partition of China, that unwieldy monster, was at hand. When the
phrases “Sphere of Influence” and “Hinterland,” diplomatic expressions
recently invented for the benefit of savage Africa, came, three or four
years ago, to be applied to China, then nominally a friendly power,
it was not difficult to foresee what must follow. The events of the
last three months have precipitated matters. Germany is in honour
bound to exact exemplary retribution for the murder of her minister,
the deadliest insult that could be offered to a great nation. If she
were minded to take Shantung, where she might establish a flourishing
colony, she would act as a buffer state between Central China and
Russia, who has already to all intents possessed herself of Manchuria,
and has for many a year cast longing eyes upon Chihli; and after all,
if Russia were to annex Chihli with Peking would the world have any
great cause for lamentation? Apart from all other considerations,
Russia with a nucleus of co-religionists in the Albazines, of whom
there is a short account at p. 211 of these letters, would have more in
hand towards Christianising the people than any other nation or sect;
and it seems to me that Peking Russian, and possibly Christian, would
be far better than Peking Chinese, and certainly heathen. If further
encroachment were guarded against by Germany in Shantung we should not
be losers. Should France want a rectification of frontier for her
great Asiatic colony—why should we interfere? The restoration of the
old frontier of Burmah and the freedom of the Yangtze region should
suffice us.
As for a change of dynasty in China, which some writers are crying for,
that is an impossibility, because there is no Chinese pretender ready
to replace the Manchus. It would mean chaos such as the world has never
seen.
Freed from the incubus of the Empress Tsŭ Hsi and her eunuchs, freed
from Prince Tuan and the other bloodguilty Manchus, the Emperor,
surrounded by a more enlightened court, and acting under capable
advisers, would be enabled to rule peacefully and honestly over an
immense and prosperous empire; while the removal of the capital would,
without any act of vandalism, such as the suggested destruction of the
Tombs, read China that lesson which is so sorely needed, and which
the absurd reprisals of 1860 utterly failed to convey. After the
second occupation of Peking we should not again hear of the Barbarians
bringing tribute to the Son of Heaven from his vassals.
The idea of a change of capital is not one that is of itself strange
or repugnant to the Chinese mind. It has even, apparently, been
contemplated by the Dowager-Empress herself, though her choice would
not unnaturally fall upon a spot like Hsi An Fu, near which town, at
Hao, at Hsien Yang, and at Chang An, the emperors of the Chou dynasty
(B.C. 1122–781), the Tsin (B.C. 249–200), and the Sui (A.D. 582–904)
held their courts. But the chief charm of such a capital would be its
inaccessibility and remoteness from the haunts of the foreign devil.
Hsi An Fu would be Peking over again, and worse. It would give the
_coup de grâce_ to all hope of civilising the court.
In a letter published in the _Times_ newspaper of June 22 I advocated
once more the choice of Nanking as a new seat of Government, and I
said that such a change would be hailed with joy by many millions of
Chinese. A few days after that letter appeared my arguments received
a very remarkable confirmation. A telegram from Yokohama informed us
that the Chinese community in Japan, a highly intelligent, educated,
and respectable body of men, of first-rate business capacity, had
presented a petition urging the foreign powers to take advantage of
the settlement which must follow upon the present troubles, to insist
upon the removal of the capital from Peking to Nanking. Now these men
know what they are talking about. They know that such a change would
work wonders in the direction of good government; that it would take
the power out of the fossilised hands of the court; that the light of
day would be fatal to the bats and owls of the forbidden city; that the
secret societies would be deprived of their chief support; that the
viceroys and the whole descending scale of mandarins, brought under
control of an intelligible and intelligent Government, would no longer
be able to squeeze and persecute the people, paralysing trade by their
extortions and blackmailing, and setting up insuperable barriers to the
progress of civilisation.
In the Blue Book published recently (July 30) we have the first
instalment of the official history of the tragedy of Peking—most
melancholy reading, truly! But there is one bright spot in this
miserable record. The attitude of our Foreign Office in all the
negotiations which have taken place appears to have been altogether
admirable. In spite of the cold water thrown by international
jealousies upon Lord Salisbury’s efforts to retrieve the situation, he
has held his own position, and he has succeeded in using the best means
which were available without in any way compromising the future. Japan
is to furnish troops, but there are no vague promises, no encouragement
of inordinate ambitions, and no raising of hopes, which, if realised,
might be fraught with dangers beside which even the horrors of the last
few weeks would be as child’s play. Lord Salisbury boldly promises to
find the money, and England will honour his bill. That is all. “Her
Majesty’s Government wish to draw a sharp distinction between immediate
operations which may be still in time to save the Legations, and any
ulterior operations which may be undertaken.” No language could be
clearer or more satisfactory than this. Is it too much to hope that
when the final settlement comes, the counsels of the same master-mind
may devise a solution which shall bring about a happier era for China,
without endangering the harmony of those nations which are now united
in their resentment of outrages, for which the history of the world
finds no parallel?
Besides the Blue Book, recent events have produced a plentiful crop
of letters to the newspapers, many of them written with great ability
and knowledge of Chinese affairs. The deposition of the undoubtedly
guilty Empress, and the restoration to power of the Emperor, with a
Government composed of the progressive party to which he is inclined,
are with most of the writers a _sine qua non_. To this I say Amen. “The
murderer Tuan must be executed” is a favourite cry. By all means; but
we know what is the first postulate in the cooking of a hare. Prince
Tuan will hardly be more easy to catch than was Nana Sahib in 1857.
If the Emperor, a weakling at best, be left at Peking in a hotbed of
harem intrigues and secret societies, how can he be protected? Will
his life be worth many days’ purchase? Will a progressive ministry be
able to exercise any authority over the great provincial satraps? The
foreign representatives will be locked up in the old death-trap, and in
ten, twenty, thirty years history will repeat itself. The inviolable
sanctity of Legations with such surroundings becomes a most miserable
farce.
The return to the _status quo ante_, with all its possibility of
tragic repetitions, is just the sort of lame and impotent conclusion
to which we have accustomed the Chinese, and in their dealings with us
they count upon a moderation which, like all Asiatics, they construe
into fear, and despise accordingly. A barren conquest like that of
1860, which left things as they were, is something which they cannot
understand. When Li Hung Chang, who knows exactly what string it
is best to harp upon, sweetly urges us to arouse “the gratitude of
millions” by abstention from revenge, be sure his gentle mind sees its
way to turn such magnanimity to good account. The horrors of to-day
were begotten of the mistakes of 1860 and 1870. Let us hope that 1900
may be the parent of a less ill-omened brood.
————
Those who desire to study the political problems of the Far East will
find admirable instruction in Mr. Chirol’s the _Far Eastern Question_
(Macmillan), in Mr. Colquhoun’s _Overland to China_, and in the same
writer’s more recently published _The Problem in China and British
Policy_.
My best thanks are due to the proprietors of the _Times_ newspaper for
permission to reproduce here their admirable plan of Peking.
LETTER I
HONG-KONG, _23rd April 1865_.
Life at sea may be a very pleasant one for those who like it, but I
doubt whether any one ever arrived at the end of a voyage of a month
and a half by one of the P. and O. Co.’s steamers without uttering an
expression of thanksgiving, hearty and sincere. The monotony of the
ever-recurring daily occupations is killing. However,
Be the day weary or be the day long,
At length it ringeth to evensong,—
even Hong-kong is reached at last.
We rush up on deck after breakfast to see the first of the brown,
sun-scorched island. It is shrouded in mist, however, and there is
not much to look at. But every one is excited and flurried, and
in the happiness of realising the luxury of being on land, we
feel kindly towards all mankind, and bid a cordial farewell to our
fellow-passengers. In a short while we are in harbour, and the little
colony, planted at the foot of wild and rugged hills matching those
of the mainland opposite, lies before us. A crowd of boats plying for
hire, and partly manned, to use a bull, by women often pulling away
lustily with a baby slung across their backs, hail us with cries of
“Wanchee boat?” “Wanchee big boat?” These Chinese boatwomen are real
wonders. Hardy, strong, and burnt by the sun, they look and probably
are as sturdy as any of the men. At any rate I saw one woman fight and
thrash a couple of stalwart young boatmen; and a good stand-up fight
it was, give and take. They did not spare her, and she belaboured them
most lustily, screaming and chattering all the while in a way that
would have frightened Billingsgate itself into silence. The boats seem
to hold whole families,—even the nursery,—the small boys wearing corks
or bottles to keep them afloat when they tumble overboard. The girls,
being reckoned of no value, take their chance, and wear nothing to
protect them. As soon as we came to an anchor the boats of the great
commercial firms came alongside, each probably steered by a partner
eager to hear the latest news or to welcome a friend. One by one the
passengers disappear, and he who has letters for one of the merchant
princes of China may look forward to luxurious quarters and a warm
welcome, for nowhere else is hospitality carried to such an extent as
it is here.
The houses in Hong-kong are large and airy. Lofty and spacious rooms
not overloaded with furniture (for everything is dispensed with an
eye to the getting the most air and coolness) look out on to a broad
verandah, which is shaded with green rush blinds to keep out the glare.
Here bamboo lounging chairs, of indescribable comfort, hold out arms
that invite one to doze away the sultry afternoon, or sit smoking a
cheroot and sipping cool drinks in the most luxurious laziness. The
clean and neat matting on the floors, the rare curiosities and jars
which decorate the principal rooms, the quiet, mouse-like steps of
the China boys in their blue dresses, who act as servants, coming in
to take an order or deliver a message in their quaint pidgin English,
give a peculiar and original stamp to the whole, which is of itself
immensely refreshing. Everything speaks of rest and quiet, and yet it
is in these quiet, idle-seeming houses—very castles of Indolence they
appear—that busy brains are at work, toiling all day, calculating rises
and falls, watching chances by which thousands are won or lost in a
day. In the old days when the opium trade was unlawful, and therefore
at its height, when the rival houses had each their fast sailing
clippers racing against one another from Bombay and Calcutta, and the
first to arrive would lie hidden round the corner of the bay, and send
a man on shore across the hills with the all-important intelligence,
only showing itself when a price had been made, the life of a man
of business at Hong-kong must have been one of untold excitement.
Nowadays every man gets his letters by the mail, the opium trade is
legitimatised, and there is no longer the same amount of “go” and dash
about the thing. Still, a venture of tea to the tune of a million of
dollars, upon which 40 or 50 per cent may be made or lost, must be
exciting enough for most men. Just at present the China trade is in
a singularly bad way; vast sums have been lost in tea speculations;
some of the larger houses have been very hard hit, but with plenty
of capital at their backs have stood the shock well. Smaller firms,
however, not having the same elasticity, have sunk under it; smashes
and rumours of smashes are rife; and the only men who have not suffered
are those who, with wise prescience, have folded their hands and done
nothing, waiting for better times.
Hong-kong presents perhaps one of the oddest jumbles in the whole
world. It is neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red-herring. The
Government and principal people are English—the population are
Chinese—the police are Indians—the language is bastard English mixed
with Cantonese—the currency is the Mexican dollar, and the elements no
more amalgamate than the oil and vinegar in a salad. The Europeans hate
the Chinese, and the latter return the compliment with interest. In the
streets Chinamen, Indian policemen, Malays, Parsees, and half-castes
jostle up against Europeans, naval and military officers, Jack-tars,
soldiers, and loafers of all denominations. Constantinople, Smyrna,
and Cairo show more picturesque and varied crowds, but nothing can be
more grotesque than the street life of Hong-kong. The local cab is a
green chair[3] open in front and covered in at the top, in which you
may sit Yankeewise, with your feet sprawling above your head, and be
carried along at a good pace by a couple of strong-shouldered coolies
with shaven polls, long tails, and huge umbrella hats. Plenty of these
are waiting for hire at every corner. They have a fixed tariff of ten
cents the trip. The weights that these coolies carry slung on their
bamboo-poles are something surprising. I have seen Turkish hamals
bent nearly double under the most impossible loads, such as no London
railway porter would look at; but it makes one’s shoulders ache to see
the Chinamen fetch and carry, for they do not hold the poles in their
hands with the support of a shoulder-strap, like the chairmen who used
to take old ladies out to tea and scandal in English country towns,
but the bamboo poles are fastened at the ends, and the men simply
hoist them on to their shoulders and stagger off under them. Both men
and women of the lower orders are certainly to our eyes mightily
ill-favoured, and have villainous countenances which, if all tales
be true, do not belie their characters; but now and then one comes
across a pretty creature enough, some Cantonese, probably, as frail as
fair—for St. Antony is not generally worshipped in seaside garrison
towns. The long plaited tails worn by the men, and eked out with silk
until they reach nearly to the heels, are a never-ending source of
wonder to the new-comer. But there is one fashion of shaving the poll,
leaving here and there a hair like the bristles on a gooseberry, which
is peculiarly droll in its effect—a “coiffure à la groseille.” The
Chinaman is very careful of his tail, and no cat has a greater horror
of wetting her coat than he has of a drop of rain falling on his back
hair. To cut it off is the height of indignity; and when the Chinese
sailors on board the P. and O. ships have been stealing opium from
the cargo, which they find it very hard to keep their hands off, they
are tied up by their tails to the capstan and summarily flogged; in
which case they become useful as well as ornamental. The barber drives
a brisk trade; nor does he confine himself to shaving, clipping, and
plaiting; he has also cunning instruments with which he cleans the
eyes and ears of his clients, the result of which is that the drums
of their ears are often injured, and the poor patients afflicted with
chronic deafness.
In this island of contrasts none is greater than that between the
European and Chinese quarters of the town. In the former the houses
are large and well built of gray slate-coloured bricks and fine
granite, and others, some of which will be real palaces, are in course
of construction. In the latter, on the contrary, the houses are low
and mean. They are generally built with one story: on the ground
floor is the shop with its various goods and quaint perpendicular
inscriptions and advertisements; on the first floor, which is thrown
out over the footway and supported by wooden posts, so as to form a
covered walk, the family live, and here the ugly old women—uglier
in China than anywhere—and queer little yellow children may be seen
peering out of their dens at the passers-by. Towards evening, when the
paper lanterns are lighted and the shops are shut up, not by doors
and shutters as with us, but by a sort of cage of bamboo poles,
through which the interior is visible, the Chinese house looks very
fantastic and strange. This quarter of the town bears a very bad name.
It swarms with houses of the worst repute, and low grog-shops which
are largely patronised by the sailors. The coolies in the street are
a most ruffianly looking lot, not pleasant to meet in a by-road alone
and unarmed. Indeed, life and property seem to be by no means so safe
in the colony as they should be, considering the force which is kept
here. A short time since a gentleman was attacked in broad daylight in
the middle of the town, knocked down and robbed; and it is downright
dangerous to venture on the hills alone without the moral influence of
a revolver. The Chinamen are very clever thieves and housebreakers, and
will even venture into barracks, smuggle themselves into the officers’
quarters, burn a little opium under the nose of some sleeping hero,
and in double-quick time clear the room of watch, chain, loose cash,
and valuables. Sometimes, however, they get caught. The other night a
young officer was too quick for one of these light-fingered gentlemen,
and pinned him just as he was making off. A mighty pretty dressing
he got too—for when the officers were tired of thrashing him, with
ingenious cruelty they turned him into the lock-up where the drunken
soldiers were, and I leave you to guess what sort of a night he spent.
It is said that a Hindoo will rob a man of the sheet he is sleeping on
without disturbing him, but I think to clear the goods out of a large
warehouse under the owner’s nose, and with the police looking on, is
at least as great a feat. This happened in this wise. A “godown” or
storehouse full of valuable goods was fixed upon, a number of coolies
walked in one fine day with a “comprador” (headman, bailiff, steward,
and factotum), and with the utmost innocence set to work emptying the
place, the pretended comprador all the while, in the most businesslike
manner, making notes of the bales which were sent down to the quay
and shipped off in small boats. One coolie is so like another that no
wonder the policeman who was standing by thought it was all right, and
the very audacity of the robbery put him off his guard. By the time the
theft was discovered, goods, coolies, and comprador were well out of
reach, and the owner was left lamenting over his empty godown.
It is rather hard on a man when he first comes to these parts to
have to learn a new dialect of his own language more bizarre than
broad Somersetshire, more unintelligible than that of Tennyson’s
northern farmer. This is the Cantonese or “pidgin” English. Pidgin
means business, of which word it is not difficult to see that it is a
corruption, and the jargon is the _patois_ that has invented itself
for transacting affairs with the natives. Use a plain English word to
a Chinaman, and he will stare and “no sabé”; but distort it, add a
syllable or two, put it in its wrong place, and, in short, make it so
unlike itself that its own root would not acknowledge it, and he will
catch your meaning at once. Several Chinese, Portuguese, and other
words of doubtful pedigree, mixed up with this maltreated English, make
up the lingo, which is a literal translation of Chinese syntax, and
puzzling enough at first. Here is a specimen. I should tell you that in
pidgin bull is _male_, cow _female_. An English gentleman from Shanghai
went to call at a friend’s house in Hong-kong. The door was opened
by the head Chinese boy. “Mississee have got?” said the gentleman.
“Have got,” answered the boy, “but just now no can see.” “How fashion
no can see?” The boy answered, grinning from ear to ear, “Last night
have catchee one number one piecee bull chilo!” The lady of the house
had been safely brought to bed during the night of a fine baby boy!
Sometimes the boy will dot his I’s and cross his T’s with unfortunate
distinctness as to the occupations in which his master or mistress is
engaged, putting one in mind of Gavarni’s _Enfants Terribles_. It is
not to be wondered at that the coolies and servant boys should talk
this lingo, but that clever, intelligent fellows like the compradors in
big houses should not have acquired a better form of English is indeed
strange.
Life at Hong-kong passes away pleasantly enough. The residents are very
rich, and they spend their money like princes. Their hospitality is
boundless, and open house is the rule. I can fancy no better quarters
for a naval or military man. The climate is very different from what
it used to be, and has become very healthy; but if a man should fall
ill he can get away north to Peking, or run up to Japan, or choose
between a dozen trips nearer at hand. The usual daily routine here at
this season of the year is as follows:—At six your boy wakes you with
a cup of tea; you rise and bathe, and read or write till it is time to
dress for breakfast at twelve (the merchants, of course, go to their
offices at ten or even much earlier). Breakfast, as it is called, is a
regular set meal with several courses, and champagne or claret; any one
comes in who pleases, and is sure of a cordial welcome, and probably an
invitation to return to dinner. After a cup of coffee and a cheroot,
office work begins again, and goes on until about five, when every one
turns out to ride, drive, or walk until seven, which is the hour for
gossip, and sherry and bitters at the club, a first-rate establishment
to which strangers are admitted as visitors, and where a man may put
up if he pleases. Dinner is at eight, and a very serious affair it is,
for Hong-kong is fond of good living and fine vintages; and this rule
does not apply only to the heads of houses, for their clerks are lodged
and boarded exactly on the same scale as themselves, and a boy who has
been content to dine for a shilling at a London chop-house, sits down
here to a dinner fit for a duke, criticises the champagne and claret
with the air of a connoisseur, and rattles in his pocket £300 or £400
a year for his _menus plaisirs_. Which shows the superiority of vulgar
fractions to genteel Latin and Greek.