LI-CHIANG TO TALI-FU

I was now bound for Tali-fu, having bargained with a new set of muleteers to take me there in five days. I was anxious to press on as rapidly as possible, not only because I was now on ground that had several times been traversed and described by other Europeans, but also because the rainy season was just beginning, and might seriously hamper my movements in crossing the mountains and rivers beyond Tali-fu. I had not yet decided whether to proceed to Burma by the T'Êng-yÜeh-Bhamo route or to attempt to reach Lashio (the terminus of the British Shan States railway system) by YÜn-chou and the Kunlon Ferry. My host, M. Perronne, was a thorough believer in the deadly unhealthiness of the Salwen valley in the rainy season, and assured me that it would be madness to attempt to cross it till the autumn. I decided, however, to wait till I reached Tali-fu before coming to a decision.

From Li-chiang my road lay in a westerly direction over a portion of the plain that I had not yet traversed. Roses, meadow-sweet, primroses and other wild-flowers made the hedges smell of England. We left the plain behind us by crossing a low range of hills from which we descended into another plain called the Lashi-Pa, in which there is a small lake. Here I was shown a path that leads west towards the Ashi Ferry on the Yangtse, only a few miles distant, and so leads to Chung-tien and Atuntzu.269 The last-named place, I may mention incidentally, is said to exist no longer, part of it having been destroyed by a gigantic landslip, and the rest having been demolished in the recent war between the Chinese and the lamas. The landslip appears to have been an extraordinary occurrence, and was perhaps caused by an earthquake. Torrents of mud and stones tore like an avalanche down the side of the mountain at the base of which Atuntzu was situated, demolishing houses, destroying all growing crops, and burying alive whole families. The local officials dealt with the catastrophe in an interesting and characteristic manner. Possessed, apparently, by the idea that the moving masses of mud were directed and controlled by a malevolent devil, they armed themselves with muzzle-loading guns and bows and arrows, and went out and shot the mud. In due time the torrent ceased to flow, and no doubt it was universally believed that the devil had been slain by arrows and bullets. The harm already done, unfortunately, was irreparable, and what remained of the town has since, as I have said, fallen a prey to warfare.

My road instead of going west to the Yangtse bore away southwards to the left of the lake, and brought us about midday to the village of Shang La Shih or Upper Lashi, where I lunched. The plain contains several other villages, but its soil seems hardly so rich as that of the plain of Li-chiang. In the afternoon, after crossing a pass of no great elevation, we dropped down to a third valley and stopped for the night at the hamlet of Kuan Hsia, also called P'o Chiao.270 About here I observed a good deal of ruddy soil, which reminds one of the red sand-stone basin of Ssuch'uan. There is also a small lake or tarn. During the whole of the next day we traversed the same valley, passing through many prosperous and populous villages. The valley is indeed only a narrow strip of fertile land between more or less barren ranges of hill, but what there is would be amply sufficient to support a very large population. The road is very fair, and at one time was probably an excellent highway. There are the remains of drinking-fountains along the road, and many of the bridges are still admirable and substantial pieces of work. It would I think be a mistake to say that all the decay is traceable to the ravages of the Mohammedan rebellion of the seventies. The decay had probably set in—here as elsewhere in China—long before that lurid episode had drenched the province of Yunnan in seas of blood.

On leaving the Li-chiang plain we had left behind us the country of the Mo-so or Lashi, and had entered a district that is perhaps chiefly inhabited by a race known to the Chinese as Min-chia,271 which simply means "the people" or "the families of people." The mystery that surrounds the origin of all the tribes I have mentioned clings no less obstinately to the Min-chia. They are a very interesting and amiable people, fair in face, and with clear bold eyes that do not shun to meet the gaze of a stranger. The women, if less handsome and imposing than the tall women of eastern Tibet, have a grace and prettiness of their own, that would, I feel sure, be found exceedingly attractive by impressionable Europeans. Two days north of Tali-fu I saw a Min-chia child who would be considered beautiful in any western country. She was standing alone in a poppy-field, singing a song in a language that was certainly very different from Chinese.

But the subject of the song mattered little. The child made as pretty a picture as I had ever seen in China.

My second day's journey from Li-chiang took me through a large number of villages, of which the names of the most important will be found in the itinerary. At midday we reached the departmental city of Chien-ch'uan-chou, a small town which sits among a crowd of small centres of population, like a hen among her chickens. It is surrounded by a battlemented wall of the usual type, which gives it an appearance of compactness, but in origin it was probably merely an agglomeration of villages. Its population is mainly employed in tilling the surrounding fields. A few miles further we passed near the shores of a small shallow lake, from which flows a small river called the Hai Wei.272 Just beyond the village of Han TÊng, where a market was being held, we crossed the river by a handsome bridge, and almost immediately afterwards arrived at the last village of the long valley through which we had been riding all day. This was the village of Tien Wei, where we spent the night. Good quarters were provided for us in a hostelry which was quite new and therefore comparatively clean.

Since leaving the high mountains north of Li-chiang we seemed to have entered a new climate. Riding and walking during the day under a blazing sun, and with a shade temperature of 80° F., proved to be much more exhausting than climbing snowy mountains. We were now on the high Yunnan plateau, at an average elevation of about 7,000 feet; but we were gradually approaching a tropical latitude, and the season—just before the breaking of the rains—was the hottest of the year. I had long since discarded the thick garments which in the mountains near the Yalung had seemed none too warm. The nights and early mornings, however, were always deliciously cool, and I was well aware that in the steaming plains of Burma I should long for the comparative coolness of the Yunnan plateau. At Tien Wei the temperature an hour before our early start sank as low as 54°, and we made haste to get well on the road before the sun rose high in the heavens. Out of the valley our road lay over a picturesque range of low hills over-grown chiefly with dwarf pines. On leaving these behind we found ourselves in a small valley studded with a few villages, from which we ascended another and a higher range. From its northern slopes I had a last view of Li-chiang's snow-clad peaks, and half a mile further on we came within sight of another range of snow-crowned hills to the south. This was the lofty range—never perhaps absolutely free from snow in spite of its latitude273—which forms the magnificent background to the city of Tali-fu, now little more than two days distant. At the foot of the hills from which we had this view we came to a small temple and an eating-house, close to a stream crossed by a bridge called Hao Shou. The first word is the Chinese for a crane, a bird which is emblematic of longevity, and shou is the ordinary word for "long life"; so it is evidently intended that this bridge should last for ever. Here we halted for lunch, I secluding myself from public observation within the little temple.

About 8 miles further on we passed through the village of Niu Kai,274 which means Ox Village, just beyond which we passed close to a curious hill which has the appearance of a truncated cone. It is flattened at the top, and there is a small pagoda. Hot springs issue from the base of this hill, which bears the name of Huo Yen Shan ("Fiery Flame Hill"). Perhaps it was once a miniature volcano. I may mention, by the way, that the valley through which we travelled the previous day has within the last fifteen years suffered from a disastrous earthquake, which is said to have destroyed many villages and dozens of lives.275 A short distance beyond the hot-spring hill we halted at a good inn in the small market town of San Ying, the name of which (meaning Three Camps) seems to indicate that it was once a military centre, perhaps in the days of the Mongol invasions. In this town I bought myself an umbrella for the sum of 600 cash—about one shilling. It professed to be of English make, and to have come from Rangoon in Burma; but the mis-spelling of the name of a well-known Anglo-Indian firm, and the obvious inferiority of the manufacture, showed that it was only a crude imitation. If this is the kind of article that passes current for English goods in the west of China it is little wonder that the trade between Burma and Yunnan is not showing the elasticity which is desirable from the point of view of the material interests of both China and Great Britain.

Next day we continued our march through the valley in which San Ying is situated, passing numerous farm-houses and small villages surrounded with rice and poppy-fields. The rosebushes which had so frequently lined our path since we entered the Li-chiang plain had by this time shed all their blossoms. The poppy-flowers, too, were rapidly vanishing. Under the brilliant sunshine the country still looked very charming; the landscapes being very often of the kind that would have delighted the heart of a Corot. After passing through the village of Ch'ang Ying (Long Camp) a few miles' ride brought us to the southern termination of the valley, and thence the road wound gradually up the slope of low hills, mostly consisting of barren moorland. We passed a small lake or tarn, and after this the road turned south-west and brought us to the large village of Ying-shan-p'u, situated in a confined valley lying between two ranges of hills. We skirted the left side of this village close under a temple and small pagoda. We then went southwards into a ravine, near the entrance of which is a fine single-arch bridge spanning a large stream called the Pai Sha or White Sand. Our road did not lie across the bridge, but continued to lead us along the stream's left bank. The scenery in the gorge is picturesque, but the hills on both sides are barren. Little besides the prickly pear seems to thrive on them. About 3 miles beyond the bridge we emerged from the ravine into a plain. Here the Pai Sha flows with a much slower current, and in size attains the dignity of a small river. Its waters have been brought under complete control by the formation of well-constructed embankments. For a distance of several miles, indeed, the river becomes a canal, suitable for barge-traffic. Our road led us along the embankment, and for a distance of over a mile—all the way to the village of Chung So—the road is not unlike the Magdalen Walks at Oxford. The foliage is thicker and the vegetation more luxuriant and diversified than at Magdalen, but the road bears a general resemblance to Addison's Walk, and the river is very similar to the Cherwell in its width, in the laziness of its current, and—be it confessed—in its colour.276 At a poor inn in the village of Chung So we made our midday halt. A plague of flies drove me away from it sooner than was pleasing to my muleteers; but not before I had been cajoled into entering my name in a subscription book as a contributor towards the cost of rebuilding the TÊ YÜan Bridge which spans the Pai Sha close by.

After crossing this river and passing through or within sight of several other villages we arrived at the small departmental city of TÊng-ch'uan-chou. Our road took us in at one gate and out at another. It seemed to be a sleepy town and somewhat decadent. It lies not far from the northern extremity of the famous Tali lake, the Erh Hai, a great part of which came into view as soon as we had ascended some rising ground, mostly consisting of red clay, a short distance beyond TÊng-ch'uan. The lake is said to be annually decreasing in volume, and to judge from the appearance of the land beyond its northern extremity this seems very likely to be true. Near TÊng-ch'uan there are a number of little isolated ponds which evidently once formed part of the great lake, and there is a great deal of marshy land not yet fit for cultivation.

We spent the night of 21st May in a good inn near the lake side in the village of Sha P'ing. Next day we passed through Shang Kuan, the fortified village, now partly in ruins, which once formed one of the main bulwarks of the city of Tali-fu. Between the base of the high mountains on the west and the waters of the lake on the east lies a strip of land between 20 and 30 miles long, and about 3 miles broad. At each extremity of this plain is—or rather was—a fortress. The northern extremity is protected by Shang Kuan, the southern by Hsia Kuan—the two words meaning the Upper and Lower Passes or Gates. Tali-fu itself lies at the foot of the mountains about 18 miles from the former and 7 miles from the latter, and used to be absolutely safe from attack so long as those two fortified points remained intact. The plain, which was once in all probability under water, is very rich and grows every kind of grain that a beleaguered garrison could require. It was always safe against starvation, therefore, in the event of a long siege. It was only when artillery cast by Frenchmen in Yunnan-fu was brought to bear upon the walls of the two "Kuans" that the Mohammedan rebels were forced at last to yield the city.

The plain was not, when I rode through it on my last stage to Tali-fu, devoted exclusively to cereals. Hundreds of acres were given up to the opium-poppy, and thousands of men and women were at that time employed in harvesting the drug. Much of the work was carried on by Min-chia girls, who turn their healthy bronzed faces, shaded by great straw sun-bonnets, to peer curiously at the novel sight of a Western stranger. Some of the women in this district wear turbans of dark blue cloth, the front band studded with silver knobs, which from a distance make it appear as if their foreheads were crowned with some kind of tiara. Beyond Shang Kuan the road lies at a distance of about 3 miles from the lake all the way to Tali-fu. Between the road and the lake lies an endless series of cultivated fields, which even in this dry season were plentifully irrigated by streams from the mountain. The plain is dotted with villages which generally lie half buried in foliage. On the right of the road277 the cultivation is much more scanty. There is a good deal of barren moorland, and much ground is occupied by graves. Just before reaching Tali-fu we passed some lofty thirteen-story pagodas. I entered the city by the north gate and found good quarters on the upper floor of a quiet and commodious inn.

The city itself is neither more nor less attractive than dozens of other Chinese cities. Its numerous ruined houses, however, have a pathetic interest of their own, for they are just in the same condition as they were immediately after the great siege. Even after thirty-five years of peace Tali-fu has not recovered from the disasters of those terrible days. I spent two days and three nights in Tali-fu, during which time I explored the city, and wandered for miles beyond its walls.278 Late one afternoon I found myself by the lake side. The view of those tranquil waters, overshadowed as they were by the great mountain-barrier on the west, was very beautiful. The blue surface of the lake was dotted with crowds of white sails rose-tinted with the light of the setting sun. Nearer at hand crowds of wild-duck floated in the midst of rippling circles, showing but little fear of the noisy little boys who swam and dived as skilfully as themselves, and whose splashing and glad laughter were almost the only sounds that broke the utter peacefulness of a perfect summer evening. Very different was that terrible scene which only a generation ago was enacted by the shores of the Tali-fu lake, when its blue waters were incarnadined with blood and its now peaceful shores rang with the despairing cries of thousands of homeless women and children. For it was Tali-fu and the borders of its lake that in 1873 witnessed the last and most tragic events of the great Mohammedan rebellion.279 Tu WÊn-hsiu, the so-called "Sultan," who had so long and successfully defied all the military power of China, had fixed his court at Tali and had converted it into what he believed to be an impregnable stronghold. The closing scene of the great conflict which devastated the whole province of Yunnan, and converted many of its most flourishing towns into blackened ruins, has been several times described, but nowhere so graphically as in the account by M. Emile Rocher,280 the brilliant and sympathetic Frenchman who was an eyewitness of much that took place during the course of that terrible civil war. The following is a crude translation of his account of the events that occurred when all hope of holding Tali-fu against the imperial troops had been abandoned.

"Tu WÊn-hsiu ... awaited with resignation the hour that would deliver him from his last agonies. His wives and several of his children, being unwilling to survive him, poisoned themselves in his presence, and the day before he left the palace he caused all articles of value that he possessed to be destroyed, or, if they could not be broken, to be thrown into the lake. On the 15th January 1873, Tu WÊn-hsiu arrayed himself in his handsomest robes of ceremony, and playing the part of a sovereign to the very end of his career, ordered the preparation of his yellow palanquin—yellow being a colour that none but the emperor of China had the right to use. Before leaving his palace, he bade a last farewell to the city in which the best years of his life had been passed, and gazed for the last time on the chain of mountains, the 'Azure Hills'281 on which he had loved to ramble. Before leaving his apartments he swallowed a ball of opium.... The road which his retinue had to follow in order to reach the south gate was crowded with people who came to prostrate themselves before their Sultan for the last time. It was a solemn procession, and many people who had not always had reason to praise the administration of the fallen Sultan could not hide their emotion. Tu WÊn-hsiu, whose senses the poison had begun to paralyse, seemed to be little affected by what went on around him. Arriving at the gate of the city he made a great effort to get out of the palanquin in order to thank the people and the leaders who had accompanied him, and his children were commended by him to the care of Yang Wei.282 An escort of soldiers, sent by Yang YÜ-k'o,283 conducted him to the village occupied by that general. The latter treated the vanquished chief with respect, and asked him several questions, to which, however, Tu WÊn-hsiu had difficulty in responding. Seeing that he could only extract confused words out of the Sultan, whose moments were numbered, the general sent him on to Hsiao Kuan-i, where the Governor of Yunnan was residing, in order that the latter might at least see him alive. He was already too late ... the Sultan breathed his last shortly after his arrival, towards seven in the evening.... The next day the Governor caused his head to be cut off, and a courier specially charged with the burden was sent post haste to the capital of the province, where the head was placed in honey for preservation before being sent on to Peking."

Baber, who visited Tali-fu a few years after these events, adds a graphic and pathetic touch, the truth of which was amply vouched for. He says that when Tu WÊn-hsiu was brought into the presence of the imperialist general he begged with his last breath that the conquerors would be merciful. "I have nothing to ask but this—spare the people." This request—which Baber describes as perhaps the most impressive and pathetic ever uttered by a dying patriot—was treated with disregard. The real tragedy came later, and is described by M. Rocher in a passage which I translate as follows: "The Governor, under pretext of celebrating the surrender of the city, invited all the Mohammedan leaders to a great banquet.... He received them very well, loaded them with praises, and, just as they were going into the banquet hall, the soldiers who had been placed in readiness for the event seized upon the doomed guests. Seventeen heads simultaneously rolled on the ground. The Governor then gave the order for six guns to be fired, the signal already agreed upon for the commencement of the massacre in the city. It was the eleventh day of the occupation. What followed is indescribable.... After three days of this human butchery, Tali and its environs presented a pitiable spectacle. Out of a population of fifty thousand men, thirty thousand had perished during those fatal days, and the rest were all dispersed."

There is some reason to believe that the number of those said to have been slain was largely exaggerated. Curiously enough the leaders of the imperial armies who, according to our Western notions, should have been zealous to hush up the whole grim episode, were the first to spread abroad the news of the massacre and to magnify the numbers of the slaughtered; not because they took any delight in the butchery for its own sake, but because they wished to strike such terror into the scattered bands of rebels who were still at large that they would no longer have the heart to strive against the great emperor whose armies they had defied for seventeen years. That the wholesale slaughter cannot by any possibility be excused, goes without saying. But it is only fair to remember that the great object which the imperial leaders had before them was to inflict so terrible a chastisement on the rebels that they would never again be able to threaten the stability of the empire. That object was attained. Had any considerable body of men been spared it is highly probable that they would merely have carried on the warfare from another centre, and protracted, for another decade, the strife and bloodshed which had already devastated the province of Yunnan for nearly twenty years, and reduced the population—so it is estimated—from eight millions to one.

Two years before the end, Tu WÊn-hsiu made a great effort to prop up his falling cause by securing the help of Great Britain. With this view he despatched his son to England in 1871, and as a token of his desire to become the vassal of the British Crown he sent Queen Victoria four pieces of rock hewn out of the four corners of the great Tali mountain. "Our unsentimental Foreign Office," as Baber says, "blind to romantic symbolism, would not suffer them to be extricated from the bonded warehouse of the Customs;" at any rate the Sultan and his unfortunate followers were left to their doom, and the Dragon flag flew once more over the walls of Tali. The mountain, if it could think and feel, might perhaps console itself for the contempt shown to its corner-stones with the reflection that since its history began nations have grown up and passed away like the wild-flowers that live and die on its green slopes, and that the great thrones and dynasties of to-day will have become empty names, signifying nothing, long before its jewelled fingers cease to traffic with the eternal stars, or to duplicate themselves in the still waters of the Tali lake.