I believe there are few men who have been thrown much among the Chinese who believe that many honest ones can be found among them; old Whampoa of Singapore, who gives champagne dinners in a most orthodox manner, may be one; but I confess, for my part, that from the Emperor down to the fellow in the blue shirt who begs in Piccadilly, and looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, I don’t believe in them. They are a people whose natural propensities lead them to cheat, and whose natural cunning aids this object most materially.
A short time ago it was discovered that a clique existed in San Francisco composed of a few of the wealthiest Chinese, and that these self-constituted mandarins exercised so much influence over the Chinese population of the country as to subject them to fines and bastinado, and they even went to the length of shipping some of them back to their own country; this, however, having been brought to light by the police, was temporarily checked, as these punishments were applied only for the purpose of extortion.
The Chinese themselves are so used to this kind of despotic rule that they made no effort to resist it even when it was assumed by those not in authority; but they behaved better under the infliction of fines than they would otherwise have done, and indeed I am puzzled to know what such a race would become, with their natural cunning, under a freer government than that they enjoy.
* * * *
On the 3rd of May, at eleven in the evening, the fire-bell again startled us; but on this occasion the first glance at the lurid glare and heavy mass of smoke that rolled towards the bay evidenced that the fire had already a firm grip on the city. The wind was unusually high, and the flames spread in a broad sheet over the town. All efforts to arrest them were useless; houses were blown up and torn down in attempts to cut off communication; but the engines were driven back step by step, while some of the brave firemen fell victims to their determined opposition. As the wind increased to a gale, the fire became beyond control; the brick buildings in Montgomery Street crumbled before it; and before it was arrested, over one thousand houses, many of which were filled with merchandise, were left in ashes. Many lives were lost, and the amount of property destroyed was estimated at two millions and a half sterling.
No conception can be formed of the grandeur of the scene; for at one time the burning district was covered by one vast sheet of flame that extended half a mile in length. But when the excitement of such a night as this has passed by, one scarcely can recall the scene. The memory is confused in the recollection of the shouts of the excited populace—the crash of falling timbers—the yells of the burnt and injured—the clank of the fire-brakes—the hoarse orders delivered through speaking-trumpets—maddened horses released from burning livery-stables plunging through the streets—helpless patients being carried from some hospital, and dying on the spot, as the swaying crowd, forced back by the flames, tramples all before it—explosions of houses blown up by gunpowder—showers of burning splinters that fall around on every side—the thunder of brick buildings as they fall into a heap of ruin—and the blinding glare of ignited spirits. Amidst heat that scorches, let you go where you will—smoke that strikes the eyes as if they had been pricked by needles—water that, thrown off the heated walls, falls on you in a shower of scalding steam—you throw your coat away and help to work the engine-brakes, as calls are made for more men.
At daylight you plod home, half-blind, half-drowned, half-scorched, half-stunned, and quite bewildered; and from that time you never care to recall one half of the horrors you have witnessed on the night of the conflagration of the 3rd of May.
The Dramatic Museum was “burnt out� on this occasion; and about the same time the ship I had awaited arrived. I had expected to receive an iron house in her, but as this tenement (which I had taken great pains to have constructed in England) was landed in the shape of several bundles of bent and rusty iron plates, and irrecognisable rotten planks, I deserted the property, and allowed the owners of the wharf to throw it overboard, which they eventually did after six months’ reflection.
Iron houses under most circumstances are a failure, and I write from experience in the matter. I have sat in churches made of iron, and have been glad to get out of them for that reason. I have thrown down my billiard-cue in disgust in iron club-houses, have paid my bill incontinently and left iron hotels, and have lived in misery in an iron shooting-box of my own, which was supposed to be very complete.
I could live comfortably at all times in my little log hut at the “farm� but never could I endure myself inside my iron house. When the sun shone it was too hot; as night advanced it cooled too suddenly, and at daylight I shivered. When it was too warm the hot iron, with its anti-corrosive paint, emitted a sickening smell; and when the rain came down on the roof it sounded like a shower of small shot.[9] I lined it with wood throughout, that is to say, I built a wooden house inside my iron one, and then it was only bearable. But it would have been cheaper, it seemed to me, to have built the wooden house first, and then have put the iron on if it was wanted, which it was not.