unable to penetrate the still frozen earth. Our friends at
Hulan had set out that morning to meet us at Kharbin. After a long weary
walk in a snowstorm they found the Kharbin steamer on the Sungari River
crowded with passengers. An hour’s wait in a piercing wind was followed
by the information that it was quite uncertain whether the boat would
go at all that day, so they gave it up in despair and returned home.
Practically speaking all traffic is stopped on the country roads at this
time of the year, and those who walk must be prepared to wade knee deep
in black mud to reach their destination. We had no catastrophe during our
half-hour’s drive, but it was more by good luck than anything else.
Ashiho is rather a dull Chinese town with the usual Russian settlement
round the railway station, which is about half a mile outside the gates.
The Russians have insisted on the town being lighted at nights, but
there is not more than enough light to show the darkness. A red light on
the top of a lofty pole is the sign of public baths, which seemed to be
the scene of much activity. The Russian droshky, with Chinese drivers,
is apparently quite an institution there, but one wonders how they can
make a living in such a locality. The town boasts a sugar factory, but
owing to a bad beetroot season it was closed. A small community of Scotch
missionaries is working there, and when they have got a new hospital and
better premises, there is every prospect of greater growth in the work.
The lady doctor, though only recently from home, and still in the first
stages of learning the language, had over sixty patients waiting to see
her, and the people seem more willing here than elsewhere to send for her
in midwifery cases. As she is the only doctor, she has one day a week for
men patients. The missionary premises are deplorable; if only some of the
home committee could have enjoyed our quarters and heard the walls which
enclose the compound falling down during the night, they would see the
need for haste in building new ones. The girls’ school was being carried
on under difficulties that would daunt any but the most resolute, but
the workers are Scotch, and have learnt to laugh at difficulties. Less
than two years ago one of the ladies was itinerating in the country,
accompanied by a Biblewoman, when she was suddenly attacked by a party of
mounted brigands. They treated her with considerable roughness, robbing
not only her but also the Biblewoman and the carter of all that they
considered worth stealing—money, watches, clothes, and food. Amongst
other things they took her eiderdown—for this took place in the cold
weather—but the Biblewoman had the happy inspiration to tell the robbers
that it only contained feathers (which they utterly scorned), so they
threw it away. They only left her _one cent_ in money (evidently they had
a sense of humour), and decamped somewhat hurriedly on seeing a party of
horsemen appear in the distance, whom they took for soldiers.
There is plenty of ground belonging to the mission, but, as usual, funds
for building are not forthcoming. It seems a pity that the home churches
should keep on sending out workers without the requisite equipment to
carry on their work. At home one frequently hears of the luxury in
which missionaries live, but in my fairly considerable experience of
mission houses, I have _never_ met a single one where this is the case,
and rarely (except in the case of American missions) have I been where
the work has not been seriously hindered for the lack of funds. Most
missionaries are driven by the necessities of their work to eke out by
contributions from their own meagre salaries the insufficient funds
provided from home. Many are consequently unable to afford to have
newspapers and other literature sent out regularly, and the thoughtless
kindness of their supporters does not supply them with anything beyond
religious periodicals and books. The postage of papers and books is only
the same as at home, and parcels weighing not more than 11 lb. can now
be sent to China by post for the small sum of 2s. 11d., so there is no
reason why the missionary’s life should not be occasionally brightened by
a judicious present from the home country.
The one drawback to the position of the mission premises at Ashiho is
that they are so near the wall beside the East gate, outside which is
the public execution ground, and the gruesome procession to it passes
alongside the mission houses. Shortly before our visit there had been
executions twice in one week—the first time two men, and the second time
four men were killed by strangulation.
[Illustration: MOHAMMEDAN MOSQUE]
Near the mission also there is a pretty Mohammedan mosque, built
exactly like a Buddhist or Taoist temple, which provides schools for
boys and girls. The girls’ school is a recent institution, probably in
imitation of the mission one, and is evidently at all events a numerical
success, for a good number of girls filed out on Sunday afternoon as
we happened to be passing. The type of face of many of the boys struck
us as particularly Semitic, and the Chinese here habitually call them
Jews. There is a large proportion of butchers among the Mohammedans, as
is usually the case in China, and this is a boon to Europeans, for it
is only the Mohammedans who kill beef, and they are particular about
the healthiness of the beasts. The Moslems in China do not attempt to
proselytise openly, and they adhere less rigidly than elsewhere to their
religious observances. They conform outwardly as much as possible to
Chinese customs in order to escape notice, but they are no negligible
quantity among the myriads of that land, for they number at least twenty
millions. The Mohammedans entered China in A.D. 755 by the regular trade
route through Central Asia, and even earlier (in 628) according to
Chinese Mohammedan tradition they are said to have sent the prophet’s
uncle as envoy to the Chinese court. The proselytising of the Chinese
was as peaceful as that of the Indians was the reverse. It was mainly
achieved by Moslem traders and artisans, following in the wake of Genghiz
Khan and Kubla Khan’s conquests. They married Chinese women, and their
children all became Moslems; they adopted large numbers of other children
in famine times in order to bring them up in the Faith, and thus they
have steadily but unobtrusively grown in numbers.
In past times there have been terrible massacres of the Mohammedans by
the Chinese whenever they have made any attempt to withstand Chinese
customs, which is probably the reason one hears so little of them
nowadays, but they show a quiet tenacity in sticking to their religion,
which is characteristic of Mohammedanism in every land. It was in a vain
endeavour to reach them that the great Jesuit missionary, Francis Xavier,
died off the coast of China. Up to the present time there has been no
special mission work amongst the Mohammedans in China.
My sketch of the Mohammedan mosque at Ashiho was done under considerable
difficulties, for the boys had just come out of school, and would jostle
up and down, and round about me on the mound of earth where I was
sitting, raising such a dust that at last I was driven defeated from the
field. Though it was the first of May the scene was a winter one, and we
longed and longed for spring to arrive.
On sending to the station to inquire what time our train left in the
evening, they declared there was no train at all, and that the date of
the weekly express from Vladivostock had been changed from Monday to
Sunday. We felt so convinced that this was a mistake, having inquired
about it at Kharbin only two days previously, that we went down to the
station in good time for the usual 9 o’clock train, and were rewarded by
learning that the hour and not the date of the train had been altered,
and that it would pass through Ashiho at 10 o’clock. After waiting for
an hour in the restaurant, where a party of the attendants were playing
cards, the ticket office was opened, but they absolutely refused to sell
tickets to us, saying that the express only stopped for half a minute,
and that we could not get into it. We vainly protested that having no
registered luggage we would take our chance of getting into the train,
and that we _must_ go by it, as we had the long journey to Irkutsk
before us. The reiteration of this fact for about five minutes without
stopping at last began to tell, and the official said he must see what
small luggage we had. After due inspection he agreed to let us have
tickets, but we had to pay for them from a point about fifty miles up
the line, which meant twenty-one roubles instead of the four and a half
we had paid on coming. The next difficulty was that the ticket office
contained no change and seemed unable to get any, so we had to borrow the
requisite amount from our friends. When the train did arrive each of our
friends stood ready holding an article of luggage ready to hurl it into
the corridor, and of course there was no difficulty in getting both our
belongings and ourselves into it. We were soon comfortably established in
the coupé which we were to occupy for the next two days, that is, until
we should reach Irkutsk, where all passengers have to change.
At Kharbin there was a hopeless scrimmage for places, as those booked
in advance for passengers from the south had all been appropriated by a
large party of Americans at Vladivostock, and the ladies had discreetly
retired to bed. It is always asserted that there is plenty of room on the
Russian State Express in contradistinction to the International Sleeping
Car, and that it is unnecessary to book places in advance. Evidently
this was a fallacy, for every berth was full, and it was only after long
and acrimonious arguing that the officials agreed to put on an extra
carriage, and a very dirty one it proved to be. Great dissatisfaction was
caused by this arrangement, and we were over an hour late in starting. We
had been frequently assured that we should find the State Express more
comfortable than the International, but such is by no means the case. The
only point in which it excels is in the smoothness of running, in every
other respect it is inferior. The carriages are smaller, there is no
dressing-room in the first-class coupés, there are no second-class coupés
(only carriages for four people), the washing basins would not hold
water, there was no soap or towel, the restaurant car was far too small,
and the meals were not to the taste of any of the passengers. A piano in
the restaurant does not compensate for such deficiencies.
PART III
The Face of Russian Turkestan
CHAPTER XV
Through Siberia
The railway from Kharbin passes through Manchuria in a north-westerly
direction till it comes to the town of that name, where the customs
examination takes place before entering Russian territory. In a magazine
article recently written by a French lady, she complains of having been
examined at four different places on the line, and in a very thorough
manner, the sleeves of coats being ripped open, and the bedding of the
sleeping car being pulled to pieces, but we saw nothing of this sort,
and I think there must have been some suspicion on the part of the
police. Registered luggage is a much more serious affair, and endless
were the stories we heard from fellow-passengers of the losses they had
sustained—one passenger had waited a whole week for his at Moscow. For
those who like ourselves take all their luggage in the railway carriage,
the examination was a mere farce, consisting of the verbal inquiry,
“Have you any spirits, tobacco, or playing cards?” to which is sometimes
added a cursory examination of the bedding to see if any dutiable article
has been concealed there.
It is a great convenience that passengers can take so much luggage in the
carriage without inconvenience. In the Russian State Express there is not
nearly so much accommodation as in the International Sleeping Cars, where
there is a large recess over the door, extending above the corridor,
in which there was ample room for two suit cases and two bags of
bedding. Besides this there were racks for smaller objects in the other
part of the carriage. The space is so considerable in the first-class
carriages that the upper berth is at right angles to the lower, which
is consequently very much pleasanter than when it is immediately below
the other berth, leaving no space to sit upright. There is a nice
dressing-room between every two coupés, where hot and cold water is laid
on, and this is really an inestimable boon on a long journey. The hot
water supply is somewhat variable, so we generally supplemented it by
buying extra. In some of the trains no charge is made for it; in others
it costs 2½d. If for no other reason than the dressing-room, I should
advise all first-class passengers to go by the International rather than
by the Russian State Express. One is also less worried by the official
trio coming to inspect tickets. It seems odd that on all Russian trains
it requires three men to fulfil so simple a duty, but no doubt it is an
example of the suspiciousness which seems to permeate all officialdom in
this country. There is a comfortable chair and table, so that passengers
can sit facing one another. This is no small convenience on so long
a journey, especially when you prefer having some meals in your own
carriage.
It is not only pleasanter but wiser not to have more than one solid meal
a day on the journey, and we could not help being amused at the general
collapse of a large number of passengers on the third day, evidently the
result of imprudence in this matter. In the restaurant book of food (I
can call it by no other name) there was a page of “fasting dishes” which
was, I fear, neglected. We found that a judiciously stocked luncheon
basket, added to the facilities for securing scalded milk, bread,
_excellent_ butter, and eggs, made it unnecessary to spend much time
in the restaurant car. This was not so important in the International
Sleeping Car as in the Russian State Express, for although the dining-car
was atrociously hot and crowded, the meals were served promptly, but in
the latter we were an hour and a half having a lunch of five courses, so
we determined after that experience to order our meal in advance and _à
la carte_. By so doing we saved a great deal of time, but we were obliged
to have it at an unseasonable hour. That did not matter much, as we
altered our hours in accordance with the “Daylight Saving Bill,” and so
profited in various ways. In order to have comfortable time for washing,
without having other people hammering on the door, it was most convenient
to rise at 5 o’clock, and it was equally convenient to go to bed as soon
as it was dark, because all Russian trains economise in light. Even a
first-class carriage has only a single candle for all illumination, and
that is placed in a lantern above the door, so that it only serves to
reveal the darkness.
Leaving Manchuria we passed into the Trans-Baikal province, at the
western side of which lies Lake Baikal, and to our no small surprise and
disappointment, winter still reigned supreme. Beautiful forests of birch
and pine trees broke the monotony of the plains, and drifts of snow still
lingered in the hollows, where sun or wind had failed to chase it. It
was, of course, very different from when we crossed it in February, with
the thermometer at thirty degrees below zero, but we still found winter
clothing necessary, and were bitterly disappointed to see none of the
lovely flowers which transform the dreary plains into flower gardens.
We had been told that the delphiniums were a dream of beauty, but we
saw none, and I imagine the end of May or beginning of June would be a
much better time to travel across Siberia, in spite of the fact that
the trains are then crowded, and it is necessary to secure seats months
beforehand, or trust to getting one that accidentally falls vacant nearer
the time.
Lake Baikal was still completely frost-bound, and looked beautiful
glittering in the morning sunlight, with snow-capped mountains enclosing
it on every side. The only disappointment about Lake Baikal is that the
mountains are too distant to look really grand and awe-inspiring. The
steamer which plies on the lake during the summer from Baikal station was
still lying close alongside it. Turning westward almost immediately after
leaving it, the railway line follows the course of the river Angara for
about one and a half hours, till it reaches Irkutsk, the present seat of
government.
Irkutsk was a trading town founded in 1652, but was almost completely
destroyed by fire in 1879. It is striking in appearance as one approaches
it by the long railway bridge across the river, and is finely situated,
with an imposing railway station. As we crossed the bridge we saw the
fine bridge of boats used in summer still lying alongside the bank in its
winter quarters, for large masses of loose ice floated past, blocking the
river. But although Irkutsk has a certain comeliness of appearance, and
is the centre of intellectual activity in Siberia, it is not altogether
a desirable place to live in, for not only is the climate trying, but
report says that it is imprudent for any one to go about unarmed. The
great prisons in the neighbourhood of Irkutsk have for generations been
the place where the worst criminals of the Empire, as well as political
exiles have been sent, and when their term of service has expired they
are let loose on the community, the only regulation being that they shall
remain there. The result is that the present population contains not only
the present released convicts, but also a considerable number of the
descendents of former convicts of the worst type.
Irkutsk is in the centre of the gold district, which attracts also a
somewhat undesirable class of people. It is not, I think, generally
known what a large quantity of gold is found in Siberia, but about five
millions worth is annually sent into Russia. This by no means represents
all that is found, although the Government requires that it should all
pass through Irkutsk, and thence be forwarded to Russia. Smuggling
is reported to be extensively carried on, and a considerable Chinese
population are credited with the bulk of it. The working of the gold
diggings is said by experts to be amazingly primitive. Large fortunes are
both made and squandered in Irkutsk. Not only gold but tea is a great
source of wealth, although the trade in the latter is by no means so
great as it used to be in the old caravan days. At the present time by
far the largest quantity of it is sent round by sea; but there are still
many Russians who believe that the flavour of the tea is spoilt by sea
air, so that the demand for caravan tea continues. It is said that wealth
in Irkutsk is estimated by a man’s furs and by a woman’s furs and jewels.
Curiously enough Sunday labour is entirely prohibited in this town, and
fine and imprisonment may follow the breaking of the law with regard to
buying and selling. Trade is greatly hampered throughout the Russian
Empire by the corruption of officials, of whom there are an incalculable
number; and it is the Jews who form the most successful part of the
trading community. There is always a long halt at Irkutsk station,
varying from one and a half to two and a half hours, for passengers have
to change trains on account of the difference of the line in gauge, and
when travelling by the Russian State Express it is necessary to have
tickets visé-ed and fresh places allotted. On the International you are
saved this because the places are numbered and passengers are required
to keep the same number in both trains, so there is no confusion in
having the luggage transferred from one to the other. Having to get
fresh ones was decidedly tiresome, as there seemed to be no method in
the madness of the officials, their knowledge of other languages than
their own was almost nil, and their slowness phenomenal. One of our
English fellow-passengers seemed to have a great deal to say, and knew
no Russian, so he had secured the services of a Chinese waiter from the
restaurant car who acted as interpreter with complete success. I do not
think I am wrong in saying that the issuing of fresh tickets took more
than three-quarters of an hour, and confusion reigned in the train for
more than double the time.
During the first two days of our return journey we had suffered from
continual snow-storms and a leaden sky, but after leaving Irkutsk the
weather improved, and the sun shone most of the time. The land is
sparsely inhabited; at the close of the last century the density of
population was given in the official census as _two_ to the square
mile in the province of Irkutsk. If Siberia be taken as an example
of the effects of land nationalisation, few people, I think, will be
attracted by it; out of an area of 3,240,000,000 square miles no less
than 3,104,000,000 belong to the State. There is only one province,
the Amur region, in which land can be purchased. It is the Russian
village communities who hold the land when it has been allotted for
industrial enterprises. All along the line we were interested in seeing
the colonists travelling to their various destinations; they were taken
in slow trains densely packed, and when they came to the stations where
they had to change they and their belongings were dumped down for an
apparently indefinite number of hours on the station, and there they
remained, eating and sleeping in the midst of their baggage till it was
time to start afresh. There are sheds for them to be housed in when
the weather prevents their being out of doors. They seemed to have
practically no furniture with them, and some of them were remarkably well
dressed in comparison with what one would have expected. They are all
obliged to have passports just like foreigners.
Up to the year 1901 there was an average of nearly 20,000 exiles sent
yearly to Siberia; many of these exiles settled down and helped to
civilise the land. They founded twelve Natural History and Ethnological
Museums, besides starting scientific societies. Now the Government
has altered the system, and great efforts are being made to send
another class of colonists, the political exiles being driven to more
uninhabitable regions. It seems a pity that the Russian Empire, which
extends over an area of no less than one-sixth of the territorial globe,
should leave this fertile land of Siberia, much of it the finest grazing
ground in the world, and other parts excellent wheat-growing land, so
sparsely inhabited, while it stretches envious hands into Manchuria, the
land which China imperatively requires as the natural outlet for her
surplus population.
At the railway stations all sorts of queer people are to be seen, the
men mostly wearing bright-coloured shirts, and tall red leather, or
felt boots; but the nomadic tribes of Buriats, who cultivate parts
of the country with great industry and success, are not often to be
seen near the railway. The Buriats on the eastern side of Lake Baikal
are Buddhists, but those on the west still cling to their original
religion—Shamanism. This mainly consists in the worship of gods, called
“Ongons,” supposed to protect both house and property. The former are
hung up in a box inside the house; the latter, along with the skins of
squirrels and other small animals are in a box fastened to the top of a
pole, with a little roof over it in the fields. Every man has his own
Ongon as soon as he marries, and when he dies it is taken down from the
pole and hung up in the woods, where it eventually rots to pieces.
In a most interesting volume the American linguist and ethnologist,
Jeremiah Curtin, describes these strange tribes. He tells how he
witnessed the Horse Sacrifice, one of the most ancient of Mongol
ceremonials, and which is still perpetuated among Buriat clans. He saw it
performed in 1900 on a hill called Uhér, about seven miles from Usturdi,
which is some forty miles from Irkutsk. There are fifteen large altars
on the hill, on which the sacrifices are offered to the Burkans (namely
the gods) of the hill. These gods include “The Lofty Clear Heaven,” “The
Revered Pure Earth,” “Bull Prince Father,” “Blessed Mother Mist,” “The
Creating Great One” (the hedgehog, who is considered by the Buriats to
be the wisest of all deities), “Grandfather Bald Head,” “Creator of
Cattle,” “Crooked Back,” &c. The different families of the first and
second divisions of the clan Ashekhabat have each their own place near
one or other of the altars. The leaders of the ceremony invoke all the
different deities by name and in turn, while the people pray either aloud
or in silence for what they want. Then the horses are killed, and after
that they are rapidly skinned and dismembered, the bones being burnt in
roaring fires on the fifteen altars. The flesh is boiled in iron kettles,
and when it is cooked all the people stand in groups by the altars,
receding and advancing towards them at intervals, and reciting the
following invocation to the deities, together with any special petitions
of their own.
“We pray that we may receive from you a blessing. From among fat cattle
we have chosen out meat for you. We have made strong tarasun (a liquor
distilled from milk) for you. Let our ulus (villages) be one verst
longer. Create cattle in our enclosures; under our blankets create a
son; send down rain from high heaven to us; cause much grass to grow;
create so much grain that sickle cannot rase it, and so much grass that
scythe cannot cut it. Let no wolves out unless wolves that are toothless;
and no stones unless stones without sharp corners or edges. Hover above
our foreheads. Hover behind our heads. Look on us without anger. Help
those of us who forget what we know. Rouse those of us who are sleeping
(in spirit). In a harsh year (a year of trouble) be compassion. In a
difficult year (a year of want) be kindness (in sense of help). Black
spirits lead farther away from us; bright spirits lead hither, nearer;
grey spirits lead farther away from us. Burkans lead hither to us. Green
grass give in the mouths (of cattle). Let me walk over the first snow. If
I am timid be my courage. If I am ashamed, be a proper face to me. Above
be as a coverlid, below be as a felt bed to me.”—(“A Journey in Southern
Siberia,” page 47.) After this prayer the worshippers all sat down in
groups to eat the horse-flesh and drink tarasun, while many vultures
hovered round to share the flesh. After this strange sacrifice is ended
the Buriats indulge in wrestling.
At Usturdi there is a Russian Orthodox Mission Church, and the Bible
Society has undertaken to publish the Gospel of St. Matthew in the
Buriat language. It seems strange that such uncivilised beings as
those who would take part in the ceremonial described above, should be
sufficiently literate to have a use for the Gospel; but it is estimated
that all the Buriats in the north, and nearly all those in the south,
will be able to read it. The population is about 290,000. The translation
has been made by the Irkutsk Translation Committee, and is to be printed
in Russ characters, as most of the Buriats are able to understand them.
Mr. Curtin mentions a young Buriat whom he met as having studied six
years at the Irkutsk gymnasium, and possessing a knowledge of history and
science, besides being a considerable reader, so that evidently they are
not uninfluenced by education.
The next province through which the railway passes is the Yenisei, which
stretches right away up to the Arctic Ocean, and which at once conjures
up in one’s mind visions of Merriman’s novels: it is one of the largest
provinces in the empire, consisting of 987,186 square miles, but has only
an average of one person to the square mile. The city of Krasnojarsk is
the largest and most interesting on the railway; there are about 30,000
foreigners living in this district, most of them Tartars; it is the
principal seat of Government, and lies just half-way between Moscow and
Vladivostock on this wonderful railway. The whole length of the railway
is 5449 miles, and with the exception of the 193 miles round Lake Baikal,
it was completed in an extraordinarily short space of time, between
eight and nine years, at a cost of, roughly speaking, £85,000,000. It is
fairly correct to say that it was built at the rate of about a mile a
day. At the distance of one verst (namely, two-thirds of a mile) apart,
there are guard houses all along the line, each under the care of an
ex-convict, who comes out of his house to wave a green flag when the
train passes, or more frequently it is a barefooted wife or daughter who
does it for him. There is a fine view of Krasnoyarsk from the train as
you approach it, for the line makes a wide circular sweep before crossing
the River Yenisei, on which it is situated. Of all the noble rivers
which flow through Siberia, the Yenisei is the greatest; it rises in the
mountains of the distant Chinese province of Kobdo in Mongolia, over
3000 miles from the Arctic Sea, and makes its impetuous way through the
mountains of Sagansk, then through the strange, tundra region, with its
countless islands and trackless wastes—the great nesting place of myriads
of migratory birds, who come there led by some marvellous instinct at the
exact time of year when the snow melts, uncovering the berries which form
the requisite food for the nestlings. The Yenisei is only navigable for a
little over six months of the year, and the ceremony of cutting the ice,
which closes its mouth on the Arctic Sea, takes place always on June 10th.
The next province on the route is that of Tomsk, but the principal town,
which has the same name, lies to the north of the Trans-Siberian Railway,
and is only connected with it by a branch line from Taiga, the nearest
point to it on the main line, which is eighty-two versts or, roughly
speaking, 54 miles distant. The reason why Tomsk is not on the main line
is that the city refused to bribe the surveyors and engineers who planned
the route. This accounts for the fact that so many places, which might
quite easily have been on the line, are more or less distant from the
railway, according to their willingness to pay. It takes four hours by
rail from Taiga to Tomsk. It must be most injurious to trade to have such
difficulties as these, and such unnecessary ones. Tomsk boasts the only
university in Siberia, but this is still incomplete, and has only about
500 students. Education has been discouraged in this as in every part
of the Russian Empire, and although the money required for a university
at Irkutsk was offered, the Government refused to grant permission for
it to be established. The number of schools in 1901 was only 3909 for
the whole of Siberia, and the scholars attending them 115,407, while the
population was estimated at 5,727,090; these figures need no comment, and
my authority for them is Prince Krapotkin.
The only important town in the province on the railway line is Omsk,
where we learnt (by telegram) the death of the King. The news came like
a thunderclap, and cast a gloom over every English person on the train.
What made it doubly trying was the impossibility for weeks to come of
getting any further news. The town of Omsk is on the River Irtish. The
number of rivers in the country adds greatly to the charm of the journey,
and they have been the chief highways of the empire in the past; the
bridges over them are remarkably fine. We began to rejoice in the sight
of wild flowers once more, and children brought bunches of marigolds
and anemones to the stations for sale, but generally they were tied up
into tight little bunches without any leaves, and were quite wilted. The
main occupation of some of the passengers seemed to be that of putting
on fresh clothes, and showing them off at the stations where we had an
opportunity at least half-a-dozen times every day of getting a brief
constitutional. We learnt that passengers were allowed to visit the
luggage van, as on board ship, and get out fresh supplies of dresses, but
it did seem rather unnecessary, considering the amount of luggage taken
in the carriages.
The next province through which the railway passes is that of Tobolsk,
but it only skirts its southern border, which adjoins the steppes
inhabited by Cossacks and nomadic tribes, whose caravans may be seen
in the busy markets of Petropavlosk, which was founded in 1752 as
a protection against the Kirghiz Cossacks. About one-third of its
population is Mohammedan, and the Greek Orthodox Church has a mission
in the province for them: the present staff of the mission consists
of thirteen priests, twelve assistants, two deacons, and one Psalm
reader. Last year they baptized eight Mohammedans. They have a very
small educational work. The Greek Orthodox Church has various missions
scattered through Siberia, and the Russian Government does not allow
any foreign ones, which seems the greater pity when it is considered
how inadequate in every respect are those of the Greek Church—they only
number nine. Everywhere in the cities we saw the beautiful green domes
and spires of the churches, but very little is done for the religious
welfare of the people in the country districts, and for the most part
they are in a state of profound ignorance; religion is summed up in (α)
the worship paid to the ikon, (a little coloured print of our Lord, or of
the Virgin, or of a saint), which is to be found, not only in all private
houses, but in every waiting-room or restaurant on the railway, and in
(β) certain religious ceremonies at special times of the year, and on
special occasions.
After leaving Tobolsk, the next important station passed on the line is
Chéliabinsk, in the province of Orenburg, the first town over the border
into Europe. The frontier between Asiatic and European Russia is crossed
about 104 miles to the east of it, and is marked by an obelisk on the
left hand side of the line at its highest point, which may be seen soon
after leaving Kurgan. Chéliabinsk is a cosmopolitan centre; it is the
real starting-point of the Trans-Siberian line, and is the junction where
the line divides, the one going north to St. Petersburg, and the other
west to Moscow. The Russian State Express runs once a week from each of
these cities to Vladivostock, and also in the opposite direction.
We were much pleased with the way our carriages and corridors were
cleaned out daily while we were stopping at stations. A little army of
women swarmed into the train directly it stopped, provided with buckets
of hot water, and they washed out the whole place quite efficaciously
and with great rapidity. It is really much better to have oilcloth on
the floors rather than carpet, for the sake of cleanliness. The dusting
of the carriages was done every morning by the attendant after he had
made the beds, and he kept them quite nice and tidy. The one thing that
provoked me through all our travelling in Russia, however, was the fact
that the attendants had keys which opened all the bolts, so that they
could come in whenever they choose, and the art of knocking before
entering was unknown to most of them. They generally seemed to select the
most inappropriate moment for coming in, when one was either dressing
or undressing; but fortunately all travelling tends to blunt one’s
susceptibilities on such points.
The ninth day after leaving Kharbin we reached Kinel, the next station
before reaching Samara, the real junction for the Turkestan line. There
was only a small margin of time allowed for changing train there, so
we decided it was better to have to wait unduly long at Kinel, rather
than run the risk of missing our train and waiting twenty-four hours
for the next one. We got out at a most dreary hour, which seems to be
rather frequently the case on Russian railways, considering how few are
the trains; it was between one and two o’clock in the morning, and our
baggage was deposited in the ladies’ waiting-room, where we found the
only sofa filled with babies. A considerable number of passengers had
their luggage in the adjoining restaurant, where they slept or smoked.
The atmosphere was decidedly trying, so I spent most of the time pacing
up and down the platform, watching the dawn grow, for even at that early
hour there was a broad belt of orange light lying along the horizon. At
fitful intervals one and another of the passengers would come out for a
breath of fresh air, or order drinks from the somnolent attendants. It
appeared to be the natural thing for people to be spending the night at
the station, though no train disturbed the peace of the place for several
hours. Not one of the officials seemed able to speak or understand any
language but Russian, so I addressed a young German tourist to ask for
information. He told me that there were no sleeping berths on the summer
trains for Tashkent, the “wagon lits” service being suspended on the
first of May, but that we should find the ordinary carriages thoroughly
comfortable, the second class quite as good as the first (in which we
proved him to be correct), for all the trains are arranged with a view
to night travelling. He also told us that instead of the journey taking
five days (as we had been informed when we made inquiries at Peking),
it would only take three. Later on we discovered there was a wagon lits
carriage at the rear of the train (without a single passenger in it),
but no restaurant car. Encouraged, I suppose, by the pleasure which
he saw depicted on my face at such pleasant news, he went on to give
us particulars of our route, by which he said he had just come from
Turkestan. He advised us to go by the Black Sea instead of through the
Caucasus, saying that the journey from Tashkent to Vienna by that route
took not more than _five_ days; the minimum time in reality is seven. He
had a Russian time-table, quite a thick volume, which he advised us to
purchase; we succeeded in buying one later in the day when the bookstall
opened, and although the names were quite a puzzle in Russian characters,
it provided us with constant occupation, both in deciphering them, and
in fitting together the bits of the route, scattered on at least a dozen
different pages. In the station at Kinel they had rather a good sort of
map in a large frame on the wall opposite the ticket-office, arranged as
under. As there are so few trains it is easier than it would be on our
lines, but such a map would be much more intelligible for cheap-trippers
than our time-tables. These maps we saw in various places later on.
[Illustration]
Four hours wore slowly away, and at last the ticket-office opened, and
I presented a paper with “Tashkent—2 klacce,” and held up two fingers.
Traveling is very cheap here; from Tashkent to Kinel, a distance of 1314
miles, the tickets are approximately first class, £4, 5s. 0d., second
class, £2, 10s. 3d., third class, £1, 9s. 0d., fourth class, 14s., but
then the train goes like a snail, and stops perpetually. The third and
fourth class carriages always seemed to be packed with humanity, and the
passengers lie all day, as well as all night long, on shelves one above
the other. The fuel used both on this line and on the Trans-Siberian
is entirely wood, so they have to be continually taking in a fresh
stock, and each carriage has a little room for its own special heating
apparatus. The funnels of the engines have large bulbs at the top to
prevent the escape of sparks.
CHAPTER XVI
Into Turkestan
The first day we travelled through a vast cultivated plain, and the
landscape was dotted over with a sprinkling of houses and many trees.
The children brought forget-me-nots and anemones to sell at the wayside
stations; but on this line the towns and hamlets are fewer than on the
one we had just left. Though the land seemed so uninhabited the train
always seemed full, and the passengers made themselves thoroughly at
home. The second-class travellers, who were going any distance, put on
fresh clothes, the ladies dressed in _négligé_ costumes like tea-gowns.
One amazingly stout lady put on a muslin gown over a pink slip, and
looked just like an animated pin-cushion. These people seem to wear all
their jewels too, when travelling. Often it was difficult to imagine
where the few people visible at the stations had sprung from, especially
to the south of Orenburg. This is one of the only two important places
between Kinel and Tashkent, and is the principal town of the province of
the same name. There are four mission stations in the Orenburg diocese,
and twenty-seven Mohammedans were baptized last year. To the south
of Orenburg the land becomes more and more desolate-looking, and the
vegetation is so sparse that one can hardly believe it is possible for
anything to subsist upon it. Perhaps that is the reason why the Kirghiz
nomadic tribes, who inhabit this territory, known as the Kirghiz Steppes,
cultivate a peculiar kind of sheep called “stéatopyge” by the French
traveller Capus. This sheep has a singularly fat tail, sometimes so long
and heavy that it has to go on a little wheeled cart, and it is this
tail which suffices to nourish the sheep in time of scarcity of herbage,
in the same way that the camel is said to live on his hump; at the end
of the winter the tail has dwindled to quite ordinary proportions.
Unfortunately we did not see any of these interesting animals (though I
once met one at Delhi), but during the following days we saw hardly any
living things but camels, much used also by the Kirghiz. The earth seemed
utterly barren, and exuded nothing but salt; hour by hour elapsed, only
varied by the interest of stopping at some wayside station, standing
alone in the desert, where samovars full of boiling water were eagerly
sought by the passengers with their various pots and kettles; the
ordinary charge for a potful is three farthings, and one wonders how
the poor creatures who supply it are able to make any living out of so
poor a harvest. Their only other wares are eggs (generally hard boiled),
bottles of milk, and baskets of oranges and lemons. The latter are always
in request for Russian tea, and fetch a better price than most things.
The peasants look most amiable, good-natured creatures, and are eminently
picturesque in their embroidered blouses of blue, green, scarlet, or
white, fastened in at the waist with a leathern belt. For the last half
century the Russians have been gradually colonising the steppes. Some
people labour under the impression that the agricultural classes are not
only happier but also more successful when they are ignorant, but this
has certainly not proved the case in the Russian Empire. The colonists
have considerable advantages offered to them by the Government in the way
of cheap grain and agricultural implements, but their ignorance of the
rotation of crops and the necessity of feeding the land cause them to
exhaust it in a few years’ time. The contrast between the Russian peasant
and his German neighbour when you cross the frontier is extraordinary,
and it is deplorable to consider the latent wealth of Siberia in
conjunction with the present condition of its peasant population.
Both on the Turkestan and on the Trans-Siberian Railway we met agents
of the British and Foreign Bible Society selling Gospels, Bibles, and
Testaments in various languages, of which they had a good assortment
in attractive bindings and extremely cheap. These agents are allowed
free passes on all the lines in Russia. Ten of these passes are granted
annually, and the colporteurs are able to carry on what may well be
called a mission work among the immigrants and others. The number of
immigrants into Siberia in 1908 reached the astonishing figure of 760,000
persons. A Russian red cross nurse told me that she had travelled in
charge of a train full of such immigrants, and the description of the
horrors of the journey are only to be equalled by Zola’s tale of the
pilgrims to Lourdes. To these immigrants many free copies of the Gospels
are given, and the value of such a gift in that land must be very great.
Books must be scarce in the greater part of the country, though, thanks
to the generosity of a Russian there is a village libraries’ organisation
in the province of Tomsk, by means of which fifty villages have been
supplied with libraries. The generosity of the state railways department
is not confined to the gifts of free passes for the colporteurs, but also
the free carriage of all their books from the moment they enter Russian
territory, and the remitting of all duty upon them. All the employés,
too, of the Bible Society are exempt from the Trade and Industrial Tax.
The excellent example of the railway companies has been followed by
many of the shipping companies on the Black Sea, the White Sea, and the
Dnieper, Don, and Volga rivers. The companies, where there is a foreign
element present, are much less willing to grant these facilities. Even
the tramway companies in many towns give free tickets to colporteurs.
The second day we reached the little town of Aral at the head of the Aral
Sea, after passing through the most desolate country: it could not have
been more accurately described than in the words of Browning:
“I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You’d think: a burr had been a treasure-trove.
No! penury, inertness, and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land’s portion. ‘See
Or shut your eyes’—said Nature peevishly—
‘It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
The Judgment’s fire alone can cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.’”
Lake Aral, like the Caspian Sea, is salt: at present it covers more than
26,000 square miles, but it is always shrinking. There is a considerable
fishing industry on it, and freshwater fish are found, but its shores are
so barren that they are practically uninhabited. The Steppes which bound
it on the north are inhabited by a nomad population of Kirghiz and Uzbegs
living in felt tents (called kibitkas), whose main occupation is breeding
cattle, horses, camels, and sheep. In the winter time they go to the more
sheltered regions of Syr Daria, the province through which the line next
passes.
We crossed the Syr Daria River, better known as the classic Jaxartes,
and the only town of any size that lay on the route was Turkestan or
Hazret. It still possesses one superb monument of the past, the mosque
of Hazréti-Timur, built in 1404 by order of Tamerlane, which is said to
be one of the finest monuments of that epoch, and is visited by many
pilgrims.
As we neared Tashkent we felt a certain amount of anxiety lest we should
only have reached the goal to be ignominiously turned back by the police,
despite our special permit; but apparently our appearance was disarming,
and at Tashkent they did not even inquire for any thing beyond our
passports. At Samarkand we handed them over as usual on arrival to the
proprietor of the hotel, and the next day he said the police wished to
know if we had the proper authorisation to visit Turkestan. We produced
our _note verbale_, which evidently they were unable to read, as it was
in French; they looked us up and down, from head to toe, asked if we had
nothing more to show, and on being assured that we had not, and that the
_note verbale_ gave full permission for travel, they somewhat reluctantly
took their departure. At Kazan (Bokhara) they got a Russian lady to look
at our permit, who was able to assure them it was quite _en règle_,
for they admitted they could not read it themselves. We heard that had
we wished to go anywhere off the railway line we should not have been
allowed to do so.
The district round Tashkent was a wonderful contrast to the dreary
desert through which we had come, and prepared us in some measure for
the wealth of foliage in which that town is embowered. Along the line
were trees all decked in the vivid colouring of early spring; the air was
filled with the fragrance of their blossoms, and the sound of running
water and rustling leaves whenever we halted, made a happy change from
the monotonous harshness of railway noises. The afforestation work of
the Russian authorities has already produced a marked difference in the
rainfall, and they are keeping a much needed check on the cutting down of
trees for firewood throughout the province.
CHAPTER XVII
Tashkent
Just ten days after leaving Kharbin we got out of the train at the
handsome station of Tashkent, which seemed ablaze with light in
comparison with the dimness to which we had been recently accustomed.
We inquired for the porter of the Hotel de France to which we had been
recommended by an acquaintance at Moscow, but there was none at the
station. A friendly official said that other hotels were better, and
their porters eagerly urged us to go with them. We thought it best,
however, to stick to what we had been advised, especially as our letters
had been directed to the Hotel de France; so we got into a droshky and
drove away into the darkness. What a heavenly drive it seemed after the
long days in the train. Our horses were all too nimble as we drove on
and on through the warm and scented air, under apparently never ending
avenues of tall poplars and bushy elms. A crescent moon shone amongst
myriads of stars, and we wondered how long this mysterious drive would
last, as after a time the driver appeared to have lost his bearings and
turned to us for instructions. Naturally we were utterly unable to
direct him, but after half-an-hour, by the aid of local advice, we drew
up beside the open doorway of a house surrounded by trees. There was
not even “hotel” written up, and instead of a Frenchman coming at our
summons, a person appeared who seemed unable even to recognise the name
“Hotel de France,” though he gave a voluble but quite unintelligible
answer in Russian. However, we crossed the murmuring rivulet which
characterises most of the roads here, and entered the house. We found
that it certainly was an hotel, though there was no one who spoke any
language but Russian, and in the letter case there were no letters for us.
We were shown into a nice large bedroom, and then began the pantomime.
We were extremely hungry, but disinclined to try the fancy dishes which
we feared would be served to us if we failed to be explicit in our
orders. We had not yet learnt the names of many things in Russian, and
we totally disagreed with the one universal sentiment, expressed in the
word “nitchevo = it doesn’t matter,” which met us at every turn, so I
betook myself to my pencil and drew—or tried to draw—a chicken _au plat_.
Not having sufficiently studied the works of art which adorn cookery
books, I failed ignominiously to convey any meaning to mine host. I next
attempted to draw the creature _au naturel_, and the attempt was crowned
with success; but alas, mine host soon returned with graphic gestures
to acquaint us that chicken was not to be had. I then drew chicken
in embryo, which was instantly recognised with an emphatic nod which
heralded success.
The next matter to be dealt with was bed and bedding, but that was more
easily accomplished, and we found the people thoroughly pleasant and
obliging, anxious to get all we wanted and make us comfortable; they
brought an extra bedstead, sheets, and pillows, all thoroughly clean. In
fact our quarters were so comfortable that we rather regretted that we
were only going to spend twenty-four hours there.
Next morning we were awakened by the familiar sound of growling camels
and screeching peacocks in a neighbouring garden. We were soon abroad
and found the pleasant impression gained by our drive of the night
before fully justified, for every road is bordered with trees, and the
poplars are the most beautiful and lofty I have ever seen; their silver
stems stretch up erect as darts into the clear blue sky. There are shady
public gardens where the ash tree and the acacia were in full blossom,
filling the air with their fragrance; on the roofs of the smaller houses
poppies and grass made a brave show of colour against the sky. All the
houses were well shaded by trees except in the centre of the town, where
fashionable shops displayed the latest novelties in hats and other
things dear to the fashionable world of Tashkent. We made our way to the
post-office, where most of the officials were women, and found quite a
large budget of letters. Evidently there is no regular delivery, as they
were all addressed to the hotel, and some of them had been lying there
at least a week. Later in the day we returned to inquire for a book,
which from my letters I learnt had been forwarded there, and after some
searching it was duly produced, but I afterwards found that difficulty
had attended its despatch as well as its delivery; the London post-office
at first declined to send it on the score of not knowing where Turkestan
was.
Tashkent was conquered by the Russians in 1863, and it is only since
then that the Russian town has grown up at a short distance from the old
city; it boasts over 50,000 inhabitants, and has a considerable trade.
At this time of year the climate is delicious, but in the summer it is
said to be intensely hot, and in the rainy season the mud is so deep that
the streets become almost impassable, and the men have to go about in
what we should call wading boots. It is on this account that the natives
have such peculiar carts, with spidery wheels about eight or ten feet in
diameter. The driver sits on a saddle on the horse, with a foot resting
on each shaft. Many of the tall, lean beasts, have handsomely embroidered
horse cloths of blue and scarlet; they also wear broad scarlet or orange
neck cloths, and beaded trappings hang from their manes and over their
hind quarters; altogether they are most attractive.
We were delighted with the beautiful oriental colours of the clothing
of the natives, as they rode about on handsome Arab steeds, looking the
embodiment of pride amongst their prosaic conquerors. Turbaned servants
might be seen holding the horses outside houses while their masters were
within, or the horses might be attached to rings in beams fastened in the
roadway outside shops and offices for the purpose. Ladies, fashionably
dressed, were driving about in troïkas, with three horses harnessed
abreast. The centre horse has to trot, and the side ones canter with
their heads turned away, so that they look all the time as if they were
trying to pull away from the horse in the middle. It my opinion it has a
most unnatural and unpleasant appearance to have one horse trotting while
the others canter, and I cannot understand how they manage to drive so
swiftly under such adverse circumstances. The Siberian horses are capable
of doing twenty versts (about thirteen miles) an hour, says Capus.
Travellers going any distance by carriage continue day and night without
stopping longer than for meals and to change horses, but it must require
an iron constitution to do this. Nearly every one at Tashkent seemed to
ride or drive; in fact we learnt that it was considered quite _infra dig_
to go on foot anywhere in Turkestan.
The town boasts two good new hotels; a fine public library, especially
rich in works on Central Asia; an observatory; a museum; two large
public schools; an experimental agricultural station and school; a
seminary; a bank, and various public buildings. There is also a park
containing a bicycle track, where they have races; at the entrance we
saw a large monument commemorating the conquests of the Russians in
different parts of Turkestan. They first invaded it in 1863, and took
this city and also Chemkend; in 1866 they took Khojend and Kokand, and
completely destroyed the power of the latter, this proving the beginning
of Turkestan as a Russian province. In the next two years they pushed
their conquests further westward, and defeated the troops of the Emir of
Bokhara and entered Samarkand. In 1873 Khiva was invaded and navigation
rights obtained over the whole of the Oxus River, now known as the Amu
Daria. Russia decided to leave Bokhara under the rule of the Emir, merely
maintaining a protectorate, but the remainder of Turkestan has since that
time been under Russian rule.
We called at the office of the Wagons Lits Company for information
about our journey to Samarkand, and the manager obligingly got a young
Russian, attached to the newspaper staff, to act as our guide for the
afternoon. He spoke English with a strong American accent, and was
extremely garrulous, having attained a thoroughly journalistic style of
conversation. We took a carriage and drove to the old city, of which the
walls, alas, have completely disappeared. It is buried in the midst of
trees and gardens, for there is a fine system of irrigation there. All
through both the Russian and also the native town we saw streams flowing;
the watering is done by a simple process; a man goes down each side of
the road simultaneously, armed with a long wooden scoop, with which he
sweeps the water out of the little canals as far as the centre, even on
a wide road. This takes place at intervals during the day. Here and there
in the native city is a good pond surrounded by trees. The houses are low
and made of sun-dried bricks, looking more ruinous than the other cities
we visited. Tashkent, it seems, is subject to earthquakes, which probably
accounts for its dishevelled appearance, and it is difficult to believe
that the population inhabiting it is both large and growing. According to
the latest census the inhabitants number over 100,000, so evidently its
decadent look is entirely misleading.
We first visited the old tombs of Sheikh Zenedjin-baba and Zenghiata,
saints who flourished some centuries ago, and whose tombs are visited by
thousands of pilgrims every year. The graveyard was picturesque; a dead
tree was still standing among the tombs, which a stork had selected to
crown with her nest. A little alley led us to the tomb, in which a devout
worshipper was rocking himself to and fro, while he recited his prayers.
I ventured to sketch him, as he was evidently oblivious (or pretended to
be so) of observers.
[Illustration: PRAYER AT A SAINT’S TOMB]
It was somewhat difficult for our carriage to make its way through
the narrow, tortuous lanes, but we were in no hurry to go fast for
the people were so picturesque. They are mostly Sarts, “a name,” says
Prince Krapotkin, “which has reference more to manner of life than to
anthropological classification, although a much stronger admixture of
Iranian blood is evident in the Sarts, who also speak Persian at Khojend
and Samarkand.” They are noted for their honesty and independence. There
are also Persians and Uzbegs, the latter speaking a pure Jagatai dialect,
and various other tribes are found among the bazaars of Tashkent. These
bazaars are most fascinating, but as it was Friday there were but few
merchants willing to do business, and the whole place had a deserted air.
The bazaars are roofed in at the top, which makes them dark and stuffy,
but they are sufficiently wide for carriages as well as foot-passengers
to go through them. Our guide bargained for some silk scarves, which we
thought rather attractive, but as the merchants refused to come down to
what he thought a reasonable price, we did not buy more than a couple.
The different trades occupy different parts of the bazaar, and one of the
most important was the grain and another the tobacco market. Tashkent is
also noted for its boots and harness.
In one way it was fortunate that our visit happened to be on a Friday,
for we saw the people at prayer. We visited several of the mosques, but
they have little artistic merit, and the oldest one has been so hideously
redecorated with metal work and the crudest painting, that its 700 years
of existence have been entirely obliterated, both within and without.
The chief mosque was crowded with men herded within a rather small sort
of verandah, where they stood while service was conducted in a loud
discordant series of shrieks. A crowd of veiled women and children
pressed against the bars of the enclosure, but Mohammedanism has no place
for women within her gates. Once for all Mohammed made the position of
the women in the Moslem world unspeakably low and degraded: he said,
“Woman was made from a crooked rib, and if you try to bend it straight
it will break.” A woman, according to the universal Mohammedan belief,
has no soul. Years ago I saw the Sultan going to the weekly worship
one Friday at Constantinople, and it was part of the programme for his
principal wife to _see_ him go there from a certain spot; that she should
ever have accompanied him was unthinkable. Another large party of women
and children we saw gathered on a neighbouring roof like Peris outside
Paradise. But we were not allowed to remain long; we were almost thrust
out of the precincts of the mosque, for they have the greatest aversion,
we were told, to Russians looking on at their worship. As our guide
was Russian, I suppose they imagined us to be the same; elsewhere they
treated us with great civility.
The children amused us much by their quaint costumes, and some of them
were extremely pretty. The caps, ornaments, and embroideries they wear
are charming, and a bizarre effect is produced by a bunch of feathers
stuck upright in their caps and attached to their shoulders from the back
like incipient wings.
The houses usually have verandahs outside them, where groups of men were
reclining. They were highly picturesque, red being the predominating
colour of their clothes, heightened by the contrast of their white
turbans. They were mostly smoking, gossiping, and drinking, and for all
these pursuits they seem to have an untiring capacity.
There is only one Madressah (Mohammedan school) now left at Tashkent,
which used to be a seat of learning, and it has few students, and is in a
state of decay.
After dinner we regretfully set out for the station to pursue our way
to the still more attractive city of Samarkand. The train was crowded,
but as we arrived in good time we secured a coupé to ourselves, a most
important matter with a journey of some fourteen hours before us. During
the night we heard a crash of glass in the adjoining carriage; evidently
it was merely accidental, for we heard nothing further; but it accounted
for the rigid scrutiny to which the railway carriages are continually
submitted in the course of every journey by the conductors, who keep
the compartments always locked when unoccupied. One is never allowed to
forget the hateful system of espionage, that has been brought to a rare
perfection throughout the Russian Empire.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Home of Tamerlane
We awoke next morning to find ourselves in a grey desolate wilderness,
as bare as the Hunger Desert. The lovely gardens full of fruit-trees
characterising Tashkent extend for some distance round the city, and
then comes a dull expanse of desert which, when seen through sheets of
rain, is the acme of dreariness. When we reached the end of our railway
journey we found, as usual, that the station was some miles away from
our destination, Samarkand, and we drove through oceans of mud under
a pelting rain to the Grand Hotel, a nice new house where the rooms
looked out on to a little garden. To our relief our host and hostess
had a limited acquaintance with the German language, so that we were
able to make our wishes known, the main one being for thorough washing
accommodation. We were taken to see a fine bath-room, and arranged to
have the stove at once lighted, for it is something of a function to have
a bath in Russia, and cannot be achieved under a couple of hours; our
host was evidently very proud of possessing a bath-room, and we spent a
happy afternoon getting rid of all traces of our eleven days and nights
of travel.
Next morning a radiant sun following the rain showed us Samarkand in its
most attractive guise. We drove through shady avenues, past fashionable
shops towards the _real_ city, and suddenly there burst upon our view a
wonderful dome and lofty archway, jewelled with tiles of dazzling blue.
It is the Gur Amir, the tomb of Tamerlane, the great Conqueror, the
forerunner of the Mogul Emperors. In the midst of a thick cluster of
trees the tomb rises erect, so that only the cupola is visible until you
come close to it. It is enclosed by the care of the Russian authorities
with an inconspicuous little wall, finished off with a metal coping
along the top. Formerly the tomb was entered (according to regulation)
from the south side, but most of the outer buildings have already
fallen to pieces. The present entrance is on the north, and the façade
is completely covered with tiles; it is a marvellous blaze of colour,
composed of various shades of blue, varied with white and a little
yellow, the whole effect being that of a blue mosaic. The decorations are
varied; there are a large number of inscriptions, many of them from the
Koran, in Persian characters of the fifteenth century. They certainly
add rather than detract from the decorative character of the design.
Passing through the entrance gate one comes into a grassy courtyard paved
with black marble, in which are ancient mulberry trees, and the central
building rises beyond them. The whole of this inner façade is also tiled.
Among the inscriptions one was deciphered by Vambéry, which proved to
be the architect’s signature: “This is the work of poor Abdullah, son of
Mohammed, native of Ispahan.”
[Illustration: TAMERLANE’S TOMB (INTERIOR)]
In the days of his glory Tamerlane determined to have erected for
himself a mausoleum excelling in magnificence all the other buildings at
Samarkand. For this purpose he selected the Persian architect, Abdullah,
charging him to build a tomb worthy to enshrine his remains. The two
original towers which flanked the cupola are both gone, one of them
quite recently, and the great western archway is falling to pieces, but
the immense Kûfic[5] characters (white on a blue ground) which form the
frieze immediately below the cupola are still almost perfect. The style
is not entirely Persian, but was probably modified by the influence of
the architecture which the Persians found in Samarkand. On each side of
the main building is a small chapel containing tombs of minor importance.
Entering the tomb by a beautifully carved and inlaid door, we found
ourselves in a little sanctuary, where the faithful come to pray, laying
their foreheads against the walls. The height of the dome (measured from
within) is about 74 feet. Despite a small window at each end containing
alabaster tracery, the light is dim, and a religious hush seems to
pervade the building. Not only Tamerlane but others also are buried
here. Shortly after the building of the mausoleum, his teacher, Saïd
Mir Berke, a venerable mullah (holy man), died, so Tamerlane showed his
supreme reverence for him by having him buried in the Gur Amir, ordering
that his own body should be placed (when he died) at the mullah’s feet.
There are in addition several small tombstones surrounding the special
slab (said to be of green jade) which marks Tamerlane’s resting-place.
This precious monolith was sent for this purpose by a Mongolian
princess ten years after his death to his successor, Nadir Shah, but
was unfortunately broken in the transport. The two pieces have been
fastened together, and it has been elaborately carved with Tamerlane’s
name, titles, and ancestry, interspersed with passages from the Koran.
Copies of these are for sale at the tomb. Monsieur Edouard Blanc, in an
interesting article in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ (Feb. 15, 1893), says
he examined this stone very carefully from the mineralogist’s point of
view, and has no hesitation in declaring that it is not jade. Certainly
there is no other known specimen of this stone anything like the size,
for jade is only found in small pieces; but there are other stones
frequently mistaken for jade, such as jadeite (hence its name), which is
not nearly so valuable. Tamerlane’s known desire to have a tomb of jade
is probably the reason why it is so called. The jade mines of Turkestan
have been celebrated in China for at least 2000 years. Above the mullah’s
tomb are two crossed bamboo poles bearing the Prophet’s green flag, and
the standard, which consists of a horse’s mane and a gold button. The
tombs are enclosed by a low alabaster-work balustrade, as seen on the
left hand in the sketch.
But Tamerlane was so afraid lest cupidity should cause his tomb to be
rifled that he ordered his body to be buried in a crypt below the other
tomb, the existence of which was until quite recently unknown, except to
a few initiated persons. The entrance, which was concealed by a paving
stone, is now open to the gaze of all. We went down into it by a flight
of steep stone steps and found a number of tombs, one of which was the
hero’s, made of specially finely carved marble. We were invited to pay a
small sum in order to place candles on it, so I presume our respectful
attitude had won us the reputation of being good Moslems. The vaulted
roof of this crypt was admirably designed brickwork, of which the rough
sketch opposite may give an idea. It was a twelve-sided figure, and the
whole of the interior was in excellent repair. It was dimly lighted by a
torch, which our guide produced, and we were glad to escape promptly back
to the upper air, where I sat down to sketch. Various worshippers came
in and out to say their prayers, for the worship of saints is a marked
characteristic of Mohammedanism, and there are many shrines in Samarkand.
Every one seemed friendly and devout, except an obvious tourist with his
guide, who certainly disturbed the serenity of the atmosphere.
Another day I sketched the outside of that wonderful mausoleum, and
day by day as we studied the monuments which time has defaced, but
which even in decay surpass all others in their potent effect upon the
imagination, I dreamed of the genius which had left such an imperishable
memory. Surely none of the other conquerors of the world was ever so
strange a mixture as the great Mogul, compounded of ambition, lust of
power, love of beauty, relentless cruelty, domestic affection, and zeal
for “the Faith.”
[Illustration]
Timur i Leng, the lame Timur, or Tamerlane (to use the vulgarised form
of his name), was born at Shahr-i-Sabz, “the green city,” about fifty
miles south of Samarkand, in 1336. His father, Teragai, had been the
first ruler in the country converted to Islamism, and he brought up his
son Tamerlane in the studious retirement which he himself loved. The
young man was well versed in the knowledge of the Koran, but he was
noted also for his good horsemanship and other manly pursuits. Tamerlane
soon abandoned his father’s way of life and reverted to the earlier type
of Genghiz Khan and Kubla Khan. The accounts of the Mongol raids sound
like visions of the lowest hell, beside which Dante’s descriptions are
colourless; these raids are inconceivable to the modern mind, and yet
history shows that they were not the work of madmen, but that they are
due to a strain of ferocious brutality in the Mongol blood. Where this
happens to be combined with great power or genius, as in the case of Ivan
the Terrible, or Tamerlane, the result is appalling.
At the age of twenty-two Tamerlane was sent at the head of a thousand
horse to invade Khorasan, but it was not the first time he had been in
the field, and he was subsequently employed in fighting for his own
throne after his father’s death. In 1369 he had conquered his opponents,
and he mounted the throne at Samarkand. It would be monotonous and vain
to recapitulate the history of the incessant wars which Tamerlane waged
during the next thirty years in order to extend his dominions in Central
Asia, but it was when he was over sixty years of age that he undertook
the greatest of his expeditions, the conquest of India (as it has been
erroneously called). He ravaged the north and sacked its principal city,
Delhi, returning to Samarkand with great spoil. Clavigo, the historian,
says that he brought back ninety captured elephants to carry stone for
the building of a new mosque at Samarkand. It was Baber, his descendant
of the fifth generation, who founded the Mongol Empire in India in 1525,
more than a century and a quarter later than Tamerlane.
During this campaign Tamerlane became embarrassed by the number of
his Hindu prisoners, no less than 100,000 at a single time, so his
counsellors urged him to have them slain. The historian remarks: “He
listened to this considerate and wise advice, and gave orders to that
effect”; so that they were all slain “with the sword of holy war.” In
order to accomplish the frightful task the soldiery was not sufficient,
and “one of the chief ecclesiastics, who in all his life had never even
slaughtered a sheep, put fifteen Hindus to the sword.” (Holden’s “Mogul
Emperors of Hindustan,” p. 27.) On another occasion he slew no less than
70,000, and had the heads piled into a pyramid and plastered over with
mud. In this gruesome conception he was following the example of his
ancestor Genghiz Khan, who had devised the idea of having the thousands
of corpses which were slain on various occasions built into architectural
designs. At the taking of Bagdad the number of slaughtered enemies was
80,000.
Tamerlane was in the habit of taking his wives with him on his campaigns,
as well as learned men, and it is related that when in India he had
the latter placed _behind_ the women, and the women behind the army
during the battles. The fear of him was so great that even after he
had left Delhi prayers were said in his name in the mosque there until
his death; afterwards in the name of his son. Tamerlane’s religiosity
(for it can really be called by no other name) is shown in the account
which he caused to be written in his Memoirs giving his reasons for the
invasion of India. “My principal object in coming to Hindustan and in
undergoing all this toil and hardship was to accomplish two things. The
first was to war with infidels, the enemies of the Mohammedan religion;
and by this religious warfare to acquire some claim to reward in the
life to come. The other was a worldly object, that the army of Islam
might gain something by plundering the wealth of the infidels; plunder
in war is as lawful as their mother’s milk to Mussulmans who fight
for their faith, and the consuming of that which is lawful is a means
of grace.” The necessity for keeping his troops in good humour can be
readily understood, but that the awful atrocities and unmentionable
crimes committed by them, which are veiled in that last sentence, should
be characterised as “a means of grace,” sounds like an unholy jest. It
is impossible to ascertain with any accuracy the numbers of Tamerlane’s
troops, but not only were there picked troops of some 200,000 men, but
also vast numbers of irregulars, who flocked to his standard in the hope
of plunder. But besides Tamerlane’s hosts of soldiers, who are said by
his biographer to have idolised him, he had also hosts of artificers
and workmen, for he built many palaces, mosques, and houses, of which
only a comparatively small number survive the ravages of time. Clavijo
describes the building of a street full of shops, which was to extend
from one end of Samarkand to the other. No heed was taken of the claims
of those who already were in possession; their houses were torn down,
while the inmates fled with such things as they were able to snatch up
and take with them. As fast as the houses were demolished others rose
upon the ruins, as by enchantment, and at the end of twenty days and
nights of uninterrupted labour the street was complete, and Tamerlane had
it occupied forthwith by shopkeepers.
The various trades were formed into guilds as in western lands
apparently, and at one of the feasts given during the visit of the
Spanish embassy we are told that “an amphitheatre was covered with
carpets, where there were masquerades. The women were dressed like
goats, others like sheep and fairies, and they ran after each other.
The skinners and butchers appeared like lions and foxes, and all other
tradesmen contributed specimens of their skill.”
The Conte de Rubruquis, who was sent by St. Louis of France from the
Holy Land to visit the Court of Tamerlane, gives a similar impression of
the way in which building operations were carried on by that autocratic
monarch, all of whose operations seem to have been executed in
desperate haste. He says of the building of one of the great mosques:
“The architects chose a happy moment to begin it, namely, on the fourth
of Ramadam, 801 (May 28, 1399), which answers to the year of the Hare,
the Moon being then in Leo, going out of the sextile aspect of Venus.
The masons, brought from foreign countries, as mentioned before, gave
the greatest proofs of their art and skill, as well in the solidity and
beauty of the angles, as in the strength of the foundations of this
noble edifice. In the inside of the mosque were employed two hundred
masons from Azerbijana, Persia, and India; five hundred men likewise
worked in the mountains in the cutting and hewing of stones, which
were sent into the city. Several other artisans of different trades
performed their parts with the utmost application. Ninety-five chains
of elephants were made use of in drawing large stones with wheels and
machines according to the laws of mechanics. The princes of the blood
and Emirs were appointed to oversee the workmen, that not one moment
might be lost in finishing this stupendous building.” The event was
celebrated with sumptuous banquets, accompanied by all sorts of plays
and diversions. “The Empress Rokia Canica on this occasion gave a noble
entertainment, accompanied with concerts of music and fine dancing.”[6]
The descriptions of Clavijo, the Spanish envoy, are equally vivid and
interesting, giving a thoroughly complete picture of life at the Court
of the great Khan. Referring to the Empress Cano (as Clavijo calls her),
he says that after she had approached the Emperor, attended by her 300
ladies and eunuchs, and had taken her seat, the second wife or “little
Cano” came out and took up her position, followed in turns by his seven
other wives. The tents and pavilions on such occasions were of the utmost
magnificence, scarlet cloth embroidered with gold and silks, white satin
and different coloured silks, with silken cords and tassels. The tables
were of gold, and the ornaments of gold and precious stones. Drinking
formed an important part of the ceremony, and the Empress was greatly
displeased when the monk de Rubruquis refused to drink at her invitation;
he narrates that many of the guests became quite drunk and even fell
down before her, which added to the amusement. There was also a popular
and less harmful beverage of cream and sugar. The meats consisted of
sheep and oxen, roasted whole, and served on dishes of thick stamped
leather. No less than three hundred men were requisite to bring them in,
and camels were used to bring them to the place. This part of the feast
sounds quite unrefined, for the food is said to have been placed in heaps
on the ground, and there is no mention of any utensils.
At another great festival to which the Spanish envoys were summoned,
they were forced to pay elaborate homage to one of the Khan’s grandsons
newly come from India, kneeling time after time before him. Doubtless
they felt there was no choice as to obeying any such order of Tamerlane,
for had they not seen plenty of instances of his summary methods of
so-called “justice.” At the marriage festival of two of his grandsons
Tamerlane said he “knew how to be merciful and kind to some, and how to
be severe to others,” so a number of gallows were set up at the place of
entertainment. When the games were over he meted out “justice” to various
people who had incurred his displeasure, and they were instantly put to
death; hanging was the more aristocratic punishment, and execution was
the fate of the poorer classes.
Tamerlane’s most pleasing characteristic is the deep affection he
entertained for his Chinese wife and for his sons, whose death caused him
deep and passionate grief. There is a legend that he caused his daughters
to be taught magic in order to help him in his conquests, but that sounds
wholly at variance with his character. He was extremely energetic and
ambitious, and brooked no interference. The portraits of his personal
appearance are far from pleasing; he was not only lame, but also blind in
one eye. Tamerlane’s last campaign was against the Turks, and he pushed
as far as to Damascus, taking prisoner the Sultan Bajazet. On his return
he projected another distant campaign against China, but he fell ill of
ague and fever, and died in Syr Daria in 1405. His body was embalmed and
carried for burial to Samarkand.
CHAPTER XIX
Samarkand
Tamerlane’s tomb is on the threshold of Samarkand, and is but the prelude
which introduces the travellers to wonder upon wonder. The whole of the
first day we devoted to it, so as to come with a prepared mind and yet
quite fresh to the wealth of beauty that lies within the city. A fine
avenue of poplars leads from the tomb to the imposing citadel, dipping
into a deep ravine (where a wood market is always going on); as one
mounts the hill the citadel seems to tower above the city. Its one relic
of interest is the Keuk-Tash, a grey stone, ten feet long and four feet
broad, said to have been originally brought from Broussa. This formed the
seat from which Tamerlane dispensed judgment—one cannot say “justice”—and
which in later days was used by the Amirs of Bokhara for the same
purpose. A number of bazaars line the road, giving the impression of a
busy, flourishing town, and the road is thronged with carriages, men on
horseback, and carts. What a fascinating crowd it was. I must briefly
describe its chief elements. The population is principally Sart, but
there are Persians, Afghans, Kirghiz, and others. Some of their horses
are splendid proudly-stepping creatures, and it is a marvel to see their
trappings, handsomely embroidered cloths on which the equally handsomely
decorated antique saddles rest. These are either painted or inlaid wood,
and have a high peak in front; the stirrups are equally decorative, but
fastened so short that the knees are always bent. The Sarts invariably
ride unless extremely poor, and it is astonishing to see how fine some
of them are, who yet have to carry home their purchases from the market,
a somewhat incongruous effect being produced by these gorgeous creatures
having an armful of vegetables. If too poor to ride a horse, the Sart may
at least be able to afford a donkey. Some of them have a closely veiled
woman riding pillion; others will have their young sons riding before
and behind them on the same horse. The Sarts wear long flowing cotton or
silk robes of brilliant colours, especially affecting stripes, and high
leather boots. On their heads they wear little gaily-embroidered caps,
surrounded by a turban of dazzling whiteness, with ends coquettishly
hanging down by the left ear on to the shoulder. A poor man may be
only able to afford two or three yards of coarse white cotton for the
purpose, but the rich man will have twenty or thirty yards of the finest
muslin. Round the waist the men wear ornate belts, into which are stuck
the knife with gold or silver jewelled handle in its sheath of leather,
and in another case a comb, toothpick, and other et ceteras. Among the
foot-passengers are a certain number of women dressed in long, grey-blue
cloaks from head to foot, only just showing the wide trousers fastened
in at the ankle; there is but the smallest peep-hole through a horsehair
veil like a meat sieve. They are mere chattels, and are kept strictly
secluded. The children in their gay clothes form a delicious contrast,
and are as bright and merry as birds, full of mischief and fun; we had
a good opportunity of watching them while sketching, and they were
delightful neighbours for the most part, despite being rather distracting.
The first building that arrests the attention at the entrance to the
town is the citadel, but it has been transformed into Russian barracks,
so that the exterior is the main thing of interest. It boasts in modern
times of having been the scene of a stirring episode when the Russians
first took possession in 1868. A small garrison having been left there
while the main army went in pursuit of the Amir of Bokhara, found itself
surrounded by 20,000 men, and for five days succeeded in holding the
position until relieved by the timely arrival of a corps from Tashkent.
Then a terrible vengeance fell upon the doomed city, which was given over
for three days to pillage as in the days of Tamerlane. What grim irony to
call Samarkand _la bien gardée_, when through all the centuries it has
been desolated, beginning from the conquest of Alexander the Great, more
than twenty-two centuries ago, down to the present time. Under the Arab
Sámánids in the eighth century it became a great centre of learning, and
was renowned throughout the world; then Genghiz Khan fell upon it in
1219, and although it is said to have been defended by 110,000 men, he
took the city and let loose his ferocious hordes upon it. When they left
the city the population had been reduced to one-fourth of the size it had
been, but even then it was said to boast 25,000 families. In the days of
Tamerlane it rose again to 150,000, and at the present day the native
city covers a great area, being enclosed within a low wall of nine miles
in extent.
The next group of ancient buildings which meets the eye is the great
market square, the Righistan, three sides of which are surrounded by
madressahs or colleges, the fourth side being bounded by a row of small
native shops. The four sides are quite separate from one another, a
street passing along the north side of the square in front of the
Tilla-Kari Madressah. It would be impossible to describe the magnificent
effect of these buildings due to their great height, simplicity of
design, brilliancy of colour, and the noble space which they enclose.
The square is more than two centuries later in date than the days of
Tamerlane, but it is the harmonious continuation and completion of his
work. The eastern building is the oldest of the madressahs, called after
its builder, Uleg Beg (A.D. 1420 approximately); he was the grandson
of Timur, a great patron of art and science. He made a table of the
fixed stars, agreeing pretty closely with that made by the celebrated
Danish astronomer, Tycho-Brahé, more than a century later. It is the
smallest of the three madressahs, containing accommodation for only
fifty students, but attached to it was the world-renowned observatory
and school of mathematics. Uleg Beg used the quadrant, the radius of
which, says d’Herbelot, equalled the height of St. Sophia. A description
of one madressah will suffice for the three, as they are all built on
the same plan. The front of the quadrilateral building is about 100 to
150 feet in height, with an immense porch nearly extending to the top
of it; the porch is mostly filled in with beautiful tiles, but contains
a small window in the upper part and a wide door below, with smaller
ones on either side. The broad spaces of masonry flanking the porch are
subdivided into three sections, which are all differently and richly
decorated with tiles, in which blue is the predominating colour. The
two small doorways lead into a paved court surrounded by buildings,
in the centre of each of which is a pointed porch called “pichtack,”
similar to that of the façade, but on a much smaller scale, and generally
of finer workmanship. This is surrounded by arcades, the central one
being a hall for prayer, decorated with suitable inscriptions cut in
hard stone or marble slabs in the walls. The courtyard corresponds to
our cloister of the West, and trees cast a pleasant shade in it where
the studious Mohammedans spend so many weary hours, for the university
training lasts from twenty to twenty-seven years. One of the students
showed us his tiny cell with its store of books—a very limited one.
As we entered another student or Mullah stood praying just within the
porch at the top of his voice, and in shrill and dolorous accents:
the Sunnites adopt this tone in order that there may be no suspicion
of tune or melody. The studies are by no means confined to religion,
however, for they embrace all the faculties, and men are here trained to
fill every office of Church and State. The Koran and its commentaries
are considered fundamentals, and when one reflects that Mohammedanism
owes its widespread success no less to the proselytising spirit of its
merchants and soldiers than of its religious teachers, one is forced to
admire the wisdom which requires that such thorough teaching be given
to the educated classes. We were told that the students have to observe
strictly certain rules throughout the whole course of their university
career; married men are allowed to spend two nights a week in their own
homes, but the remaining five must be spent in the madressah. The length
of the course is a heavy strain on the resources of a family, but many of
these people, living in mean surroundings and with no outward pomp, are
possessors of considerable wealth. In Tashkent the Government is offering
free education for boys in the Russian schools, in order to attract the
Sarts to send their sons to them, and the lessons are given both in
Russian and in Sart, half and half. This is done for political purposes,
and with a view to getting more into touch with the native population:
at present there is a great gulf fixed between them.
To return to our subject—the architecture of the schools. On the right
and left of the central façade there are side wings, originally covered
with tiles, but now somewhat injured by time, and at their outer end rise
lofty cylindrical towers of great height and entirely covered with tiles;
they are now quite out of the perpendicular, and it is impossible to do
anything to preserve them from the effects of the violent earthquakes
which are continually destroying the priceless monuments of Samarkand.
The madressah of Shir Dar (“the lion bearing”), built in 1601, faces that
of Uleg Beg, and the only difference of importance between the two is
that the former has two domes rising from the side wings of the façade,
namely, between the porch and the towers. It is the largest of the three
madressahs, and contains rooms for one hundred and twenty students. Its
name is due to the heraldic figures of lions (only they are more like
tigers) on the façade. Most of the designs on all the architecture at
Samarkand are arabesques, inscriptions, or geometrical figures, but
there are occasionally animals introduced, such as lions, griffons, and
dragons. As regards colour, in the later architecture, black, green, and
gold are added to the blues and yellow characterising the earlier tiles,
but there is comparatively so little other colouring than blue, that it
passes unnoticed without close inspection.
From the summit of the northernmost tower criminals used to be hurled,
we were informed, in the “good old days,” into the square below called
“the Gluttonous Place”; this was the case at Bokhara only last century:
they were trussed up like fowls. Visitors are usually taken by the
professional guide up this madressah to look over the city, from the
platform upon which the cupolas rest. It is perhaps desirable to warn
ladies visiting Samarkand to beware of this guide, as he bears an
unsatisfactory character. Our unofficial guide took us to the top of the
Tilla Kari (“dressed in gold”) façade, which is much loftier, and from
which a fine view of the mountains is to be obtained. The ascent was
steep, rough, and perilous, but well worth not only the effort, but also
the resultant stiffness of many days. The vision that burst upon our
view as we emerged from the dark staircase was that of a city gleaming
among a wealth of trees, stretching far across the plain to the distant,
snow-capped mountains. Far below the motley crowd looked like ants; the
vivid colouring of their robes was almost indistinguishable, and only a
hushed murmur rose to our ears from the busy throng.
In the Tilla-Kari Madressah (built in 1618) there is room for fifty-six
students. It has an important mosque, of which the inside walls were
not only decorated with blue tiles, but also with fine marble slabs
handsomely cut and bearing gilded inscriptions, but the gilding was
somewhat dimmed by time. Evidently there was a large and costly carpet
on the floor, for our feet sank noiselessly into the soft pile, but it
was covered with a drugget, and we were only allowed to see a small
corner. This madressah has no flanking towers, and a less ornate façade,
which probably gave rise to the idea that it was the oldest, whereas it
is the most recent of the three.
Our evident delight in the beauty of the place was obviously a source
of no little gratification to the people; our only regret was that we
were unable to talk to them. Few people know the Sart language, or even
know of its existence, but in the mosques and bazaars Persian as well as
Arabic is current. The people to whom the glories of the place are like
a twice-told tale, watched our expression with some wonder, but keen
appreciation; when they had further inquired as to our nationality, it
seemed as if we were admitted into a sort of friendly intimacy.
We started one day from our hotel with a pleasant old man as droshky
driver; to him our host gave elaborate instructions as to where we should
go and what we should see; but in the old city he picked up a picturesque
native in white turban and wine-coloured robe, who forthwith constituted
himself our guide. Our inability to talk or even to understand his
language was a slight bar to our enjoyment, yet in the course of the
morning we gathered a certain amount of information about the city, and
felt that we had missed seeing nothing of real importance.
One of the finest ruins is the madressah of Bibi Khanum, the daughter
of the Chinese Emperor, and favourite wife of Tamerlane. She is said to
have built this not only as a school, but also as a mausoleum for her
remains; its greatness and beauty, however, were such that she offered it
instead to her lord and master (no doubt a wise policy on her part), and
built instead for her tomb what is known as the little Bibi Khanum, an
unimposing structure overlooking the grain market.
[Illustration: SAMARKAND]
The Spanish historian, Clavijo, gives a vivid picture of the lady taking
part at a great feast in honour of the wedding of Tamerlane’s grandsons.
He says: “When the people were all arranged in order round the wall which
encircled the pavilion, Cano, the chief wife of this lord, came forth to
be present at the feast. She had on a robe of red silk, trimmed with gold
lace, long and flowing. It had no waist, and fifteen ladies held up the
skirt of it to enable her to walk. She wore a crested head-dress of red
cloth, very high, covered with large pearls, rubies, emeralds, and other
precious stones, and embroidered with gold lace. On the top of all there
was a little castle, on which were three large and brilliant rubies,
surmounted by a tall plume of feathers.... Her hair, which was very
black, hung down over her shoulders, and they value black hair much more
than any other colour. She was accompanied by 300 ladies, of whom three
held her head-dress when she sat down, lest it should tilt over. She
had so much white lead on her face that it looked like paper, and this
is put on to protect it from the sun, for when they travel (evidently
Clavijo suffered in the same way as modern travellers when seeking
information) in winter or in summer all great ladies put this on.” The
palace one may very well believe, from what we can see of its remains,
was a fitting background to such a gorgeous company. Its vast height and
the brilliancy of the tiles make it one of the most impressive sights in
Samarkand. The magnificent cupola is sadly broken, but the remains show
that it is different from other cupolas in Samarkand, which were fluted
and ovoid in shape, with blue tiles decorating them in fine contrast to
the pearly whiteness of the remainder of the structure. The Bibi Khanum
cupola is dome-shaped and entirely covered with the turquoise blue tiles
so characteristic of Chinese architecture (in Shansi especially), and one
likes to fancy it as a reminiscence of the princess’s native land. It
is the most glorious note of colour, and at a distance, where the other
tiles lose all their effect, it glows with undimmed beauty. It added
value and charm to the various shades of blue in the great archway below
it. In my sketch of the city I have tried to give this effect. The walls
of the palace are sadly ruined, and it is to be feared that soon little
will remain; the majestic archways can still be traced, and some fluted
twisted columns of vivid blue are almost perfect, terminating below in
an elegant design some feet above the ground. Hard by, but outside the
precincts of the palace, another lofty tower stands erect, entirely
covered with blue arabesques. Surely such a wealth of beauty can be
found nowhere else in the world.
In the centre of the main courtyard, under the shade of the trees, is
a great marble lectern, richly carved, on which the gigantic Koran of
Othman was placed, which, it was alleged, the Chinese princess used to
read from a neighbouring window. It is certainly difficult to see how it
could be read otherwise than from some elevation, except by a giant. The
natives believe in its miraculous efficacy in cases of spinal diseases,
if the patient can bend sufficiently to creep underneath it.
There is still one octagonal tower covered with tiles which is fairly
complete, and also a portion of one of the immense round towers
similar to those in the Rigistan. In the interesting volume of Messrs.
Durrieux and Fauvelle, called _Samarkande la bien gardée_, there is
a true and suggestive comparison of these buildings, the Rigistan
still comparatively complete and perfect, but degraded from its former
greatness by its present inhabitants, the Bibi Khanum an absolute ruin,
but glorious with the imperishable beauty of the past. The Chinese lady
founded the largest of any of the schools of Samarkand.
As I was trying somewhat hurriedly to sketch a few architectural details,
the whole being far too vast to attempt, except from a considerable
distance, a lamentable whining arose almost at my feet, and a litter of
puppies crawled out from some brushwood. Our guide began looking about,
and soon discovered an empty old tin, which he got a lad to fill with
water. He next hailed a man in the bazaar and bought bread; when he had
crumbled it up the puppies fell upon it like starvelings. The buying of
the bread brought to light the fact that a different coinage is current
here from that used in the Russian city, and explained why our tips were
looked on with evident suspicion.
From the palace we went to the grain market close by, and found a scene,
the picturesqueness of which beggars description. Indeed an apology is
due to the reader for the number of adjectives and superlatives used in
this chapter (I believe these are quite antiquated grammatical terms,
but I am ignorant of the new names which are later than my day); the
fact is that this is the most wonderful city I have yet come across in
my wanderings, and no words seem adequate, so I trust to be forgiven.
Here one could escape from European anachronisms, and the place was
filled with a gay, bustling throng of men and beasts. The water-carrier
was busy quenching man’s thirst from an unappetising-looking skin slung
over his shoulder, which still retained the shape of the animal to whom
it originally belonged. Another man provides the smoker with a whiff
of tobacco from a general pipe. We pushed our way gently through the
throng, treated with utmost courtesy by young and old. We climbed up to
Bibi Khanum’s tomb, an excellent point of vantage from which to look
down on the busy scene. Immediately below us was the grain market, to
the right a busy traffic in green grass used for fodder; beyond that
was a space specially devoted to camels, where the beasts knelt in long
rows, tranquilly surveying the scene. Further away was a large enclosure
full of horses, and another space devoted to the sale of fuel. All round
the market were low buildings, or booths, for all sorts of things, and
a row of busy blacksmiths and harness makers. Blocks of rock-salt from
Hissar, sweetmeats, tobacco, and green snuff found plenty of purchasers,
while itinerant vendors plied a busy trade in all directions. Every day
that we were there seemed equally busy, and in the bazaars they sell not
only native goods, but large quantities of Russian silks, especially
those made in Moscow. Cotton goods from Manchester were not lacking, and
it is to be feared that competition is killing to a large extent the
native industries. They no longer make the wonderful carpets of ancient
times, and we were warned that it is risky to buy old ones on account of
infection. Some of the silks are attractive, but majenta is a favourite
colour, and the curious designs would not look well transplanted from
their local setting.
[Illustration: HAZRÉTI SHAH ZINDEH]
Leaving the market we passed through a little valley on the eastern
side, and to our surprise a picturesque native suddenly stepped into the
carriage and sat down opposite to us. Our self-constituted guide was
seated on the box, so he turned round to explain that it was quite right,
for we should require the man’s services directly. In point of fact we
stopped in less than two minutes in front of a gateway, the entrance
to which was blocked by a pole placed across it. We passed through a
side gate on foot into a shady park, where numbers of people were seated
in parties under the trees, and sweetmeat sellers were plying a brisk
trade. There are many different trees at Samarkand, but the chief of them
are the white poplars and the black Turkestan elms; the latter are the
national sacred tree—the karagatch. The people are great gardeners, and
the water-supply is excellent; indeed it is being drawn increasingly from
the river which supplies Bokhara, to the detriment of that city.
As we strolled along the shady paths veiled women eyed us furtively. A
few minutes’ walk brought us to a short flight of steps leading down to
a fine blue-tiled gateway. As we entered it a vista of great beauty, a
masterpiece of art, was revealed, which had previously been completely
hidden from view. Forty gleaming marble steps lead upward to a fine
gateway, surmounted by domes. A flowering shrub hung over the wall on the
right, and a cluster of scarlet poppies had forced their way between the
slabs of marble. In the porch sat a typical group of natives, and our
guide presented us with some ceremony to the Mullah, who was apparently
in charge of the buildings—the Hazréti Shah Zindeh, or summer palace of
Tamerlane. The palace is called after a saint, Shah Zindeh, whose tomb is
one of the buildings; in fact it would never occur to any one that this
was a palace, but rather a collection of shrines and tombs. The saint is
expected to rise again some day. On reaching the top of the steps we came
into a little flagged lane, with the most brilliant archway standing up
against the sky (the one in the sketch), such a blaze of scintillating
colour that the blue heaven looked dull and opaque in comparison. Here
the tiles are finer than any of the others; they are modelled in relief
and in open work, unlike any that we saw elsewhere. The designs were
of an infinite variety, and it seemed a grievous pity that the little
hall within was dirty and befouled by birds nesting there; all the walls
within, as well as without, were covered with various kinds of tiles.
Opposite this was another hall, quite different in its decoration. A
little further down the winding lane were another pair of halls, also
surmounted by domes, and with yet other designs on the walls; there are
altogether seven of them, the remaining three being grouped together
at the extreme end of the lane, and forming the termination of it. The
innermost shrine is a little mosque, consisting of two rooms, a sort of
holy of holies. On the wall I noticed a rough colour print of the Kaaba,
and named it to our guide. He was greatly interested, and asked if I had
ever been to Mecca, and I fancy reckoned me at once one of the faithful.
We were shown the great Koran, a gigantic volume to suit the size of the
lectern in Bibi Khanum’s madressah. The famous original was carried to
St. Petersburg after the taking of Samarkand by the Russians, but this is
said to be a fine sixteenth-century copy of it. There were relics of the
saint pointed out to us behind a screen, but we could not make out what
they were, and we were shown the beautiful carpet, a fine specimen of
those made in Turkestan. Banners of red, blue, and green hang over these
treasures, and under them the guardian of the shrine sat down, intimating
that he was now prepared to receive a gift. To judge by his attitude
he thought it would be a lordly one, but there is always a strange
discrepancy in the East between the magnitude of the gift and the air
with which it is received. In various nooks and corners people lay curled
up asleep, or were drowsily repeating their prayers. While I sketched our
two guides were evidently discussing our merits, and at last one inquired
if we were Russians, and on hearing that we were not they wanted to know
whether we liked the Russians, making it abundantly plain that they did
_not_. Nevertheless they acquiesce without much apparent feeling to the
yoke of the foreigner, no doubt accepting it as “Fate.”
One of the interesting points to visit outside Samarkand is the tomb of
the prophet Daniel, whom the people insist on considering to be the hero
of Scripture history. We drove to it through the town, passing out of
the market up a steep dusty road. A mosque dominates the city from the
brow of the hill, and around it is a large cemetery of dreary, neglected
graves. It was from this point that I sketched the city, and while doing
so was somewhat startled by finding a large tortoise at my side, which
had crawled out of the grass. The road is primitive, but no one expects
anything else, and constant carriage exercise no doubt is good for the
inhabitants in lieu of any other kind. The way leads through sandy,
hillocky ground (suggestive of dunes by the seashore) for about a couple
of miles, and then the road abruptly ends. We got out of the carriage and
the driver led us on foot down a ravine to the tomb. It is the longest
tomb one would suppose that could be found anywhere, being about 25 yards
in length (Edouard Blanc says), and is finely situated on a rock terrace,
with crags rising above it and plenty of trees below it down to the
edge of a river. The legend which accounts for the extraordinary length
of the tomb is that, owing to some miraculous quality, it grows a few
inches every year, and that by the time it has stretched round the earth
Islamism will dominate the whole world.[7] However, the Russian governor
decided the miracle should cease, and ordered a building to be placed
over it, an inconspicuous erection with five little cupolas along the top
and surmounted by the usual standard, tuft of hair and rams’ horns; this
last is the usual offering made by Sarts at a saint’s shrine, and which
we saw again on the tombs outside Bokhara.
Strolling down the steep hill-side into a grove of trees below, we came
to a busy scene. The trees rise out of a large terrace, where handsome
carpets were spread on the ground, on which were seated parties of
devotees engaged in conversation or in prayer, while their horses were
tethered hard by in the shade. Close at hand servants were busily
preparing food at various fires under a shed, and it looked as if it were
some picnic instead of a religious exercise. Evidently the worshippers
were going to make a day of it, and they looked highly picturesque with
their many-coloured robes and white turbans.
The valley was a charming one, full of lofty poplars and elms. A mill
was built over the river lower down, and there were many houses nestling
among the trees. The yellow soil, called _toprach_, is extremely fertile
when sufficiently watered, and the Sarts have a saying, “Plant a stick in
the toprach, give it a trickle of water, and next year you will have a
tree.”
There are other excursions worth making in the neighbourhood, and we
greatly regretted that lack of time prevented our doing them. One in
particular we thought would have been attractive, namely, a ride to
the snow-covered mountains, whence there is a fine view over the plain
to the city. There are ruins called Aphrosiab all round the city, and
interesting coins of the Græco-Bactrian period have been found there.
Till within the last few years the madressah of Timur Malik, ten
kilometres distant, was still standing, but it has been laid in ruins
by an earthquake. There are other mosques in the city worth visiting,
especially that of Zemreh Khodja, the mausoleum of Khodja ben Khaddra,
and the madressahs of Ishrak Khaneh and Khodja Akhrar.
CHAPTER XX
Bokhara
The journey from Samarkand to Bokhara only takes about six and a half
hours by rail, across a dull monotonous plain as far as Kazan (pronounced
Kaghan), thence on a little branch line through green fields for the
last half-hour. We stopped at the Russian settlement of Kazan, an
absolutely uninteresting place. We were informed that the Hotel d’Europe
was comfortable, and we drove to it from the station, only to find every
room engaged. The German proprietress told us they were always busy, but
recommended us to the only other hotel, the _Commercial_. Here we found
a thoroughly clean room, and the pleasantest of Russian hostesses. As
usual, we were expected to have brought our bed clothes, but not having
done so the hostess fetched some out of her private store, and she was
quite gratified by our admiration of her handiwork on the sheets: “Made
when I was unmarried,” she said, with a weary smile.
Next morning we intended taking an early train on the little branch line
to Bokhara, but the heat was oppressive, so we delayed till the afternoon
when the air was somewhat cooled by thunder rain. Bokhara is said to
be intolerably hot, quite different from Kazan, though only eight miles
distant. The fields of grain looked green and fresh, and already the
crops were beginning to be cut, the deep blue of the cornflowers glinting
among them. The train runs between Kazan and Bokhara half-a-dozen times
per day.
On our arrival there we saw the truth of what we had been told, that
Bokhara was not a place where Europeans could stay, for there are only
small caravanserais and no hotel, but there are some Russian buildings
outside the city walls, including a fine bank. The old walls enclose a
large city, but as we made our way through its narrow streets we were
struck with the absence of population, such a striking contrast from
Samarkand. At the gate were Sart guards and a row of fixed bayonets
hung on the wall of the guard house. Here we were no longer in Russian
territory, for the province of Bokhara, 100,000 square miles in extent,
cuts like a wedge through Turkestan, and is a vassal state of the Russian
Empire. It only boasts two cities of importance, Bokhara and Khiva, and
is ruled by the Amir. The Government is a hereditary despotism, with
absolute power of life and death. Russia, however, keeps a jealous eye
upon its affairs, and when two native missionaries (under the auspices of
the Swedish Mission) had been working there some time ago, the Russian
authorities insisted upon their being sent out of the country. Since
then no mission work is allowed to exist, for it is hardly possible to
call by such a name what is being done by the Orthodox Church, its work
aiming rather at political than spiritual results; at least so we were
told by a Russian lady. It has no definite mission as in Siberia for the
Mohammedans. I met this lady in the street, and she stopped me to inquire
if I happened to be Miss C.; she had been asked to look out for her,
the only address furnished being “Central Asia.” She proved to be a Red
Cross nurse, travelling in Central Asia with the object of doing work for
the Bible Society, and ascertaining what opening there was for mission
work. Her nationality and right of entrance into all Government hospitals
gave her special facility for doing this, and she found the people quite
friendly and inclined to talk on religious topics, but the officials
stood in the way. The Russian Consul told her frankly he didn’t like
missionaries, but he admitted that he knew none and could give no grounds
for his objection.
Bokhara “the Noble” has always been the centre of religious influence
since Islam first conquered it about A.D. 709 (Arabian invasion), and
to-day it boasts a rigid adherence to the letter of the Koran, surpassing
that of any other place. Before the Arabian invasion Central Asia was
Christian. The Nestorian Church had established episcopal sees in Merv
and Samarkand as early as the fifth century, and the whole country had
practically adopted Christianity. After it had become Moslem the Mongols
swept down upon it in the thirteenth century. “In Bokhara, so famed for
its men of piety and learning, the Mongols stabled their horses in the
sacred precincts of the mosques, and tore up the Korans to serve as
litter; those of the inhabitants who were not butchered were carried
away into captivity, and their city reduced to ashes. Such, too, was the
fate of Samarkand, Balkh, and many another city of Central Asia.”[8] The
Moslem faith, however, survived the storm. When the Arabian Mohammedan
leadership had become weakened about the middle of the eleventh century
it passed into the hands of the Turanians, and they now showed their
power by winning their conquerors over to Islamism in a singularly short
space of time.
As one strolls through the streets of Bokhara to-day, one sees and hears
nothing but Mohammedanism. The civil administration is entirely in the
hands of the religious orders, and the madressahs, with the exception
of El Azhar at Cairo, are the most important in the world. There are
said to be 365 madressahs, but in reality there is not a third of that
number. The dates of some of these are 1372 (Abdullah’s), 1426, 1529,
1582; and the Empress Catherine of Russia founded one in the eighteenth
century. Vambéry says that nowhere in the East had he found the Moslems
so punctilious about the externals of religion, even to repeating their
prayers stark-naked for fear their clothes should have been defiled
in any way without their being aware of it. Their ruling principle is
“man must make a figure; no one cares for what he _thinks_!” We saw the
shockingly dirty tanks where so much religious washing goes on, and they
were revolting beyond words. The text of Islam says that where there are
more than 120 pints of water it is “blind,” that is to say the dirt gets
lost in it. Consequently you see people washing out their ears, noses,
and mouths in the filthiest tanks adjoining mosques before reciting their
prayers, which they do at least five times a day. The consequence of this
is that the inhabitants constantly suffer from tapeworm, which the French
call by the more pleasing name “solitare.”
A large part of the population of Bokhara belongs to the religious
orders, and are known as Ishans, Mullahs, and Reis. They belong to the
Sunnite faction, and have an utter abhorrence of Persian Moslems, who do
not belong to that sect; they maintain the same standard of religious
asceticism as that of the Middle Ages, and are prepared to fight just as
in those days. It is hard to realise that they are utterly untouched by
modernism, and the barbarism of Bokhara is unspeakable. Needless to say,
we did not visit the prison—descriptions of it can be read in every book
dealing with the place, but it does not bear thinking of when we remember
that Englishmen were literally rotting away there, “masses of their flesh
having been gnawn off their bones by vermin in 1843” (Wolff). The citadel
has no less hideous tales to tell: indeed Bokhara is one of the most
degraded places on the face of the earth according to all accounts.
“Thou wilt to Bokhara? O fool for thy pains,
Thither thou goest to be put into chains.”
MESNEVI.
Vambéry’s description of what he saw only half a century ago leaves no
room for doubt on this subject. He heard the robes which were to be
awarded to successful soldiers described as “four-head,” “ten-head,”
or “twenty-head” robes, and seeing no such design on them inquired the
meaning of the term. For all answer he was taken to see the arrival of
the conquerors; they had women captives tied to their saddle bows as well
as great sacks. These were filled with _human heads_, and each man in
turn had these hideous trophies counted, and the number placed upon the
official list to be the measure of the reward he should receive. The lot
of the slaves is a terrible one, and slavery still exists, being a thing
wholly approved and sanctioned by the Koran. The law of Harem is observed
with the utmost stringency, and women of the upper class are kept closely
secluded. If a girl is allowed to go out at all, she must not only be
veiled, but must put on the appearance of age and decrepitude, walking
with a stick on tottering footsteps. Although not compelled to do so
as in the case of women, the men also cultivate assiduously the art of
a special step, which is known as the “Reftari khiraman”: their poets
describe it as the swaying of a cypress in the wind, but to us it
appears as an ungainly waddle. David Cox was clever enough to make the
dogs bark in his sketches, but I, alas, cannot make my man waddle!
The law of Islam prohibits drunkenness, but “the number of beng eaters
(beng is a drug made from _cannabis Indica_) is greatest in Bokhara and
Khokand, and it is no exaggeration to say that three-fourths of the
learned and official world, or in other words the whole intelligent
class, are victims to this vice. The Government looks on with perfect
indifference while hundreds, nay thousands, commit suicide.... The few
hints we have thrown out are sufficient to show the abyss of crime to
which an exaggerated fanaticism degrades mankind” (Vambéry’s “Travels in
Central Asia”). Bokhara is still the same to-day, the most fanatical and
the most corrupt city in Asia, though outwardly to the eye of the casual
stranger clothed with the respectability that its European masters exact.
[Illustration: MOSQUE AT BOKHARA]
We penetrated into the bazaars, but they offered no special features
of interest, Bokhara having like the other cities of Central Asia to a
large extent lost its ancient skill in art. The silks sold in it are
made in Moscow mainly, and the cottons are also European. The railway
and the protective tariff have combined to kill the old trade that used
to exist between Bokhara and India, passing over the trade route through
Afghanistan. The fine architecture all belongs to the past. One of the
mosques was ornamented with beautiful designs in brickwork, enhanced
by a fine note of colour near the top of the minarets in green tiles.
The colour ornamentation of the mosques is for the most part much more
restrained than that of Samarkand, but seen in the midst of the uniform
dust colour of its sun-dried bricks it is the more effective. There are
not nearly so many trees as at Samarkand, though outside one of the city
gates we found a shady road, and there are twelve large canals in the
neighbourhood to supply the gardens as well as the ordinary drinking
supply. A crowd of camels was waiting hard by; presumably they remain
outside the city because the streets are too narrow and tortuous to be
blocked by such unwieldy beasts. There was an elevated booth on the other
side of the gate where the gay throng seemed to be engaged in the act of
worship and pleasure simultaneously; but the foreground of the picture
was filled up with a compact mass of graves, looking as if they were
centuries old.
The largest building in the city is the mosque of Kelan, built by
Tamerlane, and there are many other mosques varying in size and interest.
We climbed up to the roof of one for the sake of the view, but it was
not much, and we were told that we should have gone up a tower for the
purpose. Almost every minaret is surmounted by a stork’s nest, for
Bokhara is noted for its storks.
As we came away we saw a string of covered carts with gay carpets over
them making their way to the station. They were backed up to a siding,
where the veiled beauties within them were rapidly transferred to
second-class carriages away from the public gaze. Then the gay coverings
were folded up and put in the luggage van, and the carriages were brought
round and attached to our train; evidently they contained people of
importance, for there was a large crowd of natives to see them off, and
on reaching Kazan their carriages were again detached preparatory to
being joined to the express as soon as it arrived. Many Persians are to
be found throughout Turkestan; the railway stations are crowded with
them, and our Russian Red Cross nurse told us a charming idyllic story
which I cannot forbear repeating, of one of their veiled beauties with
whom she had talked on her journey. The Persian lady was a princess
travelling with her husband on their honeymoon. The husband said they had
seen one another seven years ago in a garden, and had fallen deeply in
love. Owing to his inferior rank the princess’s father would not hear of
their marriage, and it was only after seven years that his consent was at
last obtained. “She is not beautiful as she was then,” he continued, but
there was a look of great tenderness on both their faces, showing that
the love at all events had not diminished, and they further explained
that they had determined to have a European honeymoon, and were now on
their travels. Another happy couple whom our friend met was guarded by
the wife’s stalwart brothers. The husband and wife had been married nine
years and were still deeply in love, but they were very sad because the
wife (aged twenty-one) had as yet no son. They were now on a pilgrimage
to pray for one, as the husband said he had not taken a second wife,
nor did he wish to do so, “but, of course, if Providence did not send a
son——.” He repudiated the idea that as a Mohammedan he might be expected
to have four wives if he chose, and said he was very fond of his present
wife. Certainly the position of women is the worst evil of Mohammedanism,
taken in connection with Mohammed’s own history, and in the light of the
teaching of the Koran.
It might have been hoped that Russian influence would have had some
effect in ameliorating things; but even the Russophile Skrine[9] admits
that it has had no civilizing influence on the Khanate of Bokhara.
Slavery, tyranny, and barbarism are still allowed free scope, in order
that their disintegrating effect may the more readily place it under
Russian dominion.
CHAPTER XXI
Through the Caucasus
We left Kazan for the homeward journey, intending only to stop at
Vienna on the way, but fate decreed otherwise. The train started in the
evening, and we travelled two nights and a day through flat country to
the Caspian Sea. The railway through Turkestan runs parallel first with
the Afghan frontier—across which no Russian dare step on pain of his
life—and then parallel with the Persian border. The mountains of Persia
formed a beautiful outline against the stormy sky as we passed through
Askabad, the southernmost point of the line, and when the rain came down
in blinding torrents we watched the patient camels and their drivers
on the plain, behaving as if completely oblivious of the storm. Not so
the Cossack on his fiery steed; he looked as if possessed by the storm
demon, tearing across the plain as if the furies were behind him. A land
of strange contrasts—the immovable calm of the East, and, vainly beating
against it, the restless West. The question forces itself irresistibly
upon the mind—which will conquer?
[Illustration: BAKU]
The sun shone brightly next morning as we woke on the shores of the
Caspian Sea, and it looked calm and inviting, so different from the
description of his stormy journey given by Anthony Jenkinson in the
sixteenth century. He says: “This sea is freshwater in many places, and
in other places as salt as our great Ocean. It hath many goodly Rivers
falling into it, and it avoideth not itselfe except it be underground.
During the time of our Navigation wee set up the redde crosse of S.
George in our flagges, for honour of the Christians, which I suppose was
never seen in the Caspian Sea before.” The terminus of the railway line
is a miserable little sun-baked village called Krasnovodsk, with only
one imposing edifice, the railway station. We took our things at once
to the boat, through a maze of railway trucks and carriages, and were
delighted to find it a comfortable little steamer, with a Finnish captain
who had served long on English ships and looked like a Scotchman. There
was a gigantic sturgeon lying on the landing-stage, and he told us some
have been caught in the Caspian Sea weighing two tons. Our voyage only
lasted about thirteen hours, but none of the passengers save myself faced
dinner, and I was surprised to see next morning that there had been some
eight or nine on board. During the night a little child died, so there
was a delay while the health officer made his inquiry, and we were all
duly inspected.
The view of Baku, although seen through driving rain, was eminently
picturesque, and the old ruined maiden’s tower (in the centre of my
sketch) which is close to the wharf stands up boldly from amongst
the modern buildings. Forty years ago Baku was a small town with its
picturesque eastern quarter, but now it is a city boasting more than a
quarter of a million inhabitants, as cosmopolitan as a seaport on the
Mediterranean. The extraordinary change is of course due to the discovery
of oil, which has brought wealth, ugliness, and other undesirable things
to the surrounding country.
The country round Baku is hideous, a sort of eruption of oil derricks
covers miles of it. These are pyramidal buildings like square mill
chimneys, only considerably thicker at the base, and there are no
less than 2000 at Balakhani closely packed together. There is such an
abundance of oil that in many parts it is only necessary to make a hole
in the ground with a stick and a jet of flame will rise in the air.
On still nights it is possible to set light to the oil which gathers
on the surface of the sea. No wonder that the Parsees worshipped the
strange fire, and there still exists a curious temple at a place called
Surakhany, about half a day’s journey from Baku, where the so-called
“eternal fires” burn, though the last worshippers left it some quarter
of a century ago. The modern spirit has changed it into a profitable
petroleum factory.
[Illustration: TIFLIS]
[Illustration: A PERSIAN]
The town is evidently well worth seeing, but the pitiless rain drove us
to the Hotel d’Europe, and we were glad to resume our journey, deciding
to go round by Tiflis instead of direct from Baku to Vienna. There is
a through train to the frontier, Volochisk, which takes four nights
and three days, and from thence it is another day and night journey to
Vienna. We were told that it would be only a difference of hours if we
took the other route, and that by so doing we could see the magnificent
pass through the Caucasus, travelling from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz by
public automobile. It was impossible in Baku to ascertain anything
definite as to the hours of starting or arriving of the automobile, but
as our train was due at 6.30 A.M. we fondly imagined we should be in time
to catch it. Nothing of the sort. With Russian perversity it started in
connection with no train, but at 6 A.M. We could hardly regret the delay,
however, for we found ourselves in such comfortable quarters at the quiet
Hotel de Londres, which had been recommended to us, and we should have
appreciated it the more had we known then that they were the last beds we
should occupy till we reached London a week later.
Tiflis is well worth a visit: it is situated on the lofty banks of a
tumultuous river, and its green and red roofs, varied by the gleaming
domes of the churches, are most picturesque. There is a large number
of these, and Tiflis has become the home of many religious refugees,
for in order to stamp out heresy, orthodox Russia exiles her Baptists,
Stundists, &c., to the outlying parts of the empire, such as Siberia and
the Caucasus. It boasts a fine German church, also a Swedish mission, and
a depôt of the Bible Society. The Swedish missionaries have been working
there for twenty-two years, but are not allowed by the Government to have
any medical or educational work, which greatly limits their usefulness.
It is hard work, but bravely done.
Tiflis is noted for its sulphur baths, and attracts many visitors from
different parts of Russia on that account. After a drive round the town
we went up the funicular railway, and from the summit a magnificent
panoramic view is to be had, for Tiflis is in the heart of the mountains.
The ruins of the old walls can be traced on the north side of the river,
and the old Georgian fortress, now included in the botanical garden.
Tiflis was founded in the fifth century, and became the capital of the
Georgian kingdom in the beginning of the sixth century. It fell into the
hands of Russia in 1801, and the feelings of the Georgians are still
intensely bitter after a century of foreign rule. It is a cosmopolitan
city, and Professor Brugsch estimates that seventy languages may be heard
in it. One unusual feature of the population is that the men are double
the number of the women.
At 5.30 next morning we set out for the automobile and secured our seats;
it was a covered car to seat nine passengers, but we were only six,
which certainly seemed a sufficient load for the road we had to cover.
The earlier part of the way we sped through pretty wooded country, with
picturesque villages and ruined fortresses dotted among the crags on
either side of the road. They were not so numerous as to punctuate the
scenery in the way they do on the Rhine, but just to remind one that
this was the Georgian military road in the old days. Our chauffeur was a
good one, but unfortunately his hooter was as hoarse as a raven and not
even as loud, so that there was no means of warning the vehicles ahead,
which caused constant delay on the narrow road. Before we had proceeded
far we saw a comical accident owing to the soft condition of the road;
a private motor car on one side and a cart on the other had each sunk
deep into the soil in trying to avoid one another. Fortunately there
was plenty of assistance at hand, for the cart belonged to a party of
emigrants, and soon both vehicles were dug out and pushed on to solid
ground.
The day was beautiful, and the scent of hawthorn, wild roses and thyme,
yellow azalea and lime-trees filled the air, and the scenery became
increasingly wild and beautiful. After three hours’ drive we halted for
half-an-hour near a town on the outskirts of which musketry practice was
going on, then we began the main ascent of the pass. The road became
very steep, and the air cold and damp as we zig-zagged up the mountain.
There were brilliant patches of kingcups, and amongst them beautiful
tall snowdrops in great profusion. Instead of cultivated land there were
pastures full of flocks of sheep and goats, shepherded by bright-looking
boys. Of all the passes I have seen in Europe this is certainly the
finest. One seems to be right amongst the snow fields, and the road
sometimes passes between high walls of snow or through sheds built with
great solidity. We stopped one hour for lunch at the village where we
met the automobile going the reverse way, and again later at the foot
of Mt. Kasbec for another half-hour. Kasbec is 16,546 feet in height,
namely, 100 feet higher than Mont Blanc. On its slope there is a typical
Caucasian village, as seen in the sketch. From the time when we started
on the down-hill road, however, we lost all pleasure in the scenery. Our
driver suddenly became utterly reckless under the influence (as we learnt
later on) of pressure brought to bear on him by one of the passengers,
who wanted to arrive early at Vladikavkaz. We simply dashed down the
road and round corners, at the imminent peril of our necks, scattering
horses and carts in wild confusion into the ditch or up banks to what
seemed to be certain destruction. Only once did the chauffeur stop, on
the demand of a man with a rifle; he admitted that he was frightened, for
not long ago the auto had been held up by brigands. It was a momentary
pause, however, and we dashed on as recklessly as before. Finally on
entering the town a horse took fright and dragged its cart into the
ditch, overturning it completely, but the chauffeur merely smiled and
drove on. How thankful we were to draw up safely at last at the Grand
Hotel at Vladikavkaz at 6 P.M. We had some hours to spare before our
train started, so we made our way to the telegraph office in order to
wire home. The polite clerk, in answer to our inquiry, said that it took
much less time to telegraph to England than to any place in Russia, and
that it would probably be delivered in London in an hour’s time; in
point of fact, the telegram was never delivered at all. German we found
the foreign language best understood in Russia, and for the benefit of
inexperienced travellers I will conclude my volume with a brief account
of our crossing the frontier.
[Illustration: MOUNT KASBEC]
At Tiflis we gave up our passports (according to regulation) to the
hotel-keeper, stating where we had come from and our next halting place,
namely Vienna. The police have to put their official signatures on
the passport wherever you stop on Russian soil, but also in addition
something further when you wish to leave the country, and every time the
passport is visé-ed the traveller has to pay. We presumed that this had
been properly done at Tiflis, having paid for it, but when we reached
Volochisk and the officials came for all the passengers’ passports,
they looked at ours and returned them to us in a rough, surly way,
saying something that we could not understand, instead of carrying them
off with the others. Every one was locked up in the train, and in due
course of time the officials returned with the passports and gave them
back to their owners. They pointed us to the door, and proceeded to put
our luggage out. A lady from an adjoining carriage came and explained
the situation; the passports had not been properly signed for leaving
the country, and we should have to telegraph to the police at Tiflis
before we should be allowed to leave. “How long will it take?” we asked
in dismay. “Oh! not more than three or four days!” We inquired if
there was no method of tipping by which we could escape such a dismal
prospect, but she was emphatic in denying it. She suggested, however,
that by treble payment we could send a quick telegram instead of a
slow one, and she got her husband to go and explain our sad condition
to the officer in charge of the station. He was fortunately able to
speak a little German, and he ordered an underling to go and write the
necessary telegram to the police at Tiflis. The little colonel was in
full regimentals, and wore spurs, and the station had a military guard;
he had to be there on arrival of every train apparently, and acted as
stationmaster. He reassured us by saying that we might hope for an answer
in the course of the afternoon (it was now about ten in the morning),
in which case we could take the evening train to Vienna. We had the
melancholy satisfaction of finding that we were not the only people whose
passports were unsatisfactory; in fact no one seemed surprised about it
except ourselves. We tried to beguile the weary hours by watching the
custom-house officials enjoying themselves over the parcel post; a number
of muslin dress lengths were unpacked and inspected, as well as sundry
other things. The restaurant was a source of amusement as well as comfort
to us, and was far superior to an English one at a similar station. At
long intervals trains arrived, and we visited the telegraph office from
time to time.
We studied the “toilette” that went on in the ladies’ waiting-room, and
when night came and still no answer, we debated what to do next. At
9.30 we saw our hopes of a comfortable bed next night disappear, but
we still felt it would be well to leave at 2.30 A.M. if fate permitted.
The “hotel,” a small cottage within sight of the station, we did not
fancy, so we resigned ourselves to the small rest obtainable on a wooden
bench and the window ledge. Every time a train arrived the colonel
appeared also, and I fear he got rather tired of our polite request for
information; the importunate widow would have had no chance with him.
What an extraordinary occupation for an officer; but he sought to beguile
the time by hob-nobbing with the large staff of employees who, doubtless
for an absurdly small wage, spend most of the twenty-four hours loafing
about the railway.
At last the night ended, and we saw with pity a group of emigrants trying
to breakfast under a dull drizzling sky opposite the station. A friendly
porter gave us the news we were longing for—a telegram had arrived. No
words can express our delight, for we seemed to know every stone of that
railway platform, and we rushed to the office to demand our passports,
of which the officials had taken possession. Our detention had lasted
twenty-four hours, and as we shook the dust from our feet we failed
not to be thankful for the Providence which caused us to be citizens
of a land of liberty instead of tyranny. It is only in Russia that one
thoroughly realises it; and the irksomeness of it becomes intolerable.
“Implicit obedience, silent subjection, and the irresistible power of
despotism are here brought home effectively to the stranger. But this
impression remains with the traveller throughout the entire journey—
‘Be silent; keep yourselves in curb—
We are watched in look and word.’
An Empire of one hundred and thirty millions of prisoners and of one
million gaolers—such is Russia.”
FOOTNOTES
[1] Whigham’s “Manchuria and Korea,” pp. 117-119, 153, 49.
[2] This wise policy has been consistently carried out ever since. In
1878 there was not a single Manchu governor or viceroy of any of the
eighteen provinces of China. (Ross, p. 566.)
[3] When it was made known at the opening of the hospital that more
furnishings were required, many gifts, both in money and requisites, were
at once contributed, while two merchants told the doctor to apply to them
for money as it was needed, which he did several times till the hospital
was completed.
[4] Dr. Arthur Smith, the well-known authority on Chinese customs, told
me that the reason for the non-burial of children in China is due to
the fact that they are not recognised as an integral part of the family
till after marriage. Consequently it is not uncommon to marry them after
death, in order to be able to give them an adopted son to perpetuate the
family, and to offer worship at the ancestral shrine. In one case of
which he knew, the corpse of the bride was carried with great pomp to
the village where the bridegroom had lived, and they were both buried
together.
[5] Kûfic is the name given to the characters in which the Koran was
originally written; it ceased to be used after the tenth century.
[6] Hakluyt Society’s Publications, “The Voyage of Friar William de
Rubruquis,” p. 166.
[7] _Samarkande la bien gardée_, by Durrieux and Fauvelle, p. 183.
[8] Arnold’s “Preaching of Islam,” p. 185.
[9] See “The Heart of Asia: a History of Russian Turkestan and the
Central Asian Khanates from the Earliest Times,” by F. H. Skrine and E.
D. Ross.
INDEX
Abdullah, 190
Afforestation, 177
Afghanistan, 226, 230
Agriculture in Korea, 125
in Siberia, 173
Alexander the Great, 203
American Missions, 68, 80
Amir of Bokhara, 201, 203, 221
Amu Daria, 183
Amur region, 158
Ancestor worship, 70, 86
Angara River, 155
An-san, 103
Antung, 58, 61, 73
Aphrosiab, 219
Arabian Invasion, Turkestan, 223
Mohammedanism, 223
Aral Sea, 174, 175
Arctic Ocean, 162, 163
Arithmetic, 38
Arnold, 223
Asceticism, Mohammedan, 224
Ashekhabat, 160
Ashiho, Ch. xiii.
Askabad, 230
Astor House, Moukden, 31
Australasia, 38
Australian Presbyterians, 79, 108
Azerbijana, 198
Baber, 195
Baghdad, 195
Baikal, Lake, 154, 159, 162
Bajazet, Sultan, 200
Baku, 231-233
Balak Nani, 223
Balkh, 223
Baltic fleet, 112
Baptists, 233
Baths, Chinese, 142
Sulphur, 234
Bazaars, 185, 214, 226
Behren, 22
Beng, 226
Bibi Khanum, 209-213
Little, 210, 213
Bible Society, B. and F., 161, 173, 174, 222, 233
Study, 38, 75, 77, 82
Women, 77, 143
Black Sea, 169, 174
Blanc, Edouard, 191, 218
Blanc, Mont, 236
Blind, 49, 81
Bokhara, Ch. xx., 176, 183, 201, 208, 215, 218
Boxers, 22, 23
Braille, 81
Bronzes, 21, 22
Broussa, 201
Browning, 175
Brugnière, Monseigneur, 89, 90
Brugsch, 234
Buddhism, 45, 70
Buddhists, 48, 49, 57, 159
Buriats, 159-162
Burkans, 160
Bushnell, 21
Camels, 214, 227
Cano, Empress, 198, 199, 209-213
Capus, 172, 182
Carpets, 209, 217
Carts in Turkestan, 181
Caspian Sea, 175, 231
Catherine of Russia, 223
Caucasus, Ch. xxi.
Chang Chun, 8
Chang Shan, 47, 51
Chéliabinsk, 166
Chemkend, 183
Chemulpo, 134-137
Chiao, Mr., 67, 114, 122, 130, 133, 177
Child burial, 42, 43
“Chinese Art,” 21
generosity, 25, 27
industry, 125
windows, 101
writing, 63, 68, 121, 124
Ching dynasty, 18
Christie, Dr., 23, 26
Church, Chemulpo, 136
Liao Yang, 40, Ch. iv., 56
Moukden, 22
Pyöng Yang, 74-77
Tiflis, 233
Citadel of Samarkand, 201, 203
Clavijo, 195, 197, 199, 210
College, Union, 78, 79
Colonisation, Manchuria, 6, 34
Siberia, 158
Colporteurs, 173, 174
Commercial college, 55
Concessions, timber, 73
mining, 61
Confucianism, 70, 77
Conference, Edinburgh World Missionary, 50, 80
Constantinople, 186
Consul, English, 17, 20, 141
Convicts, 155, 158
Cossacks, 165, 230
Court life, Korea, 96-101
Crops in Manchuria, 7, 45
Korea, 107
Crown Prince, Korea, 98-99
Princess, 99
Crypt, Tamerlane’s Tomb, 192
Currency, 33, 40, 213
Custom-house, 151, 152, 238
Curtin, Jeremiah, 159-162
Dallet, Père, 92
Dalny, 138-140
Steamer to, 134, 135
Damascus, 200
Danish Lutheran Mission, 27
Daveluy, 91
“Deer’s horns,” 22, 29
Delhi, 195, 196
Diamond Mountains, Ch. xii.
Dnieper River, 174
Don River, 174
Doolittle, 31
Durrieux, 212
Ear-muffs, 5, 26
Education, Korea, 53, 61, 79, 81, 128, 129
Manchuria, 28, 37, 38
Medical, 27
Moslem, 145, 204-208, 223, 224
Russian, 164, 165, 182, 206
Siberia, 162, 164
Theological, Korea, 79
Elephants, 198
Elms, 178, 215
Emperor, late Chinese, 23
Korean, 73, 96-100, 102
Empress Cano, 198-200, 209-213
late Dowager, China, 23
Min, Korea, 98-102
Emigrants, Chinese, 34
English language, 140
Eunuchs, 97, 99, 101
Execution, 144, 208
Exiles, 233
“Face of Korea,” 65-148
Fauvelle, 212
Flowers, Caucasus, 235
Korea, 107, 117, 123
Manchuria, 52
Foo Ling tombs, 12, 16-19
Fox temples, 31, 32, 45
Fusan, Ch. xi.
Gale, Dr., 103
Genghiz Khan, 145, 194, 195, 204
Geography, 38
Georgians, 234, 235
German Church, 233
language, 140, 188, 237
Giggies, 67
“Gluttonous Place,” 208
Gold mining, 63, 156
Grain market, 213
Gur Amir, 189-192
Hazret, 175
Hazréti Shah Zindeh, 215-217
Hazréti Timur mosque, 175
“Heart of Asia,” 229
Hell, Temple of, 32, 48
Herbelot, 205
Hingking, 12
Hissar, 214
_Histoire de l’Église de Korée_, 84
Holden, 195
“Home of Tamerlane,” Ch. xviii.
Horse sacrifice, 160
Hospitals: Hsin Muntun, 34, 35
Chemulpo, 136, 137
Liao Yang, 48
Moukden, 23-28
Hotels: Astor House, Moukden, 31
Commercial, Kazan, 220
d’Europe, Kazan, 220
Baku, 232
de France, Tashkent, 178
Grand, Samarkand, 188
Vladikavkaz, 236
Londres, Tiflis, 233
Russian, Kharbin, 3
Yamato, Kwan-cheng-tze, 8
Hsin Muntun, 25, Ch. iii.
Hulan, Ch. i., 142
“Hunger Desert,” 188
Immigrants, 174
India, 194-196, 198, 226
International Sleeping Car, 148, 152
Invocation, Buriat, 160, 161
Iranian, 184
Irish Presbyterian, 27
Irkutsk, 155-157, 164
Irtish River, 164
Ishan, 224
Islam, 194, 196, 218, 222, 224, 226
Ito, Prince, 106
Ivan the Terrible, 194
Jade, 21, 191
Jagatai, 185
Japanese banks, 104, 105, 138
inns, 60, 61
occupation of Korea, 105
of Dalny, 138, 139
officers, 59, 107, 131
steamers, 111, 134, 137
trade, 139
traveller, 59, 60
war, Korea, 85
Russia, 42, 43, 73
Jaxartes, 175
Jenkinson, 231
Jesuits, 85, 146
Jews, 145, 156
“Journey in Southern Siberia,” 161
Kaaba, 216
Karagatch, 215
Kasbec, Mount, 236
_Katholische Missions Statistik_, 92
Kazan, 176, 220, 221, 228
Kelan, 227
Keuk Tash, 201
Kharbin, 3, 4, 57, 141, 148, 167, 178
Khiva, 122, 183
Khojend, 183, 185
Khokand, 183, 226
Khorasan, 194
Ki Cha, 68, 71, 72
Kil Moksa, 77, 78
Kim, André, 91
Kinel, 167-169
Kirghiz, 165, 172, 175
Steppes, 172
Kitchener, 45
Kite-flying, 46
Kobdo, 163
Koran, 189, 206, 212, 216, 225, 229
Korea, history, 72, 73
population, 62, 63
size, 62
war with China, 73
Japan, 85
Korean education, 63, 79, 81, 128, 129
dress, 71, 76, 94, 96, 100
gate, Liao Yang, 42, 43
generosity, 80, 83
hats, 69
official life, 96, 97
products, 63, 107
script, 63
shops, 68
“Sketches,” 103
water-carriers, 69
Krasnojarsk, 162
Krasnovodsk, 231
Krapotkin, 164, 184
Krose, 92
Kûfic, 190
Kurgan, 166
“Kuropatkin’s Eye,” 44
Kwan-cheng-tze, 6, 40
Land nationalisation, 157, 158
Li Dsuchung, 13
Liao Tong, 42, 138
Liao Yang, 12, 40, Ch. iv.
Lobanoff, 73
Long White Mountains, 23
Louis, Saint, 197
Madressah, 187, 223
Bibi Khanum, 209-213, 216
El Azhar, 223
Ishrak Khaneh, 219
Khodja Akhrar, 219
Shir Dar, 207
Tilla Kari, 204, 208, 209
Timur Malik, 219
Uleg Beg, 204-207
Manchester, 214
Manchus, The, 11-15, 42
Manchu dress, 14, 36
dynasty, 11, 12, 14, 43
history, 11-15
inns, 52
marriage, 15
policy, 13
Manchuria town, 3
“Manchuria’s Strategic Railway,” 59
Medical Missions, 23-28, 48, 142, 143
assistants, 26, 48, 137
training college, 26, 27
Medicines, Chinese, 46, 47
Merv, 222
Mesnevi, 225
Methodist Episcopal, 80
Ming dynasty, 13, 20
tombs, 19, 20
Mining concessions, 63
Mission, American Methodist Episcopal, 80, 81
American Presbyterian, 79
Australian Presbyterian, 79, 108
Canadian Presbyterian, 79
Danish Lutheran, 27
Greek Orthodox Church, 161, 165, 222
Irish Presbyterian, 29, 36-39
Scotch Presbyterian 7, 27, 48, 50
Roman Catholic, 64, Ch. x., 104, 136
Salvation Army, 104
Swedish Mission, 221, 233
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, 89, 136, 137
“Missions Etrangères,” 89
Mistletoe, 18, 19
Moffett, Dr., 79
“Mogul Emperors of Hindustan,” 195
Mohammedan mosques, 145, 185, 186, 219, 226, 227
schools, 145, 187, 204-208
Mohammedanism, China, 145, 146
Bokhara, 223, 224, 229
Siberia, 165, 166, 171
Turkestan, 185, 186, 206, 225, 226, 229
Monasteries, 52, 53, 57, 121
Mongol customs, 160
empire, 195
raids, 194, 223
Monks, 53, 56, 57, 120-122
Moscow, 214, 226
Moukden, Ch. ii., 58
Mullah, 191, 206, 215, 224
Museums, 22, 60
Nadir Shah, 191
Naval commission, 26
battle, 112, 136
Nestorian Church, 222
Newchwang, 25, 55
New Hebrides, 109
Nippon Yusen Kaisha, 137
Noorhachu, 11, 12, 18
Officers, Japanese, 59, 107, 123, 124, 131
Russian, 238, 239
Oil fields, 232
Omsk, 164
Ongons, 159
Orenburg, 166, 171
Orthodox Church, 161, 165, 222
Othman, 212
Oxus River, 183
Oyama, General, 25
Pailow, 19
Palace, Moukden, 20-22
Samarkand, 211-213, 215, 216
Seoul, 93-102
Parsees, 232
Passports, 237, 239
Peasants, Russian, 172, 173
Pedlars, Korean, 129
Peking, 13-15, 19, 43, 168
Permits, 176
Persians, 185, 201, 209, 228
architecture, 189, 190, 198
Petropavlosk, 165
Pichtack, 205
Piek-i, 85, 86
Pioneer Point, 71
Police, Russian, 176, 237-239
Poplars, 178, 215
Population, Korea, 62, 63
Siberia, 157, 158
Tashkent, 181
Tiflis, 234
Porcelain, 21, 22
Port Nicolas, 73
“Preaching of Islam,” 223
Presbyterians, 7, 27, 34-37, 79, 108
Prisons, 88, 155, 224
Protestant Missions, 64, 73
Psalm reader, 165
Pyöng Yang, 62, Ch. vii., viii.
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 21
Railway, Japanese, 8, 40, 51, Ch. vi., 105, 107, 108, 135
Russian, 8, 167, 173, 174, 220
South Manchurian, 34, 35
Trans-Siberian, Ch. xv.
International Sleeping Car Co., 152, 153, 157
Russian State Express, 152, 153, 157, 166
Red Cross, 25, 174, 222
Reftari khiraman, 225
Refugees, Moukden, 24
Reis, 224
Remedios, Jean dos, 87
Righistan, 204, 212
Ritual worship, 21
Roman Catholics, 64, Ch. ix., 104
Ross, Dr., 13
Rubruquis, de, 197-199
Russians, 203, 217, 221, 229, 230
occupation (Moukden), 23
police, 176, 237-239
Russo-Japanese war, 42, 73, 136
Sacrée Congrégation de la Propagande, 89
Saïd, Mir Berke, 191
Sámánids, 204
Samara, 167
Samarkand, 183, 187, Ch. xix., 222
_la bien gardée_, 212, 218
Sarts, 184, 202, 203, 206, 218
Schools, 37, 38, 81, 129, 145, 164, 187, 204-208
Seminary, Paris, 92
Senghoun-i, 85, 86
Seoul, Ch. x., 131, 132, 134, 135
“Seven Hates,” 11, 12
Shahr-i-Sabz, 193
Shamanism, 70, 159
Sheep, Kirghiz Steppes, 172
Shimonoseki, 110
Shinto, 110
Shops, 16, 68, 69, 180, 214
Siberia, 154-170
climate, 154
crops, 159
land tenure, 158
missions, 165
native inhabitants, 159, 165
population, 157, 158, 162
size, 158
trade, 156
Silks, 210, 214
Skrine, 229
Slavery, 225, 229
Smith, Dr. Arthur, 43 _note_
“Social Life of the Chinese,” 31
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, 104, 136, 137
Songdo, 81
South Kensington Museum, 22
Storks, 184, 227
Stundists, 233
Sulphur baths, 234
Sungari River, 3, 5
Sunnites, 224
Surakhany, 232
Swedish Mission, 221, 233
Syr Daria, 175, 200
Taidsoo, 12
Taiga, 164
Tamerlane, 175, Ch. xviii., 201, 204
Tang Shan, 25
Taoist temple, 54
Tartars, 162
Tashkent, 168, 170, 176, Ch. xvii., 203, 206
Ta-tsing, 13
“Ten Parts Imperfect One,” 48
Teragai, 193
Tide, Korea, 112
Tientsin, 91
Tiflis, 232-234
Time-table, 169
Tobolsk, 165
Tombs, Daniel’s, 217, 218
Korean, 71, 102-104
Ming, 13, 19, 20
Moukden, 12, 16-19, 28-30
Shah Zindeh’s, 215, 216
Tamerlane’s, 189-193
Tomsk, 163, 164, 174
Tonghak, 73
Toprach, 219
Tortoise, 19
Trans-Baikal, 154
Translation Society, 162
Trans-Siberian Railway, Ch. xv.
Travel hints, 132, 133, 152, 153, 237
“Travels in Central Asia,” 226
Tschagu Tschiendogu, 120
Tschang Do, 125
Tsiou, 87, 88
Turanians, 223
“Turkestan, Into,” Ch. xvi.
history, 183
town, 175
Turks, 200
Tycho-Brahé, 205
Tyenaga, 59
Uhér, 160
Uleg Beg, 204, 205
Union Medical College, Moukden, 27
Union Theological Seminary, 78, 79
United Free Church of Scotland, 27
Un Mun, 61
Usturdi, 160, 161
Uzbegs, 175, 185
Vambéry, 190, 223, 225
Vienna, 169, 232, 233
Vladivostock, 146, 162, 166
Volga, 174
Volochisk, 233, 237-239
“Voyage of Friar William de Rubruquis,” 198
Wagons Lits, 183
War god, 70
Water carriers, 70
Watering roads, 183, 184
Waterproofs, 131
Waterworks, Japanese, 70
Westwater, Dr., 46
White Sea, 174
Wiju, 59
Wolff, 224
Woman, 186
Women’s Mission Work, 27, 28, 77, 142-144, 222
Wonsan, 108, 111
X-rays, 25
Xavier, Francis, 146
Yalu River, 59
Yamaga, 73
Yamato Hotel, Dalny, 138
Kwan-cheng-tze, 6
Yenisei River, 162, 163
Young, Dr., 17
Young Men’s Christian Association, 104, 132
Yun, Hon. T. H., 61
Zenedjin’s Tomb, 184
Zenghiata’s Tomb, 184
Zoological Gardens, 104
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
Edinburgh & London
=Transcriber’s Note:= The following errata slip was contained in this
book, and the change has been made:
On p. 188, line 2 of text, _for_ known as, _read_ as bare as.
[Illustration: CENTRAL ASIA]
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