My Life in Many States and in Foreign Lands, Dictated in My Seventy-Fourth Year

by George Francis Train

As Boston was then deeply interested in the subject of slavery in the Southern States, I wrote a description of this new slavery in the Chincha islands, giving the names of the boats that had recently sailed from Macao with full cargoes of slaves. I had heard of this horrible traffic in human flesh at Singapore, but could not believe it, until I actually saw it at Macao. Whenever the wretches mutinied, or grew restive, they were put down in the hold and the hatches closed. The horrors of such a position were as great as those of the infamous "Middle Passage," made so conspicuous by the abolitionists in the campaign against African slavery. Chinamen perished by hundreds, and many of the survivors were maimed or invalided for life. In a single case, some two hundred victims were smothered and died in the hold of one of these slavers. My letters to the New York Herald were copied far and near. It was discovered that some of the Boston people themselves were interested in enslaving the Chinese. But the practise could not stand the light of exposure, and so was broken up.

We hurried on from Macao to Canton, arriving there during the Chinese New Year. This city astonished me in a number of ways. It was dirty and miserable beyond imagination, with narrow streets and indescribable filth. But that it carried on a tremendous volume of trade was apparent from a glance. The river was covered with junks and larger vessels at Whampoa, the lower port, floating the flags of every nation. Warehouses, the "godowns" of the foreign traders, revealed the existence of an enormous, and profitable commerce. The word "godown," which many take to be a "pidgin-English" word composed of "go" and "down," and signifying putting things down in a warehouse, is a Malay word, and comes from "gadang," meaning a place for storing articles away. The warehouses were surrounded by high walls, in the manner of private villas and town residences of the Chinese, and were adorned by beautiful gardens.

There was a pretty custom, among foreign residents, to invite all visitors to dine with them. These invitations were sent informally upon little cards called "chits." As I was already known in the business world there, I received a great many of these invitations. I was walking with Mr. Green one day, when he said it was getting time to think about dinner. "Where will you dine?" he asked. I replied that I did not know which invitation to accept. I thought that I would take some of his conceit out of him, by showing him that I had received a great number of "chits," and I drew a package of them from my pocket. I remarked coolly that I could not make up my mind what to do, as I had an embarras de richesses. I counted the "chits," and there were eleven. Green, with great nonchalance, drew out his package of "chits"; he had thirteen!

He had a great way of taking care of himself in such circumstances. He suggested that there was only one thing to do—to find out who, among our intending hosts, would have the best dinner. He then took me around to the rear of the residences, where a high wall separated the gardens from the native city, and where I discovered that the Chinese cooks always hung up the game, poultry, and other things they were preparing for meals. From this array we could tell what everybody was going to have for dinner. After a stroll through the alley, we selected the house that had displayed behind it some lovely pheasants and salmon. "The owner of that house shall have the honor of being our host," said Green. I approved his choice both then and after the dinner, which was an excellent one, at which the golden pheasants were the pièce de résistance. I soon discovered for myself, what I had long heard, that the Chinese are the best cooks in the world.

Another thing I learned about the Chinaman was that he is the most honest tradesman in the world, and the most careful about debts. The Chinese New Year is the season when the Chinaman wipes off the slate and begins life over again, with a clean record. He pays up all debts, and starts even with the world. I learned that on this anniversary the Chinaman will sell everything he possesses, even his liberty, his person, his life itself, to settle his debts, so that he may face the new year with a clean conscience and a pure heart, as well as with no bills hanging over him.

As this was practically the first Chinese city I had seen, I was very curious about it. It was all new ground to me, and I was eager to explore it. I knew that this was not permitted, for six Englishmen had been killed shortly before my arrival, for daring to venture inside the walls of the Chinese city, which was then as much forbidden ground as the "Pink City" of Pekin. The fate of the Englishmen only made me more keen to get inside the walls. I thought I could take care of myself sufficiently well. I was warned by friends not to risk the thing, but I took all the responsibility, and went inside, while the gates were open. I had not gone more than a few rods when I heard behind me and all around me the wildest cries. Men ran toward me with shouts of "Fankwai"—foreign devil; and I saw at once that I had stirred up a hornet's nest. I looked about me, and discovered that the gate I had come through was still open. There was a pretty fair chance, by running fast, for getting through it before the Chinamen could head me off. This calculation took about one-millionth of a second, and I plunged for the gate, "like a pawing horse let go." If the stop-watch could have been held on me, I am sure I should have established a record for a short-distance sprint.

The next time I visited Canton was in '70. The gates were open, and the walls were of no avail to keep the foreign devils out. The American merchant Nye, who was familiarly known as the Napoleon of China, because of his gigantic enterprises, took me over the city. I had read and heard about Chinamen eating rats, but this was the only time I ever saw the thing done, and I could hardly believe my eyes. A Chinaman came up to Mr. Nye and me in the street, and offered to sell us a rat, a big fellow still alive. I asked if it was to be eaten, and the Chinaman said it was. "But it is not cooked," I objected. "I am not going to begin on live rats." The Chinaman said he would prepare it—the rat cooked and served to cost me two cents. I told him to go ahead. To my surprise he took a little stove from under his arm, lighted a fire, and in a few minutes had the rodent roasted to a crisp. I was astonished—and ashamed—to see how nice it looked. It did appear toothsome. I said to the Chinaman, "Now, you can eat it." He did, and with great gusto and smacking of the lips. So he got his rat and my two cents, also.

But I ascertained that there is about as much truth in the common stories in our silly juvenile literature about Chinamen generally eating rats as there is in stories of other marvelous things in far-off lands. I also found that there is no deadly upas-tree in Java, which was a distinct shock to me. I had been reared, so to speak, in the fatal shade of that upas. I had watched birds drop dead as they tried to fly across its swath of malignant shadow; I had seen animals stricken by its fatal exudations and writhing in agony. I saw all these things in the old New England farmhouse, which was the headquarters of the Methodists; but in Java, they had all disappeared. There was no upas-tree, and the mortality among birds and animals was no greater than necessary to satisfy the predatory natures of other animals, birds, and men. And now to find in China that the New England stories about general rat-eating were false, was another shock.

But the Chinese are not as cleanly as they might be. I learned this interesting fact in connection with my taste for Canton ginger. I had always, from earliest childhood, been outrageously fond of this delicate comfit. I had eaten it in great quantities whenever I got the chance; and when I arrived in Canton, the home of this conserve, I at once thought of it, and wanted to know more about its manufacture. I learned, after some inquiry, that it was put up at a factory on the island of Ho-nan, near Canton. Ho-nan is also the name of a famous Buddhist temple on the same island. The factory, as well as most of the so-called island, is built on piles. I had not altogether overlooked this fact when I asked the factory people where they got the water for the sirup of the preserves. They looked at me as if I were demented. "Water! why we are right over the river!" Yes, they were right over the river, the dirtiest and most villainous river in the world. The sewage of the dirtiest city in China—which is saying about all that can be said on the subject—is emptied into this river. I need not say that I did not eat any of the Canton ginger then, and I have not eaten any of it since.

I have set down my views as to the topsy-turviness of things in Australia. I found China topsy-turvy in a different way. The Chinese begin their books and letters where we end ours, at what we should call the back. They read from right to left, instead of from left to right, and, strangest of all, the men wear gowns, and the women—don't! When I was introduced to How-kwa, a warm friend of the Russells, I advanced to shake hands with him, but he stepped back and solemnly shook hands with himself for me. Then he waved his hands toward the door, as if to say, so it seemed to me, "get out of here," and I was amazed, but Sturgis informed me that the great Chinaman was merely beckoning to me to come nearer to him. I went up to him, by that time so impressed with the Chinese way of doing things backward that if he had kicked at me, I should have thought he was asking me to embrace him. We were in How-kwa's residence, which was surrounded by the most exquisite gardens, and were invited to partake of a cup of tea. For the first time in my life I drank tea that cost $30 a pound. We used no sugar nor milk, of course, as these things are considered in China to spoil good tea. The next best tea I have drunk, I think, was the tea I got at the fair of Nijnii Novgorod, Russia, in '57, which had been brought overland thousands of miles across mountains and deserts, packed in little bricks.