Chapter VIII: Introduction (3)

Sometimes my home was shunted and I was left for days to amuse myself in the vicinity of some place of interest. Then it would be hooked on again behind trucks carrying bricks, iron, and all kinds of machinery. My carriage was my home, my stronghold. And indeed it was not unlike a fortified castle when it stood motionless near one of the stations, with sentries and watches patrolling round or halting in the neighbouring encampment. I was never quite sure whether they regarded me as a convict or whether they kept a kindly watch over me.

Along the route various stations were in process of building, some already roofed. Unpretentious structures they were, never more than one storey high, and roofed with black tiles. Outwardly they resemble the Chinese houses, and the beams are curved in the "Ting" style. Although unfinished, they impress one as if encumbered with a weary past, rather than as having a bright future in store.

Everything, in fact, has a doleful aspect here. There are no gardens and no cultivation of any kind worth mentioning. The station yards are swamps, or pools of mud. Here and there an attempt has been made to improve matters, and stones or planks are laid down at intervals to assist the traveller in crossing.

Refreshment rooms are liberally provided on the Trans-Siberian line, and occasionally they even have some pretence to luxury; but in Manchuria they are of the most primitive description, scarcely provided with the barest necessities. A wooden table and a rough bench are the usual accommodation, and the cabbage soup or the national _kasha_ made of buck-wheat is served by an amateur cook with all the air of a novice in the profession. At the junctions, where trade is somewhat brisker, one is able to get _piroshki_, which means, as it is, one of the favourite Russian dishes.

Primitive as the refreshment places are--a bare tent sometimes serving the double purpose of kitchen and dining-room, with an old kerosene-oil case for table and dresser--they are always much frequented. On the same principle as that adopted for the construction of the railway, the Russian "chefs" make the Chinese coolies do all the work.

Travelling through Manchuria in this leisurely manner, I had plenty of time to obtain a thorough acquaintance with its different regions. From a geographical point of view the northern portion consists of a barren tableland; towards the south it becomes wooded, and in the vicinity of the towns the ground is fairly well cultivated.

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The capital of Northern Manchuria is Tsi-tsi-kar. The Governor of the province resides there, and it is the centre of that part of the country. But the town itself is very primitive, and far behind the other two chief towns, Kirin and Mukden. The population is a mixture of Manchus, Chinese, and Buriats, who do a small trade in raw materials, more especially in skins of all sorts.

From a very early date caravans have made this place one of their stopping stations on their way from the southern provinces to the districts north of the Amur. The people still use the same primitive carts as in those remote times, sometimes drawn by Mongolian ponies--I have seen as many as sixteen or eighteen to one cart--more often by oxen.

The peculiar way in which the harness was fixed always amused me: it seemed an inextricable confusion of straps and cords. How do they manage it? It is a problem which only Chinese patience can solve.

I had equally good opportunities of studying the local dress and the customs of the natives. In this vast, barren region, where no European had ever penetrated before the construction of the railway, everything is still in its primitive state. The people live partly by agriculture, such as it is, and partly by fishing. The houses are extremely poor; we should call them hovels, built of bricks or dried mud. There they live, together with their cattle and other domestic animals. Like all Asiatics, they are devoted to horse-breeding, and I visited several large _haras_.

Flocks and herds abound, but the animal one meets with most frequently is the pig; but the pigs of this region are very different from ours. They are usually black, with long, thin tails, looking rather like boars. Numbers of them are to be seen in every yard, rooting up the ground and giving the Manchu homestead about as untidy and dirty an appearance as is possible to conceive.

Of poultry there is no lack either. Geese, ducks, and fowls share the family abode. The entrance to every house is guarded by half-savage dogs, like so many wolves, and certainly not less ferocious. More than once I was nearly devoured by them, and as it is not advisable to fight them I always took care to have my pockets full of biscuits.

A Manchu home, in short, has the appearance of a cattle show, or a Noah's ark, and the life lived is unquestionably antediluvian.

Speaking generally, the cultural standard of the Manchus is much below the average Chinese level. The people look more barbarous to begin with, their occupations are all of a rough nature, and the old Confucian doctrines have never penetrated to them. They have always led a merely animal rather than an intellectual life, an existence of strife rather than of thought, and to this day the Imperial army consists almost exclusively of Manchu soldiers.

Our progress was very slow. For many days we travelled on leisurely, with occasional stoppages long enough to enable me to make excursions into the interior. I tried every means of conveyance--bullock-carts, Mongol ponies, Cossack horses. It was tiring work, but gave me extraordinary opportunities of making myself familiar with the country and its inhabitants. At last I reached Kharbin, a famous town, being the junction where the three railways of Manchuria meet, viz. the Vladivostok, the Port Arthur, and the Siberian lines.

Of all the places I have visited during this long journey, Kharbin seems to me the dreariest, the most desolate. A dull, cold autumn afternoon greeted me on my arrival. The rain fell in torrents; not only did the water pour down from the skies, but it oozed up from the ground as well. The river had overflowed, and all the land was inundated. Half the place stood under water. The railway station looked like a little island in the midst of a marsh. Together with the few passengers for Vladivostok I was carried on men's shoulders into the waiting-room, a mere barn, where we found a mixed crowd of mujiks and Cossacks with their luggage, which consisted of bedding, cooking utensils, packages and bundles of all sorts and sizes, tied together, piled around them.

The same place also served as refreshment room, and at one end of it about a dozen officers were dining at a big table. A pretentious gilded chandelier--ironically reminding one of Western luxury--formed the centre-piece. But I had no time to admire its beauty or even to sit down to my meal, although I was nearly famished. The station-master came bustling up to me with a very disconsolate countenance and informed me that he had received a telegram intimating that a bridge near Liaoyang had been carried away by the floods, and that in consequence of the defective state of the roads it was impossible to say when the next train would start.

It would be difficult to describe my consternation on hearing this depressing announcement, for I fully realized the awfulness of my position should I be compelled to make a prolonged stay in this place. The roads were so bad that excursions would be out of the question, and I should have to remain a prisoner in my carriage until the road was open again.

Meanwhile, I gladly accepted the offer of a seat in a _tarantass_ to drive round the town. Kharbin is of interest from a modern point of view because it is one of the headquarters of the Russians in Manchuria.

The town has sprung up within recent years, about the time of the Chino-Japanese war. It consists of barracks and military quarters, ammunition stores, railroad factories, and a few private houses for the families of officers, railway officials, and employes. It has no pretence to beauty, and in the flooded condition in which I saw it, its gloomy buildings, streaming with rain, looked deplorable. We came past some shops where tinned meats, vegetables, and other provisions are sold. There is also a hotel, which I prefer not to describe. I was told that the place even boasts a cafe and music-hall, the only place of poor amusement for the officers and their wives in garrison there. Kharbin is supposed to have about fifteen thousand inhabitants, but where were they? Were they dead, asleep, or hiding? I could not see a single living being. Could this be altogether accounted for by the weather, even allowing that the water in the streets rose to the knees of the horses, and that the wheels of our vehicle were submerged to the axle?

As we drove along my amiable guide explained to me that Kharbin is a military place, destined to see much active service in the event of a war, because, being situated on the junction of three great railway lines, it would be the centre for the mobilization and concentration of the troops. It would probably become the headquarters of the intendant and of the ammunition service. Hospitals, too, would be erected and the Red Cross would have a large staff there. I listened with interest to all these conjectures and plans for the future.

It was night when we returned to the station, where an agreeable surprise awaited me. I was told that a goods train with a convoy of coolies and troops to repair the line which had been destroyed, would be ready to start a little after midnight. Could my carriage be attached to it? I inquired. At first it seemed doubtful. No one appeared to know how far we could get, and there was even some question as to whether the road would bear the weight of the train. However, anything, no matter what, would be better than Kharbin, I thought; even the uncertainty of the future was preferable to the certainty of the present.

About three o'clock in the morning, after an interminable night of bustling, coming and going of troops, rushing about of coolies, shunting and whistling of engines, we at last began to move. The train presented a curious appearance. It consisted chiefly of open trucks and a few wagons in which the soldiers lay huddled together, with their winter coats tucked under their heads for pillows, while hundreds of coolies were packed like cattle in the open carriages.

At first we passed slowly through a vast, partially submerged plain. Often the road was entirely under water, and in various places so badly damaged that we had to proceed with the greatest possible caution. More than once the coolies had to turn out with pickaxe, shovel, and building material to repair the line, under the strict supervision of the officers of the railway service. I availed myself of the frequent stoppages and our altogether casual progress to study the country.

When at last we reached the large province of Central Manchuria there was a notable change in the geographical aspect. The ground became hilly and wooded. We followed several winding valleys, irrigated by tortuous watercourses, and surrounded by mountain ridges. In some parts it was decidedly pretty. The soil is fertile, and nature has endowed it with many precious gifts. The mountain slopes are rich in minerals and the woods abound with game. The mineral wealth of Manchuria is as yet unexplored, and there are comparatively few gold, silver, and copper mines in process of exploitation. Some foreign syndicates have been formed, more especially in the south, and these have proved successful, but since the Russian occupation of the railway district they have been hampered by all sorts of difficulties, and except in the free port of Niu-chwang, the introduction of foreign capital has been stopped.

In actual size Central Manchuria is considerably smaller than the northern district of Tsi-tsi-kar--also known as Halung-kiang--but the population of the north is only about one million, while Central Manchuria contains twice as many inhabitants. The seat of government for this latter district is at Kirin, a very ancient town with quaint houses built in the old Chinese style, yamens with shining roofs, temples and pagodas, all very picturesque.

Kirin itself is famous for the battlemented wall which, with its heavy ramparts and pagoda-like towers, is very imposing. But the chief attraction of this provincial capital is the surrounding scenery. Valleys and mountains, dark forests and distant blue mountain peaks, form a most charming picture. It is indeed a glorious region, and a joy both to the sportsman and to the artist. The fishing in the mountain streams is excellent, and there are still numbers of leopards, bears, wolves, a certain kind of deer, foxes, and hares in the forests. For the artist the opportunities here are not less ample; pretty woodland scenery, attractive bits of street corners, and town scenery, and above all the historical monuments, the celebrated royal tombs, and the commemorative tablets on the river banks, or hidden in the sacred groves; all these are excellent subjects for sketches.

The great difficulty at the present moment is how to reach these beautiful regions. There are, so far, only a very few stations in process of building on this route, and it must be remembered that even these, though called by the names of the various places, are often twenty or thirty miles distant from the towns they represent, and that there are scarcely any means of conveyance, and that in many cases there is not even a road!

It would seem as if the Eastern Chinese Railway scrupulously avoided all inhabited regions, and certainly in its present condition, and as long as there are no branch lines, it is useless for all purposes of ordinary traffic or commercial enterprise. The Russian officers who have projected it appear to have had only one object in view, to connect in the most direct manner Vladivostok and Port Arthur with the Siberian line, for the sole purpose of transporting troops in case of need with the least possible delay.

All this great work has been done quietly, unostentatiously, and without arousing any ill-feeling among the natives. At the present moment one may travel for a whole day without catching sight of anything more conspicuous than railway buildings, barracks, and encampments with Russian soldiers lining the entire length of the route.

After several days' travelling we emerged into cultivated plains, rich pasture land intersected by patches of Indian corn, beans, etc. Crops of all kinds presented themselves before our eyes. The country no longer showed the barren desolation of the Gobi desert, nor the romantic wildness of Central Manchuria. It was peopled! There were men working in the fields, and I could see houses and little farms, poor and miserable enough it is true, but at least indicative of human life.

FROM MUKDEN STATION TO MUKDEN TOWN

It was dawn when I looked out of my carriage window--a dull grey dawn. The sky was covered with leaden clouds and the rain came down in torrents. The river banks were entirely submerged, and the train stood still in a sea of mud. The scene of general deluge vividly recalled my ideas of the Flood, and it was like stepping out of the ark when I alighted from my carriage. Close by I saw a modest structure, one storey high, more like a peasant's hut than anything else, and I could scarcely believe that this was the station intended for Mukden, the capital of Manchuria. To my consternation I learnt that the train would go no farther that day. It might go on to-morrow or perhaps in a week's time.

There was plenty of time therefore to explore Mukden, although the town was over twenty miles away. But how was I to get there? There was no road to be seen and no vehicle anywhere about. I made inquiries from the station-master, a Russian officer, with a long beard and resplendent with gold lace. He advised me to send my interpreter to one of the neighbouring farms, where I might possibly obtain a Chinese cart, a driver, and a couple of mules, to convey me to Mukden in as short a time as the state of the roads would permit. I followed this advice. The courier wasted the greater part of the day in arguing with the farmers, while I was left in my carriage at the mercy of the hurricane, and occupied the time in writing down my unpleasant impressions, wind and rain supplying the accompaniment of music.

Towards the close of the afternoon my faithful Sancho returned, and pointed to a kind of cabriolet on two wheels with three mules harnessed in tandem fashion, and driven by a crooked little Chinaman. I cannot deny that the effect was extremely picturesque. The car was lacquered yellow, the hood covered with blue; the mules were grey, and the little driver was sheltered by a huge umbrella of gold-coloured oil-cloth. But although picturesque, it was far from comfortable. The vehicle had no springs and no seat; in fact, it consisted simply of a wooden board about two and a half feet square, on which one had to sit cross-legged like a Turk or a tailor. If the occupant happens to be neither the one nor the other, he suffers agonies before five minutes have passed. The only attempt at comfort was a small calico rug at the bottom of the cart, but this was a poor protection against the extremely hard wood of Manchuria.

I hesitated a moment before venturing to enter this uncomfortable conveyance, and pictured vividly to myself the horrors of a night's journey in it. But I had promised to visit, if possible, the site of our Mission station, which had been pillaged and burned in the last Boxer insurrection, and which had been the scene of so much noble martyrdom. So after all I made up my mind to go.

Little Li-Hu cracked his long whip, which, by the by, looked more like a fishing rod than a whip. And indeed, I might have amused myself with some angling on the way, for the mules were up to their fetlocks in chocolate-coloured liquid mud.

The first sight which attracted my attention on the road was a one-storeyed building, used as barracks and occupied by Cossacks. I learnt that it served as an encampment for the protection of the railway station.

Then followed a long stretch of road without anything remarkable to be seen.

There were fields on both sides of the way, but they could not be seen because all the land was entirely submerged as in Egypt at the rising of the Nile. I presumed that we were on a road, for we advanced between two rows of irregularly planted trees; I also concluded that at one time this road had been paved, perhaps centuries ago, but it was decidedly bumpy now.

These speculations were presently confirmed when we arrived at a bridge delicately arching a creek. It was a very fine structure, carved in Chinese fashion, and of great architectural beauty. I left my carriage to examine it more closely, and when I had scraped off some of the mud with which it was encrusted, I found that it was entirely built of white marble.

After crossing the river the road became still worse. I was jolted up and down, thrown from side to side, my head was knocked against the wooden frame of the hood, and after a mile or so of this torture I could bear it no longer and decided to try the back of one of the mules.

Riding without a saddle on the back of a thin Manchu mule cannot be said to be a comfortable mode of travelling, and my agonies are better imagined than described.

Here was I, in an unknown country, surrounded by a desert which seemed more desolate than ever in its flooded condition, the rain coming down as if all the sluices of heaven had been opened, while the tiny driver at whose mercy I was, might, for all I knew, be a cut-throat.

My vocabulary was as yet limited to two words, _how-di_ and _poo-how_. Perhaps they are written quite differently, but this is how they sound. The former stands for everything that is good, pretty, pleasant (I have never had occasion to use it); the other expresses the reverse, and I was quite tired of saying it, because it never proved to be of the slightest effect.

We encountered no one on the road, but passed one little vehicle like mine, in which I counted at least ten visible occupants. Four were seated on the shafts, some on the mules, and the others outside on the hood. I could not see how many there were inside. All the outside passengers had large umbrellas of oil-cloth, the same as my driver, and they looked like big sunflowers. It was quite cheering to see those people so perfectly happy, laughing and joking under such wretched conditions.

Their stoicism gave me relief, and I shook the water from my dripping clothes and felt a little better too. But as night approached and the desolation became more oppressive, my self-confidence fell from hour to hour. Darkness magnified all the surroundings, and gave them a fantastic aspect. The lights in the distant farm-houses looked like will-o'-the-wisps; the trees became phantoms, and the barking of the dogs sounded like the roar of the dragons, which, as every one knows, are natives of the Yellow Empire. All the fairy stories of my childhood came back to my memory, and assumed a shape in the reality of my surroundings.

I must add, too, that what I had read lately about Manchuria was not encouraging. The country, I knew, was still in a state of agitation and suppressed revolt. Gangs of bandits traversed the country in all directions, burning farmsteads, pillaging villages, murdering travellers. Skirmishes often took place between them and the Cossacks, and more than once during my journey I heard the firing of shots. The most dreaded of all these ruffians are the Chunchuses; they are formed into more or less organized bodies, like the bandits of ancient Italy, and they possess as much influence as the Mafia of Sicily.

It was getting late and we had travelled for many hours without seeing any trace of houses. I could ask no questions, because I could only say those two words, _poo-how_ and _how-di_. Even if Li-Hu had been of a communicative turn of mind I should not have understood his explanations, so we continued our lugubrious ride in perfect silence, I perched on the back of a mule, with the shafts of the cart for stirrups, while Li-Hu had the carriage all to himself. He wriggled about like a serpent and finally sought consolation for the bitter reality of the present in the happy dreams of the past.

At last the will-o'-the-wisps drew nearer, the phantoms took the form of ordinary trees, and the roars of the dragons resolved themselves into the barking of dogs.

I scarcely dared to believe that I had reached my destination, lest I should be disappointed. Li-Hu was sound asleep, but the mules made straight for a dismal-looking building, and stopped as by instinct in front of a conspicuous signboard. By the same instinct, I suppose, Li-Hu awoke and I asked eagerly, "Mukden? Mukden?" But evidently I was wrong, for he emphatically shook his head.

After a while the innkeeper appeared on the threshold and looked even more forbidding than the house itself, through the open doors of which escaped thick clouds of opium-smoke. I should have preferred to remain on the back of my mule, as there was no possibility of stretching my legs because of the mud, but they were already unharnessing my beast, so I had no choice, and was obliged to enter the house.

The place was lugubrious in the extreme. It looked like a witch's cave, and all things combined to complete this impression. There was the cauldron hanging on a chain over the fire, while enormous logs of wood diffused a sulphurous flame in the light of which the inmates of the place looked truly terrible. At least a dozen men were crouching on the floor, and several others lay asleep on the kang or heated earthen bench which ran all along the dwelling. They were smoking opium in small bronze pipes.

At my entrance most of them roused themselves from their stupor, and their small eyes expressed astonishment, united with curiosity, mistrust, and hatred. I could detect all the hostility of the East against the West in that look. The ill-will of the yellow race towards "the white devils" manifested itself in all its bitterness and force. I must confess that I did not feel quite at my ease in this uncanny company, and it was only the deep interest which I felt in these people, in the den and its surroundings, the novelty of the situation and my passionate interest in human nature, which helped me through the ordeal.

What was going to happen? Would they remain passive, or were they going to attack me? They were interrogating Li-Hu. It was like a play to watch the proceedings. Without understanding the language, it was easy enough to follow the drift of the argument. "Who is it? Where is he going? What has he got?"

From the expression of Li-Hu's face and his hesitation in answering, I gathered that the information he had to give concerning his charge was not satisfactory, but I also noted with interest how cleverly he concocted a story to his own advantage. Evidently the shrewd Chinaman had in his mind two strong points in my favour. In the first place I had not yet paid him, and in the second place I had been entrusted to his care by the station-master, by whom he was known. I also detected that he did not want to rouse the animosity of the other men, consequently he never mentioned my private car, probably also by the advice of the station-master, and from the expression of his face and the manner in which he turned out his pockets, he was clearly representing me as a poor missionary who was going to Mukden to fetch his pay at the bank, and whom it would not be worth while to kidnap on his way there.

The minutes dragged on like so many hours; the night seemed endless. Finally, to pass the time, I began to draw with some coloured chalks. Would that interest them? I wondered. I could not be sure at first, but the ruffians slowly gathered round me and I never had more complacent spectators. Those men who, a few minutes ago, would have taken my life, or at least my purse, suddenly became quite friendly. Like the lyre of Orpheus, my pictures did wonders, soothing the savage instincts and softening the passions of these brigands. It was the greatest triumph my modest crayons ever won for me.

At last there was a general stir. Li-Hu prepared his cart, and we started once more. It was still dark, but the rain had ceased and the cold rays of the moon from time to time broke through the parting clouds. By means of these occasional flashes of light I discerned in the distance, silhouetted against the horizon, the dark outlines of a pagoda. Surely that was the point we were making for. We had long since left the so-called main road, and were jolting and jerking along by fields of turnips and Indian corn. The shocks were perhaps not quite so rough as before, on the half-paved highroad, but their violence was yet amazing.

It was daybreak when we arrived before the principal gate of Mukden, and after the night of darkness and peril the glories of the city seemed enhanced. The sky was cloudless and intensely blue, as if enamelled in cobalt on a golden ground. The richly sculptured fronts of the houses shone with truly Oriental splendour. It was the early hour of the morn. People poured out of the city gates to start their daily tasks in the fields and farms. Every one wore bright-coloured garments, and looked happy and cheerful. Everything breathed contentment: the effect was charming. It was the victory of light over darkness.

The sun, like a great magician, had waved his wand, touched and dispersed clouds and gloom, and thrown, so it would seem, a veil of oblivion over the sadness and misery of the past night, to give courage and hope to begin another day.

IV

THE CAPITAL OF MANCHURIA

My surprise on first beholding the famous city of Mukden was as complete as it was agreeable. The scene before me was simply delightful. At first I could not distinguish anything clearly, neither lines nor forms. I was dazzled by the intensity of colour and light.

The facade of every house was ornamented with strange carvings and mouldings; never before had I seen such fantastic prodigality of human imagination. All the lines curve upward, and every house resembles a pagoda on a small scale. So many motives, so many different colours; red, yellow, green, blue, in endless profusion, the effect being increased by rich gilding.

In front of the houses are shops or booths, where are exposed--generally in the open--goods and merchandise of all kinds, arranged in fanciful pyramids in accordance with Oriental caprice. Embroideries, rich silks, artificial flowers, fans, and umbrellas, anything, in fact, to tempt the local taste or satisfy the daily demands. The displays of porcelain are particularly attractive, also the shows of silver and brass ware. Most fascinating are the stalls of the bric-a-brac dealers with their fine lacquer-work, fluted vases of priceless value, old porcelains, cloisonne boxes, and artistically designed snuff-bottles.[B]

[B] The Chinese do not use boxes, but snuff-bottles of great value.

Before every booth a tall mast or pole is dressed, from which floats a flag as signboard, and both are elaborately inscribed with advertisements of wares sold inside the shop. The bootmakers' insignia are particularly artistic and only surpassed in splendour by the rich festoons of gold which mark the pawnbrokers' shops. The main thoroughfare, with its endless variety of cabalistic design and rich colouring, is like an Oriental bazaar or the gorgeous scenery of a theatre. But what struck me most was the enormous vitality and activity of this marvellous city.

It was like watching an ants' nest to see this surging tide of human beings incessantly flooding the squares and streets. Men and women, young and old, of all ranks and all nationalities, push and press past one another. Some are carried in beautiful chairs, others content themselves with a modest kind of wheelbarrow, in which six or seven persons can be accommodated on a narrow board, and which is pushed along by a famished-looking coolie. These wheelbarrows answer the purpose of omnibuses in the Manchu capital, and they take a person from one end of the city to the other for about a quarter of a halfpenny. "Rickshaws" have recently come into fashion; they are a great improvement on the old means of conveyance, for instead of being pushed they are pulled along. All true Manchus, however, prefer riding on horseback to any other mode of locomotion.

Whatever room is left in the street is taken up by pedestrians, labourers carrying enormous loads, and coolies going about their daily business. It is an impressive sight, and once more I came to the conclusion that the intrinsic character of a place is not expressed in the arrangement of its streets, or in the height and style of its buildings, but in the general manifestation of its activity.

While the eye takes in all these various details, the ear need not be idle. The air is full of sound. Strains of music proceeding from the tea-houses, costermongers' cries, shrieks of quarrelsome children, and high-pitched voices in admonition; shouting and noise of all sorts and in endless variety are heard.

At every step there is a fresh surprise. Fortunately, so far, no guide-books have been written to describe the attractions of the Manchu capital, and no cumbersome descriptions spoil the effect of its genuine charms.

To form an idea of the plan of the city, imagine an oblong chess-board. Like all Chinese towns, it is regular in the principal lines. There are two main streets in the form of a cross, intersected by innumerable narrow lanes, and in the middle of the town, where the two chief thoroughfares cross, stands a high tower from the top of which a drum and a gong announce the beginning and the close of the day. Also from this high vantage ground the alarm is given in case of danger, and a detachment of soldiers, stationed in a sort of pigeon-holes, spend the hours of their watch in peaceful slumber.

It would be difficult to enumerate all the places of interest which Mukden contains, for everything is interesting to the Western mind, even to the smallest cottage with its curiously shaped roof and quaint style. And the interest lies not only in their material conception or in their exterior, but also in their inner qualities, and especially in the fact that they give expression to the mental and artistic ideas of the nation. As has already been said, it is at first the general effect, the picturesqueness, and the novelty, which strike one as so charming. Some of the houses are very dilapidated, the walls lean over, and the roofs are covered with a tangled growth of moss and grass. But all this makes them the more attractive from an artistic point of view.

Among the most interesting public edifices are the yamens belonging to the Government, and occupied by the Governor and some others of the mandarins of high degree; one or two Lama monasteries; the large buildings where the Russian Consul and the Commander-in-Chief reside; and last, but not least, the building occupied by the famous Russo-Chinese Bank and its agents.

Naturally the Imperial Palace is a place of great interest. With its enclosure of walls it forms a city within the city. It is divided into various courts, and consists of a great many separate structures, detached houses, halls, and pavilions. Taken separately these are not of great importance, but the whole effect is very striking. The colonnades, beams, and brackets are of carved wood, richly painted and gilded. All the woodwork is painted dark purple, and the roofs, like those of all edifices connected with the Imperial Family, or dedicated to Confucius, are covered with yellow tiles. The greater part of the palace is now occupied by Russian troops.

Near the palace gate is a low building in which a whole detachment of soldiers is quartered, and the open court is lined with cannon. It was only on my showing them a special permission from the commander that the sentries allowed me to pass.

The interior of the palace is in a sad state of ruin. Since the Imperial Family departed for Pekin, it has never been inhabited, and the few art treasures still remaining are carelessly scattered about the place. There are some valuable panels, some precious jades, and exquisite porcelains, but the greater portion of them disappeared after the last war. Some say that these treasures have been stolen by the Boxers, but according to another version the thieves must be looked for elsewhere. I was told that the very rare collection of old manuscripts and official documents is now quietly reposing among the archives at St. Petersburg to be protected from destruction.

My eyes wandered from the reception-halls to the vestibules, from the terraces to the gardens. It was all so original, so quaint. But the thing which specially strikes the visitor is the incongruity of transforming this sacred cradle of the master minds of the Celestial Empire into a Cossack encampment. As I passed out through the principal entrance, a Muscovite warrior stood on guard by the Dragon's door, and his white blouse contrasted strangely with the heavy bulk of the palace.

As the day advanced, the crowds in the city increased. Russian soldiers paraded the streets and patrolled the ramparts in small detachments. I saw officers on frisky ponies and ladies with their families going about in the national _troikas_.

It is especially noteworthy that these Russian people not only feel perfectly at home among the Manchus, but that the conquered people associate on the most friendly terms with their conquerors in the taverns and inns. They sit amicably side by side and appear to be the best of friends. It is true that many of the enemies were born on the same soil; they are practically semi-Asiatics themselves; often have a common origin, and belong to the same race; above all, live the same primitive and uncultivated life.

The great difference which separates the European, whether of the Anglo-Saxon or the Latin race, from the Mongol and the Tartar, does not exist here. As soon as a fight is concluded, they settle down to their ordinary life; the greatest cruelties committed on either side are soon forgotten. Hatred may lurk in their innermost minds, but outwardly they live in peace together.

They have the same tastes, the same amusements, and agree particularly on the question of frugality. Contempt of comfort, indifference to refinement, and a very rudimentary degree of culture, are common to both of them. One thing which even more prevents any feeling of coldness arising between them is that, far from trying to transform and educate the conquered nation, the conquerors often stoop to the low level of the subjugated people.

With the exception of the railway I am not aware that any attempts have been made to civilize the Manchus. Commerce is not encouraged and international traffic does not exist, because all the towns have thus far been closed to foreigners. The Russian Government is even taking steps to get into its own hands the English and American mining operations which are being financed by some new loans. In spiritual matters the same restrictions prevail, and the difficulties which are put in the way of the missionary work increase from day to day.

In local government a semblance of the old forms is preserved. Manchuria is divided into three administrations, Tsi-tsi-kar, Kirin, and Mukden. Each province has a governor, and all three are under the authority of a viceroy or mandarin of the highest rank, who resides at Mukden.

The official yamen, and the staff of dignitaries of various degrees, are here exactly what they are everywhere else. They all appear extremely busy, writing extraordinary cabalistic signs on sheets of rice-paper. The small details of local affairs keep them occupied all day; probably they know nothing of matters of serious importance, but they seem admirably suited to fill a post which involves a minimum of responsibility and brings with it a good substantial salary. There appears to be a perfect _entente cordiale_ between the Manchu mandarins and the Russian generals, and if perchance a difference of opinion should occur, the difficulty is generally smoothed over by the irresistible influence and the mysterious power of the Russo-Chinese Bank.

The important event of my first day was the official reception given by the Governor. I was carried to the palace in a chair, followed by an interpreter and my little major-domo. The canopy of the chair was covered with green silk, and four stalwart fellows carried me through the narrow, tortuous streets. The shaking was terrible, for where the pavement should have been there were big holes filled with liquid mud. I could forgive my bearers for their rough handling of my chair, but it was difficult not to resent being bumped on to the ground every time they changed shoulders, which they did without slackening their pace. It was not a great height to fall from, but the sensation was decidedly unpleasant. It was like a nightmare; the time occupied by the fall seemed interminable, and on reaching the ground I felt like being hurled to the bottom of a precipice.

At last we came to the principal entrance of the palace, at least what I supposed to be the principal entrance, judging from a group of queerly attired creatures, who presented arms--and such arms! It was an extraordinary collection, reminding me of the get-up of some old Chinese play. They were fierce-looking warriors, carrying halberds, javelins, and sickles on long poles, glittering and sparkling in the midday sun.

As seen from the outside, the palace is a poor structure. The massive wall which flanks the front gate is decorated with pictures of dragons to scare away, as I was told, evil spirits and "the white devils." The first court I came to was not much more attractive. It seemed, in fact, no better than a stable yard. There were a few horses tied to their stalls and some shelters for the soldiers and servants. I had to cross several courts before I arrived at the court of honour, which was square like the others, and had halls on each side. It was beautifully decorated with flowers and shrubs. There were chrysanthemums, and dwarf orange, peach, and pear trees, especially cultivated for the purpose of ornamentation. The effect produced was exquisite, and though the surroundings are all more or less in a state of decadence, that inner court is a picturesque specimen of Chinese domestic architecture.

But I had no time to study it in detail, for the Mandarin stood there in the centre, surrounded by his court. He was in a robe of dark blue silk, magnificently embroidered, and his suite was no less gorgeously attired. When I appeared upon the threshold of the vestibule we exchanged profound bows, and repeated this salutation until we met half way. Then we shook hands in Western fashion, no easy task, considering that my host's finger-nails were at least two inches long. The customary introductions over, he led the way to his private apartments.

The first room was entirely Chinese, and contained some exquisitely carved armchairs. The effect of the second room was spoiled by two easy chairs of Vienna manufacture, a hideous French clock, and a tablecloth, probably of Manchester make.

The preliminary compliments once exchanged--a formidable business here--His Excellency asked me some dozen questions which in the West would be considered most indiscreet, but are obligatory in the East. Then he conducted me to the dining-hall, where luncheon was set on a round table profusely decorated with flowers and sweetmeats.

Innumerable little dishes were scattered over the silk tablecloth, and saucers filled with raisins, grapes, almonds, olives, and a variety of dainties. Etiquette prescribes that the guest shall be placed on the left of his host, and that the first mouthful of food shall be put on to his plate by the host himself. After that the servants bring in dishes containing the most delicate productions of the Chinese culinary art. Fish soup and snail soup, sharks' fins in unpalatable jellies, all kinds of minces and hashes, and patties with sauces most unpleasant to Western taste, composed the menu.

Custom, which regulates all public and social functions in this country, demands that no less than fifty different dishes be presented to a guest of distinction. All these concoctions are handed round on large trays, in series of eight at a time. They look different, but all taste alike, at least so it seemed to me. They are both sweet and sour, and whether they go by the name of minced birds'-nests, or croquettes of dog-flesh, I could detect no difference in taste. The other guests, however, fully made up for my want of appreciation.

As the meal proceeded, the conversation became more animated. When the subjects dictated by ceremony had been disposed of, the company expressed much interest in my researches and studies. My host questioned me on many points. He was decidedly clever, and although one was apt to forget the solemnity of the occasion on looking at his somewhat ridiculous costume and hat, formed in the shape of a pagoda surmounted by a precious stone the size of a potato, and adorned with waving peacock's feathers--in which attire even the wisest man would look a fool--I could not help being impressed by his sagacity.

He was somewhat reserved, but seemed pleased to talk about his country, and gave me some valuable information when he saw how much interested I was in the ancient history of the land, and the origin of its inhabitants. For they, thousands of years ago, had proceeded from the same stock as the people of my own race, who had founded the kingdom in Pannonia. The foundation of the Manchu empire is connected even more closely than I thought with the migration of the Huns. It would, indeed, open a vast field of study for the historian to seek the connecting link and the affinity existing between the first Magyars and Manchus.

The repast over, the Governor proposed a visit to the imperial tombs, the chief sight of the country. Indeed, there is nothing the people venerate more deeply than those monuments of the defunct members of their dynasty; they are the pride of the nation.

We started without much delay. It was a glorious afternoon, and in the brightness of the autumn sun the country looked its best. Our cavalcade galloped across pasture land, where horses and cattle peaceably grazed together. Here and there a shepherd sought diversion in the consoling melody of some old song, like all human beings whose lives are spent in solitude, and in the contemplation of the immensity of nature. The music was simple and the instrument simpler still, an archaic flute cut out of a reed.

Skirting the far end of the pasture was a dark brushwood; my companions told me that this was the sacred grove containing the imperial tombs. The distance to the town might be about six or seven miles, but our little horses carried us quickly over the ground. The Manchu dignitaries, in their flowing silken robes, their pagoda-like hats, their embroideries and long pigtails, looked unquestionably most picturesque. My mount and my saddle were similar to theirs, pretty, but at the same time I must say that I never rode on anything more uncomfortable than a Chinese saddle of embossed wood, with stirrups in the shape of slippers, and fixed so high that knees and chin nearly meet.

Two large stone monuments flank the path which leads to the sacred grove. Forbidding-looking dragons guard the entrance. A deep cutting gives access to the place of interment, and this long alley is guarded on both sides by monsters of various descriptions. Elephants, camels, gigantic human figures, are placed at intervals facing each other, all cut in stone, and intended to ward off the evil spirits.

The beauty of the place is indescribable. The darkness of the foliage, the white stone statues, and the paved pathway winding through the woods, all help to give it the character of an enchanted forest, where solitude reigns, and the air is full of poetry.

Later we crossed some marble bridges of exquisite workmanship, their curiously sculptured balustrades softly reflecting themselves in the blue waters of the little streams flowing lazily between the flowering banks. I was told that the statues, the streams, and the bridges, have all of them some allegorical meaning in connexion with the spirits of the departed.

At length, passing through a porch, we stood face to face with an arch of such surpassing beauty, that for a moment I was dazed and lost in speechless admiration. Surely this must be one of the greatest, one of the most wonderful architectural creations of the Yellow Empire. Material, design, proportions, all the details, are so supremely beautiful. It is of marble, the arch resting on two huge blocks with cross-bars and buttresses supported by imperial dragons. The decorations are exquisite, and the carving of the friezes unique of its kind. Not even among all the marvellous monuments of Pekin, Nankin, or Hankow, did I find anything to rival it. The beauty of the conception, as well as the finished workmanship, impress one most forcibly, because of its being so perfectly in keeping with the signification of the whole triumphal arch, which symbolizes the passage of the spirit, after a life of strife and victory, to the abodes of their ancestors and everlasting peace. In this respect I know of nothing to compare with it, unless it be that pearl of Asiatic architecture, the Taj Mahal.

The tomb itself is enclosed by courts, halls, sacrificial temples, guard-houses, and sentry-sheds. We left our horses at the inner entrance, and the massive doors of red lacquer-work groaned on their hinges as they were slowly pushed open by half a dozen soldiers. We found ourselves in a square yard, a kind of court of honour, with avenues of trees many centuries old, giants and monsters in stone, and canals fenced in with marble balustrades and arched by bridges. These courts are divided by open galleries which lead to the central pagoda. This square building contains the commemorative tablet, a monument cut out of a single stone of about thirty feet high. The whole stands on a colossal tortoise, larger than two elephants.

Immense cauldrons, big enough to cook a whole ox at a time, for sacrificial purposes, are placed at short distances. Once a year a great ceremony is held in honour of the Great Ancestor. On this occasion the Emperor should be present in person, but for many years the imperial court has been represented by ambassadors; and considering what a journey from Pekin to Mukden involves, it is not surprising that the sovereign is content to be present by proxy. I was told that the mandarins selected to undertake this onerous pilgrimage are often persons whose presence is not desired at Pekin. Their adventurous journey often occupies many months, and often there have been cases in which the envoys never returned at all.

The Great Ancestor was one of the founders of the Manchu dynasty in China, and his real tomb is cut out in the heart of the mountain, but the exact spot is unknown. We spent the greater part of the afternoon among the tombs, and I made the best use I could of the permission to sketch and to take photographs. But the most perfect apparatus, and the pen of the most accomplished narrator, are bound to fail to do justice to the reality. Art and nature are blended so exquisitely here that it is impossible to give an adequate idea of the place. However beautiful the individual monuments may be--and they are very beautiful--the real charm of the ideal site lies in the perfect harmony of solitude and peace.

On the return journey we again passed through the muddy, dreary suburbs. Most of the houses along the dull, deserted roads, are built of clay and covered with straw. Rough planks close the entrance, and from the windows the rice-paper hangs down in tatters. We met several funeral processions, the huge black coffins being carried in front.

I have forgotten to mention that cholera was raging in the town; hundreds of people died daily, and the sanitary conditions of the place were so wretched that nothing could be done to stop it. Considering the manner in which the coolies live, it is only surprising that they do not all succumb. On this account the authorities at first had been averse to the idea of my visit to Mukden, but as there was smallpox in China and typhoid fever in Korea, there did not seem much to choose between the two; and, besides, I was firmly convinced that Providence would let me finish the work I had undertaken to do.

The epidemic broke out three months ago, and had claimed many victims among the Russian troops. The morale of the men was at a very low ebb in consequence. Upon the coolies and the Manchus the effect was different. Their innate fatalism teaches them to look upon death as a benevolent friend, and as they bear away the coffins with the remains of their loved ones, they look as unconcerned as if they were taking them to a place of joy. All the small objects cherished by the dead are placed upon the coffin to be burned at the grave-side, and when the smoke rises up to heaven, popular superstition has it that all these objects assume shape again in a higher sphere, for the gratification of their former owners. It is only right, however, to add, that as the heirs are solicitous to save anything that may be of value, counterfeits of the real things, in paper or cardboard, are often substituted, and so the _auto-da-fe_ takes place only in effigy.