It is idle to suppose that Bacon received no presents but such as would

be classed under the head of fees or customary donations: there was the

element of _secrecy_ in the transactions which were now brought to

light, and which were to be made the subject of investigation before the

House of Lords. The money was given, it is true, to an officer of the

Court; it was not slipped into the hand, or dropped stealthily into the

sleeve of the judge himself: but the officer of the Court did not talk

about such transactions as these; he had the proper _esprit de corps_,

if he had no other motive for silence. But still there are many cases in

which a custom, acknowledged to be bad and immoral even by those who

fall into it, is yet so prevalent that it seems an injustice to single

out any one individual, and punish it in him; and this seems to be the

position in which Bacon stands. An illustration occurs to us in some of

the vicious customs of trade. The illustration may not be very

dignified, but it is apposite. A little time ago the public was suddenly

made aware of divers impositions that had been long practised on it.

Some articles of commerce were systematically adulterated; others were

sold under false descriptions. Here were reels of cotton warranted to

contain 300 yards, which did not contain say more than 200; and it was

reported at the time (we of course do not vouch for the truth of a

statement which we use only by way of illustration) that respectable

houses of trade gave orders to the manufacturers for reels of cotton

which should be marked as having a greater number of yards than were

actually wound on them. Now let us suppose that a custom of this kind

prevails, and that suddenly one man, and he not the most flagrant

offender, is singled out for punishment. You cannot say the man is

guiltless—he will not say himself that he is guiltless; he never

approved of the custom, though he fell into it; he knew that it could

not bear the light of day; he knew that though his own class did not

condemn the custom, the moral opinion of society at large would

unhesitatingly denounce it. He pleads guilty—as Bacon did—and throws

himself upon the charitable construction of the public. And the public,

if it cannot pardon, will not be disposed to punish severely.

The difference between _a prevalent bad custom_, and a custom which

society at a given time does not pronounce _to be bad_, is stated by

Lord Macaulay with his usual force and precision. We shall be glad to

hear, from the further investigation of Mr Spedding, which of these most

strictly applies to the practice of which Bacon stands accused.

We cannot leave our subject without expressing our assent (with certain

reservations) to the estimate which Lord Macaulay has formed of Bacon in

his character of philosopher—in that character in which there can be

only the difference of more or less admiration.

We admire—as who does not?—the eloquent and far-seeing man who perceived

that too much of our time was spent over books, and too little in the

study of that nature which appeals at each moment to our senses, and

promises to those who will investigate her laws new powers as well as

new knowledge. But we agree with Macaulay in setting little store upon

the rules of a new logic by which he offered to aid the investigation of

those laws. No logic of any kind ever taught a man to reason. No truth

was ever discovered by either Aristotelian or Baconian logic. It may be

fit and proper to make the process of reasoning a subject of subtle

analysis; but just as the poet must come before the critic, and never

yet was formed by the critic, so the reasoner comes before the logician,

and never yet was an able reasoner made so by rules of logic. It was a

glorious word spoken in season, to tell men to observe and to

experiment—to take nothing upon mere tradition or authority that could

possibly be tested by experiment. But the rules Bacon gives for

conducting observation and experiment have never made a good observer,

or contributed themselves to our scientific discoveries. “The inductive

method,” as Macaulay says, “has been practised ever since the beginning

of the world by every human being.... Not only is it not true that Bacon

invented the inductive method, but it is not true that he was the first

person who correctly analysed that method and explained its uses.

Aristotle had long before pointed out the absurdity of supposing that

syllogistic reasoning could ever conduct men to the discovery of a new

principle—had shown that such discoveries must be made by induction, and

by induction alone; and had given the history of the inductive process,

concisely indeed, but with great perspicuity and precision.”

We for our part have always noticed that when a man talks much about

“Baconian philosophy,” he is going to stuff into our ears some

incredible nonsense. He who has good evidence to bring forward—trusts at

once to his evidence. Phrenologists, mesmerists, spiritualists, all who

have a very weak case, are great discoursers on the rules of induction.

They eke out their defective reasoning by proving to us, whether we are

aware of it or not, that they are very good reasoners. Most readers,

fortunately for themselves, are satisfied with a few brilliant passages

of the ‘Novum Organum.’ If they proceeded farther, they might find that

not only did it not assist them in their researches after physical

truth, but that it embarrassed them considerably as to the real nature

of physical science, and the kind of truth to be sought for.

Bacon was a great writer, a great thinker, but he was not “the father of

modern philosophy.” If we are to have fathers in science, the title must

be given to such men as Galileo, Kepler, Newton. He who discovers one

great scientific truth does more even for the logic of science than any

writer upon that logic can perform.

Science does not stand in _contradiction_ to the metaphysical or ethical

discussions of ancient or of modern times. There is no _contrast_ such

as is popularly described between the old philosophy and the new. But a

vast _addition_ has been made to one kind of our knowledge. And with

regard to that great argument of _utility_ which Lord Macaulay has so

eloquently developed, it must be borne in mind that the utility of the

physical sciences made itself known by certain individual discoveries

and inventions, not by mere abstract contemplation of what the study of

nature might produce. In fact, the utility of the pursuit was the very

argument which Socrates made use of to draw men _from_ the study of

objective nature to the study of themselves. As matters then stood, more

seemed likely to be effected by regulating the mind of man than by

observing the winds or the clouds, or any of the phenomena of nature.

Let us carry ourselves back in imagination to the state of philosophy

which existed at Athens in the time of the Emperor Hadrian, and which Mr

Merivale has so pleasantly described in his last volume of ‘The History

of the Romans under the Empire.’ Philosophy seems to have come to a

dead-lock. “On every side it was tacitly acknowledged that the limits of

each specific dogma had been reached; that all were true enough to be

taught, and none so true as to be exclusively believed. Their several

professors lived together in conventional antagonism, and in real

good-fellowship. Academics and Peripatetics, Stoics and Epicureans,

Pyrrhonists and Cynics, disputed together or thundered one against the

other through the morning, and bathed, dined, and joked together, with

easy indifference, through the evening.” Well, let us suppose that

amongst this conclave a Baconian philosopher had presented himself, with

his new _organon_ and his speculations on the new power men would

derive, if, with this _organon_ in their hands, they would proceed to

the study of nature. After some struggle to get a footing in what Mr

Merivale has described as a most conservative university, he would

perhaps have been allowed to open his school in Athens, and he would

have added one more figure to that group of philosophers who disputed in

the morning, and dined amicably together in the evening. Another

admirable talker would have appeared amongst them. This would have been

the whole result. But now let us imagine that to this Athens a Galileo

had come with his telescope and revealed the satellites of Jupiter; let

us imagine that a Cavendish had come with his electric battery and

decomposed water into two gases, one of which burst readily into flame;

what a stir would there then have been amongst all the schools and

classes of Athens! Still larger telescopes would have been made, and the

electric battery applied to all sorts of substances. An era of

experimental philosophy would at once have been inaugurated.

All honour to the great and eloquent writer; but such palms and such

wreaths as Science has to bestow are due to those who have discovered

scientific truths. These are they who have really stirred the minds of

men as well as placed power in their hands; and, without gainsaying a

word of what Lord Macaulay has so brilliantly stated of the utilities of

science, it is worthy of notice that in no department of philosophy have

truth and knowledge been sought for with so much avidity _purely for

their own sakes_. And it should be added that only by the pursuit of

knowledge for its own sake _can_ its utilities be developed. For it is

one thing to prosecute science with a general conviction that its truths

will turn to inventions for the good of man, and quite another thing to

set before ourselves some desirable end or object of a practical kind as

the goal to which we are striving. This is what the alchemists did when

they set before themselves the transmutation of metals as the

achievement to be accomplished. To study nature under such guidance as

this would be a great mistake. We may be wasting our time on an

impossibility; we should certainly be narrowing the sphere of our

observation. But when we strive in every direction to proceed from the

known to the unknown, by seizing upon every new relation which offers

itself to the understanding, then we can hardly fail to stumble upon

some discovery of a practical utility. The passion for knowledge sweeps

all things into our net, and we may find marvellous treasures there we

never dreamt of. The higher sentiment of the love of knowledge is that

which can alone conduct us to the _utilities_ of knowledge. We cannot

predict what science will enable us to do, and then proceed with our

studies in order that we may accomplish this end. It is science which

teaches us what new ends can be accomplished. It is an ever-broadening

knowledge, procured immediately for its own sake, that opens up to us

the new possibilities, the new powers, that man may aspire to and

possess.

THE YEANG-TAI MOUNTAINS, AND SPIRIT-WRITING IN CHINA.

That portion of China which lies more immediately to the west of the

estuary of the Canton river, comprising the Sun-on, Toong-koon,

Kinei-shin, and Tai-phoong districts, is exceedingly mountainous, and

inhabited by a turbulent people, constantly fighting among themselves,

and but little subject to mandarin rule. Even still foreigners scarcely

ever visit it; and when, during the war, I first commenced to wander

there, the field was entirely my own; and many were the prophecies that,

if I returned at all, it would be in at least a headless, if not in a

completely disjointed, condition. The torture and murder, a few years

before, of six young Englishmen at Hwang-chu-ku, near Canton, when they

were only taking an afternoon stroll, had rendered our countrymen

particularly chary of trusting their persons in the hands of the

Chinese; and at the time my excursions commenced, there was additional

danger, arising from the fact that, though Canton was in the hands of

the Allied troops, the gentry of the provinces still kept up a species

of warfare, and offered rewards for our heads: so, while a few

well-armed sportsmen from Hong-Kong might occasionally pass over to the

mainland immediately opposite, it was deemed madness to think of

spending a night there, or to go any distance into the country beyond.

But though the island of “Fragrant Streams,” as the words Hong-Kong

signify, has some curious caves and wild lonely spots, its limits are so

circumscribed that a residence in it became extremely irksome. To be

sure, the quiet old Portuguese city of Macao, with its grotto of

Camoens, could be reached in four or five hours by steamer, with the

refreshing possibility, as one or two cases proved, of being pirated and

murdered on the way by the Chinese passengers; a gunboat, too, would

take us up to Canton in about a day: but these places, however

interesting, soon became insufficient; they began to present themselves

in the disagreeable light of being only suburbs of Hong-Kong, and I

resolved to seek entertainment elsewhere.

Being unaware that some German missionaries had, before the war broke

out, laboured in the neighbouring districts, I had to feel my way

without any previous information as to the character of the different

villages and towns, and so incurred some dangers which otherwise might

have been avoided. The first time of sleeping on the mainland was in an

ancestral hall, along with a friend, whose Chinese teacher even refused

to escort us on account of the supposed danger. The next time,

accompanied only by some native coolies, to carry bedding and

provisions, I wandered for nearly a week among the mountains, and slept

at whatever village I happened to be at by sun-down, without meeting any

apparent danger, or even unpleasantness. After that—sometimes alone,

sometimes with others; sometimes in perfect safety, and at others with

extreme risk—I made excursions innumerable. The manner in which I thus

explored for myself the country lying to the east of the firth of the

Canton river may have given it peculiar charms; but the contrast of its

valleys and mountains to those of Hong-Kong, and to those immediately

opposite that barren island, would have been sufficient to endear it to

all who feel with Goethe, that “the works of nature are ever a

freshly-uttered word of God.” The wooded hills and beautiful green

valleys were pleasant haunts after the chunam and rotten granite of the

mercantile city of Victoria. Those were happy days spent among the

mountains of Kwang-tung—crossing rugged passes, ascending lofty peaks,

bathing in deep, black mountain-pools, loitering at wayside tea-houses,

or under the shade of wide-spreading trees. Those were pleasant

evenings—though not always undisturbed by danger, and on the

limited-intercourse principle—passed beside some long-robed teacher in

the village schoolhouse, some shaven monk in a Buddhist monastery, or

even in some opium-perfumed junk, with half-piratical mariners who would

gamble the whole night through. Perhaps, gentle reader, you will not be

averse to accompany me on one of those otherwise solitary excursions,

and so to gain, without the trouble or danger, some little knowledge of

the country and the peasant people. Our company will certainly not be of

the silver chopstick kind; but I trust it will not be altogether

disagreeable or without profit.

The trip I select was made in the first warm days of the spring of 1860,

after affairs had been settled in the south of China, and no rewards

were out for the heads of foreigners; but I took notes of it at the

time, which have kept it fresh in recollection. At first I used to carry

my own provisions, cooking utensils, &c.; but after a little further

knowledge of the people and their ways, all these were dispensed with;

for, besides the expense, it was often difficult to find accommodation

for a retinue of coolies, and their tendency to jabber at unseasonable

moments was a source of constant annoyance. A pair of chopsticks, a

strip of waterproof lined with cork, and a couple of blankets for

bedding, together with a change of clothes, and a flask or two

containing stronger waters than those which abound in China, were soon

found to be all that was necessary, and would easily be carried by a

single coolie when slung to the ends of a bamboo pole carried on his

shoulders—for men accustomed to bear weights in this way walk as easily

with a moderate burden as they do without any. Aheung is my companion on

the present occasion. He is old, but sturdy; he works more willingly

than younger men, and has an inestimable peculiarity about the formation

of his mouth which renders it next to impossible to understand anything

he says. Even his own countrymen have difficulty in making out his

meaning, and I never attempt it; so he cannot remonstrate with me, and

is placed in the position of being a recipient of orders, or, as Carlyle

would phrase it, of being passively pumped into as into an empty bucket.

Naturally, Aheung is of rather a garrulous disposition, and every now

and then he pours out a sudden flood of complicated sounds, resembling a

mixture of Gaelic and Chinese; but, on finding that nobody understands

him, he as suddenly subsides into abashed silence. Though perfectly

honest, he is shrewd at a bargain, and fond of receiving a _kumshan_, or

present, which he pronounces _kwumchwha_. This old gentleman is also

extremely timid, and apt to disappear at critical moments. He goes with

me on excursions because he has a wife who knows that it is for his

interest to do so, and makes him; but he is seldom at his ease, and

mutters an inarticulate protest at every new movement, or holds up his

hands and shrugs his shoulders, assuming an aspect of despair. It must

be added that he is extremely attentive, of a very kind disposition,

with much natural politeness, and of great devoutness or religiosity. I

never met such a man for worship. It was all one to Aheung whether he

was in an ancestral hall, a Buddhist monastery, a Tauist temple, or a

Christian chapel; he never let a chance pass of going down upon his

knees and doing “joss-pidgin.” As some men have an omnivorous appetite,

so my old Chinaman had a most catholic appetite for worship, and a taste

for what Dr Brown calls “fine confused feedin’!” On one occasion he gave

great satisfaction to a missionary with whom we were travelling, by his

punctuality in attending morning prayers: and the missionary said to me,

“That seems a very good old man of yours; I should not wonder if he

became a convert.” To my friend’s annoyance, however, Aheung was to be

seen at the first temple we came to waving a burning joss-stick, and

prostrating before an image of the solemn-faced Buddha, and was much

astonished when rebuked for this by the missionary. With such an outfit

and a companion one is in light marching order for an active rather than

a luxurious excursion; and as the weather has begun to get warm, I

dispense with the inconvenience of European shirt, waistcoat, coat, and

neck-tie, contenting myself with a loose white China coat, having no

collar and no pressure at the armpits, and covered by another silk one

of similar make and dimensions. It would be difficult to overrate the

comfort and advantage of such a costume to those who have to take

exercise in hot weather. As to money, it is impossible to burden my

coolie with any considerable sum in Chinese “cash,” as there are a

thousand of that coin to the dollar; but ten or twelve dollars will

cover all the expenses of the excursion, and that we take in sycee

silver, or dollars broken up into small pieces, which are preferred by

the Chinese to the entire coin, and in which small payments can be made

without the trouble of changing.

A “pull-away boat,” manned chiefly by women, soon carried us across the

spacious harbour of Hong-Kong, into a large bay, and on to a fine sandy

beach on the opposite mainland. Here the magnificent range of mountains

which lines the coast presents a low pass, up which runs a steep

cork-screw path, by which we got to the other side of them, and, winding

along for an hour, to a narrow wooded gorge at the head of the Leuk-ün

valley, which, in the yellow evening light, lay peacefully below,

fringed by thick dark woods, above which rose imposing mountains of

picturesque form. It is well to take it easy for the first two days, so

our resting-place that night was a very short way down the valley, at an

ancestral hall in the village of Kan-how. This hamlet comprised not more

than a dozen houses, but their hall was large, clean, well built, and

served as a schoolhouse, as well as for some other purposes. On entering

I found the old men seated in arm-chairs, just finishing a consultation

on some important subject or other, and the children soon crowded in, in

expectation of the cash which it is both wise policy and Chinese custom

for strangers to distribute amongst them. The custodian of this pleasant

place was a one-eyed ancient of most forbidding appearance. His one eye

not only did the business of two, but gave the impression that it had

gone out of his head, and was prowling about generally for something or

other. His exterior semblance, however, did belie his soul’s timidity;

and his chief failing was a peculiar passion for corks, which he sought

after and treasured up with the avidity of a miser. I used to keep a

store of beer in this ancestral hall, and on my visits he always seemed

to be troubled at night by a suspicion that some cork had escaped his

search, or might be abstracted from a bottle, and he would rise to look

for it. On one occasion a friend just out from England spent a night

with me in this place, and being by no means assured of the safety of

sleeping among Chinese, the personal appearance of the Uniocular caused

him a great deal of unnecessary anxiety. He could not sleep because of a

vision he had of the One-eyed progging at him with a spear, and the

One-eyed could not sleep because of an imaginary cork! The game which

these two carried on during the night was extremely comical. Their small

sleeping-rooms were at opposite corners of the joss-house, and not in

sight of each other, so they never actually came in contact. First, the

old man would rise, light a reed, and, bending almost double, with his

one eye glittering down upon the black stone floor, search for the

object of his desire. Roused by the noise made, or the glimmer of the

light, my friend would then rise also, and, being unaccustomed to such

work, steal out in his stocking-soles, peering into the darkness with a

lighted taper in one hand and a revolver in the other. On hearing the

creaking of the boards when his enemy arose, the cork-gatherer always

extinguished his light, and, on catching a glimpse of the dreadful

apparition with the revolver, stole off terrified to his own den, not to

re-emerge until all was quiet, and some time had elapsed. Unfortunately,

it usually happened, whenever I persuaded a friend to go with me upon

the mainland, that some danger, or appearance of danger, occurred, and

prevented him from repeating the visit.

One advantage of sleeping upon boards is, that it promotes early rising;

but ere I got up next morning, the children of the hamlet were in the

temple, reading in their singsong way the Chinese trimetrical classic

which they are taught to commit to memory long before they understand

almost a word of its meaning. The contrast which Celestial children

present to those of the West is striking. They are quiet, calm,

perpetrate no tricks, and rarely or never play about. In fact, their

demeanour is not unlike that of aged Europeans; while the old men, on

the other hand, display something of the liveliness of childhood,

especially when engaged in their favourite amusement of flying kites.

Though teaching was thus carried on in the temple, yet that building was

specially dedicated to the worship of the ancestors of the villagers.

“The real religion of China,” it has been truly said, “is not the

worship of heaven and earth, nor of idols, but of Confucius and of one’s

own ancestors.” The more educated classes, including the mandarins, have

special reverence for Confucius; but the mass of the people worship the

spirits of their ancestors with profound awe. They believe that each

family has a close peculiar interest in all its members, whether before

or after death, not one being able to suffer without all being

afflicted. Each house has its _lararium_, in the shape of a small

temple, a room, or even a niche in the wall, where the family is poor.

This hall at Kan-how had many ancestral tablets hung up in it, and also

some for the propitiation of _kwei_, or friendless hungry spirits, for

whom the Chinese have a singular dread. Every district in the country

has a temple with the tablets of all persons whose families are extinct.

To the imagination of the yellow-skinned children of Han there is

something very awful in the idea of a forlorn shivering ghost, wandering

through the air without any progeny on earth to care for it, to give it

meat-offerings, or the warm regard of human hearts; and they believe

that such friendless spirits are always likely to become malignant

powers, and to work them evil. Some districts have a ceremony, every ten

years or so, called the “Universal Rescue,” for the special benefit of

such spirits.

The morning wore away pleasantly as I was sitting on a little terrace,

shaded by a large tree, in front of the ancestral hall. A number of

small villages dotted the ricefields of the flat valley; and after their

morning meal the people came out to their work, some carrying a light

plough behind the ox which had to drag it, others with hoes to weed the

sweet-potato fields, bands of laughing women going up the mountains to

cut grass, and one gentleman taking a morning walk with a long spear

over his shoulder. On returning from a visit to a curious rock, called

the “Mother and Child,” from its resemblance to a woman with an infant

upon her back, I found the school had “scaled,” to use a Scotch phrase;

and the teachers, with the elders, were engaged in purchasing articles

for a general dinner, and cutting them up. In the discussion which went

on upon this subject a few of the pot-bellied children who remained took

great interest, throwing in their opinions with much calmness and

gravity.

That afternoon I crossed over a second range of mountains into another

valley, the path leading down near the side of a huge black precipice,

which looked sublime in the moonlight. Not a soul was met on the latter

part of the way, for when night descends on China, the country people

confine themselves to their own homes, and only bands of robbers are to

be met with, or men out for some bloody purpose, such as destroying a

village with which they are at war. I had sometimes stopped, at the

first village I came to, in the house of an old woman; and one evening,

when taking an English friend there, a rather startling incident

occurred. As we came round a corner upon the village, just as I was

expatiating upon the friendliness of the people and the perfect safety

we would enjoy, a gingall was fired, and the bullets came whistling

round our heads. My companion looked as if he thought this fact

considerably outweighed my theory; but it turned out that the gingall,

which takes some little time to go off, had actually been fired before

we came in sight round the corner. On this present occasion I went on to

another village called Chin-wan, and slept in the house of a young

teacher, who remained up, or rather lolling on his couch, till about one

in the morning, smoking opium with a friend. It is a remarkable fact

that, with only one exception, all the Chinese _dominies_ I came across

were in the habit of smoking opium. Probably this was caused by the

sedentary, harassing, and dreary nature of their occupation, which makes

the soothing drug specially desirable. At one place I was told I could

not see the teacher, though it was the middle of the day, because he was

asleep from opium. Fancy being told, and as nothing out of the way, that

a parochial schoolmaster was invisible, because he was dead drunk! The

Chinese, however, usually take opium in moderation, after their meals,

just as we do beer and wine, and no discredit attaches to such a use of

it. The practice is more fascinating than the use of intoxicating

drinks, and more easily glides into excess. Of teachers in China,

unfortunately for them, there is an immense supply owing to the number

of disappointed candidates at the competitive examinations for the

Government service. In this Chin-wan schoolhouse I met a fat man who had

been in Hong-Kong, and spoke a little English. If there was any

self-approval in my air in telling him that I had walked over the hills,

it met with a speedy and severe check, for he immediately said—“Eiya!

Hab walkee! allo same one coolie.” This was complimentary, but I had my

revenge; for the fat man told me that he was a gentleman living at his

ease, whereas I discovered him, early next morning, in a butcher’s shop,

with his sleeves tucked up dissecting a fat pig, into whose entrails he

staggered on my finding him, and exclaiming, “Hulloa! Allo same one

butcher.” It is due to the Chinese, however, to state, that very few of

them are ashamed of, or attempt to conceal, their occupations.

Hitherto I had been trifling with the excursion, but next day Aheung

knew by our starting early that we were in for work; and deep gloom came

over his countenance when he saw the direction I was taking up the

Chin-wan or Talshan Valley, towards an old and totally unfrequented path

which leads over a shoulder of the Tai-mon shan, or “Great Hat

Mountain.” No part of the Scotch Highlands presents a more picturesque

appearance than the upper part of this valley, so plentifully are the

small pines scattered about, so deep the pools, so wild the stream, so

huge and fantastic the shattered rocks. The Great Hat Mountain, over a

lower portion of which we go, is about 4000 feet high, and terraced up

to the very top, showing it was cultivated at some former period; but

now it is entirely without habitations, and covered with long rank grass

of the coarsest kind, which forms a serious obstacle to the ascent. I

got up to the top once, with great difficulty, and was rewarded by a

magnificent panorama of sea and islands, mountains and plains. Even

Canton could be seen in the distance; the villages looked as if they

could be counted by hundreds, and every island was fringed round with

numerous junks and fishing-boats. Considering that the country round is

one of the most sparsely populated parts of China, the innumerable

indications of human life were somewhat surprising. In conjunction with

what I have seen in more thickly habitated parts of China, such as the

valleys of the great rivers, I incline to think that the numbers given

by the last census which I know of as available were certainly not above

the truth. It was taken about 1840, and the members of the Russian

Legation at Peking, who had access to it, gave the entire population of

the Chinese empire at 412 millions. An old legend regarding the Tai-mon

is, that a proprietor and feudal chief in its neighbourhood gave

protection and support to the sister of a dethroned Chinese emperor,

and, on the emperor regaining power, he rewarded the chief by giving him

all the circle of country which he could see from that mountain. It

would almost require some such reward to induce one a second time to

encounter the fatigue and irritation of ascending it in its present

condition. The Chinese have a great idea of the influence of mountains,

speaking of them as more or less “powerful,” but this one has no

particular reputation that way. The old path we are now taking is in

great part overgrown with grass, and leads through a complete mountain

solitude, where the silence is broken only by the wind rustling in the

rank herbage, and no signs of life meet the eye. Aheung motions me to

carry my revolver in my hand; he is in an agony of terror, and I can

distinguish him uttering the words _lu tsaak_, or road-robber, and _lo

foo_, or tiger—two beings with which the Chinese imagination peoples the

whole country. To hear them talk of tigers, one would think these

animals were as thick as blackberries. Nothing was more common than for

villagers to say to me, “There is a tiger about here; would you be good

enough to go out and shoot it?” as if I had only to step to the door in

order to find one; whereas the fact is, that I never saw the slightest

trace of any, though a few certainly do exist. At first I used to be

startled by the information constantly tendered that there was a party

of road-robbers watching the path a little way on; but as they never

appeared, I began to get quite sceptical on the subject, until at last I

did unexpectedly meet with five of them, armed with short swords, who

were holding the top of a mountain pass. I was travelling in a chair at

the time, and on seeing this obstacle my coolies at once put down the

chair, and refused to proceed farther. I tried to represent to them that

though the robbers were five, we were five also; they replied that they

were paid to carry me, not to fight. Deeming it safer to go forward than

to go back, I walked up to the men, revolver in hand; and whenever they

saw I was so armed, they made off, greatly to my relief, as only three

chambers were loaded. Chinese pirates and highwaymen do not live to rob,

but rob to live; and so they like to be pretty safe in what they do. As

they are lawless only to prolong their lives, it seems to them the

height of absurdity to put themselves in any decided peril for the sake

of plunder. Theirs is a highly rational system, in consonance with the

practical tendencies of the Celestial mind.

Notwithstanding Aheung’s terrors, we got quite undisturbed over the Tai

Mon, and reached before dusk a solitary Buddhist monastery, situated in

a wood at the head of and overlooking the Pak-heung, or “Eight Village”

Valley. As we came down on this place, I heard the firing of a

clan-fight at one of the villages below; and often as I have been in the

Pak-heung, never have I been there without finding a fight going on,

either between two or more of its own villages, or between one or all of

its villages and those of the Shap-heung, or “Ten Village” Valley,

immediately contiguous. They seemed to have as much stomach for fighting

as Aheung had for worship, and the blame was laid chiefly on a large

village called Kum-tin, or “Fertile Land,” which suffered from a

plethora of wealth, and had disputed claims to land in various

directions. Of all places I knew in that neighbourhood, this monastery

was my favourite haunt, from the view it commanded, its cleanliness, its

secluded position, and its internal quiet. The two or three monks

occupying it were always glad to see me, as I gave them presents, and

afforded relief to the tedium of their life. On this occasion they gave

me, as usual, a hearty welcome; but I was rather startled, on being

awakened about midnight by loud shouts, knocking at the outer door, and

the flashing of torches beneath my window. This turned out to be some

men from one of the fighting villages, who had taken it into their heads

to come up to the monastery at that unseasonable hour for mingled

purposes of thanksgiving and jollification, and who remained there till

morning. They were, however, perfectly civil, and showed no disposition

to interfere with me in any way, except in questioning Aheung as to

where he came from, and what clan he belonged to. Had he been one of

that with which they were fighting, the probability is they would have

made him a prisoner.

It was delightful in the morning to sit in the cool air on the terrace

in front of this cold or Icy-Cloud Monastery, as it is called, and watch

the light mist rolling off the Pak-heung Valley, and brightening over

the waters of Deep Bay. Soon from every village the smoke of household

fires rose into the calm clear air, while, every ten minutes or so, the

boom of a gingall came from the combatants beneath, and reverberated on

the grand cliff behind us. The young green rice of the fields below was

like a vast lake lying round the villages and wooded knolls, except

where in the upper slopes it flowed down from field to field like a

river, bearing good promise for the stomachs of industrious hungry men.

The little wooded islets rose from the rice sea with their temples and

ancestral halls as out of the world’s everyday work and life. On either

side of the wide Pak-heung were great, bare, sublime blocks of

mountains, with white fleecy clouds occasionally floating across God’s

bright blue sky, while fish were leaping in the pond below, and doves

were cooing in the trees around.

But one must have breakfast. The resources of the country are confined

to rice, salted vegetables, and bean-paste, which are not particularly

tempting; but we brought some fish with us, and Aheung has procured some

eggs and pork in the nearest village. Strictly speaking, this being a

Buddhist place of worship, no food that has had life in it should be

allowed to enter; but there are only two monks here at present—an old

man and a neophyte—and my sacrilege is winked at. Nay, it is more than

winked at, for, as we breakfast together, the chopsticks of the monk

gradually deviate towards the palatable fried salt-water fish. Curiously

and inquiringly he turns one over, and then, as if satisfied with the

result of his careful examination, the old sophist exclaims, “_Hai

tsai!_”—“Vegetables of the sea!” and immediately swallows a piece. Under

this cunning and specious phrase he continues to dispose of a very fair

quantity of fish; but the pork was a little too much for his conscience,

and he affected not to see it at all. He also pretended, my hair being

cropped close, to believe that I was a Buddhist. On learning that we

were going to a place called Li-long, he briefly informed me that the

men of Li-long were robbers, and immediately thereafter shovelled in a

vast quantity of rice into his mouth, as if he were afraid to say

anything more on that painful subject. This monk, who was quite hale and

strong, said he was seventy years old, and looked as if he might live as

many more. His occupations, which he took very easily, were praying,

chanting, bowing, and reading. The Chinese Buddhists have the idea that,

by retiring to solitary places, avoiding bodily activity and all sensual

indulgence, living with extreme temperance, and spending their days in

meditation and prayer, the vital power is preserved in the system, and

gradually collects towards the crown of the head, until at last the

devotee gains the possession of supernatural powers. I did not observe

that this old gentleman was distinguished in that particular; and the

neophyte, it is to be feared, was in a bad way, for I once detected him,

the monk being absent, sitting down with a youthful visitor to a dinner

where figured the unholy articles of fowl, pork, and Chinese wine, of

the two former of which he partook. On a previous visit to this place, a

wicked friend of mine, who had full command of the language, disturbed

the mind of the neophyte by ardent praise of the gentler sex; and on

reading the inscription, “May the children and grandchildren of the

contributors [to the monastery] gloriously increase,” he asked him how

he could expect his children to increase! This youth was also fond of

reading Christian tracts in Chinese. Altogether, what with forbidden

literature, forbidden diet, and discourses on the forbidden sex, I fear

the neophyte will never attain to miraculous powers.

These Buddhist temples and monasteries are thickly scattered over China.

They are often buildings of great size, and afford the best

resting-place for travellers, but usually the staff of priests is very

small indeed, and these bear no very good name among the people. This

one of the Icy Cloud had not so much as a dozen rooms of various sizes,

but it was compact and well built. The walls had a few frescoes of

non-perspective landscapes, with grotesque devils in the foreground;

there were also statues of Buddha, of Kiu-tsaang-keun, or the “Heavenly

General,” and of Koon Yum, the Hearer of Cries, or Goddess of Grace, to

whom it was specially dedicated. Worshippers were very rarely to be seen

in it. Many inscriptions, of which the following are examples, were hung

upon the walls:—

“It is easy to leave the world; but if the heart is gross, and you

cannot cease thinking of the mud and trouble of life, your living in a

deep hill is vain.”

“To be a Buddhist is easy, but to keep the regulations is difficult.”

“It is easy to preach doctrines (_taali_), but to apprehend principles

is difficult.”

“If you do not put forth your works, but only preach, your strength is

emptily wasted; and if you talk till you break your teeth, even then

it will be in vain.”

“If you are entirely without belief and desire (will), and do not

attend to the prohibitions, then your strength will have been

uselessly wasted, and your head shaved to no purpose.”

“May the precious ground (of the monastery) be renewed.”

“To be intimate, and not divided, consists in the virtuous roots being

gathered in a place.”

“When the image was asked why it turned round and fell backward, it

said, ‘Because the people of the time would not turn their heads;’”

[they probably being a stiff-necked generation, like the people of

many other times and places.]

“Peacefully seclude and regulate yourselves.”

It will be observed that some of these inscriptions are most sensible as

well as appropriate. While the last is quite in place in such an

institution, it is wisely modified by the five first, which show how

retirement can be made profitable, or at least warn against its being

unprofitable. The seclusion of a monastery can only be of advantage to

those who, having experienced the turmoil and passion of worldly life,

really know its bitterness, and desire something better. It is not only

the old monk who breaks his teeth in vain, or the neophyte who shaves

his head to no purpose. Youth is the time for action—for “the mud and

trouble of life”—and in vain do men try to evade it by planting the

unhappy slip “in a deep hill,” bidding him observe “the trees of the

clouds and the flowers of the mountains,” or oppressing him with moral

and religious ideas which he cannot appreciate. Old age, again, is the

proper period for meditation and wisdom. How often, in all countries, do

we see the virtues suitable to one period of life, or to one station of

life, forced upon persons of other ages and of different stations, until

their souls revolt within them against all virtue whatever!

Passing northward from the “Eighth Village” Valley, we walked over

undulating moorland, broken by low hills covered with white quartz,

passing one village called Kum-chin, or the “Golden Cash,” which was

surrounded by acres of large fir-trees, lychus and other fruit-trees,

well stocked with doves; and another which bore the fragrant name of

Wa-cheang, or “Fine-smelling Grain,” though eminently dirty, and

surrounded by a stagnant ditch. About two miles after crossing a creek,

we skirted the small walled town of Sam-chun, but took good care not to

enter. Doubtless at that time we might have done so with tolerable

safety, but I once had such a narrow escape in that place, that I had no

desire whatever again to tempt its hospitality. Sam-chun is a mart of

bad repute, being at the head of a creek, and rather a depôt for goods,

frequently pirated, rather than giving hostage for its respectability in

cultivation of the soil. Aheung, who was an old man himself, explained

its iniquities by the fact that there were few or no old men to be found

in it. The first time I visited it, along with a friend, hostilities

were going on at Canton, and rewards were out for the heads of

foreigners. One of our coolies asked us to go into a shop in the town

which was kept by some relatives of his, and in doing so we passed

through two small gateways, and also the butchers’ bazaar. The shopmen

received us very well, but we had scarcely time to drink a cup of tea

before the room was filled by a crowd of ruffians, chiefly butchers from

the neighbouring bazaar, armed with knives and choppers. They first

began shouting derisively, pressing in and hustling us; then got up the

cry “_Tá tá!_”—“Strike, strike!” with which Chinese commence all their

assaults; and then the ominous words “_Fanquiei sha tao_”—“Cut off the

heads of the Foreign Devils”—coupled with some remarks as to what amount

of dollars these articles would bring at Fat-shan. Those who know only

the ordinary placid appearance of the Chinaman, have happily little idea

of the spectacle he presents when working himself into a fury, or the

atrocities which he is capable of committing. The butchers round us—and

there must have been nearly a hundred in the shop—were pushing one

another on and rapidly rising to blood-heat. Another minute would have

proved fatal, and as it was, I had no hope of final escape, the only

ambition which occurred being that of getting up into a loft close to

where I stood, and where our revolvers could have been used with effect.

The coolie who brought us into the fix wanted us to fire, but that would

have been madness, pressed in as we were by the crowd. Fortunately the

shopkeepers, and some more respectable Chinese who were beside us, so

far took our part as to assist in getting us hustled out through a door

before the bolder of the ruffians had quite worked their way to us; and

as we got through, a yell of rage and disappointment rose from the

crowd; and it is to be feared that the shopmen suffered, for there was a

general row inside, with great crashing of furniture. As the crowd could

not get quickly out of the shop, we had the start of it in the streets,

but were soon overtaken by the rabble, who pressed closely on us and

threw bricks, besides exhausting indecent language in their remarks.

Luckily they were rather afraid of our revolvers, and the street was too

narrow to allow of their passing to get the gates shut. They called upon

the Chinamen we passed at shop doors and side streets to strike us down;

and one individual offered to do so with a long hoe, but failed, while

on others we tried very hard to smile blandly, as if the whole affair

were a joke or a popular ovation. Even on the plain beyond the crowd

followed us for two miles; some men from a neighbouring village, armed

with gingalls, threatened to cut off our retreat, and a number of

junkmen, with filthy gestures and language, invited us to stop and fight

them, as if two strangers, just escaped from imminent death, were at all

likely to delay for the pleasure of encountering about two hundred

pirates. As my friend could not swim, I was afraid we might be brought

up at the creek; but the boat was just starting, and, by holding a

revolver to his head, we persuaded the ferryman to take us over,

notwithstanding the counter-threats addressed to him by those of the

ruffians who had still continued to follow.

The whole affair took us so much by surprise, and there was such

necessity for immediate action, that we did not fully realise it until

we were safe enough to take a rest, when we both began to feel rather

faint, and had immediate recourse to our flasks for a glass of brandy. I

experienced, however, a peculiarly disagreeable sensation when the crowd

was howling round us in the shop; it was not fear of the consequences,

but a kind of magnetic effect from the noise and brutal hostility of so

many human beings. A little terrier-bitch which I had with me, and which

I carried out in my arms, as otherwise it would have been trampled down,

was so affected by this that it trembled violently, quivering like an

aspen leaf. There is something very trying in the hostility of a howling

crowd, and a species of almost physical effluence goes out from it

beyond visible positive action. A man who was lynched in Texas a few

years ago, and whom a party of soldiers tried to save, was so affected

by the conflict round him that he besought his friends either to hang

him or to give him up at once. I have heard an old Californian settler

say that it was nothing to be in a stampede of wild cattle, compared

with being surrounded by a crowd of either terrified or infuriated men.

This occurrence, I daresay, is a sufficient excuse for my never having

again entered Sam-chun, though often passing it. The General commanding

her Majesty’s forces at Canton got, at our complaint, the Governor of

Kwang-tung to issue a proclamation warning against the recurrence of

similar outrages; but the Governor-General exercises very little power

in that part of the country. Sam-chun is a place of very bad general

repute, and even Chinese travellers carefully avoid it, so I had no

desire to experiment as to the actual effect of the proclamation. Aheung

was with me when this perilous incident occurred; but he carefully

disappeared, and only turned up again towards evening, carrying a

basket, which he had saved, as the excuse for his absence. After we are

fairly past Sam-chun on this our present excursion, he turns round to

look at it, grins at me, and draws his hand significantly across his

throat. We stop this night at his own village of San-kong, a little

further on, and sleep in the schoolhouse, which is large and airy. Moved

by the report of my coolie, the people there were particularly civil;

and Aheung insisted on providing the morning and evening repast, with

abundance of hot _t’san_, or Chinese wine, at his own expense. He also

brought his very aged mother to see me, and she would have _kow-towed_

had I allowed her. Frequently the Chinese are accused of ingratitude,

but I must say I have always found a very strong desire on their part to

reciprocate favours. At this place a rather curious proposal was made by

a Chinese traveller who was halting at a tea-house in front of the

village. On seeing me he took off his coat and displayed to the people

his bare back, which was cruelly scored by the strokes of a rattan.

“See,” he said, “how the foreign devils in Hong-Kong treat a respectable

Chinaman: now that we have got this foreign devil amongst us, let us tie

him up and flog him, and see how he will like it.” Immediately on this

Aheung’s inarticulate voice rose in vehement protest, and the people

would not listen to the proposal for a moment; but it made my back

shiver, for had it been advanced in a village where I was unknown, it

might very possibly have been carried into execution—which would have

been neither profit nor glory, and would have been all the harder

because I strongly disapproved of the way in which such punishments were

carried out by the police. It used to be a most horrid spectacle to see,

as often might be done, a poor wretch, with his back all raw and bloody,

exposed in Queen’s Road, the most crowded thoroughfare of the town,

trembling from pain, shame, and cold, and trying to conceal his face

from the passers-by. I could not wonder if a man who had so suffered

tried to murder a dozen Europeans, especially if he had suffered

unjustly, as was nearly as likely to be the case as not, or for some

trivial offence, such as stealing three hairs from a horse’s tail, for

which I have known a flogging with the rattan inflicted.

Our next day’s journey was also a short one of only twelve miles. Shady

paths along the side of a stream led us to Pu-kak, a large Hakka

village, where the German missionaries had formerly a station in the

_hue_, or marketplace, but were forbidden to enter the village itself,

or to walk on a neighbouring hill, lest they should disturb the dragon

beneath, who could not be supposed to stand the insult of foreigners

trampling upon his neck! At the outbreak of hostilities at Canton, the

Rev. Messrs Lobschied and Winnes, who were labouring here, were assailed

by the people, and had to barricade themselves in their house. The

former gentleman got out at night by a back window; and, being pursued,

escaped by concealing himself in the water and among the lotus-leaves of

a small pond, enjoying the pleasure, while lying there, of hearing the

Chinese thrusting their long spears close to him. Mr Winnes was held to

ransom for 240 dollars, and was released; but it is doubtful whether

that would have taken place had a small military force not been

despatched from Hong-Kong for his relief.

At Li-lang, or the village of “Flourishing Plums,” which we next

reached, I was glad to find Mr Winnes, and to stay with him. He had been

residing there alone, most of the time, for nearly six months, in a

small room above a very small chapel and schoolhouse, which were built

before the commencement of the war. All his attempts to get a suitable

site for a house had been unsuccessful, owing to the geomantic fears of

the Hakkas. At one place they were afraid that the White Tiger, whatever

that may be, would be disturbed by his building. Another suitable site

was refused because the spirits of the ancestors wandering about the

graves on the opposite hill would be disturbed by any change of the

aspect of the scene, such as a new house would cause. This geomancy is a

rather mysterious and difficult subject, which has its own priests, and

exercises much influence over the minds of the Chinese. One of the

converts of the missionary had been a geomancer, and had written an

essay on the subject, in which he makes mention of such awful things as

the Deadly Vapour around the dwelling, the Fiery Star which brings

destruction, the Nightly Dog who causes apparitions, the Abandoned

Spirits who promote ignorance, the White Tiger of the Heavenly Gate, the

Seven Murderers, the Gate of Death, the Pestilential Devil, the Hanging

Devil, the Strangler, the Poisoner, the Knocker at the Door, the

Lamenting Devil, the Scatterer of Stones, the Barking Dragon, the

Ravenous Heavenly Dog, and the Murderer of the Year. Talk of the Chinese

not being an imaginative people! Why, these mere names suggest a whole

world of terror; they are enough to make one shudder and have recourse

immediately to a solemn study of the seventy-two principles of the

mysterious laws of the efficacious charm for protecting houses.

Another interesting subject on which Mr Winnes gave me novel information

was the practice of Spirit-Writing among the Chinese, which has existed

from an early period, and strikingly resembles the Western

Spirit-Rapping of modern times. I have pretty full notes on this

_Geister Shrift_, as the German called it, but must avoid tedious

details. It is sometimes had recourse to by mandarins and educated

persons, as well as by the ignorant, for the purpose of gaining

information as to the future intentions of Heaven, which are otherwise

hid from human beings. One of the most frequent inquiries put is as to

whether the questioner will have a number of male children, but all

sorts of subjects are inquired into, both personal and political; and

many volumes exist, both in prose and verse, alleged to have been

written by spirits; so the Seer of Poughkeepsie has been anticipated in

the Flowery Land. The Spirit-Writing is called by the Chinese

_Kong-pit_, or “Descending to the Pencil,” and the first step is to cut

a bent twig from an apricot tree, affixing at the same time to the tree

certain characters which notify that the twig or magic pencil is taken,

because the spirit will descend in order to reveal hidden things. Having

thus consoled the tree for its loss, the twig is cut into the shape of a

Chinese pen, and one end is inserted at right angles into the middle,

not the end, of a piece of bamboo, about a foot long and an inch thick,

so that were this bamboo laid upon a man’s palms turned upwards, the

twig might hang down and be moved over a piece of paper. In a temple, a

schoolhouse, or an ancestral hall, chairs are then set apart for the

spirit to be summoned, and for the god or saint of the temple or village

under whose power the summoned spirit is supposed to be wandering. One

table is covered with flowers, cakes, wine, and tea for the refreshment

and delectation of the supernatural visitors, while another is covered

with fine sand, in order that the spirit may there write its

intimations. In order to add to the solemnity of the scene, proceedings

are not commenced till after dark, and the spectators are expected to

attend fasting, in full dress, and in a proper frame of mind.

The usual way of communicating in China with the higher supernatural

powers is by writing supplications or thanksgivings on red or

gold-tissue paper, and then burning the paper, the idea being that the

characters upon it are thus conveyed into a spiritual form. In order to

spirit-writing, a piece of paper is burnt containing some such prayer as

this to the tutelary deity or saint of the place:—“This night we have

prepared wine and gifts, and we now beseech our great Patron to bring

before us a cloud-wandering spirit into this temple, in order that we

may communicate with him.” After the saint has had sufficient time to

find a spirit, two or three of the company go to the door to receive

him, and the spirit is conducted to the seat set apart for him, with

much honour, with many genuflexions, and the burning of gold paper. The

bamboo is then placed in the palms of a man, so that the apricot twig

touches the smooth sand upon one of the tables; and it is usually

preferred that the person in whose hands the magic pen is thus placed

should be unable to write, as that gives some guarantee against

collusion and deception. It is then asked if the spirit has arrived from

the clouds; on which, if he is there, the spirit makes the bamboo shake

in the hands of the individual who is holding it, so that the magic twig

writes on the sand the character _to_, or “arrived.” When it is thus

known that the supernatural guest is present, both he and the tutelary

deity are politely requested to seat themselves in the arm-chairs which

have been provided, the latter, of course, being on the left, or in the

post of honour according to Chinese ideas. They are then refreshed by

the burning of more paper, and by the pouring out of wine, which they

are thus supposed spiritually to drink; and those who wish to question

the ghost are formally introduced to it, for nothing would be considered

more shocking than for any one suddenly and rudely to intrude himself

upon its notice. After these ceremonies, it is thought proper that the

visitor from the clouds should communicate something about himself; so

inquiries are made as to his family and personal names, the period at

which he lived, and the position which he occupied. The question as to

time is usually made by asking what dynasty he belonged to, a few

hundred years more or less not being thought anything of among this

ancient people, and a ghost of at least a thousand years old being

preferred to younger and consequently less experienced persons. The

answers to these questions are given as before, the spirit, through the

medium, tracing characters upon the sand.

After that, those who have been introduced to the invisible guest put

their inquiries as to the future. The questions and the name of the

questioner are written upon a piece of gold paper, as thus:—“Lee Tai is

respectfully desirous to know whether he shall count many male children

and grandchildren.” “Wohong would gladly know whether his son Apak will

obtain a degree at the examination at Canton next month.” The paper with

the question is then burned, and the spirit moves the magic pen until an

answer, most frequently in verse, is traced upon the sand. If the

bystanders cannot make out the answer, the ghostly interpreter will

sometimes condescend to write it again, and to add the word “right” when

it is at last properly understood. After the sand on the table is all

written over, it is again rolled smooth, and the kind spirit continues

its work. When the answer is in verse, the bystanders often take to

flattery, and say, “The illustrious spirit has most distinguished

poetical powers.” To which the illustrious spirit usually replies, in

Chinese—“Hookey Walker!” Whenever a question is put, the paper is burned

and wine is poured out; for Chinese ghosts appear to be thirsty souls,

and are not above reprimanding those who neglect to give them wine, or

do not regard their utterances with sufficient respect. It is believed

that the man in whose hands the magic pen lies has nothing to do with

its movements, and its motions can be easily seen, and cause some little

noise, thumping down on the table.

These operations go on till shortly after midnight, when, according to

the principles of Chinese physical science, the _yung_, or male

principle of life, gains the ascendancy. I am not aware that any covert

satire is intended in thus making the ghost loquacious only when under

the influence of the _yong_, or female principle; but it may be so, or

there may be something in common in this respect between Chinese spirits

and the ghosts of our own land, which used to vanish at the first

crowing of the cock. At all events, soon after midnight, the celestial

visitor, who is not less formally polite than Chinese still in the

flesh, writes on the table—“Gentlemen! I am obliged for your liberal

presents, but now I must take my departure.” The gentlemen reply to

this, still through the medium of burned paper—“We beseech the

illustrious ghost still to remain with us a little longer, and still

further to enlighten our minds.” “Permit me to go,” politely answers the

spirit, “for I am urgently required elsewhere;” whereon the whole

assembly rises, and, advancing to the door with burning papers, escort

the ghost out, complimenting him, bowing to him, and begging for his

pardon if they have at all failed in doing him honour. At the door they

respectfully take leave of him, and allow him to wander on into the

darkness and the clouds.

It is curious to find that this supposed modern form of delusion, or

else of communication with the spirit world, has been in existence in

the Middle Empire for centuries, and it is only one of many things

recently springing up in Europe which have been anticipated by the

Celestials. A good deal of faith is attached to these ghostly

utterances, and the ceremonies are conducted with solemnity. It may be

observed that communication with the supernatural world by means of

burned papers is not an isolated notion in the circle of Chinese ideas.

Everything is considered as having an existence beyond that which it

presents to the bodily eye. Even inanimate objects may be said to have a

soul; and things (to use the word in its widest sense) have the same

relationships to each other in their spiritual as in their visible

existence. Thus, the spirits of the dead must eat, whether they be in

heaven or hell, in clouds or sunshine. They devour not spiritual

turnips, rice, and pork, but the soul or spiritual existence of visible

turnips, rice, and pork; and, like other Chinese, they prefer fowl,

ducks, and birds’-nest soup, when they can get these luxuries. So far is

this carried, that in the “Universal Rescue,” to which I have already

referred, separate bathing-rooms are set apart for spirits of the

different sexes, in which they are supposed to perform their spiritual

ablutions. Thus the present and the past, the visible and the invisible,

are inseparably connected, while both are seen to shape the unformed

future.

At Li-long Mr Winnes had a small congregation of converts from among the

peasantry, and a few intelligent young men whom he was training for

missionary or educational purposes; hymns were sung in Chinese, but set

to German music. Besides conveying instruction, the missionaries—who

have all studied medicine more or less—give medicine and medical

treatment to many of the Chinese with whom they come in contact, and try

to cure inveterate debauched opium-smokers by taking them in charge for

two or three weeks, keeping them under their own eye, and supplying such

drugs as are necessary to prevent the system from breaking up when the

narcotic food on which it has been accustomed to depend is withdrawn.

Credit is due to these educated and intelligent men who thus cut

themselves off from the enjoyments of their own civilisation, and devote

themselves to the improvement of a somewhat rude and wild people like

those who inhabit these mountainous districts of Kwang-tung. In many

respects their work is important, and especially as acting as a

“buffer,” to use a railway phrase, between two antagonistic races and

antagonistic civilisations. In ordinary circumstances they are treated

not merely with respect, but also with a friendly confidence rarely

extended to foreigners, though when war is abroad and the minds of the

people are exasperated their services may be forgotten. By mingling with

the people, speaking their language, sympathising with their humble joys

and sorrows, and alleviating their sufferings, they present the

foreigner in a new and beautiful light to the Chinese, and dissipate the

prejudice which has attached itself to his name.

On leaving Li-long next day the German missionary asked me to visit a

village called Ma-hum, in the Yeang-tai Mountains, to which I was bound,

as it had suffered severely in a prolonged clan-fight, and he thought

that the advent of a foreigner would give its inhabitants some little

prestige which might save them from the utter destruction with which

they were threatened by the neighbouring and more powerful village of

Schan-tsun. As the day was warm and the way was long, I engaged a chair

and a couple of coolies, who went on sturdily through narrow valleys

between low hills frequently covered with pine-apple trees or rather

bushes. After passing the large wealthy village of Tsing-fer, or “Clear

Lake,” where there are some enormous trees, and, among others, a bastard

banian, the trunk of which is forty feet in circumference, we began to

enter the Yeang-tai Mountains, where the Throne of the Sun is supposed

to be situated. At first they appeared not nearly so beautiful and

striking as when I had visited them the previous summer. At that time

the orchards of peach, plum, pear, and apple trees, which form the main

attraction of the valleys, were loaded with leaves, blossoms, and fruit;

the grass was everywhere green; the red sides of the more barren hills

were diversified by numerous waterfalls and foaming streams; while

fantastic clouds, here dark and threatening, but there lit golden by the

sunlight, wreathed the summits of the mountains. In this dry season the

more western portions of the Yeang-tai looked bare and unsatisfactory.

The spring was not sufficiently advanced for the trees to show more than

barely visible, though budding knobs; the grass on the hills was dry and

yellow, and our path wound away through interminable small valleys,

where the slopes around seemed neither solid rock nor fruitful earth,

but ridges of decayed granite which the rains had washed bare and the

sun had bleached to a dirty reddish-white. It was like finding a once

fair lady in a faded condition and a dubious undress. The fruits which

form the product of this district are not particularly satisfactory to

European judgment. The plums, apricots, and peaches, though small, are

much the best; but it is difficult to get them in good condition, as the

Chinese seem to prefer them either unripe or rotten; and they are always

gathered too soon, partly on this account and partly to preserve them

from the ravages of birds and thieves. The large juicy pears are

exceedingly coarse-grained, and have not much taste; the pulp feels dry

and gritty in the mouth, and the only way to enjoy them properly is to

eat them stewed. The dry leathery apples are miserable indeed. Those

fruits in the south of China which belong to the tropical zone are much

better than those whose proper place is in the temperate. The

pine-apples, the custard-apples, the guavas, the pomegranates, and the

olives are very good indeed; but the mangos are small, and much inferior

to those of India, Manilla, and the Straits. Some fruits are indigenous

and peculiar to the country, as the _whampee_, which tastes not unlike a

gooseberry; and the _lychu_ (whose trees form a fragrant and agreeable

feature in the landscape), which is about the size of a large

strawberry, and has, within a rough red skin, a white sweet watery pulp,

somewhat resembling that of the mangosteen, and not unpleasant to the

taste, though the flavour suggests a faint suspicion of castor-oil. It

is scarcely necessary to make mention of the numerous varieties of the

orange, which is the most abundant and perfect fruit in the south of

China.

As we advanced into the larger valleys and among the higher hills, the

scenery became more picturesque; and often, far up the mountains, were

some large white graves. The Chinese are unlike all other nations in

their treatment of the dead. In the first place, they like to have their

own coffins ready and in their houses, being in no way disturbed by

having such a _memento mori_ constantly before their eyes. I once heard

two women disputing violently in Hong-Kong, and on inquiring into the

cause, the younger one said to me in “pidgin English,” “That woman

belong my moder. I have catchee she number one piccy coffin, and she

talkee, ‘No good, no can do!;’” _Anglice_: “That woman is my mother. I

have got for her a coffin of the best kind, and she says it’s not good,

and won’t do!” After death the body is closed up in a coffin along with

quicklime. This is often kept for some time in the house, and then, most

frequently, the bones are taken out and placed in an earthenware urn.

The most usual form of the grave is an attempt at representing the shape

of an armchair without legs, but this is often thirty or forty feet

round, and is built of stone, or of bricks covered with white chunam. At

the back of this the urn is placed in an excavation, and the spirit of

the defunct is supposed to seat himself there and enjoy the view. Care

is taken to give him a dry place, where he will not be disturbed by damp

or streams of water, and where the spiritual existence of ants will not

annoy. The Chinese love of nature comes out remarkably in their

selection of spots for graves. They prefer solitary places, where

sighing trees wave over the departed, the melody of birds will refresh

his spirit, where he can gaze upon a running stream and a distant

mountain-peak. In the ‘Kia Li,’ or Collection of Forms used in Family

Services, there occurs the following beautiful funeral lament, which is

wont to be uttered at burial:—

“The location of the spot is striking,

The beauty of a thousand hills is centred here. Ah!

And the Dragon coils around to guard it.

A winding stream spreads vast and wide. Ah!

And the egrets here collect in broods.

Rest here in peace for aye. Ah!

The sighing firs above will make you music.

For ever rest in this fair city. Ah!

Where pines and trees will come and cheer you.”

Much more than that in which lies the tomb of Shelley is the situation

of some of these Celestial graves fitted to make one “in love with

death,” and there is much consoling in the thought which the Chinaman

can entertain, that when the cold hand has stilled the beatings of the

troubled heart, his disembodied spirit does not want a home, his name

and memory are perpetuated in the ancestral hall, his wants are provided

for, and the daughter whom he left a child feels that he is near her

even to her old age. How different these convictions from the melancholy

complaint of Abd-el-Rohaman, the Arab poet, as, fancying himself in the

grave, forsaken and forgotten by all his kin, he wrote:—

“They threw upon me mould of the tomb and went their way,—

A guest, ’twould seem, had flitted from the dwellings of the tribe.

My gold and my treasures, each his share, they bore away,

Without thanks, without praise, with a jest and with a jibe.

“My gold and my treasures, each his share, they bore away;

On me they left the weight, with me they left the sin.

That night within the grave, without hoard or child, I lay:

No spouse, no friend was there, no comrade and no kin.

“The wife of my youth soon another husband found;

A stranger sat at home on the hearthstone of my sire;

My son became a slave, though unpurchased, unbound,

The hireling of a stranger who begrudged him his hire.”

The Celestial does not regard death as the termination of delights or

separation of companions, and he comforts himself with the thought that

the affectionate wishes of all his kin will follow him into Dead Man’s

Land, that he will there enjoy companionship, that his spirit may hover

for ever over the village and the stream, reverenced to latest

generations, influencing the fruitfulness of the all-nourishing earth,

the sweep of the winds of heaven, and the courses of the life-giving

streams. Until some better ideas be introduced, it would be a pity were

this belief disturbed, as it exercises a powerful influence for good by

leading the Chinese mind from things seen and temporal—for which it is

apt to have too much respect—towards those which are unseen and eternal.

It gives to his horizon the awe of another world, and has much effect in

preserving those family relationships which lie at the foundation of

Chinese social success. It also has a singular effect in consoling the

bereaved, and

“Doomed as we are, our native dust,

To meet with many a bitter shower,

It ill befits us to disdain

The altar, to deride the fane

Where simple sufferers bend, in trust

To win a happier hour.”

At the same time, it must be admitted that there is a great deal of

confusion and contradiction in Chinese ideas as to the state of the

dead. While they speak of the departed spirit as still retaining a full

personality of its own, they also, or at least many of them, believe in

the separation and return to the primal elements of the various spirits

of which the human being is composed. Thus the animal spirit, for

instance, would return to and be lost in the great reservoir of animal

existence, just as a drop of water in the ocean, and the mind or

intellect return to that of mind. Yet their ideas on this subject,

however contradictory, and all their feelings, point to death as not an

evil in itself, or an event to be dreaded. Hence, in fact, their

indifference to life and extreme fondness for suicide. Almost every

Chinaman lives in the spirit of their proverb, “The hero does not ask if

there be evil omens; he views death as going home.”

At Ma-hum I had a letter of introduction to one of the elders, and found

that village small, much impoverished, and greatly dilapidated. Long

warfare with Schan-tsun had exhausted its resources; many habitations

were empty; the temple and schoolhouse were in ruins; there were very

few women—some, I fear, having been sold from distress—and the people

had a crushed, desponding air. These clan-fights in the south of China

are rather curious, and attention has not been called to them. I never

could master all their intricacies, but they occur sometimes between

people of different family names, and sometimes between those of

different villages and districts. Two villages having the same

patronymic sometimes fight, but most usually it is the clanship which

determines and guides the quarrel. People of another name visiting the

parties are very seldom interfered with, unless it is by the hired

combatants, who are generally bad characters, and are sometimes employed

by wealthy villages. At one place to which I came, the elders sent out

word they would not allow us to enter, as they had more than a thousand

mercenary soldiers there, and they could not insure our safety. It is no

unusual thing for notice to be given when a battle is to come off, and

on these occasions I have seen the hills lined with hundreds of

spectators from other places, who entertained no fears for their own

safety, were not interfered with, and applauded both parties impartially

according to the valour or energy displayed. I say energy, because at

one of the most vigorous fights I have seen there was no enemy in sight,

or within several miles. Files of men gathered in groups and stretched

into line; they ran down hills and up hills again, waving huge flags;

they shook their spears, made ferocious attacks upon an imaginary foe,

poured out volleys of abuse, and now and then a single brave, half

naked, with a turban or napkin round his head, would heroically advance

before his comrades, throw himself into all sorts of impossible

postures, and indulge in a terrific single combat; but though all this

was done, the opposite side never made its appearance at all. Another

time I got up into a tree close to two villages, about a couple of

hundred yards, from each other, which were doing battle with gingalls.

The marksmen protected themselves behind trees and walls and the roofs

of houses. Every ten minutes or so, some one would come out and show

himself, making derisive insulting gestures; on which a shot or two was

fired at him, and the gingall-men on his side tried in their turn to

pick off the marksmen. Before any one was wounded, however, I had to

descend from the tree and beat a retreat. These fights go on sometimes

for days and even weeks in this way, without any more serious loss on

either side than a vast expenditure of time, powder, and bullets; but

woe to the unfortunate who happens to fall into the hands of the

opposite clan or village! If his head is not taken off at once, and his

heart cut out, which frequently happens, he may perhaps be exchanged

against some prisoner; but it is just as likely that he is put to death

in a prolonged and painful way, such as being disjointed or sliced. When

a feud has gone on for some time, when all attempts at mediation have

proved abortive, and great irritation exists, then the combatants

usually come to closer quarters, sometimes in the daytime, but more

usually at night. The stronger side in such circumstances relaxes its

hostility, and tries to lull its opponents into a feeling of false

security. When it has succeeded in doing so, then a strong party will

make a sudden dash at the hostile village during the daytime, and kill

and carry away as many persons as it possibly can. More frequently,

however, a midnight attack is organised. When the enemy are supposed to

feel themselves tolerably secure, a vigorous attempt is made to crush

them altogether. Some dark night the inhabitants of the doomed village

suddenly awake to find themselves surrounded by armed men who have

scaled their walls, and set fire to their houses by throwing in among

them a number of blazing stink-pots, which also confuse by their fumes

and smoke. Then rise to heaven the yell of fury and the shriek of

despair. Quickly the fighting-men seize their spears and gingalls, but,

distracted by the surprise and by their blazing houses, they are soon

shot, pinned down with those terrible three-pronged spears, or driven

back into the flames. Little or no mercy is granted to them. Terrified

women seek to strangle their children, and themselves commit suicide;

but as many of these as possible are saved, in order that they may

become servants to the victors. Where the golden evening saw a

comfortable village and happy families, the grey dawn beholds desolation

and ashes, charred rafters and blackened corpses.

It may be asked whether the Government exercises no control over these

local feuds; but in those districts where they exist the mandarins

rarely interfere, except by way of mediation and advice. Their power is

not so great that they can afford to do more; and, besides, it is not in

accordance with Chinese ideas that they should do so. Notwithstanding

its nominally despotic form of government, China is really one of the

most self-governing countries in the world. Each family, village,

district, and province is to a very great extent expected to regulate or

“harmonise” itself. In order to this end, great powers are allowed

within these limits. The father, or the head of a family, can inflict

most serious and even very cruel punishments on its members, without his

neighbours thinking they have any right to interfere with him; and, on

the other hand, he is held responsible for the misdeeds of his children,

and when these have offended against public justice, and are not to be

got hold of, he often suffers vicariously in their place. In like

manner, villages are allowed great power in the settling of their

internal affairs through their elders. Within certain wide limits the

district is left to preserve its own peace, without troubling the higher

authorities of the province; and if it choose to indulge in the

expensive luxury of clan-fights, why that is its own loss. The mandarin

of Nam-taw, the capital of the district, had told both the Ma-hum and

Schan-tsun people that they were very foolish to go on fighting as they

were doing, and he had ordered the latter, as the aggressors, to desist,

but there his interference ended: there ought to be virtue enough in the

district to put down such a state of matters, but there was not; and by

late news from China it appears that the warlike inhabitants of

Schan-tsun have been continuing and flourishing in their career of

violence; for about a couple of months ago their “young people”—the

frolicsome portion of the population—made a night-attack upon the

neighbouring village of Sun-tsan, sacked every house, carried off

provisions, destroyed the whole place except the temple, and killed at

random men, women, and children to the number of 150, no less than 75 of

the latter having been destroyed. It is, in fact, this local weakness of

the Government which causes the rebellions that devastate the country. A

gentleman thoroughly acquainted with the language, writing to me by last

mail from the centre of China, truly remarks on this subject: “The

causes of the rebellion are, so far as I can see, the overpopulation of

the country, the inefficiency of the mandarins, and the indifference of

the people. The Chinese enjoy an amount of freedom and self-government

which, I suppose, is nowhere surpassed, if equalled; and their social

system, which is the result of so many centuries’ experience of what

human life is, is sufficient to meet most of their requirements. But it

is not sufficient to suppress the uprising of the dangerous classes. To

do this the power of the country must be organised into some sort of

shape, and then wielded with energy and honesty. Unfortunately, the

present mandarins neither have the one nor the other. But the beginning

of great changes in China is at hand. I am convinced that any attempt at

foreign interference in the civil government of the provinces would do

great mischief.”

It will illustrate the sort of democratic feeling which prevails in

China, to mention that the elder with whom I stayed had Aheung and my

stranger chair-coolies as well as myself to sit down at dinner with him

in the evening. The extreme politeness of the Chinese prevents this

being disagreeable, and I never saw the commonest coolie either inclined

to presume upon such contact, or particularly pleased by it. The German

and the Catholic missionaries have their meals in this way when

travelling, and I found it, upon trial, to be much the best. In its then

condition the resources of Ma-hum were limited, and the house we were in

was a mere hovel of sun-dried bricks; but our host produced at dinner

fresh and salt fish, pork and turnip soup, boiled pork and salted eggs,

fine pork and small white roots like potatoes, with cabbage, bean-paste,

and rice, apologising for not having had warning to prepare a better

repast. When unafflicted by famine or rebellion, I should say that the

labouring Chinese live better than any other people of the same class,

except in Australia and the United States. Though they only take two

meals a day, yet they often refresh themselves between with tea and

sweet cakes; and at these meals they like to have several dishes, among

which both fish and pork are usually to be found; often eggs, ducks, and

fowls; in some parts of the country mutton, and in others beef. Their

cookery is also very good; I never met anything very _outré_ in it,

except on one single occasion, chips of dog-ham, which were served out

as appetisers, and are very expensive, and come from the province of

Shan-tung, where the animal is fed up for the purpose upon grain. The

breeding of fish in ponds is one of the most plentiful and satisfactory

sources for the supply of food in China, and attempts are being made at

present to introduce it into France. The great secret of their cookery

is that it spares fuel and spares time. In most of their dishes the

materials are cut up into small pieces before being placed upon the

fire, and some are even cooked by being simply steamed within the pan in

which the invariable rice is cooked. The rice tastes much more savoury

than that which we get in this country, and is not unpleasant to eat

alone, steam rather than water being used in preparing it for the

table—a sea voyage exercising some damaging effect upon its flavour. The

great drawback of the food of the lower Celestials is that the

vegetables are often salt, and resemble sour kraut; the pork is too fat,

and the salt fish is frequently in a state of decay. Bean-paste also—a

frequent article among the poor—cannot be too strongly condemned; nor is

it redeemed by the fact that it is in much use among the holy men of the

Buddhist monasteries, for they have a decided preference for “vegetables

of the sea.”

At Ma-hum I got a small empty cottage to sleep in, with only the company

of a _phoong quei_, or “wind box,” used for preparing corn, and exactly

the same in construction and appearance as the “fanners” which used to

be employed in Scottish barns. My trip, so far as it was by land, ended

next day at Nam-tow, the district capital, a large walled town of, I

should think, not less than a hundred thousand souls. This place had

been bombarded about eighteen months before by our gunboats, in

consequence of the mandarins stopping the supplies of Hong-Kong, and

withdrawing the native servants; so I was rather afraid of being mobbed,

or otherwise ill-treated, if I delayed in it, or turned on my footsteps

when looking for the passage-boat to Hong-Kong. Even when there is no

positive danger, a Chinese mob is rather trying to a solitary European;

but China is a civilised country, and fortunately there were two boats

and competition. The consequence of this was, that the touter of one of

them waylaid us about a mile and a half from the town, and led me direct

to his junk, in which I at once embarked, to the disappointment of the

crowd which had begun to gather upon our heels.

I used to find it safer to go about that part of the coast in

passage-boats rather than in one of my own, and of course in that way

saw much more of the people. These vessels usually go two and two in

company, in order to assist one another against the not unfrequent

attacks of pirates; and are pretty well armed with stink-pots, two or

three small cannon, and spears innumerable. When not crowded they do

very well, and a small sum procures the sole use of a small matted cabin

without any furniture, if it is not pre-engaged. On this occasion the

extra cabin was occupied, and in that of the supercargo, which is also

usually available, there was a portion of his family; so I had to

content myself with the deck and the “first-class” cabin, which was

occupied by shopkeepers and small merchants. The Chinese are not very

clean, especially in cold weather, when they put on coat over coat

without ever changing the inner one: in the poorer houses the dirt and

water are not properly “balanced,” and they have a saying which

associates “lice and good-luck;” but, most fortunately for travellers,

their _pediculi_, like horses in Japan, appear to participate in the

national antipathy for foreigners. There were about fifty passengers in

this boat bound for Hong-Kong, and the cargo consisted of vegetables and

sugar-cane. One little boy on board appeared to have been told off to do

the cooking and religion. He would suddenly stop in his task of cutting

up fish or turnips, and burn a red joss-paper with a prayer upon it, for

the success of our voyage; then as suddenly utter an exclamation and

dive down again among the pots. This little wretch of a cook, though

chaffed at by the sailors and afflicted by a severe cold, appeared

perfectly contented, happy, and even joyful—which may be a lesson to

some other doctors elsewhere. The Universe, acting under the Chinese

system, had found a place which suited him, work adapted to his nature,

and such small enjoyments as he could appreciate. He always found time,

every five minutes, to snatch a chew at sugar-cane, and even lost five

cash by gambling. In these passage-boats the fare is not, and cannot be

expected to be, very good; but our diminutive artist prepared for dinner

stewed oysters, fried and boiled fish, fat pork, salt eggs, rice,

greens, turnips, and onions.

The British sailor adorns his bunk with a rude portrait of lovely Nancy,

but our junk had inscriptions savouring of a lofty kind of poetry and

morality. In the cabin there was written up in Chinese characters, “The

virtue which we receive from Heaven is as great as a mountain;” and

also, “The favour (grace) received from the Spirit of the Ocean is as

deep as the ocean itself.” On the roof we were informed that Heaven, and

not only wood, was above us, by the inscription, “The virtue of the

(divine) Spirit illuminates everything.” These were intelligible, but

this one, which was on the mainmast, requires interpretation—“There is

majesty on the Eight Faces.” It must be understood to mean that there is

majesty, or glory, everywhere around. The paper on the rudder

exclaimed—“Keep us secure, Tai Shon!” or “Great mountain,” a very holy

and “powerful” hill in Schan-tung, to which Confucius has alluded, and

to which pilgrimages are made. At the bows there was the cheering

assurance, “The ship’s head prospers,” which in our passage was not

falsified.

These evidences of high moral feeling, however, were hardly borne out by

the conduct of the crew. As ‘Punch’s’ footman observed of the

leg-of-mutton dinner, they were “substantial, but coarse;” quite without

the politeness of the peasantry; friendly enough, but indulging in rough

play, such as giving each other, and some of the passengers, sundry

violent pats on the head. The captain, as is everywhere usual at sea,

gave his orders roughly, and required them to be promptly obeyed. They

don’t think much of firing into another boat, by way of amusement or

gentle warning; and are not altogether averse to a quiet little piece of

piracy when it comes in their way. On leaving the Canton river the wind

and tide in the Kup-shui-moon pass or strait were so strong that we ran

in-shore, anchored, and spent the night there. Most of the crew and some

of the passengers sat up most of the night gambling, which surely did

not look as if their virtue was quite the size of a mountain, and

indulged in some violent disputes. Their playing-cards were more

elaborate than ours, having many characters and devices upon them, but

not a fourth of the size. Being scarcely half an inch broad, though

about the same length as ours, and with more distinctive marks, they

were held and handled with much greater ease. Instead of being dealt

out, they were laid down on their faces between the players, and each

man helped himself in order.

The Kup-shui-moon is a great place for pirates, and as I was courting

sleep some of the passengers were discussing the probability of our

being taken by them, and hung up by the thumbs and great toes to make us

send for an outrageous ransom. They did not use _Hai traák_, the Chinese

word for “sea-robbers,” but _Pi-long_, which is a Chinesified form of

the English word “pirate,” and _La-lì-loong_, which is doubtless their

form of the Portuguese word _ladrone_. Like the Italians with their

_bifstecca_ for our abrupt “beefsteak,” the Chinese, when they adopt or

use European words, throw them into an extended mellifluous form, in

which it is difficult to recognise the original sound. _La-lì-loong_ is

a good illustration of this, and so also is _pe-lan-dia_, by which they

mean “brandy.” The estuary of the Pearl river and the neighbouring coast

have long been famous for pirates, and the passengers were not without

some cause of apprehension. I have seen these professional pirate junks

watching in the Kup-shui-moon at one time, and only a few mails ago

there came out accounts of an attempt to take an English steamer in or

close to it. Not less than their names, _Pi-long_ and _La-lì-loong_, the

pirates of China are a result of foreign contact, and as yet give no

signs of diminishing either in numbers or in power.

However, no sea-robbers disturbed our repose. Next morning I found we

had passed the strait, and were drawing under the shadow of Victoria

Peak.

MARRIAGE BELLS.

The British nation has just had one of its grand spontaneous holidays—a

holiday so universal and unanimous that imagination is at a loss where

to find that surprised and admiring spectator whose supposed presence

heightens ordinary festivities by giving the revellers a welcome

opportunity of explaining what it is all about. There is not a peasant

nor a babe within the three kingdoms which has not had his or its share

in the universal celebration, and is not as well aware as we are what

the reason is, or why every sleeper in England was roused on this chill

Tuesday morning by the clangour of joy-bells and irregular (alas! often

thrice irregular) dropping of the intermittent _feu-de-joie_, with which

every band of Volunteers in every village, not to speak of great guns

and formal salutes, has vindicated its British rights—every man for

himself—to honour the day. We are known as a silent nation in most

circumstances, and a nation grave, sober-minded, not enthusiastic; yet,

barring mountains and moors, there is not a square mile of British soil

in any of the three kingdoms in which the ringing of joyful bells, the

cheers of joyful voices, have not been the predominating sound from

earliest dawn of this March morning. Labour has suspended every exertion

but that emulation of who shall shout the loudest and rejoice the most

heartily. If there was any compulsion in the holiday, it was a pressure

used by the people upon a Government which has other things to do than

invent or embellish festivals. We have insisted upon our day’s

pleasuring. We have borne all the necessary expenses, and taken all the

inevitable trouble. Is it sympathy, loyalty, national pride? or what is

it? It is something embracing all, yet more simple, more comprehensive,

more spontaneous than either: it is a real personal joy which we have

been celebrating—the first great personal event in the young life which

belongs to us, and which we delight to honour. The Son of England

receives his bride in the sight of no limited company, however

distinguished, but of the entire nation, which rejoices with him and

over him without a dissentient or discontented voice. Our sentiments

towards him are of no secondary description. It is our wedding, and this

great nation is his father’s house.

His father’s house—not now is the time to enlarge upon these words, nor

the suggestions of most tender sadness, the subduing Lenten shadow upon

the general joy which they convey, and which is in everybody’s mind. It

is the house of his Mother whom her people have come to serve, not with

ordinary tributes of loyalty, but with intuitions of love. England has

learned to know, not what custom exacts or duty requires towards her

Royal Mistress, but, with a certain tender devotion which perhaps a

nation can bear only to a woman, to follow the thoughts, the wishes, the

inclinations of HER QUEEN. Something has come to pass of which

constitutional monarchy, popular freedom, just laws, offer no sufficient

explanation. The country is at one with the Sovereign. A union so

perfect has come about by degrees, as was natural; and the heart of the

race which expanded to her in natural sympathy, when, young and

inexperienced, she ascended the throne, has quickened gradually into a

warmer universal sentiment than perhaps has ever been felt for a

monarch. We use the ancient hyperboles of loyalty with calmness in this

island, knowing that they rather fall short of the fact than exceed it.

It is barely truth to say that any trouble or distress of Hers affects

her humble subjects in a degree only less acute than their own personal

afflictions; and that never neighbour was wept over with a truer heart

in the day of her calamity than was the Queen in hers by every soul of

her subjects, great and small. Intense sorrow cannot dwell long in the

universal bosom; but the country, not contented with rendering its

fullest tribute of grief for the lost, has dedicated many an occasional

outbreak of tears through all these months to that unaccustomed cloud

which veiled the royal house. And now it is spring, and the purest

abstract type of joy—young love and marriage—comes with strange yet

sweet significance in Lent, to open, as we all hope, a new chapter in

that household history in which we are so much concerned. With all the

natural force of revulsion out of mourning, with all the natural

sympathy for that visible representation of happiness in which men and

women can never refuse to be interested, there has mingled, above all, a

wistful national longing “to please the Queen.” Curiosity and interest

were doubtless strongly excited by the coming of the bride—but not for

the fair Danish Princess alone would London have built itself anew in

walls of human faces, and an entire community expended a day of its most

valuable time for one momentary glimpse of the sweet girlish countenance

on which life as yet has had time to write nothing but hope and beauty.

The sentiment of that wonderful reception was but a subtle echo of our

Lady’s wish, lovingly carried out by the nation, which is her Knight as

well as Subject. To hide our dingy London houses, we could not resort to

the effective tricks with which skilful French hands can make impromptu

marble and gold: but we did what art and genius could never attempt to

do—what nothing but love could accomplish; we draped and festooned and

clustered over every shabby line of architecture with a living

illumination of English faces, all glowing and eager not only to see the

new-comer, but to show the new-comer, what no words could ever tell her,

that she came welcome as a daughter to that heart of England in which,

without any doubt or controversy, the Mother-Monarch held a place more

absolute than could be conquered by might or won by fame. Let us not

attempt to read moral lessons to the princely lovers, who, it is to be

hoped, were thinking of something else than moralities in that moment of

their meeting, and were for the time inaccessible to instruction; but

without any moral meaning, the sentiment which swayed the enthusiastic

multitude on the day of the Princess Alexandra’s arrival was more like

that of a vast household, acting upon the personal wish of its head,

than a national demonstration coldly planned by official hands. The

Queen, who sat at her palace window in the soft-falling twilight,

looking out like any tender mother for the coming of her son and his

bride, till the darkness hid her from the spectators outside, gave the

last climax of truth and tenderness to that welcome, which was no affair

of ceremony, but a genuine universal utterance of the unanimous heart.

Loyalty seems an inherent quality in our race; but it has been a loyalty

of sections up to the present time, whenever it has been at all fervent

or passionate. It has been reserved for Queen Victoria to make of it a

sentiment as warm as in days of tumult, as broad as in times of peace.

So thoroughly has she conquered the heart of the nation, that it seems

about time to give up explaining why. To those who have been born under

her rule, and even to her own contemporaries, a pure Court and a

spotless royal life appear no exceptional glories, but the natural and

blessed order of things; and we love her, not consciously because of her

goodness, but only for love’s own royal reason, because we love her.

Nothing can happen of any moment in those royal rooms where so very

small a number of her people can ever dream of entering as guests,

without moving the entire mass of her people with a sentiment only

second, as we have already said, to immediate personal joy or grief. It

is this alone that can explain the extraordinary rejoicings of this day.

We keep the feast not by sympathy in another’s joy, but by positive

appropriation of a joy which is our own. The wedding has, in fact, been

celebrated in the presence of all England, with unanimous consent and

acclamation of the same. With blessings and tears, with immeasurable

good wishes, hopes, and joyful auguries, we have waited at the princely

gates to send the Bride and Bridegroom upon their way. Speak it in

audible words, oh Princes and Poets! Echo it in mighty tones of power,

oh awful cannons and voices of war, which deal no death in

England,—sound it forth over all the world and space in inarticulate

murmurous thunders, oh unanimous People! Let the Mother smile among her

tears to hear how every faithful soul of her true subjects honours her

children; and then let there be silence in the midst of all—silence one

moment, and no more, for the missing Voice which would have made the joy

too perfect—

“Nor count me all to blame, if I

Conjecture of a stiller guest,

Perchance, perchance among the rest,

And though in silence wishing joy.”

* * * * *

And now the thing we wish for most to complete our rejoicing is, if we

could but have some spectator worthy the sight, to see all our great

towns blazing up to heaven, and every village glimmering over “beneath

its little lot of stars,” with all the lights it can gather. A group of

sympathetic angels fanning the solemn airs of night with grand expanded

wing and flowing garments, watching the great and strange marvel of a

nation wild with joy, would be pleasant to think of at this moment.

Perhaps to such watchers, lingering on cloudy mountain heights above us,

the hamlets shining like so many glow-worms all over the dewy darkling

country would be the sweetest sight. London, glowing in a lurid blaze

into the night, doing all that is in her to give splendour to the

darkness; Edinburgh, more gloriously resplendent, with valleys and hills

of fire, improvising a drama of illumination with lyric responses and

choral outbursts of sweet light, the emblem of joy, are but the centres

of the scene. Here, too, past our village windows, comes the blaze of

torches, held high in unseen hands, moving in a picturesque uncertain

line between the silent bewildered trees: though nobody wits of us,

hidden in the night, that is no reason why we should stifle the joy in

our hearts on this night of the wedding. Windsor itself did not begin to

thrill with bells earlier than we; and even Edinburgh will have

commenced to fade slowly out of the enchanted air into the common

slumber ere we have exhausted all those devious rockets which startle

the darkness and the dews. Nor we only, but every congregation of

cottages, every cluster of humble roofs, wherever a church-spire

penetrates the air, wherever there is window to light or bell to ring.

Bear us witness, dear wondering angels! Far off by the silent inland

rivers, deep under the shadows of the hills, perched upon rocky points

and coves by the sea, lying low upon the dewy plains, is there a village

over all the island that has not lighted a joyous blaze for love of its

Queen, and in honour of the Bride? Health, joy, prosperity, and increase

to our Prince and Princess! If they can ever be happier than at this

sweet moment, crowned by Love and Youth with that joy which human

imagination has everywhere concluded the height of human blessedness,

let the heavens advance them speedily to yet a sweeter glory. If there

were any better bliss we could win for them or purchase for them, the

world well knows we would spare no pains; but as it is, all that loyal

hearts can do is to wish, with hearty love and acclaim, every joy short

of heaven to the young heirs of all our hopes; but not that for many a

happy year.

And now the holiday is over, and the stars begin to show softly over the

waning lights and voices fatigued with joy. Is there, perhaps, a Watcher

in the royal chambers who weeps in the night when all is over, and God

alone sees Her solitude—Our Queen! There is not a woman in England but

thinks of you—not a man but would purchase comfort for your heart by any

deed that man could do. Since the marriage-feast was spread for _you_,

Liege Lady and Sovereign, what have not Life and Time done for all of

us—what happiness, what anguish, what births and deaths! Now is it over,

the joy of life?—but still remain tender love and honour, dear duty and

labour, God and the children, the heirs of a new life. Oh, tranquil

heavens! stoop softly over the widowed and the wedded—over us who have

had, and they who have, the perfection and the joy! Enough for all of

us, that over all is the Common Father, whose love can accomplish

nothing which is not Well.

_10th March 1863._

_Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

2. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.