A few Words to Boys who want to go to Sea--Characteristics--Talk
about Books--Swallowing a Johnson--Sneaking from Church--Seamen’s
Prayer--Disreputable Officers--The Servants not the Service--Man
the Ropes--The Lieutenant’s Dog--Craft on the Creeks--The
Tax-boat--Canoes and Capers--Rambles in Canton--Deities for
Sale--False Tails--Street Gamblers--A Sing-song--The Temple of Five
Hundred Gods--The City Wall and Scenes beheld therefrom--French
Head-quarters--Yeh’s Park--A threatened Flogging--Our Chaplain.
Some of my young readers may now be ready to exclaim, Why! you are only
a fresh-water sailor. There’s nothing in your book about shipwrecks
and terrible storms. Have patience, boys, it is not my fault that the
_Highflyer_ was kept for three years in fresh-water idleness; and
perhaps if we had been wrecked you would not have had this book to
read. I have told you how we visited some wrecks, and of an escape
that we had; and of the hurricane of battle, which was a great deal
more terrible than the hurricane we fell in with on our voyage home, of
which you will have notice by-and-by.
Meanwhile, let me say a few words to young fellows who think they would
like to go to sea. It is not always fine weather there any more than it
is anywhere else; and as for seeing the world, it amounts for the most
part to seeing a surprising quantity of water. Seamen don’t have leave
to go and ramble about every bit of land they touch at. And then, as to
the romance of being a sailor: whatever one who lives on land may think
of the comforts, conveniences, and freedom of a sailor’s life, he will
find himself greatly adrift should he come to prove them in reality.
In fine weather and with favourable breezes, a sailor’s life is jolly
enough, but reverse the scene and how different it becomes! In a gale
and during a dark night-watch, the various duties which Jack has to
perform assume a comfortless, harassing, and dangerous character.
Turned suddenly out of his warm hammock, he is sent aloft to reef
topsails, aft to the wheel, or is at once shoved into the chains to
heave the warning lead. Going below after the watch has expired, he
finds he cannot get his bag to procure dry clothes, and is not allowed
to hang up his wet ones; so, weary and dispirited, he throws himself
into his hammock, only to be roused out again as occasion requires.
And yet, despite all this, Jack does his work cheerfully and manfully,
and amid all his perils would not change his existence for a better
one. He is full of generosity; but the long confinement and restraint
on board ship make him when ashore full to overflowing with joyous
spirits; hence he commits excesses and abuses which in his calmer
moments he would be ashamed of. He must buy everything which takes his
fancy, however useless it may be. After all his money is gone, if he
doesn’t break his leave, he comes aboard and tells his messmates he has
had a slashing cruise; only he would have liked more dollars. Drink
is his realisation of happiness, at least, it is with the generality.
Lucong was to many a beautiful place, and why? Because there they
could go ashore, get plenty of that horrid samshu for a mere nothing,
and when riotous and drunken were just in their element. What to
them was the inviting landscape, the blue hazy hills, or the sweet
unknown plants and flowers, so long as they could obtain that curse of
seamen--grog.
Religion has but little value in Jack’s estimation, the loose oath
or the careless jest is generally upon his lips: he says, himself,
“Religion isn’t for the likes of us who never think about it;” yet they
are susceptible of religious emotion, as I have often seen. I have
generally noticed that if a man be seriously disposed and quiet, the
majority of his shipmates respect him. But sometimes he is tormented;
if he sits down often to read, he must make up his mind to be addressed
thus, as I was sometimes: “Ah, John, them books’ll drive you crazy some
day, and then what will you do?” “Charlie, old fellow, I can’t say that
I agree with you; have not books made some of our greatest men? Do not
authors and poets live on books? For what were books made, to look at
and not to study?” “Oh yes, that’s all very fine talk, but you don’t
think them books’ll do you any good, and that you’re a-going to better
yourself.” “Yes, indeed I do; and if not, why my present study keeps
away the devil, and makes me feel contented.” “Ah,” rejoins the wise
Charlie, “it’s a pity you hadn’t a been a parson, John, the navy ain’t
no place for you.” And I must do the careless ones the justice to say
that they make a show of respect for a shipmate who has made good use
of his time at school. “He has swallowed a Johnson,” they say, or “He’s
got a mortal long headpiece.”
On Sundays their behaviour corresponds with what I have said of
religion; so that the Church-service seemed to me like an ungodly
mockery. The men have to be driven aft almost forcibly, and when aft,
as soon as the service begins, down they go on all fours and shin away
forward to get a basin of tea, or a game at cards, or perhaps it may
be to hear a messmate read a chapter out of some interesting book.
Those who are left behind are pretty attentive, and the singing adds
to the attraction. Ships’ boys and the schoolmaster generally answer
the responses; the rest of the people are at liberty to join in if they
please. I have often thought to myself that the only really earnest and
devout man present was the chaplain. I may be mistaken, but godliness
is a rare article in a man-of-war. There the universal prayer is:
“From rocks and sands and barren lands,
Good Lord deliver us.”
But with all his faults a sailor is a man and a fellow-being. Natural
darkness is not lasting; neither is the moral darkness of all sailors.
There are many officers, too, who, so far as vice and bad habits are
concerned, often outdo the fore-mast man. Some of them come to sea for
honour, as they term it; and after remaining sufficiently long in the
service for his captain and companions to find out he is a fool and a
bore, quits it, as he says, with ‘disgust;’ so that there is a great
deal of truth in the sailor’s adage: “It ain’t the service, that’s well
enough, ’tis them that’s in it.”
We had a clever third-luff, who, upon the ship being caught in a
squall one dark night, sung out frantically, “Man the ropes, men! man
the ropes!” instead of giving orders what to do. This same luff had
a dog, too, an unhappy looking cur, something of a cross, as the men
used to say, between a bull-dog and a window-shutter; nevertheless, he
was attached to the animal. The men knew of his partiality, so in the
night-watches they would lie down to nap in the gangway, taking the
dog with them; the animal being very glad to nestle under their lee
from the cold. This made his master’s heart warm towards the men, and
he would send for a bottle of grog and give them “for being good to
Ponto.” The bottle did not last long among many, and as soon as it was
gone, the wretched Ponto would be saluted with divers kicks and thumps
in the ribs, making him sing out dismally, ‘pen and ink,’ and cut his
lucky; while his master declared they were bad men to hurt “poor dear
Ponto.”
Now after this long yarn we’ll have a look at the river. Our ship is
surrounded by numerous sanpans, which, however, lie off at a respectful
distance, for if they come near their owners get pelted with bits of
the holystone that we scrub our decks with. There they lie, jabbering
to one another, and on the look-out for a chance job, and furnishing us
with something to talk about.
Numerous creeks run away inland from the river, and along these may be
seen, sailing or sculling, large trading junks and smaller craft, their
brown curiously cut sails seeming to glide along the top of the flat
fields which skirt the edge of the creek. Some of them that carry a few
guns have an ugly, suspicious look, and should you doubt their honesty,
one glance at the thievish-looking crew will settle the question. They
are opium smugglers for the towns and villages along the creeks, and
are, besides, not at all unwilling to plunder villages when opportunity
offers, or to cruise as pirates on a pinch.
Now from behind yonder point shoots out a row-boat bearing the Imperial
flag; how she glides along, and well she may, for twenty-eight oars on
each side make her walk amazingly fast. Most of her crew look well-fed
and sleek, as though the collection of state revenues were pleasant
work.
Presently a junk comes in sight, amid noise and confusion. She has many
rowers, and her light cotton sails might be taken for great handbills,
for they are covered with writing in the native character. That is
the Imperial tax-boat, taking her rounds to gather in the revenue. No
wonder there is such a hubbub from the fleet of sanpans that follow in
her wake.
One day, about the latter end of July, a great many long and
gaudily-painted canoes, decorated with flags and banners, and moved
by about thirty paddles on each side, passed up and down the river
opposite the town. In the middle of each canoe was a monster drum,
which two Celestial drummers beat with a vengeance. “Why don’t ye hit
a little harder, old fellow?” sung out one of our mess. “You call that
tum-tum, do ye?” After a bit we noticed that the paddlers kept time
to the beating of the drums, while a showily-dressed fellow, posted
beneath each of the standards, jumped up two or three feet at every
stroke of the drumsticks. Up and down, up and down, they all kept
on, as if they were moved by springs, or had the spirit of dancing
dervishes; and all the time the hot sun was beating down upon their
uncovered heads. Some of these canoes were superior to the rest, having
carved figure-heads, and covered sterns; being, as our joker said,
“Titivated off to the nines.” When this squadron arrived at the end
of the town, the rowers, instead of turning the boats round, turned
themselves round. I was afterwards told that this was a part of certain
ceremonies performed during the Feast of Dragons. To us it was quite a
novel sight, and one of the prettiest we had seen in China.
The main excitement we got about this time was having occasionally to
pull some of our officers up to Canton; a trip for which volunteers
were always ready, for we got leave to roam about and see sights, a
liberty not allowed at the time when we helped to take the city. In my
first good uninterrupted stroll in the city I went along the street of
Benevolence and Love, or “Ill-will and stink,” as old Archie said it
“had ought to be called.” It was thronged with natives of all classes:
grandees and coolies, and clerks with a business air about them, and
an inkhorn stuck in their girdle; and such a lot of lazy, loaf-about
fellows, who apparently would sooner live by their wits than their
work: bold, bad men, sallow and unhealthy-looking from the effects of
opium, and who always endeavour to stare you out of countenance.
Turning suddenly round an angle of the street, we came upon a
manufacturer of gods--strange as it may sound, it was so. With a small
quantity of clay and putty, or chunam, and a few pots of red, blue, or
some other attractive colour, we saw him making little deities for the
curious and eager people around him. Another thing that surprised us
was to see among the paints and perfumes a barber’s shop, and a number
of false tails hung up for sale to Canton coxcombs. Well, if women wear
false curls, why should not puppies wear false tails?
I had heard often that the Chinamen were fond of gambling, but had
never seen them at play, until in one of my rambles on a wet day I
saw a party under a rude shed rattling dice in a basin and throwing
three times in succession, and then counting gains or losses. Three
out of the five men were soon stumped, and away they went, with vexed
and sheepish looks, to raise the wind for another attempt; their two
comrades meanwhile playing away as hard as ever. Soon one of these lost
his all, and began gazing rather mournfully into the watery sky; when,
taking compassion upon him, I gave him a few cash which I had about
me; not from any approval of his gambling propensities, but a curious
desire to see if he would put the unexpected supply to a better use;
but I had not time to wait and see.
One day I went to look at a ‘sing-song,’ as the Chinese call a
singing-house. It was a huge boat, with a long room built on the
deck, displaying specimens of good carving, and decorated with large
mirrors and brilliant hanging lamps. The musicians sat on each side of
this room with their various instruments, and a gay company of young
painted females, who accompany the music with their voices, in a harsh,
screeching tone, which made Jem say, “His poor old mother’s Tom cat ’ud
do it better nor that.”
After the concert comes a repast of sweetmeats for the singers, and tea
without milk or sugar was given to the audience in tiny china cups, for
one cash: about the twentieth part of a penny. After this the row went
on again, with but little variation, till we got tired and went away. I
was told, however, that they break up somewhere about cock-crow.
One day a party in which I was included had a week’s liberty, and went
up to the city. We lodged while there at naval head-quarters, a house
near the river, with rooms for the senior naval officers, and a large
room for the seamen attached; the ground before it sloped down to the
water, and a pleasant old willow overshadowed the door; and on a little
pier leading from the captain’s quarters was a flagstaff, on which the
Union Jack was hoisted every morning.
I took the opportunity to call on Mr. M’Clintock, the
commissary-general, who had brought me out a book from home, to express
my thanks for the favour. He was lounging in his bamboo chair (it
was early in the afternoon). He looked hard at me upon my entrance;
but when I told him my name, he expressed himself glad to see me.
“It was such a trifling thing he did for me,” he said, “not worth
mentioning--he would be glad to do it again. Had I been in England he
would have recommended me to his brother, Captain M’Clintock; but if
he saw a good thing before our ship left the station he would remember
me.” He then said good-bye. But the good thing did not turn up, for I
heard from him no more.
I and another went to see the Temple of the Five Hundred Gods, situate
in the north-west quarter of the city. After a walk of about four miles
we arrived at the temple, a huge square building, gloomy-looking and
forbidding. Many priests, with shaven crowns and clad in long black
robes, were flitting about the entrance; they appeared very willing to
show us the curiosities of their temple. The interior is lofty, and
about two hundred feet square, looking more like a prison than a place
of reverence. Platforms are ranged about the floor, on which the gods
stand close together. We wondered if they felt uncomfortable in hot
weather. They are about half the size of life, many of them of horrible
shapes, some having half a dozen arms, three or four legs, three heads:
all as ugly as possible. Most of them represent the male sex, but there
were one or two solitary females, gorgeously gilt, whose features and
form were less unnatural than those of their male companions. One of
these fellows was a hideous monster of a blubberly figure, with great
folds of fat hanging from his breast and cheeks. His name is Chong,
and, as we were told, he watches over the happiness of young maidens.
What English girl would face such a frightful god as that! We saw,
however, a great many Canton lasses who had evidently come to have a
look at their ugly protector.
The wall of Canton is worthy of notice, and it is possible to have
a ramble on the top of it. I got up very early one morning, before
sunrise, on purpose to go this journey. About the east gate the wall is
broad and firm, and from between the rows of embrasures you get a good
view of the plain of Canton and the country round about. That red brick
building with the glazed tiles, and with two scathed and withered trees
growing over it, is the building used for a magazine when we captured
the city, and which blew up by some accident as our blue-jackets were
clearing it of the jars of powder and pitching them into the ponds.
Groups of green trees something like willows, groves of orange-trees
and mandarins’ houses on little eminences, and lonely little ferries
across the creeks, are here the features without the wall. Looking from
the heights near the north gate, you see the city lies like a huge
village beneath. The houses are mostly low--about two stories--but,
contrasted with the look of an English city, they appear like wretched
huts: no glass windows, no ornamental glass work, chimney-pots,
trellis-work, water-spouts, are visible. As their fires are generally
made from charcoal, there was not a dim pall of smoke over the city,
but a misty haze, as is generally seen over big towns that don’t burn
coal. The only buildings which catch the eye and relieve the general
monotony are one or two lofty pagodas and the glazed tiles of the
turned-up and highly ornamental temples. You see more of the country,
too, here, and miles of tea plantations, which give the appearance of a
garden.
On coming to the north-east gate, I observed, at one of the angles,
marks of the effect of our shot and shell of three years ago.
The eastern suburbs, or ‘subrubs,’ as the Highflyers would say,
attracted a good share of my attention, and I stood for some time
looking down into the narrow street, just opposite a tea-shop, in which
were ranged enormous canisters of the plant, and large porcelain basins
heaped up with the different samples. The shop, even at that early
hour, was full, and I could hear the clink of money, the rustling of
the crisp, dry tea, and voices in compliment or bargain, from my high
station. I passed the north-east gate, going on towards the north,
when I observed beneath me, without the wall, a small plot of ground,
which I at first sight took to be a garden; but the low hillocks and
headstones, telling of frail mortality, soon undeceived me. It was
the Christian burial-ground, and it seemed like an oasis in the pagan
land. Many a poor fellow-countryman, I thought, as I looked at it, lies
here, whether sped to his last home by the musket-ball or a victim to
the climate. Soon after I got to the north gate, at the foot of the
heights. Here the road had been partially rebuilt by us. The heights
are like a slope, with shady trees and houses.
To reach the west gate I had to pass through the court-yard of the
pagoda of the French head-quarters. On each side of the entrance to the
building stands a lion, well carved in stone, of ancient workmanship.
All was quiet as I thus stood for a minute, looking about, for our
French neighbours were not yet up. There was only a solitary seaman
sentry to be seen at the entrance; so, helping myself to a draught of
their wine-and-water, which stood ready for use in the court-yard, away
I went, and got back to our quarters in time for breakfast.
Having heard by report a great deal about Yeh’s park, I went a day
or two after to see it. One would smile at the name applied to such
a thing in England. Badly-kept shrubs skirt its straggling pathways;
an imperfect fishpond, its waters polluted and stinking, occupies
the centre. Picture the remainder as about two and a half acres of
scurvy-looking grass, growing in sub-divisions, cropped by sundry
scraggy-looking ponies belonging to anybody, and a small herd of meagre
white-spotted deer, and you have the park. I noticed some of our shot
and missiles lying in the neglected place.
Soon after our return on board an incident occurred which gave us
another touch of our new captain’s character. One of the marines, a
sickly man, had given some offence--I forget what--and the captain said
he would flog him, and turned the hands up to hear the warrant read.
Well, it was read by him very angrily, and the poor fellow was being
taken below to be kept in irons till the next day, when the doctor
interposed: “Sir,” said he, touching his cap, “that man is not capable
of bearing corporal punishment; he is on the sick list.” “Are you quite
certain he can’t bear it, doctor?” “Quite, Sir.” “Oh! Yes. Well,” says
the captain, turning to the culprit, “it’s a good thing you are sick;
but, mark you! I _will_ flog you, as sure as my name’s ------; if I
wait till doomsday you shall have it. Pipe down, boatswain’s mate.
Doctor, report to me when he _is_ well enough; bear it in mind.”
“There’s a little bantam-cock for you,” said some of our men, as we
went forward again. “Now, ain’t ye sorry old daddy S---- left ye?” “Pay
her off,” rejoined others, “it’s near time; if we lives together much
longer, we’ll be eating one another up.”
After all, the monotony wearied me less than the others; for it was
while lying off Whampoa that I had the privilege to become acquainted
with our chaplain. It came about in this way: I had asked the ship’s
schoolmaster if he knew of a Homer’s Iliad that could be borrowed, and
he, not knowing, inquired of the chaplain, who sent me a summons to his
cabin. He asked me many questions, particularly as to my occupation
before taking to the sea. “Whatever could have possessed you?” he
said; “surely you do not mean to continue a sailor?” I answered that
I bitterly repented, and that if ever I got home again I’d try for my
discharge. After a little more talk he showed me a Homer, which was
truly all Greek to me, and advised me when I wanted anything to apply
to him; he would lend any of his books, and always be glad to tell me
anything. A short time afterwards I told him I had been trying to work
out a problem or two in navigation. He asked to see them, and so began
a course of kind teachings, which continued for many months. I used to
do two or three problems and then go and show them to him. He would
correct them or point out mistakes, and give me something more to go on
with, and finish off with a few good and kindly words and his pleasant
smile. He was much gratified when I added trigonometry to my lesson;
and when, some weeks later, I showed him my first ‘day’s work’ as the
fruit of his instruction, he spoke words of encouragement which I shall
never forget.