In the same scene, Leontes, expatiating on the falsehood of women, says—

“But were they false

As _o’erdy’d_ blacks, as winds, as waters.”

That is, as false as “blacks” that have been dyed again and again until

they have become quite rotten. This seems sufficiently intelligible; but

it does not satisfy our anonymous friend, who proposes “as our dead

blacks;” that is, as our mourning clothes, which, says Mr Collier, being

“worn at the death of persons whose loss was not at all lamented,” may

therefore be termed false or hypocritical. But surely _all_ persons who

wear mourning are not hypocrites; and therefore this new reading falls

ineffectual to the ground.

_Act IV. Scene 3._—We perceive nothing worthy of adoption or

animadversion till we come to the following. Florizel is making himself

very agreeable to Perdita, whereupon Camillo, noticing their intimacy,

remarks, as the old copies give it—

“He tells her something

That makes her blood look on’t.”

There is something obviously wrong here. Theobald proposed—

“He tells her something

That makes her blood look _out_.”

Something that calls up her blushes. This is the received reading, and

an excellent emendation it is. But on the whole we prefer the MS.

corrector’s, which, though perhaps not quite so poetical as Theobald’s,

strikes us as more natural and simple when taken with the context.

“He tells her something

Which _wakes_ her blood. Look on’t! Good sooth, she is

The queen of curds and cream.”

On second thoughts, we are not sure that this is not more poetical and

dramatic than the other. At any rate, we give it our suffrage.

There is, it seems, an old word “jape,” signifying a jest, which we

willingly accept on the authority of the MS. corrector, in place of the

unintelligible word “gap,” in the speech where “some stretch-mouthed

rascal” is said “to break a foul jape into the matter.” The reading

hitherto has been “gap.” This, however, is a _hiatus_ only _mediocriter

deflendus_. The next is a very lamentable case.

_Act V. Scene 3._—Here the corrector interpolates a whole line of his

own, which we can by no means accept. The miserable Leontes, gazing on

the supposed statue of his wife, Hermione, which is in reality her

living self, says, according to the received text—

“Let be, let be,

Would I were dead; but that methinks already—

What was he that did make it? see, my lord,

Would you not deem it breathed, and that those veins

Did verily bear blood?”

Here the train of emotion is evidently this:—Would I were dead, but

_that_ methinks already (he is about to add) I am, when the life-like

appearance of the statue forcibly impresses his senses, whereupon he

checks himself and exclaims, “What was _he_ that did make it”—a god or a

mere man, &c. The MS. corrector favours us with the following version—

“Let be, let be,

Would I were dead, but that methinks already

_I am but dead, stone looking upon stone_:

What was he that did make it? see, my lord,

Would you not deem it breathed?” &c.

The corrector is not satisfied with making Shakespeare write poorly, he

frequently insists on making him write contradictorily, as in the

present instance. I am stone, says Leontes, according to this version,

looking upon stone, for see, my lord, the statue breathes, these veins

do verily bear blood. Is not that a proof, my lord, that this statue is

mere stone? Most people would have considered this a proof of the very

contrary. Not so the MS. corrector, who is the father of the emendation;

not so Mr Collier, who says that “we may be _thankful_ that this line

has been furnished, since it adds so much _to the force and clearness_

of the speech of Leontes.” Truly, we must be thankful for very small

literary mercies! Mr Collier may be assured that the very thing which

Leontes says most strongly, by implication, in this speech is, that he

is _not_ stone looking upon stone.

Our space being exhausted, we must reserve for our next Number the

continuation of our survey of Shakespeare’s Plays as _amended_ by Mr

Collier’s anonymous corrector.

THE INSURRECTION IN CHINA.[23]

Two Frenchman have just published, at an opportune moment, a curious

book. One of them needs no introduction here. The readers who have twice

encountered, in _Blackwood’s_ pages, the vivacious and intelligent Dr

Yvan, first under canvass for Bourbon, and then roaming in the Eastern

Archipelago, will gladly, we are persuaded, meet him again amongst the

mandarins. This time he is not alone, but has taken to himself a

coadjutor, in the person of M. Callery, once a missionary, and, since

then, interpreter to the French embassy in China—to which, it will be

remembered, Dr Yvan was attached as physician. M. Callery is author of a

Chinese dictionary, of a system of Chinese writing, and of translations

from the same language. When we add that both gentlemen, although at

present in France, were long and lately resident in China, under

circumstances peculiarly favourable to the acquisition of sound

information respecting its state and politics, and that they have had

free access to the archives of their embassy, it will hardly be doubted

that they have efficiently carried out their intention of giving a lucid

account of the origin and progress of the civil war now waging in that

country, bringing it down to the present day. The co-operation of one

well acquainted with the Chinese tongue must have been invaluable, and

perhaps indispensable to Dr Yvan, who, for his part, has evidently

contributed to the common stock his shrewd and observant spirit and

pleasant unaffected style. The book, which was published in Paris in the

second week of July, has reached us rather late for deliberate review in

the August number of the Magazine, but there is still time to give some

account of its contents.

“The Chinese insurrection,” Dr Yvan commences, “is one of the most

considerable events of the present time: politicians of all countries

watch with curiosity the march of that insurgent army which, for three

years past, has moved steadily onwards with the avowed object of

upsetting the Tartar dynasty.” The Doctor then sketches, in a few very

interesting pages, the chief events of Chinese history during the first

half of the present century, with particular reference to the biography

of the last emperor, deceased in 1850, and to the situation of the

Chinese empire at the close of his reign.

The late emperor, who assumed, upon ascending the throne, the name of

Tao-Kouang, _Brilliant Reason_, was the second son of Emperor Kia-King,

a feeble and incapable monarch, whose power was virtually in the hands

of an unworthy favourite, a certain Lin-King, chief of the eunuchs. In

Chinese annals, incidents of this kind are, we are told, by no means

rare. The chief of the eunuchs has always great influence in palace

intrigues, and his degraded condition by no means constitutes, in that

singular country, a bar to his ambition. That of Lin-King was boundless.

He aspired to the throne. Having gained over most of the military

mandarins, he marched into Pekin—one day that the emperor was out

hunting with his sons—a body of troops whose chiefs were entirely

devoted to him, and distributed them in the neighbourhood of the palace.

His plan was to kill the emperor and princes, and have himself

proclaimed by the army. Towards evening Kia-King and his eldest son

returned to the palace, whose gates had scarcely closed behind them when

it was surrounded by troops. In his haste and agitation the chief eunuch

had not noticed that the emperor’s second son had not returned with his

father. The conspiracy had just broken out, when that prince entered

Pekin. He was alone, in a hunting dress, with none of the insignia of

his rank, and he rode through the streets unrecognised, noting the

general tumult and confusion, whose cause he soon understood. Outside

the palace he found the ambitious eunuch haranguing his partisans, and

at once perceived that his father’s favourite, at whose insolence he had

often felt indignant, was at the head of the revolt. Mingling with the

throng of horsemen, he drew near to the traitor; amidst a host of

enemies, neither his coolness nor his courage failed him. Neither did

his skill: he tore from his coat its round metal buttons, slipped them

into his fowling-piece, took a short aim at Lin-King, and laid him dead

upon the spot! Upon their leader’s fall, the rebels fled, throwing away

their arms, and the prince triumphantly entered the palace, whose

threshold they had not yet sullied. Old Kia-King learned, at one time,

his past danger and present safety.

The prince who had displayed such happy promptitude and presence of

mind, ascended the throne of China in 1820. He was then forty years of

age. According to the custom of the princes of his dynasty, he had

married a Tartar—a big-footed woman. By her he had no children; but his

concubines had borne him a numerous family. In China, law and usage

recognise no difference between legitimate and illegitimate children.

All have the same rights of succession.

“During the first period of his reign, Tao-Kouang selected his ministers

from amongst those statesmen who, in the eyes of the people, were the

faithful guardians of Chinese traditions. Every nation that traces its

history to a very remote period has its conservative party. In quiet

times the government lies naturally in the hands of these

representatives of old national guarantees. But when it becomes

indispensable to modify ancient institutions, their exclusive attachment

to things of the past becomes a real danger. This political truth is as

perceptible in the history of the revolution of the Empire of the Centre

as in our own. Tao-Kouang’s agents, Chinese to the backbone, and full of

superb disdain for the barbarians, led their country into a disastrous

war, because they did not understand that the moment was come for them

to descend from the diplomatic elevation upon which their presumption

and European forbearance had so long maintained them. At a later period,

the same spirit of resistance to the necessity of the times brought on

the insurrection whose history we are about to trace, so that the two

most important events that Chinese annals have recorded during the last

quarter of a century, the war with England and the revolt of Kouang-Si,

have been determined by the same cause.”

Dr Yvan then gives an outline of the dispute with England, the

consequent war and ultimate treaty, upon which it is unnecessary to

dwell, since the circumstances are familiar to most English readers,

although in France they have been often distorted, and to many are but

imperfectly known. He blames Lin, whom he describes as being then “a man

of about fifty, wearing the plain red button and the peacock’s feather

with two eyes,” for his seizure of the opium, especially because, by his

zeal, activity, and by the terror he inspired, he had given life and

vigour to the Chinese custom-house, and had made a great advance towards

the suppression of opium smuggling. “In France,” says MM. Callery and

Yvan, “where ideas are not always just, it is taken as an established

fact that, in the opium war, all the oppression was on the side of the

English, and that right succumbed when the treaty of Nankin was signed.

Nothing can be falser than this. The English smuggled on the coasts of

the Celestial Empire exactly as smuggling is to this day carried on by

foreigners on our coasts and frontiers; but it has not yet, that we are

aware, been established as a principle that government may seize foreign

merchants and threaten them with death, upon the pretext that vessels

with prohibited merchandise are riding at anchor off Havre or

Marseilles.” It is very courageous of these gentlemen thus to tell their

countrymen the truth. We hope it will not injure the sale of their book;

we have small expectation of its making many converts from the received

opinion in France, that the part played by the English in the whole of

the Chinese affair was that of wholesale poisoners, cramming their drug

down their victim’s throat at bayonet’s point.

When Commissioner Lin had done all the mischief he could, burying the

opium with quicklime, and bringing a British squadron up Canton river,

blazing at the forts, he was recalled, and Ki-chan replaced him. Ki-chan

was a capable man, resolute but prudent; he saw that China had found

more than her match, and at once accepted the barbarian ultimatum. The

emperor refused his sanction, and inflicted upon the unlucky negotiator

the most signal disgrace any high functionary had endured during his

reign. Poor Ki-chan was publicly degraded, his property confiscated, his

house razed, his concubines were sold, and he himself was sent, an

exile, into the depths of Tartary. Those who would know more of him need

but refer to MM. Huc and Gabet’s curious journey to Thibet. At Lassa,

those intrepid travellers knew him well. Dr Yvan and Mr Callery were

intimate with another Chinese diplomatist, Ki-in, a relation of the

emperor, who signed the treaty of Nankin, and whom they consider one of

the two greatest statesmen that Tao-Kouang had. The other was

Mou-tchang-ha, the Chinese prime minister or president of the council.

“It is very probable that the Sublime Emperor, the son of Heaven, never

exactly knew what passed between the English and the Chinese. He died,

doubtless, in the consolatory belief that his troops were invincible,

and that, if Hong-Kong had been given, as an alms, to a few miserable

foreigners, it was because they had implored the happiness of becoming

his subjects.” The treaty of Nankin signed, Ki-in, named governor of the

two provinces of Kouang-Tong and Kouang-Si, took up his abode at Canton.

By the disposition he showed to be on good terms with foreigners, and by

his enlightened and progressive policy, he drew upon himself the hatred

of the bigoted populace, who accused him of leaning to the barbarians

and betraying his sovereign. In innumerable placards he was held up to

popular odium and vengeance. “Our carnivorous mandarins,” began one of

these violent and incendiary hand-bills, given by Dr Yvan, “have

hitherto connived at all that those English bandits have done against

order and justice, and five hundred years hence our nation will still

deplore its humiliation. In the 5th moon of this year, more than twenty

Chinese were killed by the strangers: their bodies were thrown into the

river, and buried in the belly of the fishes; but our high authorities

have treated these affairs as if they had not heard speak of them; they

have considered the foreign devils as if they were gods, have taken no

more account of Chinese than if they were dog’s meat, and have despised

men’s lives like the hairs that are shaved off the head. Thousands of

persons have lamented and been indignant; grief has penetrated the

marrow of their bones,” &c. &c. These absurd accusations and calumnies

had not, at the time, any influence on Ki-in’s political destiny. The

emperor recalled him to Pekin, graced him with new dignities, and made

him Mou-tchang-ha’s colleague. These two statesmen then tried to

introduce certain reforms, beginning with the army, whose bows and

arrows and old matchlocks they exchanged for percussion guns—thus

jumping clean over the intermediate stage of flint and steel. A curious

illustration of Chinese immobility for centuries. After a year’s trial,

Ki-in reported the great perfection attained by artificers, officers,

and soldiers, in manufacturing and making use of the new implements of

war. This was towards the close of Tao-Kouang’s reign. The conciliatory

spirit and enlightened views of the two ministers gave promise of that

practical progress which even the most conservative Europeans must admit

to be needed in China. Suddenly an unexpected and important event

changed the aspect of affairs.

“Upon the 26th February, 1850”—thus does Dr Yvan, after his brief

preliminary retrospect, commence his second chapter—“at seven o’clock in

the morning, the approaches to the imperial palace at Pekin were

obstructed by a compact crowd of mandarins of the inferior classes, and

of servants in white garments with yellow girdles, conversing in a low

voice, whilst their features wore an expression of official grief. In

the midst of this throng of subordinate functionaries, stood sixteen

individuals, each attended by a servant holding a saddlehorse. These

sixteen persons wore the satin cap fastened under the chin and

surmounted by the white button; they had a girdle of bells; a tube of a

yellow colour was slung over their shoulders, and they all carried

whips. A great dignitary issued from the palace, and delivered, with his

own hand, to each one of these men, a despatch closed with the imperial

red seal; they received it with a bow, brought each the yellow tube

round upon his breast, and respectfully placed within it the official

despatch. Then they mounted their horses, and the grooms fastened them

to the saddle with straps that passed over the thighs. When they were

thus well secured, the crowd opened a passage, and the horses set off at

the top of their speed. These sixteen messengers, known as _Feïma_,

flying horses, were bound to get over six hundred _li_—sixty leagues—in

every twenty-four hours. They bore the following despatch to the

governors-general of the sixteen provinces of the Celestial Empire:—

“‘In great haste, the minister of rites informs the Governor-general

that, upon the 14th of the first moon, the Supreme Emperor, mounted upon

the dragon, departed for the ethereal regions. In the morning, at the

hour of _mao_, his Celestial Majesty transmitted the imperial dignity to

his fourth son, _Se-go-Ko_, and in the evening, at the hour of _haï_,

departed for the abode of the gods.’”

Directions for mourning completed the despatch. Agreeably with the

constitution of the empire, the defunct sovereign had named his

successor. It was his fourth son. But he had deviated from ancient

custom by a verbal nomination. The legacy of supreme power was usually

transmitted, long beforehand, by a solemn act, deposited in a golden

coffer, opened with great ceremony upon the emperor’s death. Even in

China, however, this last will and testament has not always been

respected, and of this Dr Yvan digresses to give an example, which he

considers as fully illustrative of Chinese manners and civilisation. The

tale he tells abounds in what Europeans would laugh at as burlesque

inventions, but which are doubtless very possible occurrences amongst

the Celestials. We shall give its pith in a few lines. Tsin-che-houang,

the second emperor of the Tsin dynasty, was already old and infirm when

he sent his son and heir, Fou-sou, to superintend the building of the

great wall, at which three hundred thousand men were working. They did

less to lengthen it, Dr Yvan insinuates, than modern travellers have

done. Whilst Fou-sou went north, accompanied by the renowned Mong-tièn,

the greatest general of his time, the emperor made a pilgrimage

southwards to the tombs of his ancestors. When far upon his road, he

felt death approaching, and wrote to his eldest son to hasten back to

the capital. Tcha-Kao, the chief of the eunuchs, having to seal and

forward the missive, audaciously substituted for it a forged command

from Tsin-che-houang to the prince and general to put themselves to

death, as a punishment for their offences. Next day the emperor died,

and the infamous Tcha-Kao prevailed upon his second son, Hou-haï, to

seize the crown. To carry out this usurpation, it was necessary to

conceal for a while the emperor’s death, lest the authorities and young

princes at the capital should proclaim the successor he had appointed.

So the body, sumptuously attired, and in the same attitude as when

alive, was placed in a litter, surrounded by a lattice, and by thick

silk curtains, and which none approached but those who were in the plot.

The eunuch had proclamation made that the emperor, in haste to return,

would travel day and night without quitting his litter. At meal-times a

short halt was made, and food was handed into the litter and eaten by a

man concealed in it. Unluckily, the weather was very hot, and the smell

of the dead body soon became intolerable. This would have revealed the

terrible truth, had not the ingenious eunuch hit upon a device. He sent

forward an ante-dated decree by which the emperor permitted oyster-carts

to follow the same road as himself. This had previously been severely

prohibited, on account of the intolerable stench emitted by the

oysters—an enormous species known to naturalists as spondyls, of which,

then as now, the Chinese made enormous consumption. The fishmongers

profited by the boon; hundreds of thousands of the full-flavoured

testaceans soon preceded and followed the imperial convoy; the

decomposing corpse reached the capital under cover of their alkaline

emanations, and was received with gongs and acclamations. Meanwhile, the

forged mandate of self-destruction was received by Fou-sou and

Mong-tièn. The old officer thought it bad policy to order a general in

command of three hundred thousand men to commit suicide, and treated the

mission as apocryphal. But Fou-sou, considering only his duty as a son

and subject, stabbed himself forthwith.

The accession of the present emperor was unattended by any such untoward

circumstances, notwithstanding the irregularity of his nomination, to

which the formal Chinese attach much importance. He ascended the throne

without opposition, quitted, according to custom, the name he had till

then borne, and assumed that of Hièn-foung, which signifies _Complete

Abundance_. His accession was hailed with joy by both the political

parties into which China is divided, and which the authors of this

volume designate as exclusionists and progressive conservatives. The

former expected to find in him a stanch supporter of their principles.

If they did not anticipate the rebuilding of the crumbling wall of

China, they doubtless hoped that he would so fortify Canton river as to

prevent the _fire-boats_ of the barbarians from ascending it to the

capital of the two Kouangs. The progressive party, upon the other hand,

thought that the son of Tao-Kouang, and the pupil of Ki-in, would

maintain peace with the foreigner, regulate the opium trade—as the

English have done in India, and the Dutch in Malaya—and would introduce

into the Chinese fleets, armies, and administrations, those reforms

which lapse of time had rendered necessary. MM. Yvan and Callery

declare, that when they learned the emperor’s death they at once

anticipated important events. It was to be feared that the new

sovereign, a youth of nineteen, would sympathise with the sentiments and

wishes of those of his own age. And in China, where everything seems

diametrically opposed to what we observe in other countries, the young

men of education and the ignorant populace compose the high conservative

party. These two classes profess the same hatred of foreigners, the same

instinctive repugnance for foreign institutions. “They are reactionary

by nature, and by their attachment to national customs. It is the men of

maturer age who, formed at the school of experience, appreciate the arts

and institutions of Christian nations. When we were in China, Ki-in,

before he had undergone any disgrace, frequently praised the governments

of England, the United States, and France; and, at the same moment,

Ki-chan, unjustly precipitated from the summit of greatness, expressed

the same thoughts to MM. Huc and Gabet, in the holy city of Thibet.”

For some time the new emperor disappointed all parties. Surrounded by

flatterers, eunuchs, and concubines, he remained inactive in his immense

palace, which equals in size one of the large European fortified towns.

He went not beyond the limits of those gardens whose walks are strewn

with sparkling quartz, and seemed absorbed by voluptuous enjoyments.

Politicians were wondering at this long inaction, when one day the

thunder-cloud burst. The absolute monarch displayed his power; the

reactionary party triumphed. The Pekin _Moniteur_ published the

dismissal of Mou-tchang-ha and Ki-in, overwhelming them with abuse, and

declaring them degraded to inferior ranks. The document was dated in the

30th year of the reign of Tao-Kouang—the year of an emperor’s death

being always reckoned by Chinese chronologists as belonging entire to

his reign. The successors of the disgraced ministers were selected from

amongst the bitterest enemies of Europeans, and their chief efforts were

directed to neutralise the effect which the contact of the barbarians

might have produced upon certain of their countrymen. This departure

from the policy of Tao-Kouang, who had placed entire confidence in

Ki-in, and had loaded him with marks of esteem, brought ill-luck to the

new emperor. Very soon after the victory of the reactionary party, the

first news came of the revolt of Kouang-Si.

There had been precursory symptoms of this insurrection. It had been

currently reported amongst the people that prophecies had fixed the

re-establishment of the Ming dynasty to take place in the forty-eighth

year of that cycle, which year corresponded with A.D. 1851. It was

further said that a sage, who lived under the last emperor of that race,

had saved his standard, and had foretold that he who displayed it in the

midst of his army should mount the throne. At the beginning of the

insurrection it was affirmed that the rebels marched beneath this

miraculous banner, and this was implicitly believed by the people. “The

vulgar are incredulous of the extinction of old royal races; it is never

certain that their last representative is in his tomb: there are people

in Portugal who still look for the return of Don Sebastian, killed,

three centuries ago, at the battle of Alcazar-Quivir.” An uneasy feeling

soon spread far and wide, with rumours of the defection of mandarins.

The legitimacy of the Tartar dynasty, and the necessity of substituting

for it a national one, were publicly discussed. Here Dr Yvan translates

an extract from an English paper, in which great importance is attached

to the insurrection, and to the cry for reform which on all sides was

heard. This was in August 1850. He then paints the portraits of the

emperor Hièn-foung, and of the pretender Tièn-tè. The former is

twenty-two, the latter twenty-three years of age. Without entering into

a minute description of the physical and mental qualities of the two

personages, some of which will incidentally manifest themselves as we

proceed, we extract a few leading traits of Tièn-tè, whose portrait

forms the frontispiece to the volume we are examining. “Study and vigils

have prematurely aged him. He is grave and melancholy, and very

reserved, communicating with those around him only to give them orders.

His complexion is that of the southern Chinese—a saffron tint. His

impassible gaze seems to probe the depths of the human soul. He commands

rather by suggestion than by direct dictation. In a word” (and this

reminds us of Dr Yvan’s own sovereign), “he has the silent reserve of a

man who has reflected a great deal before communicating his projects to

any one.”

The Doctor then gives a Chinaman’s description of the pretender’s

entrance into one of the numerous towns taken by his troops. “The new

emperor and his retinue reminded me of the scenes represented at our

theatres, in which we are shown the heroes of ancient days, those who

lived before we came under the Tartar yoke. The persons who surrounded

Tièn-tè had cut off their tails, let the whole of their hair grow,

and, instead of the _chang_ buttoned at the side, they wore tunics

open in front. None of the officers wore upon their right thumb the

_pan-tche_, that archer’s ring which our mandarins so ostentatiously

display. The emperor was in a magnificent palanquin, with yellow satin

curtains, carried by sixteen officers. After Tièn-tè’s palanquin came

that of his preceptor, borne upon the shoulders of eight coolies; then

came his thirty wives, in gilt and painted chairs. A multitude of

servants and soldiers followed in fine order.” There is a most

important point to be noted in this description—the cutting off of the

tail. It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to repeat that the strange

style of head-dress with which porcelain and rice-paper pictures have

familiarised Europeans, is of Tartar origin, and, in the case of the

Chinese, a mark of subjugation. It was thus that the victors marked

the vanquished—compelling them to shave their heads, with the

exception of a spot upon the sinciput, the hair upon which was

suffered to grow into a long tail. As a sign that they had thrown off

the foreign yoke, Tièn-tè’s followers cut off their tails. This bold

act—a treasonable offence in China—was equivalent to throwing away the

scabbard, and caused a great and painful sensation at the court of

Pekin. As a sort of counterpoise to it, the celestial _Moniteur_, the

Imperial Gazette, was made to publish a supposititious act of

submission on the part of the rebels, in which they were made to

prostrate themselves, declare their fidelity, and submit to stripes

and bondage.

The person designated by the Chinaman, in the account of the procession,

as Tièn-tè’s preceptor, is his intimate friend and privy-councillor—his

only one—a very mysterious individual—whether his father, his tutor, or

merely a friend, none know—who accompanies him everywhere. But we are

getting ahead of our subject, and must glance at the commencement of the

insurrection, previously to the appearance of Tièn-tè upon the stage.

The province of Kouang-Si, where the rebellion began, and which is

larger than the entire dominions of many European sovereigns, is

situated in the south-western portion of the empire, is administered by

a governor-general, and forms part of the vice-royalty of the two

Kouangs. Its mountains are one of the curiosities of the Celestial

Empire; but, since the Jesuits of Pekin, no foreigner has been suffered

freely to explore them. “According to native travellers, these masses

have the form of various animals, unmistakably representing a cock, an

elephant, &c.; and there are rocks in which are found encrusted

fantastical animals, petrified in the most singular attitudes. We have

carefully examined drawings of these figures, which reminded us of the

species resuscitated by Cuvier, and we have convinced ourselves that the

petrified animals are merely red stains, produced by oxide of iron, and

acutely defined upon the black surface of the rock. The general aspect

of Kouang-Si is singularly picturesque. That vast district offers points

of view which Chinese artists have frequently painted. To European eyes

their collections of landscapes have a strange character. Those

inaccessible mountains that seem shaped by the caprice of human

imagination, those rocks representing gigantic animals, those rivers

precipitating themselves into gulfs, over which are thrown impassable

bridges, suggest an idea of fairyland.” A glance at the map of Kouang-Si

suffices to prove the intelligence and judgment of the insurgent chiefs

who chose that province for the commencement of their operations.

Unproductive, by reason of its mountainous character, the misery of the

inhabitants was a powerful auxiliary to the rebels. They found at once

recruits for their army, and natural fortresses for their defence. The

emperor needed a far larger army, and much more efficient means of

attack than he possessed, to drive the insurgents from their fastnesses.

If defeated in the plain, they had always the resource of mountain

warfare. Dr Yvan compares the people of Kouang-Si to the guerillas who

in Spain so severely harassed the French armies. Like them, he says,

they are sober, intrepid, little sensible of fatigue, and animated by a

spirit of independence. After centuries of occupation, the Tartars had

not yet subdued the remotest districts of those mountains.

The chief vegetable products of Kouang-Si are cinnamon and aniseed. Its

mountainous conformation, and the drawings of the Chinese artists, leave

little doubt that it abounds in metallic deposits. Hence a seeming

miracle, which took powerful hold on the imagination of the vulgar. Dr

Yvan tells the tale thus:—

“At the beginning of the insurrection, the chiefs determined to mark the

date of their enterprise by the erection of a religious monument. For

its foundation, labourers dug in decomposed rocks, which yielded readily

to the pickaxe. They had attained the depth of but a few feet, when they

came upon lumps similar in form and appearance to the stones in the bed

of a river. These lumps were observed to be very heavy, and were

carefully examined. They proved to be silver-lead of great richness. It

was from this providential bank, it is said, that the pretender paid his

first soldiers. Whatever the authenticity of the tale, it is worth

noting by the collectors of legends, whose writings will one day divert

the leisure of the mandarins.... As if to confirm this metallurgic

miracle, there have recently been discovered in Norway silver deposits

precisely similar to those of Kouang-Si.”

It was in August 1850 that the Pekin papers for the first time spake of

the insurgents, whom they designated as robbers; but robbers would

hardly have established themselves in one of the poorest districts of

the empire, remote from large towns and high-roads. The rebels showed no

haste to contradict these rumours, but rather allowed them to gain

credit, and waited patiently in the south-west part of the province,

until the Celestial _tigers_[24] should be sent against them. They were

on terms of amity with the Miao-tze, a race of men inhabiting the

wildest parts of Kouang-Si. Dining one day with a Chinese functionary of

high rank, in a pagoda at Canton, the author of this book received from

him a curious account of those people, which they noted upon their

return home, and now publish. The Miao-tze, the minister told them, are

aborigines of the chain of mountains that extends from the north of

Kouang-Toung (the southernmost province) into the central provinces of

the empire. They dwell in small communities, never exceeding two

thousand persons. Their houses are built on posts, like those of the

Malays. They are warlike in disposition, and agriculture is their

pursuit. The Tartars have never succeeded in subduing them. They have

retained the old national costume—have never shaved their heads—have

always rejected the authority of the mandarins and the Chinese customs.

Their independence is now a recognised fact; and upon Chinese maps a

blank is left for the country they occupy, to signify that it does not

obey the emperor. For a great many years no attempt had been made to

subdue them, when suddenly, in 1832, they made an incursion, pillaging

wherever they went. They beat the Chinese troops sent against them, and

were got rid of only by diplomacy and concession. They hold little

intercourse with their neighbours, and are greatly dreaded by the

Chinese of the towns, who call them man-dogs, man-wolves. “They believe

them to have tails, and relate that, when a child is born, the soles of

his feet are cauterised, to harden them, and render him indefatigable.

These are mere tales,” continued the Chinese minister, whom Dr Yvan

describes as a young and elegant man, and who is apparently of the more

enlightened party in his country. “In reality, the Miao-tze are a very

fine and intelligent race, and their manners have a tendency, I think,

to become gentle.” Such a race as this was evidently a most valuable

ally for the insurgents, whose first military movements put them in

possession of two large towns, in one of which three mandarins of high

rank were killed fighting against them. Siu, governor-general of the two

Kouangs, took alarm; and upon learning that the rebels were coming his

way, solicited the honour of making a pilgrimage to the tomb of the

defunct emperor. This request was refused; and the troops he sent

against the enemy were beaten and exterminated. The antiquated tactics

of the insurgents—which would hardly have much success against any but a

Chinese army—consisted in feigning a flight, and drawing their opponents

into an ambuscade. This succeeded several times running—not being, we

must suppose, guarded against in the Chinese twenty-four-volume treatise

on the art of war. Emboldened by their repeated victories, the rebels

crossed the frontier of Kouang-Si, and entered Kouang-Toung, where they

soon met with and massacred, to the very last man, a detachment of

imperial troops.

Two political acts of great importance were now simultaneously

accomplished at Pekin and in the insurgent camp. In the former place,

the emperor sent for Lin, the opium-burner, and bade him go and put down

the rebellion. Notwithstanding his great age, the austere mandarin

promptly obeyed. As if by way of retort, the insurgents issued a

proclamation, declaring that the Mantchous, who for two centuries had

hereditarily occupied the throne of China, had no right to it beyond

that of the strongest; that that right was common to all—and that they

had an equally good one to levy contributions on the towns they

conquered. The Mantchous, they said, were foreigners, who had conquered

the country by aid of a veteran army; their right of government

consisted in possessing. This proclamation conveyed the leading idea of

the rebels, which had previously been merely rumoured. They declared

legitimacy to mean possession; and at the same time intimated their

intention of expelling the Mantchous, and transferring to Chinese hands

the management of the public revenues. This publication was the last act

of the rebels in 1850. It coincided with the death of Lin, which

occurred in November of that year. The old commissioner was in his

seventieth year, and sank under the fatigue and anxiety of his new

command.

The Chinese year begins in February. Its commencement is a sort of

commercial and financial crisis, when everybody pays and calls in his

debts. In January it was reported and believed, in Canton, that the

insurrection of Kouang-Si was entirely suppressed, and that the

celestial tigers had gained imperishable laurels. In consequence of this

good news, business resumed its usual course, confidence returned, and

the Chinese “settling day” passed without disaster. It was a mere trick

of the cunning mandarins of Kouang-Toung, who, in the interest of the

commercial community, had fabricated the bulletins. The public

satisfaction and tranquillity were soon dispelled by intelligence of the

cutting off of tails already mentioned, and which admitted of no other

interpretation than “War to the Knife!”

Li succeeded Lin as imperial commissioner in Kouang-Si. The

pusillanimous Siu was reduced four degrees of rank, which is something

like reducing a field-officer to an ensigncy, but was still left

governor of the two Kouangs. A very bad system was pursued by the agents

of the Chinese government—exemplified by the following incidents. In

March 1851, the little town of Lo-Ngan was taken by the insurgents, who

levied a contribution, seized the contractor of the _Mont de Piété_, or

pawning establishment, and fixed his ransom at 1000 taels (about £320).

He paid, and was released. Next day the imperial troops drove out the

rebels, levied another contribution, and squeezed 3000 taels from the

contractor! This man, who was influential in the place, and indignant at

suffering spoliation from those who should have protected him, harangued

the people in the public square. Others spoke after him, and at last the

excited mob cut off their tails, swore that the reign of the Tartars was

at an end, and sent for the insurgents, who came in the night and

massacred the garrison. Other things concurred to induce disaffection

among the population to the reigning dynasty. Li took for his second in

command a ferocious mandarin, who, when governor of the province of

Hou-Nan, where the use of opium was very prevalent, had adopted the

barbarous practice of cutting off the under lip of the smokers. Dr Yvan

was in China at the time, and saw several poor wretches who had been

thus mutilated, and whose aspect was horrible, the operation, performed

by clumsy executioners, leaving hideous jagged wounds, “very different,”

the doctor feelingly and professionally remarks, “from the elegant scars

so artfully and happily produced by Parisian bistourys.” The nomination

of the cruel Tchang (in his case, as in some others, we spare the reader

the labour of reading his second and third names, which, although

connected by hyphens, are not, as we perceive from Dr Yvan’s practice,

inseparable from the first) was significant. At the same period, and in

one day, thirty-six persons, accused of conspiring against the safety of

the state, were put to death at Canton. Dr Yvan doubts whether their

crimes were really political. In China they deal in what he calls

prophylactic justice. The thirty-six executions were perhaps a

preventive measure, and the victims common malefactors, elevated to the

rank of rebels and traitors. “They may, however, have been members of

secret societies, which are very numerous in China, and in those

countries whither Chinese immigrate. At Singapore, Penang, Batavia,

Manilla, we have known numerous adepts of the secret societies of the

Empire of the Centre—a species of free-masonry, whose ascertained object

is the dethronement of the Mantchous.

“In 1845, we lived for several days with a merchant of Chan-Toung, who

clandestinely introduces arms into China. He took us to a house in one

of the dirtiest and least reputable quarters of the town, and we

ascended into a sort of garret. In that country garrets are on the first

floor. His object was to obtain our estimate of arms which some

Americans had sold him. They were enormous swords in steel scabbards.

The heavy blades were clumsily forged; but cheap they certainly were,

having been delivered in China at the price of ten francs a-piece. On

our entrance the Chinese unsheathed one of these large blades, and

uttered loud exclamations, gesticulating the while after the fashion of

the Chinese heroes one sees painted upon fans. We asked him if it was

for the equipment of the invincible tigers he purchased these arms. At

the question he smiled significantly, and showed us, by an expressive

gesture, the use intended to be made of them against the imperial

troops. Perhaps at this moment the gigantic weapons are in the rebels’

hands.”

Neither the appointment of the terrible Tchang, the executions at

Canton, nor the mendacious reports, perseveringly circulated, of

imperial triumphs, checked the rebels. On the contrary, they replied to

all this violence and boasting by the proclamation of an emperor of

their own, whom they called Tièn-tè, which means _Celestial Virtue_! He

was invested with the imperial yellow robe, and, contrary to Tartar

usage, which forbids the reproduction of the sovereign’s features by his

subjects, his portrait was circulated by thousands of copies. From one

of those prints MM. Callery and Yvan have taken the frontispiece of

their volume. The head-dress and costume are those of the days of the

Mings, from whom the pretender’s partisans declare him descended.

The proclamation of Tièn-tè may be said to close the first period of the

insurrection. Dr Yvan points admiringly to the patient policy of its

chiefs. For a whole year Tièn-tè was kept in the background, his

partisans contenting themselves with spreading a report that there

existed a descendant of the Mings. Then they proclaimed, but did not

show him to the people. He returned to a sort of mysterious obscurity,

and showed himself but at long intervals, to his enthusiastic adherents.

The rebellion now took the character of a civil war. The Emperor

Hièn-foung, although deficient in political judgment, and in that tact

and penetration which enable a sovereign to make the best choice of

agents, displayed a good deal of energy; but this was too apt to

degenerate into violence. He was certainly not well served. Siu, still

governor of the Kouangs, was unequal to the difficulties that every day

augmented. The inhabitants of two districts refused to pay taxes; the

emperor ordered their punishment; Siu sent a mandarin to bring the

ringleaders before him; the whole population rose, and pulled the

officer out of his palanquin, which they broke to pieces, its occupant

barely escaping with life. About the same time Tièn-tè set a price of

ten thousand dollars on Siu’s head. The placard containing the

announcement was affixed to the north gate of Canton, just as Siu was

about to quit that city at the head of three thousand men, to join other

forces directed against Kouang-Si. The viceroy was furious; and as his

palanquin passed through Canton’s street, preceded by two gongs, and by

a banner on which was inscribed, “Get out of the way and be silent; here

is the imperial commissioner,” he glanced savagely right and left, as if

seeking some one on whom to wreak his vengeance. “Presently he slapped

his hand down upon the edge of his chair, and bade the bearers stop. It

was just opposite the house of one of those poor artists who paint

familiar genii and large family-pictures. The painter had hung up some

of his most remarkable works outside his house; but strange to relate!

in the midst of smiling deities, irritated genii, feetless women flying

along like birds in silken vestments, there was displayed a decapitated

mandarin. The rank of the personage was unmistakably indicated by the

insignia painted on his breast. The corpse was in a kneeling position,

and the head, separated from the trunk, was placed beside a beaver-hat

bearing the plain button.” The unfortunate artist was called out of his

shop, and kneeled trembling in the dust before Siu’s palanquin. In vain

he protested that the picture was painted to order, and hung out to dry:

he was sent to the town-prison to receive twenty blows of a bamboo for

placing such ill-omened horrors upon the viceroy’s passage, and Siu went

upon his way, gloomily impressed by the double presage of the placard

and the picture. Besides his three thousand men, he had with him a host

of mandarins, attendants, executioners, musicians, standard-bearers, and

women, and a large sum of money, which he added to, upon the march, as

often as he could. The women and the treasure were carried on men’s

shoulders, in palanquins and chests. Dr Yvan relates the following

curious incident as having occurred upon this march:—

“They one evening reached a deep and rapid water-course, which had to be

crossed over a bamboo bridge. When a part of the escort had reached the

farther bank, Siu stopped his palanquin, and ordered the coolies who

carried the treasure-chest to cross slowly and cautiously. They obeyed;

but just as they reached the centre of the elastic bridge, a sudden

shock threw them and their load into the water. There was a moment of

extreme confusion. The chest had sunk, the unfortunate coolies were

struggling against the stream, and uttering lamentable cries, whilst

Siu, furious, was breaking his fan for rage. Luckily the coolies swam

like fish, and easily reached the shore. The viceroy was sorely tempted

to bastinado them upon the spot; but he reserved that pleasure for

another day, and ordered the poor wretches, who stood panting and

terrified before him, instantly to fish up the precious chest,

threatening them with a terrible chastisement if they did not find it.

They stript off their clothes and courageously entered the water;

skilful divers, they explored the river’s bed, and, after many efforts,

succeeded in getting the heavy chest ashore. It was wet and muddy, but

otherwise uninjured. Siu had it placed upon the shoulders of two fresh

coolies, and the march was resumed. A few days later, on reaching

Chao-King, his first care was to have the chest opened in his presence;

but instead of his golden ingots, he found only pebbles and pieces of

lead carefully wrapped in silk paper. The coolies were audacious

robbers, who had skilfully planned the exchange. The viceroy set all his

police on foot, but in vain; the thieves had doubtless taken refuge in

the insurgent country, where they and their booty were safe.”

A Chinese gentleman, well-dressed, comely, and of intelligent aspect,

has lately attracted considerable attention in Paris, in whose streets

and public places he has been frequently seen. He is a friend and

companion of M. Callery, and to him is owing the facsimile of a Chinese

map included in the volume under notice. It represents those provinces

which the insurgents have already traversed, from the mountains of

Kouang-Si to the city of Nankin, the ancient capital of the Mings. A

stream of red spots, running across its centre, and in some places

spreading out wide, indicates the towns occupied by the rebels. The map

is copied from one of the numerous charts published in China in 1851,

towards the end of which year the victories of Tièn-tè’s troops were so

numerous, and their progress so prodigious, that even the lying _Pekin

Gazette_ ceased to record imaginary imperial triumphs. It must not be

supposed, however, that, in the case of the captured towns, occupation

invariably implied retention. The chiefs of the insurgents heeded not

the strategical importance of particular places. With the exception of a

few fortresses, into which the pretender occasionally retired, they

abandoned successively all the towns they took, after raising

contributions to pay their troops. “Their tactics,” says Dr Yvan, “are

those of the barbarian chiefs who led the great invasions of which

history has transmitted us the account. The insurgents go straight

before them, seizing, each day, some new point, which they next day

abandon. Their intention is evidently to cut their way to the capital.

In a country where the centralising system prevails so completely as in

China, the Mantchous reign as long as Pekin is in their power; but upon

the day on which the descendant of the Mings enters the imperial city,

the provinces he has marched through and left unconquered will

acknowledge his right, and submit themselves to his authority.” In

several chapters of Dr Yvan’s book we find amusing examples of the

military tactics of these strange barbarians who deem all others such.

Thirteen thousand imperialists advanced against the rebels near the town

of Ping-Nan-Hien. The rebels defended themselves feebly, and retreated

from one position to another. When this had lasted several hours, and

the weary pursuers were about to desist, they suddenly found themselves

in an ambuscade, entangled in a bamboo jungle, and attacked in front and

flank by a strong body of rebels, with more than sixty pieces of

artillery. When General Ou-lan-taï got back to his camp, it was with

half his army; the remainder had either been killed, or had deserted to

the enemy. Siu, the valiant viceroy, safe behind the thick walls of a

fortress, swore by his meagre mustaches that he would revenge this rout.

“To that end, he borrowed from the ancient history of the kingdom of Tsi

a stratagem which reminds one of the Trojan horse, and of Samson’s

foxes. He got together four thousand buffalos, to whose long horns he

had torches fastened; the drove was then given in charge to four

thousand soldiers; and the expedition, prepared in the most profound

secresy, set out one night for the rebel camp. It was anticipated that

each buffalo, thus transformed into _a fiery chariot_, would commit

terrible ravages, kill all the men it could get at, and set fire to the

camp. At first the horned battalions met with no obstacles; the

insurgents, duly advertised of this splendid stratagem, suffered them

quietly to advance. But before the imperialists reached the camp, the

enemy, who observed all their movements by favour of the splendid

illumination, fell upon them unexpectedly, as they had so often done

before, and the same scenes of carnage were renewed. This manœuvre of

Siu’s cost the lives of more than two thousand men, and gives an idea of

Chinese proficiency in the art of war. Had our sole knowledge of the

affair been derived from the Anglo-Chinese press, we should have

hesitated to reproduce it here; but we have had opportunity of collating

the account given by _The Friend of China_, with authentic Chinese

documents, and they entirely agree in their narrative of this incredible

occurrence. In the eyes of the Tartar warriors, and of the Chinese

themselves, this comical invention of Siu’s passes for a highly

ingenious strategical combination.”

Whilst such were the disasters of his armies, and the progress of his

foes, what was the occupation of his Imperial Majesty, the Son of

Heaven, Hièn-foung? Surrounded by favourites and courtiers, he composed

a poem, whose subject was the heroic exploits of his Tartar general,

Oulan-taï—the said exploits existing but in the general’s own bulletins!

According to MM. Yvan and Callery, who have read a portion of the

emperor’s epic, it is an inflated performance, indebted in every line to

reminiscences of the classic authors of the Celestial Empire—the Chinese

Homers, the Ariostos of Pekin; so that the braggart general

appropriately found a plagiarist bard. Meanwhile Siu, who had more

confidence in golden than in leaden ammunition as a means of victory,

offered ninety thousand taels (nearly £30,000) for the heads of Tièn-tè,

his father, and his mysterious privy-councillor—that being, for each

head, just thrice the sum at which the insurgents had estimated his. But

no heads were brought in, and the viceroy, weary and despairing,

implored permission to return to Canton. To obtain such permission, he

invented an ingenious story, which the official Pekin paper was so

unkind as to publish. He represented to his master that the subjects of

Donna Maria da Gloria, queen of Portugal, were preparing for an

expedition against the Celestial Empire. He converted the peaceable

Macaists into a band of pirates ready to aid the insurgents, and to

appropriate to themselves the provinces of Kouang-Toung and Fo-Kien!

With an emperor, a general, and a viceroy, such as these characteristic

traits exhibit, Dr Yvan is surely justified in anticipating the early

dissolution of the Chinese Empire. Under such chiefs, it is not

surprising when armies exhibit neither discipline nor courage. In the

autumn of 1851, the insurgents, having taken three towns, respected the

lives and property of the inhabitants. By a proclamation, Tièn-tè

exhorted the latter to remain quietly where they were, but permitted

those who would not recognise his authority to quit the place, taking

with them all they could of their goods and chattels. A considerable

number profited by this permission, and departed, laden with the most

valuable portion of their property. They fell in with a body of

imperialist troops, who stripped them of everything, and killed those

who resisted. The unfortunate victims of civil war reproached their

spoilers with their cowardice. “Before the rebels,” they said, “you are

mice; it is only with us that you are tigers!”

From an early period of the rebellion, the mandarins endeavoured to

discredit its banner and partisans by the propagation of lying

inventions, some of which had the double aim of exciting the Buddhist

population against the insurgents, and of rendering the Christians more

and more odious to the young emperor. Thus they asserted that the

pretender really was a descendant of the Mings, but that he was a

Catholic, and that, wherever he went, he upset pagodas and destroyed

idols. Others affirmed that he was of the sect of Chang-ti—that is to

say, a Protestant. Whilst noticing these statements, Dr Yvan contents

himself with remarking that the name of Tièn-tè, chosen by the

pretender, is purely pagan. Another manœuvre of the mandarins was to

announce that the insurgents had declared their intention, as soon as

they should have attained to supreme authority, of driving the Europeans

from the five ports. Thus they thought to set the Europeans against the

insurrection. But this flimsy fabrication was easily seen through.

Attempts were also made to cast ridicule on the insurgents, by the

circulation of pamphlets filled with incredible anecdotes.

“One of these satirical productions relates that Tièn-tè, having

perished in an accidental conflagration of his camp, his wife had had

his brother assassinated, and had seized the reins of government. But,

in China, petticoat government is inadmissible, and people never speak

but with horror of the Empress Ou-heou, that Elizabeth of the East, who

possessed herself of the imperial power, and exercised it for more than

twenty years. In this respect, Chinese prejudices are so invincible that

the name of Ou-heou has been effaced from the list of the sovereigns of

the Celestial Empire. For the Chinese, that shameful reign never took

place. The idea of sovereign power in a woman’s hands fills them with

indignation; yet they know that a woman reigns over that western people

which conquered them, and that the English nation was never greater or

more glorious than under the rule of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen

Victoria.”

The existence of a Christian element or influence in the ranks and

councils of the insurgents, which the mandarins put forward, probably

without any better grounds than their own malicious intent, is traced,

at a later period, by MM. Callery and Yvan, in a proclamation issued

after several triumphs won, at short intervals, by the armies of

Tièn-tè. In a previous proclamation, the pretender had referred,

somewhat obscurely, to the idea of a federal empire, to be composed of

several kingdoms dependent on one chief. This idea was more clearly

developed in the manifesto affixed to the walls of the captured town of

Young-Gan-Tcheou, and signed, not by Tièn-tè, although he was then

present, but by Tièn-kio, one of the future feudatory kings, who dated

it from the first year of his reign. It announced, in plain terms, the

plans of the insurgents. They would combine their forces, march on

Pekin, and then divide the empire. The whole plan, Dr Yvan, who highly

lauds it, believes to have been conceived and elaborated by the secret

societies. “Since the overthrow of the Mings, and the accession of the

Mantchous,” he says, “those clandestine associations, the intellectual

laboratory of declining countries, have been constantly active. The most

celebrated of them, the Society of the Three Principles, or of the

Triad, is powerfully organised. In every part of China, and in all the

countries where Chinese reside, are found members of this association;

and the children of the Empire of the Centre might say, almost without

exaggeration, that when three of them are assembled together, the Triad

is amongst them.”

But if the substance of Tièn-kio’s proclamation is politically

important, to its form Dr Yvan assigns immense significance. He

recognises in it a new and regenerative element—that of Christianity.

“Its authors speak of _decrees of Heaven. They have prostrated

themselves before the Supreme Being, after having learned to adore God.

They have striven to save the people from calamities._ This is a style

unknown to the idolatrous Chinese, and foreign to Catholic language: to

Protestantism is due the honour of having introduced it into China; and

it appears that there really is, amongst the insurgents, an indigenous

Protestant, holding a very high rank, and exercising very great

authority. This Protestant is, it is stated, a disciple of Gutzlaff, the

last secretary interpreter of the government of Hong-Kong.” Having

mentioned Gutzlaff’s name, MM. Callery and Yvan—one, if not both, of

whom appears to have known him—give some curious particulars concerning

him. They speak of him as an intelligent man, having extraordinary

facility in learning languages, and of his books as narratives in which

a little truth is mingled with very agreeable falsehoods. Born in

Pomerania, there was nothing German in his aspect; his features were

Mongul, and in his Chinese costume he could not be distinguished from a

Chinese.

“One night, during our residence in China, we were conversing about him

with the mandarin Pan-se-tchèn, who was a great friend of his, and one

of us expressed his surprise at finding, in a European, the

characteristic signs of the Chinese race.

“‘Nothing is more natural,’ the mandarin, quietly replied; ‘Gutzlaff’s

father was a Fokienese settled in Germany.’

“This fact appeared to us so extraordinary that we should hesitate to

mention it here, if Pan had not affirmed that he had it from M. Gutzlaff

himself.”

We do not here trace the progress of the Insurrection in China, the

leading events of whose earlier stages have, to a certain extent, been

made known to Europeans by the public press; whilst the details of its

later period, and especially those of the siege and capture of Nankin,

had not come to the knowledge of MM. Callery and Yvan up to the very

recent date at which their volume went to press. We have preferred to

cull from this curious and uncommon book, traits and incidents which,

although they may not be of paramount importance in a political or

military sense, exhibit, as clearly as could do the most circumstantial

narrative of the war, the character of people and parties, and the

probable eventualities of the struggle. There exists, it appears,

amongst the Chinese—at least in certain provinces—so strong a tendency

to assist the insurrection, that the viceroy of the two Kouangs

published a decree forbidding the young men of the towns to form

themselves into volunteer corps. In this cunningly-drawn-up document he

thanked them for their zeal, and assured them that the imperial troops

amply sufficed to put down the rebellion. The fact was, experience had

taught him, that, as soon as the volunteers were put under the command

of a military mandarin, and taken into the field, they deserted to the

enemy. Their aid would have been welcome, could it have been relied

upon; for, at the very time the decree was issued, the imperialists were

enduring daily defeats, whilst the insurgents, who everywhere

appropriated public money, but respected private property, daily

acquired fresh partisans.

In the month of September 1852, Tièn-tè, with all his court, and with

his body-guard, which never quits him, took up his quarters at a town

within a few leagues of the wily and prudent Viceroy Siu. This personage

is the most amusing of all the strange characters we meet with in Dr

Yvan’s pages. Crafty, cowardly, and particularly careful of his person,

he is a type of the Chinese, as Europeans understand that nation, of

which, however, Dr Yvan leads us to believe that we have but an

imperfect notion. A short time before he found himself in the perilous

proximity of the insurgent leader, Siu had been at his old tricks,

trying to impose upon his countrymen. Having caught a petty chief of the

rebels, he ticketed him Tièn-tè, and sent him to Pekin in an iron cage.

The official gazette published the capital sentence pronounced upon him,

which, according to Chinese custom, was preceded by the criminal’s

confession. This was a long document, drawn up, doubtless, by some Pekin

man of letters, in which the spurious Tièn-tè acknowledged his

delinquencies, and attributed the insurrection especially to a secret

society founded by Gutzlaff, the Chang-Ti, or Protestant. Here was

evident the perfidious intention of the exclusionist party to bring the

Christians into discredit. The execution of the sham Tièn-tè was still

the leading topic of discussion at Pekin, when news came that the real

pretender was still alive and active in the mountains of Kouang-Si,

whence he exercised his occult influence, and observed the progress of

the revolt. When his pretended captor, Siu, found himself in his

immediate vicinity, he made no attempt to capture him in reality; and

soon afterwards (in January of the present year) that officer fell into

disgrace with his sovereign, owing to the disasters that occurred under

his government. He was deprived of his vice-royalty, and of his

peacock’s feather with two eyes. Shortly after the appearance of this

decree in the _Pekin Gazette_, a melancholy report was circulated at

Canton; Siu, it was affirmed, driven to despair by his disgrace, had

poisoned himself. When the circumstances of the act came to be known,

the minds of his anxious friends were considerably relieved. He had

poisoned himself with gold leaf.

“The science of toxicology is about on a par, in China, with the

military knowledge of the generals of the imperial army. When a great

personage wishes to put himself to death, he takes an ounce of gold

leaf, rolls it into a ball, and swallows the valuable pill. According to

the physiologists of the Celestial Empire, these balls, once in the

stomach, unroll themselves, and adhere to the whole interior of the

organ, like paper on a wall. The stomach, thus gilt, ceases to act, and

the unhappy mandarin dies suffocated, after a few hours’ somnolency—a

mode of suicide which we recommend to despairing sybarites.”

The year 1852 closed as disastrously as it had begun. Throughout its

whole course, the imperialists—or, to speak more correctly, the troops

of the Tartar dynasty, since there are now two emperors in the field—had

been invariably worsted, and the insurrection had spread far and wide.

Stringent measures were adopted by Hièn-foung; his generals were warned

that defeat would be promptly followed by their degradation, and even by

the loss of their heads: Victory or Death was the motto they literally

and compulsorily assumed. Another evil was soon added to the many that

assailed the young emperor. The imperial finances were exhausted; the

Celestial Chancellor of the Exchequer declared his penury, and denounced

the mandarins who nominally commanded in the insurgent provinces. They

would render no account of their stewardship; not a copper was to be got

from them—that was hardly to be expected—but they sent in fabulous

“states” of the troops under their command, and demanded enormous sums

wherewith to carry on the war. In this emergency, the means proposed,

and those resorted to, to raise the wind, transcend belief. No desperate

prodigal, reckless of reputation, ever adopted more shameless expedients

to replenish his purse. A mandarin proposed an opium monopoly. A similar

proposal, under the reign of Tao-Kouang, cost a minister his place, and

was near costing him his life. Times are changed; Hièn-foung, less

scrupulous, and notwithstanding his aversion to opium-smokers, was

giving to the project, at the date of the last advices, his serious

consideration. Meanwhile, the official newspaper published (12th

November 1852) a document, comprising twenty-three articles, in which

everything was put up for sale—titles, judgeships, peacocks’ feathers,

mandarins’ buttons, exemptions from service, promotions in the army. In

this publication, a casual reference being made to the English, they

were still treated as barbarians; but, five months later (on the 16th

March last), when the insurgents were before Nankin, and likely soon to

be within it, Celestial pride was so far humbled that we find the

authorities earnestly and respectfully supplicating Christian succour,

in a circular addressed to all the representatives of civilised nations,

resident in those Chinese ports open to European commerce, and

especially to the consuls of Great Britain and the United States. For

“barbarians” was now substituted “your great and honourable nation.” To

such an extent are carried Chinese vanity and conceit, that, Dr Yvan

assures us, if the demand for aid were complied with by the English and

American plenipotentiaries, the Son of Heaven would instantly persuade

himself that those Western people rank amongst his tributaries, and

would very probably issue a proclamation announcing that his troops had

subdued the rebels, aided by nations who had lately made their

submission, and who had conducted themselves faithfully in those

circumstances.

Meanwhile, the insurgents employed much more straightforward and

satisfactory means of filling their treasury than those resorted to in

extremity of distress by the Mantchou emperor. In the month of February

last they captured Ou-Tchang-Fou, a rich city of four hundred thousand

inhabitants, the capital of the province of Hou-Pé. A friend of MM. Yvan

and Callery, an intrepid traveller, gave them a glowing description of

this city, situated upon the right bank of the Yang-Tze-Kiang, or Son of

the Ocean—an enormous river, in whose waters porpoises disport

themselves as in the open sea, and which allows the ascent of ships of

the largest burthen. Five or six thousand (and Dr Yvan’s friend

expressly disclaims exaggeration) are the number of the junks usually at

anchor before Ou-Tchang. The person referred to saw upwards of a

thousand laden with salt alone, and the town is an immense depot of

China produce and of European and American manufactures. Chinese junks

are the noisiest vessels that float; their crews are continually beating

gongs and letting off fireworks. The quiet of Ou-Tchang may be imagined.

It was on the occasion of the capture of this wealthy and important city

that poor Siu was deprived of his peacock’s feather and driven to

internal gilding. “The troubles of the south,” said the emperor in his

proclamation, “leave us no rest by night, and take away our appetite.”

The fourteenth chapter of _L’Insurrection en Chine_ is chiefly occupied

by a description of the five feudatory kings appointed by Tièn-tè (one

of whom takes the title of the Great Pacificator, whilst the four others

are known as Kings of the North, South, East, and West), of the

Pretender’s ministers, of the dress and official insignia of the various

dignitaries, and of the organisation of the insurgent army, which is

regular and perfect. It also comprises a proclamation, exhorting the

people to rise in arms against their tyrannical government, and whose

exalted and metaphorical style may be judged of by a single short

extract. “How is it that you, Tartars, do not yet understand that it is

time to gather up your scattered bones, and to light slices of bacon to

serve as signals to your terror?” Notwithstanding such eccentricities of

expression, which may possibly be heightened by extreme literalness of

translation, the document has its importance, especially by reason of a

tendency to Christianity traced by MM. Callery and Yvan in the

commencement of one of its paragraphs. “We adore respectfully the

Supreme Lord,” says Tièn-tè, “in order to obtain His protection for the

people.” The descendant of the Mings was now in full march for the city

which, under the ancient dynasty he assumes to represent, and proposes

to restore, was the capital of all China. With a formidable fleet and an

army of fifty thousand men, the five kings appeared before Nankin.

“This city, which contains more than half a million of inhabitants, has

thrice the circumference of Paris; but amidst its deserted streets are

found large spaces turned up by the plough, and the grass grows upon the

quays, to which a triple line of shipping was formerly moored. It is

situated in an immense plain, furrowed by canals as numerous as those

which traverse the human body. Its fertile district is a net-work of

rivulets and of navigable water-courses, fringed with willows and

bamboos. In the province of Nankin grows the yellowish cotton from which

is made the cloth exported thence in enormous quantities; there also is

reaped the greater part of all the rice consumed in the empire. The

Kiang-Nan, or province of Nankin, is the richest gem in the diadem of

the Son of Heaven. Nothing in old Europe can give an idea of its

fruitfulness—neither the plains of Beauce, nor those of Lombardy, nor

even opulent Flanders. Twice a-year its fields are covered with crops,

and they yield fruit and vegetables uninterruptedly.... We have had the

happiness to sit in the shadow of the orchards which fringe the

Ou-Soung, one of the numerous veins that fertilise the province of

Kiang-Nan. There we have gathered with our own hands the fleshy jujube,

which travellers have often mistaken for the date; the pomegranate, with

its transparent grains; monstrous peaches, beside which the finest

produced at Montreuil seem but wild fruit, and the diospyros as large as

a tomata. We have seen the scarlet pheasant and his brother of the

pearl-tinted plumage running in the fields. This province contains

thirty-eight millions of inhabitants.

“To a Chinese nothing is beautiful, good, graceful, elegant, or

tasteful, but what comes from Nankin or from Sou-Tcheou-Fou. Wedded to

routine, we have but one city which sets the fashions; the Chinese have

two. The fashionables of the Celestial Empire are divided into two

schools, one of which holds by Nankin, the other by Sou-Tcheou-Fou. It

is still doubtful which of the two will carry the day. As to Pekin, the

centre of government, it has no weight in matters of pleasure and taste;

it has the monopoly of ennui. In Nankin reside the men of letters and

learning, the dancers, painters, archæologists, jugglers, physicians,

poets, and celebrated courtesans. In that charming city are held schools

of science, art, and pleasure; for pleasure is, in that country, both an

art and a science.”

With this interesting extract we shall conclude our article, after

quoting a significant passage from a short proclamation which Tièn-tè’s

agents have lately circulated:

“As to those stupid priests of Bouddha, and those jugglers of Tao-se,”

it says, “they shall all be repressed, and their temples and their

monasteries shall be demolished, as well as those of all the other

corrupt sects.”

MM. Callery and Yvan anxiously speculate as to who are designated by the

words _other corrupt sects_. Was the proclamation drawn up by a disciple

of Confucius, or by a member of Gutzlaff’s Chinese Union? They admit

that for the present it is impossible to answer the question.

But Tièn-tè’s banner waves over Nankin, and the riddle may soon be

solved.

LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.

PART VIII.—CHAPTER XXXVII.

Between the village of Lanscote and the Heronry a side-road branched

off, leading also to Doddington. At their junction the two roads bounded

an abrupt rocky chasm, containing a black gloomy pool of unknown depth;

known to the neighbourhood as the Mine Pool. A speculator had dug it

many years before, in expectation of being richly rewarded by the

mineral treasures supposed to exist there, and had continued the

enterprise till the miners reached a great depth, when the water rose

too rapidly to be kept under, and the work was abandoned. A few low

bushes fringed the edge of it, besides which a dilapidated railing

fenced it from the road. It formed a grim feature as it appeared

unexpectedly yawning beside the green and flowery lane, and suggested

ideas altogether incongruous with the smiling, peaceful character of the

surrounding landscape.

On the morning after Bagot’s interview with Mr Holmes, as related in the

last chapter, Fillett and Julius were coming down the lane towards

Lanscote. They were often sent out for a morning walk, and had been

easily induced to choose this road by the Colonel, who had promised

Julius a ride on the front of his saddle if he would come towards the

village.

In these walks Julius was accustomed to impart, for the benefit of

Kitty, most of the information collected from his various instructors.

He would tell her of distant countries which his mamma had described to

him—of pictures of foreign people and animals drawn for him by Orelia—of

fairy tales told him by Rosa—of scraps of botanical rudiments

communicated to him by the Curate. And being a sharp-witted little

fellow, with a wonderful memory, he seldom failed to command Kitty’s

admiration and applause. There were few branches of natural or

metaphysical science which he had not treated of in this way. He had

explained to her all about thunderbolts—he had destroyed for ever her

faith in will-o’-the-wisps, leaving instead a mere matter-of-fact,

uninteresting _ignis fatuus_—he had sounded her belief in witchcraft—he

had put questions respecting the nature and habits of ghosts which she

was wholly unable to solve: “Bless the child,” Kitty would say, “it’s as

good as a play to hear him.”

Julius, hovering round Kitty, and chatting with her, frequently looked

anxiously about to see if his Uncle Bag were coming, that he might claim

the promised ride. When they arrived near the Mine Pool, down into the

depths of which he was fond of gazing with a child’s awe, the Colonel

suddenly met them coming on horseback up the road. Julius, clamorous to

be lifted up, ran towards him; but Bagot called out that he was riding

home for something he had forgotten, and would speedily overtake him. He

passed them, and trotted on to where the road made a bend. There he

suddenly pulled up, and called to Kitty to leave the boy for a minute

and come up—that he wanted to speak to her.

Fillett obeyed, tripped up to the horse’s side, and walked beside the

Colonel, who proceeded onward at a slow pace, talking of the old affair

of Dubbley and her ladyship, and pretending to have some fresh matter of

the kind in his head. Kitty noticed that his manner was odd and nervous,

and his language incoherent, and before she could at all clearly

perceive what it was he wanted to tell her, he released her and trotted

onward to the Heronry, while she hastened to rejoin her young charge.

Julius was not in the spot where she had left him, and Fillett ran

breathlessly down the road, calling him by name. Reaching a point where

she could see a long way down the path, and finding he was not in sight,

she retraced her steps, alternately calling him aloud and muttering to

herself what a plaguey child he was. She looked behind every bush as she

came along, and on again reaching the Mine Pool looked anxiously over

the fence. Some object hung in the bushes a few yards from where she

stood, just below a broken part of the fence; she hastened to the spot

and looked down—it was Juley’s hat.

Clasping her hands together with a loud shriek, poor Kitty’s eyes

wandered round in every direction in search of some gleam of comfort;—in

search of some one to help her, under the burden of this terrible

discovery. No one was in sight; only she saw a yellow caravan going up

the other road to Doddington, at a quarter of a mile off. She would have

run after it shrieking to the driver to stop; but her limbs and voice

alike failed her, and poor Kitty sunk down moaning on the ground. “What

shall I say to my lady?” gasped Fillett.

Lady Lee was sitting in the library dressed for a walk, and waiting for

her two friends who were getting ready to accompany her, when she heard

a great commotion in the servants’ hall and rung the bell to ask the

reason. It was slowly answered by a footman, who entered with a

perturbed aspect, and said the noise was caused by Fillett, who was in

hysterics. Lady Lee asked what had caused her disorder, but the man

looked confused, and stammered in his reply. Before she could make any

further inquiries, Fillett herself rushed frantically into the room, and

threw herself down before Lady Lee. “O, my lady, my lady!” sobbed

Fillett.

“What ails the girl?” asked Lady Lee, looking down at her with an

astonished air.

Fillett tried to answer, but nothing was distinguishable except that

“indeed it wasn’t her fault.” At this moment a whispering at the door

caused Lady Lee to look up, and she saw that the servants were gathered

there, peering fearfully in. Rising up she grasped Kitty’s shoulder, and

shook her, faltering out, “Speak, girl!”

Fillett seized her mistress’s dress, and again tried to tell her tale.

In the midst of her sobs and exclamations, the words “Master Juley,” and

“the Mine Pool,” alone were heard; but thus coupled they were enough.

Kitty, not daring to look up, fancied she felt her ladyship pulling away

her dress from her grasp, and clutched it more firmly. At the same

moment there was a rush of servants from the door—the dress that Fillett

held gave way with a loud rending—and Lady Lee fell senseless to the

ground.