An effort is being made by a band of British philanthropists, of which
the Rev. Mr. Turner is secretary, to put down, if not the opium traffic,
at any rate that part of it which is covered by the British flag. Opium
is to the Chinese what the quid is to the British tar, or the gin-bottle
to the London charwoman. But in reality, as I firmly believe, for the
purpose of opening the door to all sorts of bribery and corruption, the
traffic is prohibited as much as possible by the Chinese Government, for
the ostensible object of preserving the health and morals of the people.
This task is a very difficult one. A paternal Government is always in
difficulties, and once we Christian people of England have gone to war
with the Chinese in order to make them take our Indian-grown opium—a
manufacture in which a large capital is invested, and the duty of which
yields the British Government in India a magnificent revenue. It is a
question for the moralist to decide how far a Government is justified in
saying to a people: “We know so and so is bad, but as you will use it,
you may as well pay a heavy tax on its use.” That is the practical way
in which statesmen look at it, and of course there is a good deal to be
said for that view. But it is not pleasant to feel that money, even if
it be used for State purposes, is made in a dirty manner; though I have
been in countries where the minister of the religion of holiness and
purity is content to take a part of his living from the brothel-keeper
and the prostitute. Evidently there are many men as ready to take the
devil’s money as was Rowland Hill to accept the Bible at his hands.
But I am touching on questions not to be settled in the twinkling of an
eye, or by a phrase or two in print. Perhaps I may best serve the cause
of humanity if, instead of saying what I think and feel, I merely content
myself with describing what I saw in the East-End of London, one Saturday
night, in this year of grace one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five.
Have my readers ever been in Bluegate Fields, somewhere down Ratcliffe
Highway? The glory of the place is departed. I am writing _more
Americano_, where the wickedest man in the town is always regarded as a
hero. The City missionary and the East London Railway between them have
reformed the place. To the outward eye it is a waste howling spot, but
it is a garden of Eden to what it was when a policeman dared not go by
himself into its courts, and when respectability, if it ever strayed into
that filthy quarter, generally emerged from it minus its watch and coat,
and with a skull more or less cracked, and with a face more or less
bloody.
“Thanks to you,” said a surgeon to a City missionary who has been
labouring in the spot some sixteen years, and is now recognised as a
friend wherever he goes, “thanks to you,” said the surgeon, “I can now
walk along the place alone, and in safety, a thing I never expected to
do;” and I believe that the testimony is true, and that it is in such
districts the labours of the City missionary are simply invaluable. Down
in those parts what we call the Gospel has very little power. It is a
thing quite outside the mass. There are chapels and churches, it is
true, but the people don’t go into them. I pass a great Wesleyan I
chapel. “How is it attended?” I ask; and the answer is: “Very badly
indeed.” I hear that the nearest Independent chapel is turned into a
School Board school; and there is Rehoboth,—I need not say it is a hyper
place of worship, and was, when Bluegate Fields was a teeming mass of
godless men and women, only attended by some dozen or so of the elect,
who prayed their prayers, and read their Bible, and listened to their
parsons with sublime indifference to the fact that there at their very
door, under their very eyes, within reach of their very hands, were souls
to be saved, and brands to be snatched from the burning, and jewels to be
won for the Redeemer’s crown. I can only hear of one preacher in this
part who is really getting the people to hear him, and he is the Rev.
Harry Jones, who deserves to be made a bishop, and who would be, if the
Church of England was wise and knew its dangers, and was careful to avert
the impending storm, which I, though I may not live to see the day, know
to be near. But let us pass, on leaving Rehoboth, a black and ugly
carcass, on the point of being pulled down by the navvy. I turn into a
little court on my right, one of the very few the railway has spared for
the present. It may be there are some dozen houses in the court. The
population is, I should certainly imagine, quite up to the accommodation
of the place. Indeed, if I might venture to make a remark, it would be
to the effect that a little more elbow-room would be of great advantage
to all. From every door across the court are ropes, and on these ropes
the blankets and sheets and family linen are hanging up to dry. These I
have to duck under as I walk along; but the people are all civil, though
my appearance makes them stare, and all give a friendly and respectful
greeting to the City missionary by my side.
All at once my conductor disappears in a little door, and I follow,
walking, on this particular occasion, by faith, and not by sight; for the
passage was dark, and I knew not my way. I climb up a flight of stairs,
and find myself in a little crib—it would be an abuse of terms to call it
a room. It is just about my height, and I fancy it is a great deal
darker and dingier than the room in which a first-class misdemeanant like
Colonel Baker was confined. The place is full of smoke. It is not at
first that I take in its contents. As I stand by the door, there are two
beds of an ancient character; between these beds is a very narrow
passage, and it is in this passage I recognise the master of the house—a
black-eyed, cheerful Chinaman, who has become so far naturalised amongst
us as to do us the honour of taking the truly British name of Johnson.
Johnson is but thinly clad. I see the perspiration glistening on his
dark and shining skin; but Johnson seems as pleased to see me as if he
had known me fifty years. In time, through the smoke, I see Johnson’s
friends—dark, perspiring figures curled on the beds around, one, for want
of room, squatting, cross-legged, in a corner—each with a tube of the
shape and size of a German flute in his hands. I look at this tube with
some curiosity. In the middle of it is a little bowl. In that little
bowl is the opium, which is placed there as if it were a little bit of
tow dipped in tar, and which is set fire to by being held to the little
lamps, of which there are three or four on the bed or in the room. This
operation performed, the smoker reclines and draws up the smoke, and
looks a very picture of happiness and ease. Of course I imitate the bad
example; I like to do as the Romans do, and Johnson hands me a tube which
I put into my mouth, while, as I hold it to the lamp, he inserts the
heated opium into the bowl; and, as I pull, the thick smoke curls up and
adds to the cloud which makes the room as oppressive as the atmosphere of
a Turkish bath. How the little pig-eyes glisten! and already I feel that
I may say: “Am I not a man and a brother?” The conversation becomes
general. Here we are jolly companions every one. Ching tells me the
Chinese don’t send us the best tea; and grins all across his yellow face
as I say that I know that, but intimate that they make us pay for it as
if they did. Tsing smiles knowingly as I ask him what his wife does when
he is so long away. Then we have a discussion as to the comparative
merits of opium and beer, and my Chinese friends sagely observe that it
is all a matter of taste. “You mans like beer, and we mans in our
country like opium.” All were unanimous in saying that they never had
more than a few whiffs, and all that I could learn of its effects when
taken in excess was that opium sent them off into a stupid sleep. With
the somewhat doubtful confessions of De Quincey and Coleridge in my
memory, I tried to get them to acknowledge sudden impulses, poetic
inspirations, splendid dreams; but of such things these little fellows
had never conceived; the highest eulogium I heard was: “You have
pains—pain in de liver, pain in de head—you smoke—all de pains go.” The
most that I could learn was that opium is an expensive luxury for a poor
man. Three-halfpenny-worth only gives you a few minutes’ smoke, and
these men say they don’t smoke more at a time. Lascar Sall, a rather
disreputable female, well known in the neighbourhood, would, they told
me, smoke five shillings-worth of opium a day. Johnson’s is the
clubhouse of the Chinese. He buys the opium and prepares it for smoking,
and they come and smoke and have a chat, and a cup of tea and a slice of
bread and butter, and go back and sleep on board ship. Their little
smoking seemed to do them no harm. The City missionary says he has never
seen them intoxicated. It made them a little lazy and sleepy—that is
all; but they had done their day’s work, and had earned as much title to
a little indulgence as the teetotaler, who regales himself with coffee;
or the merchant, who smokes his cigar on his pleasant lawn on a summer’s
eve. I own when I left the room I felt a little giddy, that I had to
walk the crowded streets with care; but then I was a novice, and the
effect would not be so great on a second trial. I should have enjoyed a
cup of good coffee after; but that is a blessing to which we in London,
with all our boasted civilisation, have not attained. I frankly avow, as
I walked to the railway station, I almost wished myself back in the opium
den. There I heard no foul language, saw no men and women fighting, no
sots reeling into the gutters, or for safety shored up against the wall.
For it was thus the mob, through which I had to pass, was preparing
itself for the services of the sanctuary, and the rest of the Sabbath.