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.