The Land of the Boxers; or, China under the Allies

by Gordon Casserly

THE KOWLOON HINTERLAND.

The island of Hong Kong was ceded to England in 1841. Later on a strip of the adjacent mainland, from two to three miles deep, running back to a line of steep hills from 1,300 to 2,000 feet high, was added. Then for many years the colony rested content under the frowning shadow of these dangerous neighbours; until it dawned at last upon our statesmen that the Power who possessed this range of hills had Hong Kong at its mercy. For heavy guns planted on their summits could lay the city of Victoria in ruins at the easy range of two or three miles; and no answering fire from the island forts so far below them could save it. So in 1898, by a master‐stroke of diplomacy, China was induced to lease to England the Kowloon Peninsula, about 200 miles square; and our frontier was removed farther back to the safer distance of about twenty miles from Hong Kong.

The peninsula is an irregularly shaped tongue of land with rugged and indented coast‐line jutting out from the province of Kwang‐tung. It is of little value except to safeguard the possession of Hong Kong. It consists of range after range of rugged, barren hills, grass‐clad, with here and there tangled vegetation but with scarcely a tree upon them, separated by narrow valleys thinly occupied by Chinese. It could only support a small population; for arable land is scarce, and the few inhabitants are forced to add to their scanty crops by terracing small fields on the steep sides of the hills. Villages are few and far between. Those that exist are well and substantially built; for, as in Hong Kong, granite is everywhere present on the mainland, the soil being composed of disintegrated granite. Cattle‐breeding and even sheep‐raising seem difficult; for the rank grass of the hills will scarcely support animal life. Experiments made on the islands near Hong Kong, which are of similar nature to the mainland, seem to bear this out.

Winding inlets and long, narrow bays run far into the land on both sides and considerably diminish the space at the disposal of the cultivator. Occasionally narrow creeks are dammed by the villagers, and the ground is roughly reclaimed. The supply of fresh water is limited to the rainfall and the small streams that run down the hillsides. The presence of mineral wealth is unsuspected and unlikely. Altogether the Hinterland is poor and unproductive. Efforts are being made to develop its scanty resources; and if cattle, wheat, and vegetables could be raised, a ready market would be found for them in Hong Kong.

The present frontier line is exceedingly short—about ten miles if I remember aright—as at the boundary the sea runs far into the land on each side of the peninsula in two bays—Deep Bay on the west, Mirs Bay on the east. The latter is being used as the winter training‐ground of the ships of our China squadron. The former is very shallow, being almost dry at low tide, and earns its name from the depth of its penetration into the land.

One strongly defined portion of the boundary is the shallow, tidal Samchun River which runs into Deep Bay. Across it the Chinese territory begins in a fertile and cultivated valley surrounding an important and comparatively wealthy market‐town, Samchun. Beyond that again rises another line of rugged hills. I have never penetrated into the interior here farther than Samchun, so cannot speak with accuracy of what the country is like at the other side of these hills; but I have been told that it is flat and fertile nearly all the way on to Canton. The English firm in Hong Kong who projected the railway to Canton employed a Royal Engineer officer to survey the route for the proposed line. He told me, as well as I can remember, that he had estimated the cost from Kowloon to about ten miles north of Samchun at about £27,000 a mile, and from there on to Canton at £7,000 a mile. That seems to show that the country beyond these hills is flat and easy. The cutting, tunneling, and embanking required for the passage of a railway line through the continuous hills of the Kowloon Hinterland would be a very laborious undertaking. There is no long level stretch from Hong Kong harbour to the frontier; and the hills are mainly granite.

Since the Hinterland has come into their possession the colonial authorities have made an excellent road from Kowloon into their new territory. It is carried up the steep hills and down again to the valleys in easy gradients. It is of more importance for military than for commercial purposes; as the peninsula produces so little and wheeled transport is unknown.

The cession of the Hinterland in 1898 was very strongly resented by its few inhabitants. Owing to their poverty and inaccessibility, they were probably seldom plagued with visits from Chinese officials; and they objected to their sudden transfer to the care of the more energetic “foreign devils.” So when the Governor of Hong Kong arranged a dramatic scene to take place at the hoisting of the British flag on the frontier, and invitations were freely issued to the officials and their wives and the society in general of the island to be present on this historic occasion, the evil‐minded inhabitants prepared a surprise for them. The police and the guard of honour went out on the previous day to encamp on the ground on which the ceremony was to take place. To their consternation they found that the new subjects of the British Empire had dug a trench on the side of a hill close by, not 800 yards from the spot on which the flagstaff was to be erected, and had occupied it in force, armed with jingals, matchlocks, Brown Besses, and old rifles—antique weapons certainly, but good enough to kill all the ladies and officials to be present next day. Information was immediately sent back to Hong Kong; and quite a little campaign was inaugurated. Companies of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the Hong Kong Regiment, and the Hong Kong and Singapore Battalion Royal Artillery, with detachments of bluejackets, chased their new fellow‐subjects over the hills, exchanged shots with them, and captured enough ancient weapons to stock an armoury. Lieutenant Barrett, Hong Kong Regiment, while bathing in a pond in a Chinese village, discovered a number of old smooth‐bore cannons, which had been hurriedly thrown in there. Little resistance was made; but the picnic arrangements for the dramatic hoisting of the flag did not come off.

The inhabitants of the peninsula were speedily reconciled to British rule and have since given no further trouble. A few European and Indian police constables, armed with carbines and revolvers, are stationed in it and patrol the country in pairs, frequently armed with no more lethal weapon than an umbrella.

The possession of the Hinterland has strengthened enormously the defence of Hong Kong from the landward side. Three passes, about 1,500 feet high, cross the last range of hills above Kowloon; and these can be easily guarded. The situation of a hostile army which had landed on the coast some distance away and endeavoured to march through the difficult and mountainous country of the mainland, would be hopeless in the presence of a strong defending force. Entangled in the narrow valleys, forced to cross a series of roadless passes over which even field‐guns must be carried bodily, fired at incessantly from the never‐ending hilltops, it would be unable to proceed far. A couple of regiments of Gurkhas or Pathans would be invaluable in such a country. Moving rapidly from hill to hill they could decimate the invaders almost with impunity to themselves.

The garrison of Hong Kong previous to 1900 consisted of a few batteries R.A. to man the forts, some companies of the Asiatic Artillery or Hong Kong and Singapore Battalion Royal Artillery (a corps of Sikhs and Punjaubis raised in India for the defence of these two coast ports), one British infantry regiment, the Hong Kong Regiment (ten companies strong), and the Hong Kong Volunteers, Europeans, and Portuguese half‐castes. The Asiatic Artillery were armed with muzzle‐loading mountain guns. Such a force was absurdly small for such a large and important place. General Sir William Gascoigne, K.C.M.G., was forced to still further denude it of troops in order to send men hurriedly to North China to defend Tientsin. He was left with his garrison companies of Royal Artillery, half of the Royal Welch Fusiliers and Asiatic Artillery, and four‐fifths of the Hong Kong Regiment. The situation would have been one of extreme danger had a rising occurred in Canton and the southern provinces; and two regiments of General Gaselee’s original force were stopped on their way to the North. The 3rd Madras Light Infantry, under Lieutenant‐Colonel Teversham, was composed of men of that now unwarlike presidency. But the 22nd Bombay Infantry, under the command of Lieutenant‐Colonel R. Baillie, was formed from the fighting races of Rajputana and Central India and won many encomiums for their smartness in manœuvres over the steep hills and their satisfactory work altogether.

A story is told of a War Office official who, ignorant of the mountainous character of Hong Kong, wished to add a regiment of British cavalry to its garrison. The general in command at the time, being possessed of a keen sense of humour, gravely requested that the men should be mounted on goats, pointing out that no other animal would prove useful on the Hong Kong hills. But even in the mountainous country of the mainland mounted infantry would be of great use to enable commanding points to be speedily gained. When stationed in Kowloon I organised mounted infantry on mules captured in North China—splendid animals most of them, one standing fifteen hands high. Even in that broken and rugged country I found that the men could move swiftly around the bases of the hills, across the narrow valleys, and up the easier slopes at a speed that defied all pursuit from their comrades on foot. In an advance overland to Canton, mounted infantry would be invaluable when the flat and cultivated country past Samchun was reached; for cavalry would be useless in such closely intersected ground.

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CHAPTER IX
ON COLUMN IN SOUTHERN CHINA

A SHALLOW, muddy river running between steep banks. On the grassy slopes of a conical hill the white tents of a camp. Before the quarter‐guard stands a Bombay Infantry sentry in khaki uniform and pugri, the butt of his Lee‐Metford rifle resting on the ground, his eyes turned across the river to where the paddy‐fields of Southern China stretch away to a blue range of distant hills. Figures in khaki or white undress move about the encampment or gather round the mud cooking‐places, where their frugal meal of chupatties and curry is being prepared. A smart, well‐set‐up British officer passes down through the lines of tents and lounging sepoys spring swiftly to attention as he goes by. On the hilltop above a signaller waves his flag rapidly; and down below in the camp a Madrassi havildar spells out his message to a man beside him, who writes it down in a note‐book. Coolies loaded with supplies trudge wearily up the steep path. Before the tents four wicked‐looking little mountain guns turn their ugly muzzles longingly towards a walled town two thousand yards away across the stream, where spots of red and blue resolve themselves through a field‐glass into Chinese soldiers. All around on this side of the river the country lies in never‐ending hills and narrow valleys, with banked paddy‐fields in chess‐board pattern. And on these hills small horseshoe‐shaped masonry tombs or glazed, brown earthen‐ware pots containing the bones of deceased Chinamen fleck the grassy slopes. Across the stream the cultivation is interspersed with low, tree‐crowned eminences or dotted with villages. There on the boundary line, between China and the English territory of the Kowloon Hinterland, a small column guards our possessions against rebel and Imperial soldier, both possible enemies and restrained from violating British soil by the bayonets of the sepoys from our distant Eastern Empire. Twenty miles away Hong Kong lies ringed in by sapphire sea. From the land it has no danger to dread while a man of this small but resolute force guarding its frontier remains alive.

The outburst of fanaticism in North China, the attacks on the foreign settlements in Tientsin and Pekin, the treachery of the Court, had their echo in the far‐off southern provinces. Canton, turbulent and hostile, has ever been a plague‐spot. Before now English and French troops have had to chasten its pride and teach its people that the outer barbarian claims a right to exist even on the sacred soil of China. In the troublous summer of 1900 10,000 Black Flags, the unruly banditti who long waged a harassing war against the French in Tonkin, were encamped near this populous city. Fears were rife in Hong Kong that, fired by exaggerated accounts of successes against the hated foreigners in the North and swelled by the fanatical population of the provinces of the two Kwangs, they might swarm down to the coast and attack our possessions on the mainland, or even endeavour to assail the island itself. Li Hung Chang, the Viceroy of Canton, had sounded a note of warning. Purporting to seek the better arming of his soldiery to enable him to cope with popular discontent, he induced the colonial authorities to allow him to import 40,000 new magazine rifles through Hong Kong; but there was no security that these weapons might not be turned against ourselves. As it was well known that the Imperial troops in the North had made common cause with the Boxers, the wisdom of permitting this free passage of modern arms may be questioned. Rumours of a rising among the Chinese in Victoria itself, of threatened invasion from the mainland, were rife; and the inhabitants of our colony in the Far East were badly scared. The first Indian brigade under General Gaselee passed up to the more certain danger in the North; but representations made to the home authorities caused the stopping of his two line‐of‐communication regiments, the 3rd Madras Light Infantry and 22nd Bombay Infantry, to strengthen the denuded garrison of Hong Kong. This and the subsequent detention of his 2nd Brigade to safeguard Shanghai left his command in the Allied Armies on the march to Pekin numerically weak and forced him into a subordinate position in the councils of the Generals. Hong Kong was by no means in such imminent peril; and the troops thus diverted would have made his force second only to the Japanese in strength, and enabled him to assert his authority more emphatically among the Allies.

Pekin fell on August 14th, 1900. But long after that date this was not credited in Canton; and the wildest rumours were rife as to the splendid successes of the Chinese, who were represented as everywhere victorious. This large southern city is situated well under a hundred miles from Hong Kong, either by river or by land. It has constant intercourse with our colony; and large, flat‐bottomed steamers with passengers and cargo pass between the two places every day. Yet it was confidently stated in the vernacular newspapers, and everywhere believed, that two regiments from India arriving in Hong Kong Harbour had heard such appalling tales of the prowess of the Chinese braves that the terrified soldiers had jumped overboard from the transports and drowned themselves to a man. They had preferred an easy death to the awful tortures that they knew awaited them at the hands of the invincible Chinese. Long after the Court had fled in haste from Pekin and the capital had been in the hands of the Allies for months, their columns pushing out everywhere into the interior, it was asserted that all this apparent success was but a deep‐laid plan of the glorious Empress‐Dowager. She had thus enticed them into the heart of the land in order to cut them off from the sea. She now held them in the hollow of her hand. The luckless foreigners had abjectly appealed for mercy. Her tender heart had relented, and she had graciously promised to spare them in return for the restoration of all the territory hitherto wrested from China. Tientsin, Port Arthur, Kiao‐Chau, Shanghai, Tonkin, even Hong Kong, were being hastily surrendered. And such preposterous tales were readily believed.

But another confusing element was introduced into the already sufficiently complicated situation. Canton and the South contains, besides the anti‐foreign party, a number of reformers who realise that China must stand in line with modern civilisation. Only thus will she become strong enough to resist the perpetual foreign aggression which deprives her of her best ports and slices off her most valuable seaboard territory. The energetic inhabitants of Canton freely emigrate to Hong Kong, Singapore, Penang, Australia, and America. There they learn to take a wider view of things than is possible in their own conservative country. When they return they spread their ideas, and are the nucleus of the already fairly numerous party of reform, who justly blame the misfortunes of China on the effete and narrow‐minded Government in Pekin and work to secure the downfall of the present Manchu dynasty. In the southern provinces they have their following; and rumours of a great uprising there against the corrupt officialdom, and even the throne itself, were rife in the autumn of 1900. The much‐talked‐of but little‐known Triad Society—who claimed to advocate reform, but who were regarded with suspicion, their tenets forbidden, and their followers imprisoned in Hong Kong—started a rebellion in the Kwang‐tung province. They were supposed to be led, or at least abetted, by Sun Yat Sen, an enlightened reformer. As the revolt began close to the Kowloon frontier, fears were expressed lest, despite their advertised views, the rebels should prove unfriendly to foreigners and invade our territory. Little was known of the progress of the movement. The Chinese Imperial Government, through the Viceroy of Canton, sent Admiral Ho with 4,000 troops to Samchun to suppress the rising. The rebels, hearing of his coming, moved farther inland. The soldiers, having no great stomach for bloodshed, generously forebore to follow, and settled themselves comfortably in and around the town. Lest either party should be tempted to infringe the neutrality of our territory, the Hong Kong newspapers urged the Governor to take immediate measures to safeguard our frontier. After some delay a small, compact column was despatched to the boundary under the command of Major E. A. Kettlewell, an officer of marked ability and energy, who had seen much service in Burma and in the Tirah, and who had had long and intimate connection with the Imperial Service troops in India. The composition of the force, known as the Frontier Field Force, was as under:—

Commanding Officer.
Major E. A. Kettlewell, 22nd Bombay Infantry.

Staff Officer.
Lieutenant Casserly, 22nd Bombay Infantry.

Troops.

Three Companies, 22nd Bombay Infantry, under Captain Hatherell and Lieutenants Melville and Burke.

Four mountain guns and 50 men, Hong Kong and Singapore Battalion Royal Artillery, under Lieutenants Saunders and Ogilvie.

Detachment Royal Engineers (British and Chinese sappers), under Lieutenant Rundle, R.E.

Maxim Gun Detachment, 22nd Bombay Infantry, under Jemadar Lalla Rawat.

Signallers, 3rd Madras Light Infantry, under Captain Sharpe.

Section of Indian Field Hospital, under Captain Woolley, I.M.S.

With the mobility of Indian troops the column embarked within a few hours after the receipt of orders on a flotilla of steam launches, which were to convey us along the coast to Deep Bay, and thence up the Samchun River to the threatened point on the frontier. Stores, tents, and a few mules to carry the Maxim and ammunition, as well as to supplement coolie transport, were towed in junks.

Our tiny vessels loaded down with their living freight, the sepoys excited at the prospect of a fight, we steam away from Kowloon and out through the crowded harbour. We pass a number of torpedo‐boat destroyers and a small fleet of obsolete gunboats rusting in inglorious ease. To our right, with its huge cylindrical oil‐tanks standing up like giant drums and its docks containing an American man‐o’‐war, lies the crowded Chinese quarter of Yaumati. Above it towers the long chain of hills, their dark sides marked with the white streak of the new road that crosses their summit into the Hinterland. On the left is Hong Kong, the Peak with the windows of its houses flashing in the sun, the city at its feet in shadow. We pass the long, straggling Stonecutter’s Island, with the solid granite walls of its abandoned prison, the tree‐clad hills and the sharp outlines of forts. In among an archipelago of islands, large and small, we steam; and ahead of us lies the narrow channel of the Cap‐sui‐moon Pass between Lantau and the lesser islet of Mah Wan. On the latter are the buildings of the Customs station—the Imperial Maritime Customs of China. High hills on islands and mainland tower above us on every side. The lofty peak of Tai‐mo‐shan stands up in the brilliant sunlight. The coast is grim with rugged cliffs or gay with the grassy slopes of hills running down to the white fringe of beach. Bluff headlands, black, glistening rocks on which the foam‐flecked waves break incessantly, dark caverns, and tiny bays line the shore. A lumbering junk, with high, square stern and rounded bows—on which are painted large eyes, that the ship may see her way—bears down upon us with huge mat sails and its lolling crew gazing over the side in wonderment at the fierce, dark soldiers. A small sampan dances over the waves, two muscular women pushing at the long oars and the inevitable children seated on its narrow deck.

Along the coast we steam, gazing at its interminable masses of green hills, until it suddenly recedes into a wide bay surrounded on every side by high land. This is Deep Bay, an expanse twenty‐five miles in extent which, though now covered by the sea, becomes at low tide one vast mud flat, with a small stream winding through the noisome ooze. Towards the land on the right we head. Far out from shore lies a trim, white gunboat. From the stern floats the yellow Imperial standard of China with its sprawling dragon; for the vessel belongs to the Maritime Customs Service. On the decks brass machine‐guns glitter. A European in white clothing watches us through binoculars from the poop. The Chinese crew in blue uniforms, with pigtails coiled up under their straw hats, are spreading an awning.

At length we reach the mouth of the Samchun River, a small tidal stream, which, when the sea is low, is scarcely eighteen inches deep. Up between its winding banks we steam. High hills rise up on each side. We pray that neither rebel nor hostile Imperial soldier is waiting here to stop our coming; for a machine‐gun or a few rifles would play havoc with our men crowded together on the little launches. Up the river we go in single file, playing “follow my leader” as the first launch swings sharply round the frequent curves. By virtue of my position “on the Staff,” I am aboard it and am consequently resentful when a bump and a prolonged scraping under the keel tell us that we have gone aground. The next launch avoids the shoal and passes us, its occupants flinging sarcastic remarks and unkind jibes at us as they go by. But “pride cometh before a fall,” and a little farther on their Chinese steersman runs them high and dry. Then the others leave us behind until by dint of poling we float again and follow in their wake. Round a bend in the river we swing; and ahead of us we see a number of weird‐looking Chinese war‐junks. From their masts stream huge pennants and gaudy flags of many colours; on their decks stand old muzzle‐loading, smooth‐bore cannon. Their high, square sterns tower above the banks. The motley‐garbed crews are squatting about, engaged with chop‐sticks and bowls of rice. The sudden appearance of our flotilla crowded with armed men startles them. They drop their food and spring up to stare at us, uncertain whether to bolt ashore or continue their interrupted meal. Seeing no signs of hostility on our part, they grin placatingly and shout remarks to us, the tenor of which it is perhaps as well that we do not understand. These are Government war‐junks and, like the Customs steamer outside, are stationed here to prevent assistance reaching the rebels from the sea; but anyone who had successfully forced their way past the gunboat would have little to fear from these ill‐armed Noah’s Arks. Close by stand a few substantial buildings—a Customs station. From the verandah of a bungalow two white men in charge of it watch us as we go by.

As evening was closing in we reached the spot selected for our first camping‐ground and disembarked. On our side of the river a few hundred yards of level ground ran back to the steep, bare slopes of a straggling hill which rose to a conical peak five hundred feet above our heads. All around lay similar eminences, their grassy sides devoid of trees. Behind us the Hinterland stretched away to the south in range after range of barren mountains divided by narrow, cultivated valleys. Beyond the river lay a plain patched with paddy‐fields or broken by an occasional low hill. In it, little more than a mile away, stood the walled town of Samchun. The British and Indian police in the new territory had been instructed to give us intelligence of any hostile movements in the neighbourhood; and from them we learned that no immediate danger was to be apprehended. Nevertheless all precautionary measures to guard against a possible surprise were taken; for Admiral Ho’s troops still lingered in Samchun, and considerable doubt existed as to their attitude towards the British. Piquets having been posted and a strong guard placed over the ammunition and supplies, the men cooked their evening meal and bivouacked for the night. But sleep was almost impossible. The heat was intense. We had evidently intruded upon a favourite haunt of the mosquitoes who attacked us with malignant persistence until dawn.

The following day was employed in strengthening our position, reconnoitring our surroundings and laying out our camp. Our arrival had evidently taken the Chinese army across the river completely by surprise. From the hill, on which our tents stood, Samchun was plainly visible about 2,000 yards away; and our field‐glasses showed a great commotion in the town. Soldiers poured out of the gates or crowded on to the walls and gazed in consternation—apparent even at that distance—at the British force that had so suddenly put in an appearance on the scene. They were evidently extremely dubious as to our intentions; and we watched the troops falling in hurriedly and being marshalled under an imposing array of banners. When the Hinterland had been ceded to us, Samchun had at first been included, and was for a short time occupied by us; but the boundary was afterwards fixed at the river as being a natural frontier, and the town was restored to the Chinese. They apparently feared that we had changed our minds and contemplated appropriating it again. As our column made no move—for our orders had been not to enter Chinese territory or take any hostile action unless attacked—they soon disappeared into the town again. Later on, on a hill that rose close to the river on their side of the boundary‐line, a regiment appeared and observed us narrowly all day, endeavouring to keep out of sight themselves as much as possible. It was very tantalising to see the materials for a pretty little fight ready to hand being wasted, and we longed for the smallest hostile act on their part to give us an excuse for one. But none came; and we sighed discontentedly at the loss of such a golden opportunity. Although the Chinese force numbered 4,000, armed with guns, Mausers and Winchesters, and our column counted barely 400 all told, we felt little doubt as to the result of a fight between us.

By the following morning Admiral Ho and his mandarins had evidently come to the conclusion that we were more dangerous neighbours than the rebels; so he proceeded to move off from our vicinity. All that day and the next we watched bodies of troops, clad in long red or blue coats, with enormous straw hats slung like shields on their backs or covering their heads like giant mushrooms, marching out of the town and stringing out into single file along the narrow paths between the paddy‐fields as they moved off into the mountains beyond Samchun. Above their heads waved innumerable banners—green, red, blue, parti‐coloured, or striped in many lines horizontally or vertically. By the following evening all had disappeared, with the exception of about 400, as we afterwards ascertained, left behind to garrison the town. This forlorn hope, I doubt not, were none too well pleased at remaining in such unpleasant proximity to us.

Our arrival at the frontier was undoubtedly responsible for the retirement of Admiral Ho’s army. For he had been for some time comfortably settled in Samchun without evincing the least anxiety to follow up the rebels, who were reported to be laying waste the country farther on, pillaging the villages, torturing the officials, and levying taxes on the inhabitants. His departure removed a constant source of danger; for his undisciplined troops might have been tempted to cross the boundary into our territory and harass the villagers under our protection.

We now employed ourselves in patrolling the frontier, exercising the troops and making sketches to supplement the very inadequate information as to the surrounding country in our possession. Although the Hinterland had been ceded to the British two years before, and although it lies in such close proximity to Hong Kong, no accurate survey of it had ever been made. The only map which could be found to provide the expedition with was one done by a Jesuit missionary in 1840. It was fairly correct as regards outlines, but contained absolutely no details except a number of names, which might refer to villages or to features of the ground. For instance, at the spot on the map where our camp stood, we read the word “Lo‐u.” This, before we arrived there, we concluded referred to a village. But there was not a house in the vicinity, and we found that it was the name of the hill on which our tents were pitched. Our energetic commander employed himself in surveying and filling in the details of the surrounding country, marking the positions of the hamlets and paths—for roads there were none—and ascertaining the ranges and heights of the various prominent features around us.

About a mile away down the river lay the Chinese Customs station that we had passed on our way up. I strolled there one afternoon and made the acquaintance of the officers in charge. They were both Britishers. One of them, Mr. Percy Affleck‐Scott, told me that our arrival had been a great relief to them. When the rebels had been in the vicinity they had received several messages from the leaders who threatened to march down upon their station, burn it, and cut their heads off. In view of the repeated declarations of the Triads, that no hostility is felt by them to foreigners, these threats are significant. As they had little reliance on the prowess of the Chinese soldiers if attacked by the rebels, these two Britishers had been considerably relieved at the arrival of our force, in whose neighbourhood they knew that they would be safe.

The position of the European Custom House officials in the Outdoor Branch, stationed as they generally are in out‐of‐the‐way places in Chinese territory with no society of their own kind, is scarcely enviable. Their work, which consists in levying duty on imports into the country, frequently brings them into unpleasant contact with Chinese officials, who regard the existence of their service with intense dislike, as it robs them of chances of extortion. Those employed in the Indoor Branch are generally stationed in cities like Hong Kong, Shanghai, Pekin, or other large centres where life is enjoyable.

When visiting the Samchun Custom House on another occasion, at a later period, I saw a number of small, two‐pounder rifled breechloading guns belonging to Admiral Ho’s force being embarked on a war‐junk. I examined them with interest. They were mounted on small‐wheeled carriages and bore the stamp of the Chinese arsenal where they had been made. The breech ends were square, with a falling block worked by a lever at the side. They were well finished; for the work turned out at these arsenals by native workmen, often under European supervision, is generally very good.

Early one morning, a few days after Admiral Ho’s departure, the camp was roused by a sudden alarm. About four a.m., when it was still pitch dark, we were awakened by the sound of heavy firing in the Chinese territory. The continuous rattle of small arms and the deeper booming of field‐guns were distinctly audible. We rushed out of our tents and the troops got ready to fall in. The firing seemed to come from the immediate neighbourhood of Samchun; and it appeared that a desperate fight was in full swing. Our impression was that the rebels, learning of Ho’s departure, had eluded his force and doubled back to attack the town, which, being wealthy, would have proved a tempting prize. We gazed from the hillside in the direction from which the sound came; but a thick mist lay over the fields beyond the river and prevented the flashes from being visible. We waited impatiently for daylight. The rattle of rifle‐firing now broke out suddenly from around the Customs station; and we trembled for the safety of Affleck‐Scott and his companion. As the sound came no nearer in our direction, it became evident that no hostile movement against us was intended. We cursed the tardy daylight. At last day broke; but still the low‐lying mists obscured our view of the town and the plain beyond the river. Then the sun rose. The fog slowly cleared away. We looked eagerly towards Samchun, expecting, as the firing still continued, to see the contending forces engaged in deadly battle. But to our surprise, though every house in the town, every field and bank around it, stood out distinct in the clear light, scarcely a human being was visible. Before the gates a few soldiers lounged about unconcernedly. But the firing still continued. We could see nothing to account for it and began to wonder if it was a battle of phantoms. Gradually it died away and left us still bewildered. Later on in the day came the explanation. In view of our imaginary combat it was simple and ludicrous. The day was one of the innumerable Chinese festivals; and the inhabitants of Samchun and the neighbouring villages had been ushering it in in the usual Celestial fashion with much burning of crackers and exploding of bombs. To anyone who has heard the extraordinary noise of Chinese fireworks, which accurately reproduces the rattle of musketry and the booming of guns, our mistake is excusable. At the attack on the Peiyang Arsenal outside Tientsin, on June 27th, 1900, by the British, Americans, and Russians, the Chinese defenders, before evacuating it when hard pressed, laid strings of crackers along the walls. As our marines and bluejackets, with the Americans, advanced to the final assault these were set fire to. The explosions sounded like a very heavy fusillade and the assailants took cover. The Chinese meanwhile bolted out of the arsenal and got safely away before the attackers discovered the trick and stormed the place.

A week or two after this false alarm, I obtained permission to cross into Chinese territory and visit Samchun. The town looked very interesting at a distance, with its high walls and two square stone towers, which were in reality pawn‐shops. For these establishments in China are looked upon as safe deposit offices. A rich man about to leave home for any length of time removes his valuables to the nearest pawn‐shop and there stores them. They are the first places attacked when a band of robbers seizes some small town, as frequently happens. So they are built in the form of strong towers with the entrance generally several feet from the ground, in order that the proprietor and his friends may retire within and defend them.

Accompanied by Captain Woolley, I.M.S., I set out to visit the town, having received many injunctions to be careful not to embroil ourselves with the inhabitants or the soldiery, who were not likely to prove over friendly. We were provided with interpreters in the persons of a Chinese policeman in British employ and a Sikh constable who had learned to converse very well in the language of the country. As we intended to make a formal call on the mandarin in command of Samchun and had heard that in China a man’s importance is gauged by the size of his visiting‐card, we wrote our names on sheets of foolscap—the largest pieces of paper we could find. Red, however, is the proper colour. In mufti and taking no weapons, we left the camp and crossed the river in a small, flat‐bottomed ferry‐boat. Landed on the far side, we set off along the tops of the mud banks between the paddy‐fields, the only roads available. Those which are used as general paths are laid with flat stones, which, not being fastened in any way, occasionally tilt up and slide about in a disconcerting manner. As we neared the town we were observed with interest by a number of Chinese soldiers lounging about in front of the principal gateway. We felt a little nervous as to our reception but putting a bold face on the matter directed our way towards them. We were stopped, however, by our Chinese policeman, who told us that we should not approach this entrance as it faced the mandarin’s Yamen and was reserved for important individuals. We being merely foreigners—this although he was in British employment!—must seek admittance through the back gate into the town. Irritated at his insolent tone, the Sikh constable shoved him aside, and we approached the guard. The soldiers, though not openly hostile—for the white tents of our camp, plainly visible across the river, had a sobering effect—treated us with scarcely‐veiled contempt. On our Sikh interpreter informing them that we were English officers who had come to visit their mandarin, they airily replied that that dignitary was asleep and could not see us. Annoyed at their impertinent manner, we ordered them to go and wake him. Rather impressed by our audacity, they held a consultation. Then one went into the Yamen. He returned in a few minutes with a message to the effect that the mandarin regretted that he could not see us as he was not dressed. Seeing the effect of our previous curtness, we haughtily bade the soldier tell the mandarin to put on his clothes at once; see him we must. Visibly impressed this time, he hastened inside again and promptly returned with an invitation to enter the Yamen. We passed through the gate with as important an air as we could assume. It had been a game of bluff on both sides and we had won; for on the verandah of the house inside the entrance we were received by the mandarin, correctly attired. With hands folded over each other, he bowed low and led the way into the interior. The room was small and plainly furnished. High‐backed, uncomfortable chairs stood round a square blackwood table. On the walls hung crude pictures or tablets painted with Chinese characters. Our host, who was really a most courteous old gentleman, bowed again and, pointing to the chairs, begged us—as we judged from his manner—to be seated. We politely refused until he had taken a chair himself. He then addressed us in sing‐song Chinese words, which our Sikh interpreter assured us were an expression of the honour he felt at our condescending to visit such an unworthy individual. We framed our reply in equally humble terms. He then inquired the reason of the coming of our force to the frontier. We informed him that it was merely to guard our territory from invasion and assured him that we had no evil designs on Samchun. He pretended to feel satisfied at this, but doubt evidently still lingered in his mind. The conversation then dragged on spasmodically until we asked his permission to visit the town. He seemed to hail our request with relief as a chance of politely ridding himself of us and ordered four soldiers to get ready to accompany us as an escort. One of the attendants, at a sign from him, then left the room and returned with three little cups covered with brass saucers.

“Now we shall taste really high‐class Chinese tea,” said Woolley to me in an undertone.

We removed the saucers. The cups were filled with boiling water. At the bottom lay a few black twigs and leaves. Imitating the mandarin’s actions, we raised our cups in both hands and tried to drink the hot and tasteless contents. The Chinese tea was a distinct failure.

A few black, formidable‐looking cigars were now placed upon the table. Mindful of the vile odours that inevitably possess the filthy streets of the native towns in China, we took some. Then as our escort appeared in the courtyard in front of the house, we rose. Expressing profuse thanks to our courteous host through the interpreter, we folded our hands and bowed ourselves out in the politest Chinese fashion.

Following our military guides, we entered the town. They led us first to the house of a lesser mandarin, whom we visited. He was as surly as his superior was amiable. He very speedily ordered tea for us as a sign of dismissal. However, as a mark of attention, he sent two lantern‐bearers to accompany us. Quitting him with little hesitation, we followed our escort and plunged again into the town. The streets were narrow and indescribably filthy. Deep, open drains bordered them, filled with refuse. Extending our arms, we could nearly touch the houses on each side. On either hand were shops, some with glass‐windowed fronts, others open to the street. Some were fairly extensive, filled with garments or rolls of cloth. Others exhibited for sale clocks, cheap embroidery, tinsel jewellery, or common pottery. Every third one at least sold food, raw or cooked. Dried fish or ducks split open, the heads and necks of the latter attached to the bodies; pork, meat, and sucking‐pigs; rice, flour, or vegetables. Near one shop stood a grinning Chinaman who spoke to us in pidgin‐English. Beside him was an open barrel filled with what looked like dried prunes. I pointed to them and asked what they were.

“That?” he said, popping one into his mouth and munching it with evident relish. “That belong cocky‐loachee. Velly good!”

They were dried cockroaches!

Farther on another pig‐tailed individual spoke to us in fluent English with a Yankee twang.

“Do you live in Samchun?” I asked him, in surprise.

“Not much, you bet!” he replied. “I don’t belong to this darned country any more. I live in ’Frisco.”

He explained that he had come to Hong Kong as a sailor on an American vessel, and had wandered out to Samchun to see a relative. With a “So long, boss!” from him we passed on.

Every fifth or sixth house was a gambling‐den. Around the tables were seated Chinamen of all ages engaged in playing fan‐tan, that slowest and most exasperating of all methods of “plunging.” The interiors of these establishments were gay with much elaborate gilt carving.

It was now growing dark, and our lantern‐bearers lighted the paper lamps swinging at the end of long sticks they carried. We directed our escort to lead us out of the town. We wished to dismiss them at the gate; but they assured the interpreter that their orders were strict—not to quit us until they had seen us safely out of Chinese territory. So we made our way to the river. Arrived there, my companion and I discussed the question as to whether we should reward our escort with a tip or whether they would be insulted, being soldiers, at the offer. Finally we resolved to give them a dollar. If they did not look satisfied, we would increase the amount. So a bright English dollar was handed to the Sikh to be given to them. Satisfied! They seemed as if they had never seen such wealth before. They crowded round us with voluble thanks; and with quite an affecting farewell we went down to the water’s edge. To our surprise we found our commanding officer with a party of armed sepoys crossing over to us in the ferry‐boat. Alarmed at our long absence, he had feared that something untoward had happened to us and was coming in search of us. When we arrived at the camp we found the others rather uneasy about us; though some cheerfully assured us that they had been hoping that the Chinese had at least captured us to give them an excuse for attacking and looting Samchun.

Shortly afterwards, interested at our description of our adventures, our commanding officer determined to visit Samchun. A letter in Chinese was sent to the mandarin to acquaint him with our chief’s intention. Next morning we were surprised by the sight of eight Chinese soldiers, armed with carbines and accompanied by the Sikh interpreter, crossing the river and ascending the path to the camp. As they approached the tents our sepoys, anxious to see the redoubtable warriors at close range, rushed out and flocked round them. Terrified at the sight of these strange black men, the Chinese soldiers dropped on their knees, flung their carbines on the ground, and held up their hands in abject supplication, entreating the interpreter to beg the fierce‐looking foreign devils not to beat them. The sepoys roared with laughter, patted them on the backs, and bore them off to their tents to soothe them with tea and cigarettes. The Sikh constable was the bearer of a message from the mandarin, expressing his pleasure at the intended visit of our commandant and informing him that an escort had been sent as a mark of honour. Accompanied by twenty of our tallest sepoys we crossed the river and set out for Samchun.

As we approached the town we found that the whole garrison of 400 men had been turned out to welcome us and were formed up to line the road near the gate of the Yamen. Fourteen huge banners of many colours waved above the ranks. In front of the entrance stood the mandarin and his suite in their gala dress, waiting to receive us. Our commanding officer had ridden up on his Arab charger, which must have seemed an immense horse to the Chinamen present, accustomed only to the diminutive ponies of their own country. The mandarin came forward to welcome our chief and apologised for not receiving him with a salute of cannon, as, he said, he had been afraid of startling his steed!

While compliments were being exchanged, I walked down the ranks of the Chinese troops and inspected them closely. They were nearly all small and miserable‐looking men, clad in long red or blue coats, with huge straw hats. They were armed with single‐loading Mausers or Winchester repeating carbines. I looked at a few of these. The outside of the barrels were bright and had evidently been cleaned with emery paper; but inside they were completely choked with rust and the weapons were absolutely useless. The men were evidently merely coolies, hurriedly impressed by the mandarins when called upon by the Viceroy of Canton to produce the troops for whom they regularly drew pay. This is a favourite device of the corrupt Chinese officials, who receive an allowance to keep up a certain number of soldiers. They buy and store a corresponding number of uniforms and rifles. When warned of an approaching inspection by some higher authority, they gather in coolies and clothe and arm them for the duration of his visit. The superior official—his own palm having been well greased—forbears to inspect them too closely, and departs to report to the Viceroy of the province that the troops are of excellent quality. Then the uniforms and rifles are returned to store, and the coolies dismissed with—or more probably without—a few cents to recompense them for their trouble.

Latterly in the North this does not always occur; and some of the troops, trained by foreigners and armed with the latest quick‐firing guns and magazine rifles, are very good. The Imperial forces which opposed Admiral Seymour’s advance and attacked Tientsin were of very different calibre to those employed in the suppression of the Triad rebellion. The shooting of their gunners and riflemen was excellent. The army of Yuan‐Shi‐Kai, who was Governor of the province of Shantung during the troubles in the North, is a good example of what Chinese soldiers can be when well trained.

The interview between the mandarin of Samchun and our commanding officer was an elaborate repetition of my own experience. The visit over, we entered the town, inspected some of the temples, and bought some curiosities in the shops. Then, escorted by our original party of Chinese soldiers, we returned to the river.

At the end of November we were roused one night by urgent messages from the British police in the Hinterland to the effect that parties of rebels were hovering on the frontier and it was feared that they intended to raid across into our territory. In response to their request, a strong party was sent out at once to reinforce them. About four a.m. a European police sergeant arrived in breathless haste with the information that the rebels had crossed the boundary and seized two villages lying inside our border. They had fired on the police patrols. Two companies of the 22nd Bombay Infantry, under Captain Hatherell and Lieutenant Burke, fell in promptly and marched off under the guidance of two Sikh policemen sent for the purpose. Preceded by scouts and a strong advanced guard, under a Pathan native officer, Subhedar Khitab Gul, they bore down at daybreak on the villages reported captured. But the rebels had apparently received information of their coming and had fled back across the border. The troops, bitterly disappointed at being deprived of a fight, returned about nine a.m. to camp, where the remainder of the force had been ready to support them if necessary.

No further attempts were ever made against our territory, and shortly afterwards the Frontier Field Force returned to headquarters.

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CHAPTER X
IN THE PORTUGUESE COLONY OF MACAO

FORTY miles from Hong Kong, hidden away among the countless islands that fringe the entrance to the estuary of the Chukiang or Pearl River, lies the Portuguese settlement of Macao. Once flourishing and prosperous, the centre of European trade with Southern China, it is now decaying and almost unknown—killed by the competition of its young and successful rival. Long before Elizabeth ascended the throne of England the venturesome Portuguese sailors and merchants had reached the Far East. There they carried their country’s flag over seas where now it never flies. An occasional gunboat represents in Chinese waters their once powerful and far‐roaming navy.

In the island of Lampacao, off the south‐eastern coast, their traders were settled, pushing their commerce with the mainland. In 1557 the neighbouring peninsula of Macao was ceded to them in token of the Chinese Emperor’s gratitude for their aid in destroying the power of a pirate chief who had long held sway in the seas around. The Dutch, the envious rivals of the Portuguese in the East, turned covetous eyes on the little colony which speedily began to flourish. In 1622 the troops in Macao were despatched to assist the Chinese against the Tartars. Taking advantage of their absence, the Governor of the Dutch East Indies fitted out a fleet to capture their city. In the June of that year the hostile ships appeared off Macao and landed a force to storm the fort. The valiant citizens fell upon and defeated the invaders; and the Dutch sailed away baffled. Until the early part of the nineteenth century the Portuguese paid an annual tribute of five hundred taels to the Chinese Government in acknowledgment of their nominal suzerainty. In 1848, the then Governor, Ferreira Amaral, refused to continue this payment and expelled the Chinese officials from the colony. In 1887, the independence of Macao was formally admitted by the Emperor in a treaty to that effect.

But the palmy days of its commerce died with the birth of Hong Kong. The importance of the Portuguese settlement has dwindled away. Macao is but a relic of the past. Its harbour is empty. The sea around has silted up with the detritus from the Pearl River until now no large vessels can approach. A small trade in tea, tobacco, opium, and silk is all that is left. The chief revenue is derived from the taxes levied on the numerous Chinese gambling‐houses in the city, which have gained for it the title of the Monte Carlo of the East.

Macao is situated on a small peninsula connected by a long, narrow causeway with the island of Heung Shan. The town faces southward and, sheltered by another island from the boisterous gales of the China seas, is yet cooled by the refreshing breezes of the south, from which quarter the wind blows most of the year in that latitude. Victoria in our colony, on the other hand, is cut off from them by the high Peak towering above it; and its climate in consequence is hot and steamy in the long and unpleasant summer. So Macao is, then, a favourite resort of the citizens of Hong Kong. The large, flat‐bottomed steamer that runs between the two places is generally crowded on Saturdays with inhabitants of the British colony, going to spend the week‐end on the cooler rival island.

The commercial competition of Macao is no longer to be dreaded. But this decaying Portuguese possession has recently acquired a certain importance in the eyes of the Hong Kong authorities and our statesmen in England by the fears of French aggression aroused by apparent endeavours to gain a footing in Macao. Attempts have been made to purchase property in it in the name of the French Government which are suspected to be the thin end of the wedge. Although the colony is not dangerous in the hands of its present possessors, it might become so in the power of more enterprising neighbours. Were it occupied by the French a much larger garrison would be required in Hong Kong. Of course, any attempt to invade our colony from Macao would be difficult; as the transports could not be convoyed by any large warships owing to the shallowness of the sea between the two places until Hong Kong harbour is reached. One battleship or cruiser, even without the assistance of the forts, should suffice to blow out of the water any vessels of sufficiently light draught to come out of the port of Macao. If any specially constructed, powerfully armed, shallow‐draught men‐o’‐war—which alone would be serviceable—were sent out from Europe, their arrival would be noted and their purpose suspected. Still an opportunity might be seized when our China squadron was elsewhere engaged and the garrison of Hong Kong denuded. On the whole, the Portuguese are preferable neighbours to the aggressive French colonial party, which is constantly seeking to extend its influence in Southern China. In 1802 and again in 1808 Macao was occupied by us as a precaution against its seizure by the French.

When garrison duty in Hong Kong during the damp, hot days of the summer palled, I once took ten days’ leave to the pleasanter climate of Macao. I embarked in Victoria in one of the large, shallow‐draught steamers of the Hong Kong, Canton, and Macao Steamboat Company, which keeps up the communication between the English and Portuguese colonies and the important Chinese city by a fleet of some half‐dozen vessels. With the exception of one, they are all large and roomy craft from 2,000 to 3,000 tons burden. They run to, and return from, Canton twice daily on week‐days. One starts from Hong Kong to Macao every afternoon and returns the following morning, except on Sundays. Between Macao and Canton they ply three times a week. The fares are not exorbitant—from Hong Kong to Macao three dollars, to Canton five, each way; between Macao and Canton three. The Hong Kong dollar in 1901 was worth about 1s. 10d.

The steamer on which I made the short passage to Macao was the Heungshan (1,998 tons). She was a large shallow‐draught vessel, painted white for the sake of coolness. She was mastless, with one high funnel, painted black; the upper deck was roomy and almost unobstructed. The sides between it and the middle deck were open; and a wide promenade lay all round the outer bulkheads of the cabins on the latter. Extending from amid‐ships to near the bows were the first‐class state‐rooms and a spacious, white‐and‐gold‐panelled saloon. For’ard of this the deck was open. Shaded by the upper deck overhead, this formed a delightful spot to laze in long chairs and gaze over the placid water of the land‐locked sea at the ever‐changing scenery. Aft on the same deck was the second‐class accommodation. Between the outer row of cabins round the sides a large open space was left. This was crowded with fat and prosperous‐looking Chinamen, lolling on chairs or mats, smoking long‐stemmed pipes with tiny bowls and surrounded by piles of luggage.

Below, on the lower deck, were herded the third‐class passengers, all Chinese coolies. The companion‐ways leading up to the main deck were closed by padlocked iron gratings. At the head of each stood an armed sentry, a half‐caste or Chinese quartermaster in bluejacket‐like uniform and naval straw hat. He was equipped with carbine and revolver; and close by him was a rack of rifles and cutlasses. All the steamers plying between Hong Kong, Macao, and Canton are similarly guarded; for the pirates who infest the Pearl River and the network of creeks near its mouth have been known to embark on them as innocent coolies and then suddenly rise, overpower the crew and seize the ship. For these vessels, besides conveying specie and cargo, have generally a number of wealthy Chinese passengers aboard, who frequently carry large sums of money with them.

The Heungshan cast off from the crowded, bustling wharf and threaded her way out of Hong Kong harbour between the numerous merchant ships lying at anchor. In between Lantau and the mainland we steamed over the placid water of what seemed an inland lake. The shallow sea is here so covered with islands that it is generally as smooth as a mill‐pond. Past stately moving junks and fussy little steam launches we held our way. Islands and mainland rising in green hills from the water’s edge hemmed in the narrow channel. In about two and a half hours we sighted Macao. We saw ahead of us a low eminence covered with the buildings of a European‐looking town. Behind it rose a range of bleak mountains. We passed along by a gently curving bay lined with houses and fringed with trees, rounded a cape, and entered the natural harbour which lies between low hills. It was crowded with junks and sampans. In the middle lay a trim Portuguese gunboat, the Zaire, three‐masted, with white superstructure and funnel and black hull. The small Canton‐Macao steamer was moored to the wharf.

The quay was lined with Chinese houses, two‐ or three‐storied, with arched verandahs. The Heungshan ran alongside, the hawsers were made fast, and gangways run ashore. The Chinese passengers, carrying their baggage, trooped on to the wharf. One of them in his hurry knocked roughly against a Portuguese Customs officer who caught him by the pigtail and boxed his ears in reward for his awkwardness. It was a refreshing sight after the pampered and petted way in which the Chinaman is treated by the authorities in Hong Kong. There the lowest coolie can be as impertinent as he likes to Europeans, for he knows that the white man who ventures to chastise him for his insolence will be promptly summoned to appear before a magistrate and fined. Our treatment of the subject races throughout our Empire errs chiefly in its lack of common justice to the European.

Seated in a ricksha, pulled and pushed by two coolies up steep streets, I was finally deposited at the door of the Boa Vista Hotel. This excellent hostelry—which the French endeavoured to secure for a naval hospital, and which has since been purchased by the Portuguese Government—was picturesquely situated on a low hill overlooking the town. The ground on one side fell sharply down to the sea which lapped the rugged rocks and sandy beach two or three hundred feet below. On the other, from the foot of the hill, a pretty bay with a tree‐shaded esplanade—called the Praia Grande—stretched away to a high cape about a mile distant. The bay was bordered by a line of houses, prominent among which was the Governor’s Palace. Behind them the city, built on rising ground, rose in terraces. The buildings were all of the Southern European type, with tiled roofs, Venetian‐shuttered windows, and walls painted pink, white, blue, or yellow. Away in the heart of the town the gaunt, shattered façade of a ruined church stood on a slight eminence. Here and there small hills crowned with the crumbling walls of ancient forts rose up around the city.

Eager for a closer acquaintance with Macao, I drove out that afternoon in a ricksha. I was whirled first along the Praia Grande, which runs around the curving bay below the hotel. On the right‐hand side lay a strongly built sea‐wall. On the tree‐shaded promenade between it and the roadway groups of the inhabitants of the city were enjoying the cool evening breeze. Sturdy little Portuguese soldiers in dark‐blue uniforms and képis strolled along in two and threes, ogling the yellow or dark‐featured Macaese ladies, a few of whom wore mantillas. Half‐caste youths, resplendent in loud check suits and immaculate collars and cuffs, sat on the sea‐wall or, airily puffing their cheap cigarettes, sauntered along the promenade with languid grace. Grave citizens walked with their families, the prettier portion of whom affected to be demurely unconscious of the admiring looks of the aforesaid dandies. A couple of priests in shovel hats and long, black cassocks moved along in the throng.

The left side of the Praia was lined with houses, among which were some fine buildings, including the Government, Post and Telegraph Bureaus, commercial offices, private residences, and a large mansion, with two projecting wings, the Governor’s Palace. At the entrance stood a sentry, while the rest of the guard lounged near the doorway. At the end of the Praia Grande were the pretty public gardens, shaded by banyan trees, with flower‐beds, a bandstand, and a large building beyond it—the Military Club. Past the gate of the Gardens the road turned away from the sea and ran between rows of Chinese houses until it reached the long, tree‐bordered Estrada da Flora. On the left lay cultivated land. On the right the ground sloped gently back to a bluff hill, on which stood a lighthouse, the oldest in China. At the foot of this eminence lay the pretty summer residence of the Governor, picturesquely named Flora, surrounded by gardens and fenced in by a granite wall. Continuing under the name of Estrada da Bella Vista, the road ran on to the sea and turned to the left around a flower‐bordered, terraced green mound, at the summit of which was a look‐out whence a charming view was obtained. From this the mound derives the name of Bella Vista. In front lay a shallow bay. To the left the shore curved round to a long, low, sandy causeway, which connects Macao with the island of Heung Shan. Midway on this stood a masonry gateway, Porta Cerco, which marks the boundary between Portuguese and Chinese territory. Hemmed in by a sea‐wall, the road continued from Bella Vista along above the beach, past the isthmus, on which was a branch road leading to the Porta, by a stretch of cultivated ground, and round the peninsula, until it reached the city again.

After dinner that evening, accompanied by a friend staying at the same hotel, I strolled down to the Public Gardens, where the police band was playing and the “beauty and fashion” of Macao assembled. They were crowded with gay promenaders. Trim Portuguese naval or military officers, brightly dressed ladies, soldiers, civilians, priests and laity strolled up and down the walks or sat on the benches. Sallow‐complexioned children chased each other round the flower‐beds. Opposite the bandstand stood a line of chairs reserved for the Governor and his party. We met some acquaintances among the few British residents in the colony; and one of them, being an honorary member of the Military Club situated at one end of the Gardens, invited us into it. We sat at one of the little tables on the terrace, where the élite of Macao drank their coffee and liqueurs, and watched the gay groups promenading below. The scene was animated and interesting, thoroughly typical of the way in which Continental nations enjoy outdoor life, as the English never can. Hong Kong, with all its wealth and large European population, has no similar social gathering‐place; and its citizens wrap themselves in truly British unneighbourly isolation.

The government of Macao is administered from Portugal. The Governor is appointed from Europe; and the local Senate is vested solely with the municipal administration of the colony. The garrison consists of Portuguese artillerymen to man the forts and a regiment of Infantry of the Line, relieved regularly from Europe. There is also a battalion of police, supplemented by Indian and Chinese constables—the former recruited among the natives of the Portuguese territory of Goa on the Bombay coast, though many of the sepoys hail from British India. A gunboat is generally stationed in the harbour. The troubles all over China in 1900 had a disturbing influence even in this isolated Portuguese colony. An attack from Canton was feared in Macao as well as in Hong Kong; and the utmost vigilance was observed by the garrison. One night heavy firing was heard from the direction of the Porta Cerco, the barrier on the isthmus. It was thought that the Chinese were at last descending on the settlement. The alarm sounded and the troops were called out. Sailors were landed from the Zaire with machine‐guns. A British resident in Macao told me that so prompt were the garrison in turning out that in twenty minutes all were at their posts and every position for defence occupied. At each street‐corner stood a strong guard; and machine‐guns were placed so as to prevent any attempt on the part of the Chinese in the city to aid their fellow‐countrymen outside. However, it was found that the alarm was occasioned by the villagers who lived just outside the boundary, firing on the guards at the barrier in revenge for the continual insults to which their women, when passing in and out to market in Macao, were subjected by the Portuguese soldiers at the gate. No attack followed and the incident had no further consequences. At the close of 1901 or the beginning of 1902, more serious alarm was caused by the conduct of the regiment recently arrived from Portugal in relief. Dissatisfied with their pay or at service in the East, the men mutinied and threatened to seize the town. The situation was difficult, as they formed the major portion of the garrison. Eventually, however, the artillerymen, the police battalion, and the sailors from the Zaire succeeded in over‐awing and disarming them. The ringleaders were seized and punished, and that incident closed.

The European‐born Portuguese in the colony are few and consist chiefly of the Government officials and their families and the troops. They look down upon the Macaese—as the colonials are called—with the supreme contempt of the pure‐blooded white man for the half‐caste. For, judging from their complexions and features, few of the Macaese are of unmixed descent. So the Portuguese from Europe keep rigidly aloof from them and unbend only to the few British and Americans resident in the colony. These are warmly welcomed in Macao society and freely admitted into the exclusive official circles.

On the day following my arrival, I went in uniform to call upon the Governor in the palace on the Praia Grande. Accompanied by a friend, I rickshaed from the hotel to the gate of the courtyard. The guard at the entrance saluted as we approached; and I endeavoured to explain the reason of our coming to the sergeant in command. English and French were both beyond his understanding; but he called to his assistance a functionary, clad in gorgeous livery, who succeeded in grasping the fact that we wished to see the aide‐de‐camp to the Governor. He ushered us into a waiting‐room opening off the spacious hall. In a few minutes a smart, good‐looking officer in white duck uniform entered. He was the aide‐de‐camp, Senhor Carvalhaes. Speaking in fluent French, he informed us that the Governor was not in the palace but would probably soon return, and invited us to wait. He chatted pleasantly with us, gave us much interesting information about Macao, and proffered his services to make our stay in Portuguese territory as enjoyable as he could. We soon became on very friendly terms and he accepted an invitation to dine with us at the hotel that night. The sound of the guard turning out and presenting arms told us that the Governor had returned. Senhor Carvalhaes, praying us to excuse him, went out to inform his Excellency of our presence. In a few minutes the Governor entered and courteously welcomed us to Macao. He spoke English extremely well; although he had only begun to learn it since he came to the colony not very long before. After a very pleasant and friendly interview with him we took our departure, escorted to the door by the aide‐de‐camp.

On the following day I paid some calls on the British and American residents and then went down to the English tennis‐ground, which is situated close to Bella Vista. Here, in the afternoons, the little colony of aliens in Macao generally assemble. The consuls and their wives and families, with a few missionaries and an occasional merchant, make up their number. Close by the tennis‐courts, in a high‐walled enclosure shaded by giant banyans, lies the English cemetery.

That night a civilian from Hong Kong, Mr. Ivan Grant‐Smith, and I had an unpleasant adventure which illustrates the scant respect with which the ægis of British power is regarded abroad. We are prone to flatter ourselves that the world stands in awe of our Empire’s might, that the magic words, “I am an English citizen!” will bear us scatheless through any danger. The following instance—by no means an isolated one—of how British subjects are often treated by the meanest officials of other States may be instructive.

We had dined that evening at the house of one of the English residents in Macao. The dinner, which was to celebrate the birthday of his son, was followed by a dance; so that it was after one o’clock in the morning before we left to walk back to the hotel, about a mile away. Leaving the main streets, we tried a short cut along a lonely road hemmed in by high garden walls. The ground on one side sloped up, so that the level of the enclosures was but little below the top of the wall fronting the road. As we passed one garden some dogs inside it, roused by our voices, climbed on the wall and began to bark persistently at us. In the vain hope of silencing them, Grant‐Smith threw a few stones at the noisy animals. They barked all the more furiously. A small gate in the wall a little distance farther on suddenly opened and a half‐dressed Portuguese appeared. I had happened to stop to light a cigar, and my companion had gone on ahead. The new‐comer on the scene rushed at him and poured forth a torrent of what was evidently abuse. My friend very pacifically endeavoured to explain by gestures what had happened; but the Portuguese, becoming still more enraged, shouted for the police patrol and blew a whistle loudly. An Indian constable ran up. The infuriated citizen spoke to him in Portuguese and then returned inside his garden, closing the gate. The sepoy seized Mr. Grant‐Smith by the shoulder. I asked him in Hindustani what my friend had done. The constable replied that he did not know. I said, “Then why do you arrest the sahib?”

“Because that man”—pointing to the garden—“told me to do so.”

“Who is he?” I demanded, naturally concluding that we must have disturbed the slumbers of some official whom the sepoy recognised.

To my astonishment he replied—

“I do not know, sahib. I never saw him before.”

As Grant‐Smith was ignorant of Hindustani and the Indian of English, I was forced to act as interpreter.

“Then,” said I, “as you don’t know of what the sahib is guilty or even the name of his accuser, you must release him.”

“I cannot, sahib. I must take him to the police‐station.”

Another Indian constable now came on the scene. I explained matters to him and insisted on his entering the garden and fetching out the complainant. He went in, and in a few minutes returned with the Portuguese hastily clad. He was in a very bad temper at being again disturbed; for, thinking that he had comfortably disposed of us for the night, he had calmly gone to bed.

We all now proceeded to a small police‐station about a mile away, passing the hotel on the road. Furious at the unjust arrest and irritated at the coolness of the complainant and the stupidity of the sepoy, my friend and I were anxious to see some superior authority. We never doubted that a prompt release and apology, as well as a reprimand to the over‐zealous constable, would immediately follow. British subjects were not to be treated in this high‐handed fashion!

Arrived at the station, we found only a Portuguese constable, with a Chinese policeman lying asleep on a guard‐bed in the corner. The accuser now came forward and charged my companion with “throwing stones at a dwelling‐house,” as the Indians informed me. Using them to interpret, I endeavoured to explain the affair to the Portuguese constable. He simply shrugged his shoulders, wrote down the charge, and said that the prisoner must be taken to the Head Police Office for the night. He added that, there being no charge against me, I was not concerned in the matter, and could go home.

However, as my unfortunate friend required me as interpreter, I had no intention of abandoning him, and accompanied him when he was marched off to durance vile. The Portuguese policeman at first wished to send him under the charge of the Chinese constable, whom he woke up for the purpose; but we explained that if such an indignity were offered us we would certainly refuse to go quietly with the Chinaman and might damage him on the way. He then allowed the Indian sepoys, who were very civil, to escort us. My luckless companion was then solemnly marched through the town until the Head Police Office was reached, over two miles away. It was a rambling structure in the heart of the city, with ancient buildings and tree‐shaded courts. Down long corridors and across a grass‐grown yard we were led into a large office. A half‐open door in a partition on the left bore the inscription, “Quarto del Sargento.” On the right, behind a large screen, a number of Portuguese policemen lay asleep on beds. The sepoys roused a sergeant, who sat up grumbling and surveyed us with little friendliness. The scene was rather amusing. My friend and I in correct evening dress, as haughtily indignant as Britishers should be under such circumstances, the Indian sepoys standing erect behind us, the surly complainant, whom the light of the office lamps revealed to be a very shoddy and common individual, the half‐awakened policemen gazing sleepily at us from their beds, would have made a capital tableau in a comedy. The sergeant rose and put on his uniform. Seating himself at a table in the office he read the charge. Without further ado he ordered a bed to be brought down and placed for the prisoner in the empty “Quarto del Sargento.” He then rose from the table and prepared to retire. I stopped him and demanded that our explanation should be listened to. I told him, through the interpreters, that if the ridiculous charge against my friend was to be proceeded with, he could be found at the hotel. There was no necessity for confining him for the night, as he could not leave Macao without the knowledge of the authorities. The sergeant curtly replied that as there was no complaint against me I had better quit the police‐station as soon as possible. If I wished to give evidence for my friend, I could attend at the magistrate’s court in the morning and do so. I informed him that I was an officer in the British Army, and demanded to see a Portuguese officer. He replied that he was a sergeant, and quite officer enough for me. His manner throughout was excessively overbearing and offensive. I then threatened to appeal to the British Consul. I am afraid that this only amused the Portuguese policemen, who had left their beds to come into the office and listen to the affair. They laughed amusedly; and the sergeant, smiling grimly, bade the interpreting sepoy tell me that he did not care a snap of his fingers for our Consul. I then played my trump card. I demanded that a message should be immediately conveyed to the aide‐de‐camp of the Governor, to the effect that one of his English friends with whom he had dined the previous night had been arrested. The effect was electrical. As soon as my speech had been translated to them, all the Portuguese policemen became at once extremely civil. The sergeant rushed to a telephone and rang up the police officer on duty. I caught the words “ufficiales Inglesos” and “amigos del Senhor Carvalhaes.” After a long conversation over the wire he returned smiling civilly, saluted, and said that my companion could leave the station at once. Would he have the supreme kindness to attend at the magistrate’s court at ten o’clock in the morning? If he did not know where it was, a constable would be sent to the hotel to guide him.

We marched out with the honours of war. With profuse courtesy we were escorted out of the police‐station, a sentry shouldering arms to us as we passed; and the sergeant accompanied us to the outer gate, where he parted from us with an elaborate salute.

We reached the hotel about 3.30 a.m. Before nine o’clock I presented myself at the palace, where I interviewed Senhor Carvalhaes and recounted the whole affair to him. He was indignant at the conduct of the police. He told me that we need not attend the court, as he would settle the matter himself. Later on my friend and I saw the British Consul, whom we knew personally, and told him all that had happened. He said that he could not have helped us in the least had we appealed to him. Some time previous an English colonel, in company with several ladies, had been arrested by the police for not removing his hat when a religious procession passed. As this officer happened to be a Roman Catholic, his action was not meant to be disrespectful. He was not released until the British Consul had interviewed the Governor. By a curious coincidence I met this colonel some months later in Seöul, the capital of Corea.

That afternoon Grant‐Smith and I were invited to the Portuguese Naval Tennis Club ground near Flora, the Governor’s summer residence. Carvalhaes, who was present, came to me and told me that the affair was settled. The trumpery charge had been dismissed; and the Indian constable who had arrested Grant‐Smith had been punished with six weeks’ imprisonment. As the unfortunate sepoy had only done what he considered his duty and had been very civil throughout, as well as helping me considerably by interpreting, I begged that the punishment should be transferred from him to the discourteous Portuguese sergeant. On my representations the Indian was released; but I doubt if the man of the dominant caste received even a reprimand.

Our adventure was now common property. We were freely chaffed about the arrest by the Portuguese officers and the British residents present at the Tennis Club. The wife of the Governor laughingly bade one of the English ladies bring up the “prisoner” and present him to her.

When one reflects that this quaint and old‐world little Portuguese colony is only forty miles from Hong Kong with its large garrison, our treatment by its insolent subordinate officials does not say much for the respect for England’s might which we imagine is felt throughout the world.

I had another experience of an arrest in Japan. The spy mania is rife in that country; and no photographing is permitted in the fortified seaports or in large tracts of country “reserved for military purposes.” In the important naval station of Yukosŭka, an hour’s journey by train from Yokohama, an American gentleman and I were taken into custody by a policeman for merely carrying a camera which, knowing the regulations, we had been careful not to use. We found afterwards that our ricksha coolies had given information. I was fortunately able to speak Japanese sufficiently well to explain to our captor that we had no intention of taking surreptitious photographs of the warships in the harbour. I pointed out that as most of these vessels had been built in England it was hardly necessary for a Britisher to come to Japan to get information about them. Our little policeman—with the ready capacity of his countrymen for seeing the feeblest joke—was immensely tickled. He laughed heartily and released us. But shortly afterwards an Italian officer, on his way to attend the Japanese military manœuvres, innocently took some photographs of the scenery near Shimoneseki. He was promptly arrested and subsequently fined forty yen (£4) for the offence. A few days later an Englishman at Moji was taken into custody for the same crime. Moral: do not carry a camera in Japan; content yourself with the excellent and cheap photographs to be obtained everywhere in that country of delightful scenery.

To return to Macao. Its greatly advertised attraction is the famous Chinese gambling‐houses, from the taxes on which is derived a large portion of the revenues of the colony. Most visitors go to see them and stake a dollar or two on the fan‐tan tables. I did likewise and was disappointed to find the famed saloons merely small Chinese houses, the interiors glittering with tawdry gilt wood carving and blazing at night with evil‐smelling oil lamps. On the ground floor stands a large table, at the head of which sits the croupier, generally a very bored‐looking old Chinaman. Along the sides are the players, who occasionally lose the phlegmatic calm of their race in their excitement. On the “board” squares are described, numbered 1, 2, 3, and 4. On them the money is staked. The croupier places a handful of “cash,” which are small coins, on the table and covers them with an inverted bowl. The number of them is not counted, as he takes them at random from a pile beside him. As soon as all the stakes are laid down, he lifts the bowl and with a chopstick counts the coins in fours. The number left at the end, which must be one, two, three, or four, represents the winning number. The bank pays three times the stake deposited, less ten per cent., which is kept as its own share of the winnings. In a gallery overhead sit European visitors and more important Chinamen who do not wish to mix with the common herd around the table. Their stakes are collected by an attendant who lowers them in a bag at the end of a long string, and the croupier places them where desired. Fan‐tan is not exciting. The counting of the coins is tedious and the calculations of the amounts to be paid out to the winners takes so long that the game becomes exceedingly wearisome.

Other attractions of Macao are the ruins of the old cathedral of San Paulo, built in 1602 and destroyed by fire in 1835, of which the façade still remains in good preservation; and the Gardens of Camoens, with a bust of the famous Portuguese poet placed in a picturesque grotto formed by a group of huge boulders. Camoens visited Macao, after voyaging to Goa and the East by way of the Cape of Good Hope.

In the basements of some of the older houses in Macao are the Barracoons, relics of the coolie traffic suppressed in 1874. They are large chambers where the coolies, to be shipped as labourers to foreign parts, were lodged while awaiting exportation. Among other points of interest near the city is the curious natural phenomenon known as the Ringing Rocks. They are reached by boat to Lappa. They consist of a number of huge granite boulders, supposed to be of some metallic formation, picturesquely grouped together, which, when struck, give out a clear bell‐like note, which dies away in gradually fainter vibrations. Altogether Macao is well worthy of a visit. The contrast between the sleepy old‐world city, which looks like a town in Southern Europe, and bustling, thriving Hong Kong, all that is modern and business‐like, is very striking. For the moneymaker the English colony; for the dreamer Macao.

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CHAPTER XI
A GLIMPSE OF CANTON

CANTON is, to foreigners, probably the best‐known and most frequently visited city of China. Its proximity to, and ready accessibility from Hong Kong, whence it is easily reached by a line of large river steamers, renders it a favourite place with travellers to the East to spend a portion of the time the mailboats usually stop in the English harbour. A small colony of Europeans, consuls and merchants of several nationalities, reside in its foreign settlement. Its considerable trade and its occupation by the Allies after the war of 1856‐7 directed much attention to it. Owing to its easy access, no other city in the Chinese Empire has been so frequently described by European writers. Rudyard Kipling, in his fascinating “From Sea to Sea,” paints a marvellous word‐picture of the life in its crowded streets. But it is so bound up with the interests of Hong Kong, its constant menace to our colony, and the suspected designs of French aggression, that still something new may be said about it. Despite its constant trade intercourse with Europeans, Canton remains anti‐foreign. Its inhabitants have not forgotten or forgiven its capture and occupation by the English and French in the past. After the Boxer movement in the North in 1900, many fears were entertained in Hong Kong lest a still more formidable outbreak against foreigners in the South might be inaugurated by the turbulent population of the restless city. The Europeans in Canton sent their families in haste to Hong Kong and Macao; wealthy Chinamen transferred their money to the banks in the former place; gunboats were hurried up; and the garrison of our island colony stood ready. The history of Canton’s intercourse with foreigners dates as far back as the eighth century. Two hundred years later it was visited by Arab traders, who were instrumental in introducing Mohammedanism, which still remains alive in the city. In 1517 Emmanuel, King of Portugal, sent an ambassador with a fleet of eight ships to Pekin; and the Chinese Emperor sanctioned the opening of trade relations with Canton. The English were much later in the field. In 1596, during the reign of Elizabeth, our first attempt to establish intercourse with China ended disastrously, as the two ships despatched were lost on the outward voyage. The first English vessel to reach Canton arrived there in 1634. In the light of the present state of affairs in the East, it is curious to note that an English ship which visited China in 1673 was subsequently refused admittance to Japan. In 1615 the city was captured by the Tartars.

About half a century later the famous East India Company established itself under the walls of Canton, and from there controlled the foreign trade for nearly one hundred and fifty years. After much vexatious interference by the native authorities, the influence of the Company was abolished early in the nineteenth century. The conduct of the Chinese Government as regards our commerce led to our declaring war in 1839. In 1841 a force under Sir Hugh (afterwards Lord) Gough surrounded Canton and prepared to capture it. But negotiations were opened by the Chinese, which ended in their being allowed to ransom the city by the payment of the large sum of six million dollars. The war was transferred farther north and ended with the Nanking Treaty of August, 1842, which threw open to foreign trade the ports of Shanghai, Ning‐po, Foochow, and Amoy. It was further stipulated that foreigners were to be permitted to enter the city of Canton. This provision, however, the Chinese refused to carry out. More vexatious quarrels and an insult to the British flag by the seizure of a Chinaman on the Arrow, a small vessel sailing under our colours, led to a fresh war in 1856. The outbreak of hostilities was followed by the pillaging and destruction of the “factories” of the foreign merchants in Canton by an infuriated mob in the December of that year. In 1857 the city was taken by storm by a force under Sir Charles Straubenzee. For four years afterwards it was occupied by an English and French garrison. The affairs of the city were administered by three allied commissioners—two English and one French officer—under the British General. They held their court in the Tartar General’s Yamen, part of which is still used by the English Consul for official receptions. Since the allied garrison was withdrawn Canton has been freely open to foreigners.

On the conclusion of peace it was necessary to find a settlement for the European merchants whose factories had been destroyed. It was determined to fill in and appropriate an extensive mud‐flat lying near the north bank of the river and south‐west of the city. This site having been leased, was converted into an artificial island by building a massive embankment of granite and constructing a canal, 100 feet wide, between the northern face and the adjacent Chinese suburb. The ground thus reclaimed measures about 950 yards in length and 320 yards broad in its widest part. It is in shape an irregular oval, and is called Shameen, or, more proper, Sha‐mien, i.e. sand‐flats. The island is divided into the English and the French Concessions. On it the consulates and the residences of the foreign merchants are built. The canal is crossed by two bridges, called respectively the English and the French, which can be closed by gates. They are guarded by the Settlement police. The cost of making the island amounted to 325,000 dollars (Mex.); of which the English Government paid four‐fifths and the French one‐fifth. At first foreigners hesitated to occupy it; but after the British Consulate was erected in 1865, our merchants began to build upon it with more confidence.

The journey from Hong Kong to Canton is very comfortably performed on the commodious shallow‐draught steamers that ply between the two cities. I left the island one afternoon with a party of friends. The scenery along the rugged coast and among the hilly islands to the flat delta at the mouth of the estuary with its countless creeks, still haunted by pirates, is charming. As we steamed up the river we could see, moving apparently among the fields, the huge sails of junks which in reality were sailing on the canals that intersect the country. After dinner I sat on deck with a very charming companion and watched the shadowy banks gliding past in the moonlight. Turning in for the night in a comfortable cabin, I slept until eight o’clock next morning, and awoke to find the steamer alongside the river bank at Canton.

The scene from the deck was animated and picturesque. On one side lay the crowded houses and grim old walls of the city. The wharves were thronged with bustling crowds. On the other, beyond the island suburb of Honam, the country stretched away in cultivation to low hills in the distance. The river was thronged with countless covered boats; for the floating population of Canton amounts to about a quarter of a million souls, and the crowded sampans lying in a dense mass on the water form a separate town from the city on the land. It is almost self‐containing and its inhabitants ply every imaginable trade. Peddlers of food, vegetables, fruit, pots, pans, and wares of all kinds paddled their boats along and shouted their stock‐in‐trade. Here and there a sampan was being extricated with difficulty from the closely packed mass, its crew earning voluble curses from their neighbours as they disentangled their craft and shot out into the stream.

I gazed over the steamer’s side at the crowded wharf. Chinese or half‐caste Portuguese Customs officers rapidly scanned the baggage of the pig‐tailed passengers as they landed, now and then stopping one and making him open the bundles he carried. Opium‐smuggling is the chief thing they guard against, for Hong Kong is a free port.

The city of Canton lies on the north bank of the Pearl River, about seventy or eighty miles from the sea. It is surrounded by an irregular masonry wall, twenty‐five feet high, twenty feet thick, and six or seven miles in circumference. This fortification is by no means as strong as the famous Wall of the Tartar city in Pekin and could be easily breached by the fire of heavy guns. Good artillery positions are to be found all round. A few miles north of the city lie hills rising 1,200 feet above the river. As the southern wall is only a few hundred yards from the bank, it could be destroyed and the city bombarded without difficulty by gunboats, some of which—English, French, and German—are nearly always lying off Shameen. The Chinese, however, are reported to be quietly erecting modern, well‐armed forts around the city; but were a powerful flotilla once anchored opposite it, it would be doomed.

Canton is divided into the old and the new city. The latter, the southern enclosure, was added in 1568, extending the ramparts almost to the river bank. The wall of the older portion still divides the two as in Pekin. On the north this wall rises to include a hill. On the other three sides Canton is surrounded by a ditch, which is filled by the rising tide. There are twelve outer gates and four in the partition wall. Two water‐gates admit boats along a canal which pierces the new city east and west. The gates are closed at night; and in the daytime soldiers are stationed near them to preserve order. As the policing of the city is very bad, the inhabitants of streets and wards frequently join in maintaining guards for the protection of their respective quarters.

The old city, which is very much the larger of the two, contains most of the important buildings. In it are the yamens of the Viceroy, the Major‐General, the Treasurer, the Chancellor, the Tartar General and Major‐General, and of the British Consul, as well as the prisons, the Examination Hall, the pagodas, and the numerous temples, of which there are over 120 in or about Canton. The streets number over 600 in both cities.

In the new town facing the river is the French Missions Roman Catholic Cathedral, a beautiful building of the perpendicular Gothic style of architecture with lofty spires. It is embellished with magnificent stained‐glass windows and polished teak‐wood carvings. It is built on the site of the old residence of the Governor‐General, destroyed during the bombardment by the Allies.

On the south, west, and east sides of the city and across the river on Honam Island, suburbs have sprung up, and including them it has a circumference of nearly ten miles. The houses stretch for four miles along the river; and the banks of boats extend for four or five miles. Out in the stream may often be seen huge junks 600 to 1,000 tons burden, which trade with the North and the Straits Settlements.

In 1874 the population of Canton was 1,500,000, including the floating town of 230,000, and the inhabitants of Honam 100,000. The number has probably largely increased.

Going ashore we installed ourselves in long‐poled open chairs, borne by energetic coolies. As they went along rapidly at a shambling half‐trot, they shouted loudly to the lounging crowds to clear the way. Into the network of narrow streets in the city we plunged. The houses are different to those in Pekin. They are generally of more than one story, well built of brick, with thick walls and verandahs along the fronts of the upper floors. The shops have little frontage, but extend far back. The streets, paved with stone or brick, are darkened by overhead reed matting, supported by wooden frames, which stretch across them to shade them from the sun. So narrow are even the principal thoroughfares that two chairs can hardly pass each other. With much shouting and sing‐song abuse the coolies carrying one are forced to back into the nearest shop and let the other go by. The vistas along these narrow, shaded streets, with their long, hanging, gilt‐lettered sign‐boards—red, white, or black—are full of quaint charm. The busy crowds of Chinese foot passengers hurry silently along, their felt‐soled shoes making no sound on the pavement. Contrary to what I had always heard of them, the Canton populace struck me as not being so insolent or hostile to Europeans as they are reputed. As our chairs moved along, the bearers thrusting the crowds aside with scant ceremony, very little notice was taken of us. A few remarks were made by the bystanders, which one of our party, who spoke Cantonese, told me were anything but complimentary. But all that day throughout the city I found the demeanour of the people much less offensive than a Chinaman in the lower quarters of London would.

The shops were filled with articles of European manufacture. Clocks, cloth, oleographs, lamps, kerosene oil tins, even sewing‐machines were for sale. Eating‐houses, tea shops, stalls covered with the usual weird forms of food, raw or cooked, abounded. The Chinaman has a catholic taste. Horseflesh, dogs, cats, hawks, owls, sharks’ fins, and birds’ nests are freely sold in Canton for human consumption. Carpenters were busy making the substantial furniture to be found in almost every Chinese house. Blacksmiths and coppersmiths added the noises of their trades to the din that resounded through the narrow streets. Peddlers with their wares spread about them on the ground helped to choke the congested thoroughfares. Beggars shouted loudly for alms and drew the attention of the passers‐by to their disgusting sores and deformities.

Canton is famous for its ivory carvers and the artists in the beautiful feather work, the making of which seems to be confined to this city. As I wished to purchase some specimens of this unique art, our party stopped at an establishment famed for its production. The shop was lofty but dark. The owner came forward to receive us, and spread on the counter a large selection of ornaments for our inspection. Trinkets of all kinds, lace‐pins, pendants, brooches were exhibited, all evidently made for European purchasers. The designs were very pretty. Large butterflies shone with the reflected lights and golden lustre of the beautiful green and blue plumage of the kingfisher. Tiny fishes delicately fashioned, birds of paradise, flowers were all reproduced in flimsy gold or silver work. Learning that I was anxious to see the process of the manufacture, the proprietor led me over to watch one of the workmen who sat around busily employed. On a metal ground‐work with raised edges and lines the feathers are fastened to reproduce the colours of the designs. With nimble fingers and delicate pincers the tiny strips of plumage are laid on and cemented. Keen sight is required for the work; and the proprietor told me that the eyes of the workmen engaged in it soon fail. It takes five years for an apprentice to thoroughly learn the art; and after he has laboured at it for two years more his vision becomes so obscured that he has to give it up and seek some other occupation. It is little wonder; for the shops in these narrow, shaded streets are always dark, and the artificial light generally used is furnished only by the cheapest European lamps. The prices of the various articles are very moderate, when one considers the delicacy and beauty of the work. Butterflies an inch across can be purchased for two or three dollars.

Our next visit was paid to the workers in ivory. Here, in a similarly dark shop, men were employed in carving most exquisitely delicate flowers, scenes, and figures. Brushes, mirror‐frames, fans, glove‐stretchers, penholders, card‐cases, and boxes of all sizes were being fashioned and adorned. I was particularly interested in the making of those curious Chinese puzzle‐balls, which contain one within another a dozen or more spheres, all down to the innermost one covered with beautiful carvings which can be seen through the round holes pierced in the sides. The owner of the shop showed me an apprentice learning how to make them and practising on an old billiard ball. Holes are drilled down to the depth which will be the circumference of the second outermost ball. A graving tool, hooked like a hoe, is introduced into them and worked round until there is a complete solid sphere detached inside. It is then carved in designs, every part being reached by turning the ball round until each portion of the surface has come opposite one of the holes through which the carving instrument can reach it. Then a similar process is gone through at a greater depth from the outside, which gives the third outermost sphere; and so on until the innermost ball is reached, which is carved and left solid. There are sometimes as many as twenty‐four of these graduated spheres. To one who has never seen how they are made it seems impossible to understand how these balls within balls are carved. Sections of elephants’ tusks lay about in the shop to prove to the customers that only real ivory is employed; but bone is often used in the making of cheaper articles.

In this trade, too, good sight is necessary; and the proprietor of this establishment told me that the eyes of his workmen soon give out. Here, again, the bad light was responsible. In Kioto, in Japan, I have watched men engaged in damascene or inlay work in dingy attics lighted only by small, smoky oil lamps, and was not surprised to learn that their sight did not last long.

We next inspected some embroidery shops, where specimens of wonderful work, both new and old, were to be seen. The latter come chiefly from the numerous pawnshops, the tall towers of which rise everywhere throughout the city; for they receive annually large quantities of old garments, sold by members of ancient but impoverished families who are forced to part with the wardrobes that have come down to them through many generations. Magnificent mandarins’ state costumes may be obtained for from forty to eighty or a hundred dollars. Some of the embroidery is undoubtedly antique and valuable; but a good deal of it sold as old consists of new and inferior substitutions and even of European‐manufactured imitations of the real article. This the white man in his innocence buys and goes on his way rejoicing, until some connoisseur among his female friends points out his error and leaves him abashed at his own ignorance.

Porcelain, jade, blackwood furniture, silk, bronze, and curio shops abound in the city. The contrast between the energetic, business‐like tradesmen of Canton, always ready to cater for the European market, and the phlegmatic shopkeepers of Pekin is very marked.

THE CANGUE

We now visited the Flowery Forest Monastery or Temple of the Five Hundred Genii, which is said to have been founded in A.D. 500, and which was rebuilt some forty years ago. It stands outside the western wall of the city. It comprises many buildings and courts; but the most interesting portion is the hall, which contains the images of the five hundred disciples of Buddha. The statues are life‐size. Their countenances are supposed to represent the supreme content of Nirvana; but their weird and grotesque expressions and the air of jollity and devil‐may‐careness on some of them is unintentionally ludicrous. Among the images is one said to represent Marco Polo, one of the earliest pioneers of discovery in the East. No one knows why the celebrated Italian traveller is included among the immortals.

A more interesting sight was the prison in the old city. On a stone outside the open gate sat a criminal weighted down with the cangue, a heavy board fastened round the neck. It prevents the luckless wearer from using his hands to feed himself or brush away the tormenting swarms of flies which settle on his face. He cannot reach his mouth, and must starve unless a relative or some charitable person can be found to give him food. As the cangue is never removed night or day he cannot lie down, but is forced to sit on the ground and prop himself against a wall and snatch what sleep he can in that uncomfortable and constrained position. I must say that this particular gentleman seemed very indifferent to his wooden collar. He was chatting pleasantly with some passers‐by in the street and turned his head to survey us with mild curiosity. The cangue, by the way, is only a minor penalty used for thieves, petty larcenists, and such small fry. For the punishment of graver crimes much more elaborate tortures have been reserved. As we passed into the prison we saw a few offenders chained to iron bars in the outer court. A Chinese warder unlocked a gate leading into a small yard crowded with prisoners, who rushed towards us and insolently demanded alms; for the Government waste no money in feeding their criminals who are obliged to rely on the kindness of the charitable. One particularly cheeky youth—a pickpocket, I was told—coolly demanded the cigar I was smoking. When I gave it to him he put it in his mouth and strutted up and down the yard to the amusement of his companions in misfortune. His gratitude was not overpowering, for he uttered some remarks, which my Cantonese‐speaking friend told me were particularly insulting. As the prisoners became very troublesome in their noisy demands, the warder pushed them back into the yard and shut the gate, having to rap some of them over the knuckles with his keys before he could do so. There were no especial horrors to be seen. The prisoners seemed cheerful enough; and none of the awful misery I had always associated with Chinese jails was apparent.

But when the Celestial authorities wish to punish an offender severely they have a varied and ingenious collection of tortures on hand. The ling‐chi, or death of a thousand cuts, is hardly to be surpassed for fiendish cruelty. The unfortunate criminal is turned over to the executioner, who stabs him everywhere with a sharp sword, carefully avoiding a vital spot. Then he cuts off fingers, toes, hands, feet, arms, and legs in succession, and finally severs the head, if the unhappy wretch has not already expired. If the doomed man is possessed of money he can bribe the executioner to kill him at the first blow; and the subsequent mutilations are performed only on a lifeless corpse. Another ingenious device is to place the criminal naked in a net and trice it up tightly around him, until his flesh bulges out through the meshes. Then, wherever it protrudes the executioner slices it off with a sharp knife. The unhappy wretch is taken back to prison, released from the net and thrown into a cell. No attempt is made to staunch the blood or salve the wounds unless death is feared. This must be averted; for a week or so later he has to be brought out again and the process repeated. Along the river bank near Canton criminals were exposed in cages, through the top of which their heads protruded in such a fashion that the weight of the body was supported only by the chin and neck. The feet did not touch the bottom of the cage, but a sharp spike was placed to rest them on when the strain on the neck became unendurable. Here the poor wretches were left to expire of exhaustion or die of starvation. After such tortures beheading seems a merciful punishment.

When I considered the Chinaman’s innate love of cruelty, I could understand why the next spot we visited was a very popular place of worship and a favourite resort for all the loafers of the city. It was the Temple of Horrors. Along each side of the principal court ran sheds, divided by partitions. In them behind wooden palings was a weird collection of groups of figures modelled to represent the various punishments of the Buddhist hell. The sheds were dark and it was difficult to see the interiors plainly. But quite enough was visible. In one compartment a couple of horrible devils were sawing a condemned wretch in two. In another, demons were thrusting a man into a huge boiler. Judging from the agonised expression on his face, the water must have been uncomfortably warm. In a third, the condemned soul or body was being ground in a press. Others were being roasted before huge fires, stuck all over with knives, having their eyes gouged out, being torn limb from limb. I fancy that the artist who designed these groups could have commanded a large salary as Inventor of Tortures from the Chinese authorities of his day.

Another place of interest is the Examination Hall, where every three years candidates from all parts of China assemble to compete for Government appointments. Young men and old, boys of eighteen and dotards of eighty, attend, eager to grasp the lowest rung of the official ladder which may lead them, though with soiled hands, to rank and wealth. The coveted buttons which mark the various grades of mandarin are here dangled before their eyes.

When one reflects that success in these competitions will lead to posts, not only as magistrates, but also as officers in the army, as officials of modern‐equipped arsenals, of departments of customs and telegraphs, or to positions which will bring them into contact with foreigners, one naturally thinks that the previous course of studies of the candidates will have fitted them for such appointments. Far from it. At the examinations a single text from Confucius or some other ancient author is set as a subject for a lengthy essay. For twenty‐four hours or longer the candidates are shut up in their cells to expand upon it. The examiners then read the result of their labours and recommend them on their proficiency in composition and acquaintance with the ancient classics of China. Even an English university curriculum is better fitted to equip a student for success in the world.

The Examination Hall consists of rows of closely‐packed lanes of small brick cells (about 12,000 in number) running at right angles off a long paved causeway, which is approached through an archway called the Dragon Gate. At the far end of this causeway are apartments for the examiners—twelve in number, two chiefs and ten juniors—who have been sent from Pekin. Quarters are also provided for the Viceroy and the Governor of the province, who are both obliged to be present during the examinations. The cells in which the candidates are immured are 6 feet high, 5½ feet long, and less than 4 feet broad, and open only on to the narrow lanes between the rows of sheds. From a high tower strict watch is kept to prevent any collusion between the competitors.

Tired of sight‐seeing, our party now returned to the river and crossed into Shameen by the small English Bridge spanning the canal between island and shore. A good lunch at the pretty little hotel prepared us for a stroll around the foreign settlement.

Shameen is now a pretty island with fine avenues of banyan trees, charming gardens, a row of excellent tennis‐courts, and handsome, well‐built houses, the residences of the foreign consuls and merchants. A tree‐shaded promenade lined the southern bank along the river. Moored to the shore were several English, American, French, and German gunboats. Their flags and the European‐looking houses made us almost forget that we were still within a stone’s‐throw of a large Chinese city. But the swarms of sampans, the curious country‐boats moved by stern‐wheels worked by men on a treadmill‐like contrivance, the banging of crackers and booming of gongs in a temple behind the island recalled us to the remembrance. We walked along by the river bank, crossed the canal by the French Bridge, and returned on board our steamer.

Canton, with its acres of crowded houses, its old walls, and ancient shrines, is a curious contrast to modern, up‐to‐date Hong Kong. Yet each in its way is equally alive and humming with busy trade, for the Chinese city exports and imports largely. It is the channel through which the commerce of Europe flows in and the products of China find their way out to the foreign markets. It manufactures largely glassware, pottery, metal work, paper, blackwood furniture, preserved ginger, medicine, etc. It is the granary and supply depôt of Hong Kong. The Cantonese merchants are keen business men and cater largely for the European customer. Nearly all the native silver work, embroidery, silks, and curios in the large shops of our colony come from Canton.

The focus of trade with Southern China, the proposed terminus of the railway to Kowloon, the food‐supplier of Hong Kong, its development and retention in Chinese hands is of vast importance to English commerce. The French are freely credited with designs upon it. Their determined efforts to firmly establish their own influence there and displace the British favour the suspicion. In their Concession on Shameen they have established, without the consent of China, their own post office, where they use their colonial stamps surcharged “Canton.” Their gunboats anchor where they like in the river, the commanders calmly ignoring the efforts of the Chinese officials to restrict them to the part allotted to foreign warships. On the occurrence of any outrages on their subjects or the converts of their missionaries, the French consuls act with energy and determination. When any such happen in the vicinity of Canton or up the West River, not content with complaints or remonstrances to the Chinese authorities, which usually have little effect, they insist on immediate redress. They generally accompany in person the official deputed to proceed to the scene of the outrage and investigate the affair. This energetic conduct is in marked contrast to the supineness of some of our consuls. A late British representative aroused much disgust among naval and military officers and our merchants by his want of resolution and his tender regard for Chinese susceptibilities. When one of our gunboats was fired on up the river, its commander immediately reported the matter to him. Our official feebly remonstrated with the authorities, and instructed the commander to return with his ship to the village near the scene of the outrage and fire off a Maxim into the river‐bank! This was to show the misguided peasantry of what the gunboat was capable, if action were necessary. As the Orientals respect only those who can use as well as show their power, the Chinese are not much impressed with us. The contrast between our forbearance and the determined conduct of the French is too marked. Their gunboats patrol the rivers and show the flag of their country everywhere. Their efforts seem directed towards spreading the region of their influence inland from the south to meet the Russian sphere in the north. This is to cut us off from our possessions in Burma and prevent any British railway being constructed from that country to the eastern coast of China, thus tapping the hitherto undeveloped resources of the interior.

An attack on Canton from the sea would be a far more difficult task now than formerly. The Bogue forts on the Pearl River, up which an invading flotilla must force its way, have been modernised and re‐armed with powerful guns. Hills are found within easy range of the river, from which the gunboats and shallow‐draught vessels, which alone could attempt the passage, could be shelled at a range precluding any response from their feebler weapons. And the Chinese gunners are not all to be despised, as Admiral Seymour’s column and the gallant defenders of Tientsin found to their cost.

The land approach would not be much easier. The country near the mouth of the river is intersected by creeks and canals. Even farther up, no roads are available for wheeled transport. An advance from the British territory of the Kowloon Hinterland would probably be preferable to a landing on the coast, though the route is longer. The hills beyond Samchun might prove a formidable barrier; but those once passed the difficulties would not be insuperable. The inhabitants of the southern provinces are not warlike; and the troops there have not been reorganised and disciplined like some in the north.

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CHAPTER XII
CHINA—PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE

LOOKING upon the map of China to‐day, England might well say with Clive, “I stand amazed at my own moderation.” If thirty years ago she had seized upon the whole of that vast empire, no other Power in the world would have dared to say her nay. She was undisputed mistress of the Eastern seas. Russia had not then reached the shores of the Pacific and her hands were busily employed in the centre of Asia. Germany had only just become a nation, and had not yet dreamt of contending with England for the commerce of the world. France lay crushed beneath the weight of an overwhelming defeat; and her voice was unheard in the councils of the nations. The United States of America had no thought of realms beyond the sea; their fleet was small, and the markets of Asia held no temptation for their merchants. Japan was but a name. The Meiji, the eventful revolution that freed her from the iron fetters of hide‐bound ignorance, was scarcely ten years old; and even its authors scarce dared to hope that their little islands would one day rank high among the civilised Powers of the world.

And China itself, that unwieldy Colossus, lay a helpless prey to any strong nation that placed aggrandisement before the claims of abstract justice. The prize was tempting. An immense empire that stretched from the snows of the North to the burning heats of the torrid zone; a land of incredible fertility, of vast mineral wealth, the value of which can even now be only vaguely guessed at; a teeming population of industrious and easily‐contented millions; an enormous seaboard with natural harbours that could shelter the navies of the world; navigable rivers that pierced to the heart of the land and offered themselves as veritable highways of commerce; all the riches that the earth could bear on its surface or hide in its bosom—what a guerdon to the victor!

The conquest of China might daunt the faint‐hearted from the apparent immensity of the task; but few countries would have proved an easier prize. Her army was composed of a heterogeneous collection of ill‐armed militia, whose weapons were more frequently the spear and the bow than the modern rifle. The Chinaman is, by nature, a lover of peace. War he abhors; and the profession of a soldier, honoured among other races, is held by him in utter contempt. Unpaid, uncared for, ill‐treated, and despised, the troops had to be driven to battle and could not withstand a determined attack. And behind them was no high‐spirited nation ready to risk all in the defence of the motherland. Patriotism is unknown. The love of country, so strong in other peoples, is non‐existent in the heart of the average Chinaman. With aught beyond the limits of his village, he has no concern. No other race in the world can boast so deep a love of family. To save his relatives from poverty, the Celestial will go willingly to his death. According to their laws a criminal cannot be slain unless he has confessed his crime. To wring this confession from him, tortures inconceivable in their fiendish malignity are heaped upon him. A speedy death would be a boon. But to acknowledge his guilt and die by the hands of the public executioner would entail the forfeiture of all his property to the State, and his family would be beggared. So, grimly uncomplaining, he submits for their sake to agonies that no white man could endure. A rich man condemned to death can generally purchase a substitute, can find a poverty‐stricken wretch willing to die in his stead for a sum of money that will place his starving relatives in comparative affluence.

All this the poor Chinaman will do for those he loves. How many white men would do the same? But why should he die for his country? he asks. Why sacrifice himself and those near and dear to him for the honour of a shadowy Emperor? Why should he lay down his life that the officials who oppress the poor and wrest his hard‐earned money from him may flourish unmolested? He is told that the Japanese, yellow men like himself, have invaded the land and defeated the Imperial troops. Well, the enemies are thousands of miles away from him, and the soldiers are paid to fight. What is it to him that strangers have seized upon some seaport, the name of which he has never heard before? Let those whom it concerns go out and fight them. His duty is to stay at home and till the ground that his family may not lack food.

A few of the more enlightened Chinamen of the upper classes, those who have lived abroad in Europe or America, in Australia, Hong Kong, and the Straits Settlements, or who have been educated in European colleges, may be inspired with the love of country as we understand it. But have the leaders of the nation, the nobles and the mandarins, ever been ready to sacrifice themselves for China? They batten on its misfortunes. The higher in rank they are the readier they prove themselves to intrigue with its enemies and sell their country for foreign gold. They drive the common folk to battle and stay at home themselves. The generals and the officers, with few exceptions, are never found in front of their troops in action, unless when a retirement is ordered. Occasionally isolated cases occur when a defeated commander commits suicide. But it is generally because he prefers an easy death by his own hand to the degradation and tortures that await the vanquished general.

To prate of the patriotism of the Chinese is as though one spoke of the “patriotism of India.” Still, the latter is a favourite phrase of some of our ignorant politicians who pose as the champions of “the down‐trodden black brother.” They talk of India being made self‐governing and wish to fill its Civil Service with “enlightened natives.” They fail to see why a Calcutta Babu or a Bombay Parsee, who boasts a university degree and has passed a brilliant examination, should not be set to rule over a Punjaub district or to deal with the unruly Pathans on the frontier. They do not realise that Englishmen would sooner submit to be governed by the knout of a Russian official than the haughty Sikh or fierce Pathan would endure the sway of men they regard as lower than dogs. Our Indian Empire is composed of a hundred warring nations, all different in speech, in blood, almost in religions. We, the dominant race, hold them all in the Pax Britannica, and keep them from each other’s throats.

In like manner few realise that China is not a united and homogeneous nation. It consists of many provinces, the inhabitants of which belong practically to different races and speak in different tongues. They have little intercourse or sympathy with each other. Inter‐village wars are almost as frequent as among Pathans. Rebellions are common occurrences. The Mohammedans hold themselves aloof and regard the other Chinese with little love. The written language is the same throughout China; but the man of Canton cannot speak with the inhabitant of Pekin or the coolie from Amoy. Occasionally the curious sight may be seen of two Chinamen from different provinces holding converse with each other in pidgin‐English, the only medium of intercourse intelligible to both.

In the outbreak of 1900 the Boxers and the Pekinese showed themselves almost as hostile to the Cantonese trading or residing in the north as they were to Europeans. They considered that the southern city’s long intercourse with the white man must have rendered its inhabitants favourable to foreigners; though, indeed, this is very far from the truth.

So the Chinaman can have no patriotism. To any but the most enlightened—or the mandarins from more sordid motives—it is a matter of comparative indifference who rules the Empire. Provided that he is allowed to live in peace, that taxes do not weigh upon him too heavily or his religion be not interfered with, the peasant cares not who reigns in Pekin. Justice he does not ask for; he is too unused to it. All that he demands is that he be not too utterly ground down by oppression. Patient and long‐suffering, he revolts only against the grossest injustice. Not until maddened by famine or unable to wring a bare living from the ground does he rise to protest against the unjust officials, whose exactions have kept him poor. If he once realised the fairness of European rule, he would live content under any banner, happy in being allowed to exist in undisturbed possession of the fruit of his toil. The Chinamen in our possessions in the East are satisfied and happy under the mild law of England. Large numbers of them make their home there, content to live and die under a foreign government, and ask only that their corpses may be conveyed back to China to be interred in its sacred soil.

The average Celestial in his own land feels no pride or interest in the glory of his country. In its government he has no voice. Of its history, its achievements in the past, he is ignorant. He is content with it because it is the only one he knows and so must be the best. Of other lands beyond its confines he has dimly heard. But their inhabitants are mere barbarians. Those of them who have intruded themselves into his country are uncivilised according to his standard. They worship false gods; their manners are laughable. All they do is at variance with his customs, and so must be wrong. They cannot read his books and know nothing of the maxims of Confucius. So they must be illiterate as well as irreligious. Yet these strange beings are content with themselves, and scorn his ways! This proves their ignorance and their conceit. How can they boast, he asks, of the superiority of their own countries when they cannot stay there and, in face of contempt and hostility, seek to force their way into his? And as their coming means interference with customs hallowed by age and the uprooting of his dearest prejudices, he resents it. They strive to introduce innovations which he can very well do without. What sufficed for his father and his father’s father is good enough for him. The barbarians come only to disturb. They wish to defile the graves of his worshipped ancestors by constructing railways over the soil in which their bones rest. The shrieks of the chained devils in their engines disturb the Feng Shui, the tutelary deities of his fields, and hence follow drought and famine. And that these accursed, unneeded iron highways may be constructed, he is forced to sell the land which has been in the possession of his family for generations. The price for it passes through the hands of the mandarins and officials, and so but little reaches him. Has he not heard that to secure the safety of their bridges little children are kidnapped and buried under their foundations? Out upon the accursed intruders! China has flourished through countless ages without their aid, and wants them not.

And so, in a measure, hatred of foreigners supplies the place of patriotism. It binds all classes together. The ruling clique dread them for the reforms they seek to introduce; for these would overthrow the frail structure of oligarchical government in Pekin and hurl the privileged class from power. The mandarins tremble at their interference with the widespread corruption and unjust taxation on which the officials now batten. The educated hate them for their triumphs over China in the past, their continual territorial aggression, and their constant menace to the integrity of China. The fanatical hatred of the white man exhibited by the lower classes is the result of the blindest ignorance. It is stirred into mad rage by the exhortations of the priests, who naturally resent with true clerical bigotry the introduction of other creeds. The zealous but too often misdirected efforts of the missionaries, who tactlessly trample on his dearest beliefs, rouse the Chinaman to excesses against the strangers who seem to have intruded themselves upon him only to insult all that he holds most sacred. Every misfortune, whether it be drought and subsequent famine or devastating floods, storm or pestilence, is ascribed to the anger of the gods, irritated at the presence of the unbelievers. If the crops fail or small‐pox desolates a village, the eyes of the frenzied peasants turn to the nearest mission house where live the accursed strangers whose false teachings have aroused the anger of the immortals. Urged on by the priests and mandarins, they fall upon it and slay its inmates. But retribution comes swiftly. Their own Government are forced by dread of foreign interference to punish the misguided wretches who have, as they consider, wreaked only a just revenge. The officials are degraded. Heads fall and houses are razed to the ground. The Imperial troops quarter themselves on the luckless villagers who pay dearly in blood and silver for the harm they have wrought in their madness. And a sullen hatred of the white man spreads through all classes and bears bitter fruit in subsequent graver outbreaks.

Can we justly blame them? Would we act differently in their place? What if the cases were reversed? Suppose England to be a weak and backward country and China wealthy and powerful, with a great navy and a large army. Her merchants are enterprising and seek to push their trade into other countries, even against the wish of the inhabitants. Chinese vessels force their way up the Thames and sell the cargoes they carry to our merchants in defiance of the laws we have passed against the importation of foreign commodities. Refusing to leave, they are fired upon. Chinese missionaries make their way into England and preach ancestor‐worship and the tenets of Buddha in the East End of London. The scum of Whitechapel mob them—as the Salvation Army has often been mobbed. A missionary or two is killed. The Chinese Government seeks revenge. A strong fleet is sent to bombard the towns along the South Coast. Bristol is seized. A demand is made that the Isle of Wight should be ceded in reparation for the insult to the Dragon flag. We are forced to surrender it. A Chinese town grows up on it; and the merchants in it insist that their goods should have the preference over home‐made articles. The Chinese Government demands that tea from the Celestial Kingdom should be admitted duty free and a tax put upon Indian growths. A criminal or an anarchist, fleeing from justice, takes refuge on a small Chinese ship, which is boarded and the fugitive seized. We are only an ignorant people, and do not understand the Law of Nations. We are soon instructed. Again China sends a fleet; a force is landed and Liverpool captured. To redeem it we must pay a large ransom. To obtain peace we are obliged to grant the Chinese settlements in Liverpool, Bristol, and Southampton. This inspires other Asiatic Powers—Corea, Kamschatka, and Siam, which we will imagine to be as progressive and powerful as our supposititious China—to demand equal privileges and an occasional slice of territory. Kent, Hampshire, and Norfolk pass into their hands.

Buddhist and Taoist missionaries now flood the land. The common people regard them with fear and hatred. The clergy of the Church of England preach against them. The ignorant peasantry and the lowest classes in the towns at last rise and expel them. A few of them are killed in the process. The flame spreads. The settlements of the hated intruders are everywhere assailed. The Asiatic Embassies in London are attacked by the mob. Our Government, secretly sympathising with the popular feeling, are powerless to defend them. Even if they wished to do so, the soldiers would refuse to fire on the rioters.

Then the Allied nations of Eastern Asia band together; a great army invades our unhappy country. A dire revenge is taken for the outrages on the missionaries and the attacks on the Embassies. Middlesex is laid waste with fire and sword; neither age nor sex is spared. The brutal Kamschatkans slay the children and violate the women. London is captured and looted. The flags of China, Corea, Kamschatka, and Siam fly from the roofs of Buckingham Palace; Marlborough House shelters the invaders; Windsor Castle is occupied by a garrison of the Allied troops. Flying columns march through the land, pillaging and burning as they go; the South of England is occupied by the enemy. Before the Allied nations evacuate the devastated land a crushing war indemnity is laid upon us.

Would we love the yellow strangers then? True, we are backward and unprogressive. They are civilised and enlightened; and even against our will our country must be advanced. Still, I fear that we should be ungrateful enough to resent their kind efforts to improve us and persist in regarding them as unwelcome intruders.

All this that I have imagined as befalling England has happened to China. For similar causes Canton was bombarded and captured. The treaty ports were forced to welcome foreign trade. Hong Kong, Tonkin, Kiau‐chau, Port Arthur, all have been torn from China. Fire and sword have laid waste the province of Chi‐li. Death to the men and disgrace to the women have been unsparingly dealt. Can we wonder that the Chinese do not love the foreigner?

Our missionaries go forth to earn the crown of martyrdom. But if they gain it their societies demand vengeance in blood and coin from the murderers. The Gospel of Love becomes the Doctrine of Revenge. “Forgive your enemies!” O ye saintly missionaries who are so shocked at the ungodly lives of your sinful fellow‐countrymen in foreign lands, will you not practise what you preach? Think of the divine precept of the Master you profess to serve and pardon the blind rage of the ignorant heathen!

So much for the China of the present. What of the future? She is now fettered by the shackles of blind ignorance, by the prejudices and retrogressive spirit of the tyrannical Manchu oligarchy who rule the land. Her strength is sapped by the poison of corruption. The officials, almost to a man, are mercenary and self‐seeking. Extortion and dishonesty are found in every class. Suppose a tax is laid upon a certain province. The Viceroy orders the mandarins to collect it from their districts. They send forth their myrmidons to wring it from the people, by threats and torture if need be. Enough must be raised to satisfy the many vultures through whose claws it will pass before it reaches Pekin. Twice, three times the amount of the sum asked for originally must be gathered from the unfortunate taxpayers, in order that each official through whose hands it goes on its way to the Imperial Treasury may have his share of the spoil. And how is all the money raised in the vast Empire spent? Not on the needs of the land, certainly. Few roads or bridges exist. They have mostly been constructed by charity. The railways—and there are not many—were built by foreign capital.

Is there no hope for China? Must she remain for ever the spoil of the strong? Or will she one day recognise the secret of her weakness, reform and become a power too formidable to be lightly offended? She has an example always before her eyes. Forty years ago Japan was as ignorant and prejudiced. Foreigners were hated; the country was closed to them. The Mikado was then as powerless as the Emperor of China is now. The spear and the sword were the weapons which the soldiers of Japan opposed to the cannons and rifles of the Europeans. Foreign fleets bombarded the coast‐towns and wrung concessions from the rulers of the helpless land. The country was divided between powerful chieftains of warlike clans.

Yet at one stroke of a magic wand all was changed. Japan now ranks among the Great Powers of the world. Her army commands respect and fear; on war‐footing it numbers over half a million—and the Japanese have always been gallant soldiers. Her navy is as modern and well‐equipped as any afloat. The resources of the country have been developed. A network of railways covers the land; telegraphs and telephones link the important towns. Her manufacturers compete with Europe in every market in Asia. Her merchant ships are all but built in her own dockyards. The fleets of her steamship companies, such as the Nippon Yusen Kaisha, would not discredit Liverpool or New York. Lines of splendid passenger steamers, some of them over 6,000 tons, run to Europe, America, and Australia. Smaller lines keep up communication between Japan and the coasts of Siberia, Corea, and China. Education is widespread; universities and schools abound. Manufactures are encouraged by a liberal policy. The forest of factory chimneys in Osaka gives that town the semblance of Birmingham as one approaches it in the train. The water‐power universal throughout the islands is utilised freely. Electric light is found in almost every city in the empire. It is installed in even the smaller private houses. Automatic public telephone kiosks dot the streets of the capital. In provincial towns like Nagoya electric trams run.

All that Japan has become, China may yet be. Nay, more. The former is poor, her territory small, the greater part of the country encumbered with unprofitable mountains. The undeveloped wealth of the latter is enormous. Gold, silver, copper, iron, and coal are all found. Vast stretches of forest cover the interior. The soil is incredibly fertile; and her people are naturally intelligent. The Chinese in Hong Kong and elsewhere, as merchants, as shipowners, as professional men, prove it. The schools and colleges of our island colony are filled with the clever, almond‐eyed students. In the Straits Settlements, as in Hong Kong, they compete with the Europeans in commerce and vie with them in wealth. All that he is in other countries the Chinaman can become in his own under the liberal rule of an enlightened Government. The foreigners who trade with the Chinese say that the latter are far more trustworthy in business than many a white man. The Chinese merchant’s word is his bond. The Japanese are not so reliable; and their artisans are by no means as industrious as their Celestial neighbours. The latter, under no compulsion, will toil day and night to complete some work by the time they have agreed to finish it.

The Chinese soldier is regarded with universal contempt. His achievements in the past, when pitted against European troops, have not exalted his name. But in 1900 he first showed what splendid material he is. With the passive courage of fatalism, incomprehensible to more highly strung races, the Chinaman will face death without a struggle. When roused by fanaticism he will fight blindly to the end; but in cold blood he has no ambition for military glory. When led to battle for a cause of which he knows or cares nothing, he is ready to save his life by a timely flight with no feelings of shame or self‐reproach. He has never been taught otherwise. In China moral suasion or deceit are looked upon as more glorious weapons than sword or gun.

But if he were well disciplined and led to understand the meaning of esprit de corps, well treated and well led, he would prove no contemptible soldier. The Boxers who with knives and spears charged up to within fifty yards of Seymour’s well‐armed men and faced the withering fire of magazine rifles with frenzied courage; the Imperial troops who harassed his brave column day and night; the students who fought their guns to the last when the Tientsin Military College was taken by the Allies—were these cowards?

What the Chinaman can be made to do with proper leading may be seen in the behaviour of our Chinese Regiment, little more than a year raised, all through the campaign of 1900. When the British, American, and Russian stormers had captured the Peiyang Arsenal, on June 27th, an attempt to cut them off from Tientsin was made by a large body of Imperial troops and Boxers who tried to get between them and the river, across which they had to pass on their return. Lieutenant‐Colonel Bower, intrepid explorer and gallant soldier, led out his Chinese Regiment and drove off the enemy. The conduct of the men under fire was excellent.

It is absurd to suppose that the Chinaman cannot learn the art of modern warfare. The example of the Imperial troops who attacked Seymour and besieged Tientsin amply proves this statement. They took advantage of cover with cleverness and knowledge. They used their magazine rifles with accuracy and effect. Their gunners were excellently trained. Their shooting was so good that at first it was falsely supposed that the guns were served by renegade Europeans. The arms with which they were equipped were excellent. The troops were well supplied with quick‐firing Krupps and magazine rifles. That they could use these weapons was proved by the heavy losses among the Allied sailors and soldiers in the early part of the campaign.

The Chinese offered so little resistance to the Allies on the march to Pekin, the war collapsed so suddenly on the fall of the capital, that scant justice has been done to the courage displayed on both sides during the heavy fighting with Seymour’s column and around Tientsin. The losses among the Europeans show how desperate it was. Admiral Seymour’s column, out of less than 2,000 men, lost 295 killed and wounded in sixteen days. The casualties among the British contingent of 900 bluejackets and marines, amounted to 27 killed and 97 wounded. The Americans out of 120 men lost 4 killed and 25 wounded. The stormers of the Taku forts also lost heavily.

In the beginning of the attack on the Peiyang Arsenal by the Russians, they lost over 200 men and had to send for help to the Americans and the British.

In the Boxer night attack on Tientsin railway station in July, the British, French, and Japanese defending it had 150 casualties.

Out of a total of 5,000 men engaged in the taking of Tientsin native city on July 13th and 14th, the Allies lost nearly 800 men.

The Egyptian fellah was once considered to be utterly hopeless as a fighting‐man. But British officers nursed him, strengthened his moral fibre, and then led him into battle. Witness his behaviour at the Atbara and at Omdurman. The army that the genius of Lord Kitchener had moulded so skilfully proved invincible; and the fellah did his fair share of the fighting.

The Chinaman in natural courage, in physique, and in stamina is far superior to the Egyptian. Why should he not become a more formidable fighting‐man? Think what the Celestial Empire could do if its soldiers were properly armed, trained, and led; if the spirit of self‐respect were instilled into them and their natural passive courage fanned into active bravery! Think of a warlike army recruited from a population of 400,000,000; and at its back a reformed China, its resources developed, its immense wealth properly utilised, its people free and filled with patriotic pride!

What Japan has accomplished, China, once her leader and her conqueror, may yet achieve. And signs of the Great Awakening are at hand!