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THE LINUX COMMAND LINE
2ND EDITION
A Complete Introduction

by William Shotts

San Francisco
THE LINUX COMMAND LINE, 2ND EDITION. Copyright © 2019 by
William Shotts.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission
of the copyright owner and the publisher.

ISBN-10: 1-59327-952-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-59327-952-3
Publisher: William Pollock
Production Editors: Meg Sneeringer and Serena Yang
Cover Illustration: Octopod Studios
Developmental Editor: Chris Cleveland
Technical Reviewer: Jordi Gutiérrez Hermoso
Copyeditor: Kim Wimpsett
Compositors: Britt Bogan and Meg Sneeringer
Proofreader: James Fraleigh
For information on distribution, translations, or bulk sales, please contact No Starch
Press, Inc. directly:
No Starch Press, Inc.
245 8th Street, San Francisco, CA 94103
phone: 1.415.863.9900; [email protected]
www.nostarch.com

The Library of Congress issued the following Cataloging-in-Publication Data for the first
edition:
Shotts, William E.
The Linux command line: a complete introduction / William E. Shotts, Jr.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN-13: 978-1-59327-389-7 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 1-59327-389-4 (pbk.)
1. Linux. 2. Scripting Languages (Computer science) 3. Operating
systems (Computers) I. Title.
QA76.76.O63S5556 2011
005.4'32--dc23
2011029198
No Starch Press and the No Starch Press logo are registered trademarks of No Starch
Press, Inc. Other product and company names mentioned herein may be the
trademarks of their respective owners. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every
occurrence of a trademarked name, we are using the names only in an editorial fashion
and to the benefit of the trademark owner, with no intention of infringement of the
trademark.

The information in this book is distributed on an “As Is” basis, without warranty.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the
author nor No Starch Press, Inc. shall have any liability to any person or entity with
respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by
the information contained in it.
To Karen
About the Author
William Shotts has been a software professional for more than 30 years
and an avid Linux user for more than 20 years. He has an extensive
background in software development, including technical support,
quality assurance, and documentation. He is also the creator of
LinuxCommand.org, a Linux education and advocacy site featuring news,
reviews, and extensive support for using the Linux command line.
About the Technical Reviewer
Jordi Gutiérrez Hermoso is a coder, mathematician, and hacker-errant.
He runs Debian GNU/Linux exclusively since 2002, both at home and
at work. Jordi has been involved with GNU Octave, a free numerical
computing environment largely compatible with Matlab, and with
Mercurial, a distributed version control system. He enjoys pure and
applied mathematics, skating, swimming, and knitting. Nowadays he
thinks a lot about environmental mapping, greenhouse gas emissions,
and rhino conservation efforts.
 BRIEF CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Introduction

PART I: LEARNING THE SHELL

Chapter 1: What Is the Shell?

Chapter 2: Navigation
Chapter 3: Exploring the System
Chapter 4: Manipulating Files and Directories
Chapter 5: Working with Commands
Chapter 6: Redirection
Chapter 7: Seeing the World as the Shell Sees It
Chapter 8: Advanced Keyboard Tricks
Chapter 9: Permissions
Chapter 10: Processes

PART II: CONFIGURATION AND THE ENVIRONMENT

Chapter 11: The Environment

Chapter 12: A Gentle Introduction to vi
Chapter 13: Customizing the Prompt

PART III: COMMON TASKS AND ESSENTIAL TOOLS

Chapter 14: Package Management

Chapter 15: Storage Media
Chapter 16: Networking
Chapter 17: Searching for Files
Chapter 18: Archiving and Backup
Chapter 19: Regular Expressions
Chapter 20: Text Processing
Chapter 21: Formatting Output
Chapter 22: Printing
Chapter 23: Compiling Programs

PART IV: WRITING SHELL SCRIPTS

Chapter 24: Writing Your First Script

Chapter 25: Starting a Project
Chapter 26: Top-Down Design
Chapter 27: Flow Control: Branching with if
Chapter 28: Reading Keyboard Input
Chapter 29: Flow Control: Looping with while/until
Chapter 30: Troubleshooting
Chapter 31: Flow Control: Branching with case
Chapter 32: Positional Parameters
Chapter 33: Flow Control: Looping with for
Chapter 34: Strings and Numbers
Chapter 35: Arrays
Chapter 36: Exotica
Index
 CONTENTS IN DETAIL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First Edition
Second Edition

INTRODUCTION
Why Use the Command Line?
What This Book Is About
Who Should Read This Book
What’s in This Book
How to Read This Book
Prerequisites
What’s New in the Second Edition
Your Feedback Is Needed!

PART I: LEARNING THE SHELL

1
WHAT IS THE SHELL?
Terminal Emulators
Making Your First Keystrokes
Command History
Cursor Movement
Try Some Simple Commands
Ending a Terminal Session
Summing Up

2
NAVIGATION
Understanding the File System Tree
The Current Working Directory
Listing the Contents of a Directory
Changing the Current Working Directory
Absolute Pathnames
Relative Pathnames
Some Helpful Shortcuts
Summing Up

3
EXPLORING THE SYSTEM
More Fun with ls
Options and Arguments
A Longer Look at Long Format
Determining a File’s Type with file
Viewing File Contents with less
Taking a Guided Tour
Symbolic Links
Hard Links
Summing Up

4
MANIPULATING FILES AND DIRECTORIES
Wildcards
mkdir—Create Directories
cp—Copy Files and Directories
Useful Options and Examples
mv—Move and Rename Files
Useful Options and Examples
rm—Remove Files and Directories
Useful Options and Examples
ln—Create Links
Hard Links
Symbolic Links
Building a Playground
 Creating Directories
Copying Files
Moving and Renaming Files
Creating Hard Links
Creating Symbolic Links
Removing Files and Directories
Summing Up

5
WORKING WITH COMMANDS
What Exactly Are Commands?
Identifying Commands
type—Display a Command’s Type
which—Display an Executable’s Location
Getting a Command’s Documentation
help—Get Help for Shell Builtins
--help—Display Usage Information
man—Display a Program’s Manual Page
apropos—Display Appropriate Commands
whatis—Display One-line Manual Page Descriptions
info—Display a Program’s Info Entry
README and Other Program Documentation Files
Creating Our Own Commands with alias
Summing Up

6
REDIRECTION
Standard Input, Output, and Error
Redirecting Standard Output
Redirecting Standard Error
Redirecting Standard Output and Standard Error to One File
Disposing of Unwanted Output
Redirecting Standard Input
 cat: Concatenate Files
Pipelines
Filters
uniq: Report or Omit Repeated Lines
wc: Print Line, Word, and Byte Counts
grep: Print Lines Matching a Pattern
head/tail: Print First/Last Part of Files
tee: Read from Stdin and Output to Stdout and Files
Summing Up

7
SEEING THE WORLD AS THE SHELL SEES IT
Expansion
Pathname Expansion
Tilde Expansion
Arithmetic Expansion
Brace Expansion
Parameter Expansion
Command Substitution
Quoting
Double Quotes
Single Quotes
Escaping Characters
Backslash Escape Sequences
Summing Up

8
ADVANCED KEYBOARD TRICKS
Command Line Editing
Cursor Movement
Modifying Text
Cutting and Pasting (Killing and Yanking) Text
Completion
Using History
Searching History
History Expansion
Summing Up

9
PERMISSIONS
Owners, Group Members, and Everybody Else
Reading, Writing, and Executing
chmod: Change File Mode
Setting File Mode with the GUI
umask: Set Default Permissions
Some Special Permissions
Changing Identities
su: Run a Shell with Substitute User and Group IDs
sudo: Execute a Command As Another User
chown: Change File Owner and Group
chgrp: Change Group Ownership
Exercising Our Privileges
Changing Your Password
Summing Up

10
PROCESSES
How a Process Works
Viewing Processes
Viewing Processes Dynamically with top
Controlling Processes
Interrupting a Process
Putting a Process in the Background
Returning a Process to the Foreground
Stopping (Pausing) a Process
Signals
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
after their morning meal the people came out to their work, some
carrying a light plough behind the ox which had to drag it, others
with hoes to weed the sweet-potato fields, bands of laughing women
going up the mountains to cut grass, and one gentleman taking a
morning walk with a long spear over his shoulder. On returning from
a visit to a curious rock, called the “Mother and Child,” from its
resemblance to a woman with an infant upon her back, I found the
school had “scaled,” to use a Scotch phrase; and the teachers, with
the elders, were engaged in purchasing articles for a general dinner,
and cutting them up. In the discussion which went on upon this
subject a few of the pot-bellied children who remained took great
interest, throwing in their opinions with much calmness and gravity.
That afternoon I crossed over a second range of mountains into
another valley, the path leading down near the side of a huge black
precipice, which looked sublime in the moonlight. Not a soul was
met on the latter part of the way, for when night descends on China,
the country people confine themselves to their own homes, and only
bands of robbers are to be met with, or men out for some bloody
purpose, such as destroying a village with which they are at war. I
had sometimes stopped, at the first village I came to, in the house of
an old woman; and one evening, when taking an English friend
there, a rather startling incident occurred. As we came round a
corner upon the village, just as I was expatiating upon the
friendliness of the people and the perfect safety we would enjoy, a
gingall was fired, and the bullets came whistling round our heads.
My companion looked as if he thought this fact considerably
outweighed my theory; but it turned out that the gingall, which takes
some little time to go off, had actually been fired before we came in
sight round the corner. On this present occasion I went on to another
village called Chin-wan, and slept in the house of a young teacher,
who remained up, or rather lolling on his couch, till about one in the
morning, smoking opium with a friend. It is a remarkable fact that,
with only one exception, all the Chinese dominies I came across were
in the habit of smoking opium. Probably this was caused by the
sedentary, harassing, and dreary nature of their occupation, which
makes the soothing drug specially desirable. At one place I was told I
could not see the teacher, though it was the middle of the day,
because he was asleep from opium. Fancy being told, and as nothing
out of the way, that a parochial schoolmaster was invisible, because
he was dead drunk! The Chinese, however, usually take opium in
moderation, after their meals, just as we do beer and wine, and no
discredit attaches to such a use of it. The practice is more fascinating
than the use of intoxicating drinks, and more easily glides into
excess. Of teachers in China, unfortunately for them, there is an
immense supply owing to the number of disappointed candidates at
the competitive examinations for the Government service. In this
Chin-wan schoolhouse I met a fat man who had been in Hong-Kong,
and spoke a little English. If there was any self-approval in my air in
telling him that I had walked over the hills, it met with a speedy and
severe check, for he immediately said—“Eiya! Hab walkee! allo same
one coolie.” This was complimentary, but I had my revenge; for the
fat man told me that he was a gentleman living at his ease, whereas I
discovered him, early next morning, in a butcher’s shop, with his
sleeves tucked up dissecting a fat pig, into whose entrails he
staggered on my finding him, and exclaiming, “Hulloa! Allo same
one butcher.” It is due to the Chinese, however, to state, that very few
of them are ashamed of, or attempt to conceal, their occupations.
Hitherto I had been trifling with the excursion, but next day
Aheung knew by our starting early that we were in for work; and
deep gloom came over his countenance when he saw the direction I
was taking up the Chin-wan or Talshan Valley, towards an old and
totally unfrequented path which leads over a shoulder of the Tai-mon
shan, or “Great Hat Mountain.” No part of the Scotch Highlands
presents a more picturesque appearance than the upper part of this
valley, so plentifully are the small pines scattered about, so deep the
pools, so wild the stream, so huge and fantastic the shattered rocks.
The Great Hat Mountain, over a lower portion of which we go, is
about 4000 feet high, and terraced up to the very top, showing it was
cultivated at some former period; but now it is entirely without
habitations, and covered with long rank grass of the coarsest kind,
which forms a serious obstacle to the ascent. I got up to the top once,
with great difficulty, and was rewarded by a magnificent panorama
of sea and islands, mountains and plains. Even Canton could be seen
in the distance; the villages looked as if they could be counted by
hundreds, and every island was fringed round with numerous junks
and fishing-boats. Considering that the country round is one of the
most sparsely populated parts of China, the innumerable indications
of human life were somewhat surprising. In conjunction with what I
have seen in more thickly habitated parts of China, such as the
valleys of the great rivers, I incline to think that the numbers given
by the last census which I know of as available were certainly not
above the truth. It was taken about 1840, and the members of the
Russian Legation at Peking, who had access to it, gave the entire
population of the Chinese empire at 412 millions. An old legend
regarding the Tai-mon is, that a proprietor and feudal chief in its
neighbourhood gave protection and support to the sister of a
dethroned Chinese emperor, and, on the emperor regaining power,
he rewarded the chief by giving him all the circle of country which he
could see from that mountain. It would almost require some such
reward to induce one a second time to encounter the fatigue and
irritation of ascending it in its present condition. The Chinese have a
great idea of the influence of mountains, speaking of them as more or
less “powerful,” but this one has no particular reputation that way.
The old path we are now taking is in great part overgrown with grass,
and leads through a complete mountain solitude, where the silence is
broken only by the wind rustling in the rank herbage, and no signs of
life meet the eye. Aheung motions me to carry my revolver in my
hand; he is in an agony of terror, and I can distinguish him uttering
the words lu tsaak, or road-robber, and lo foo, or tiger—two beings
with which the Chinese imagination peoples the whole country. To
hear them talk of tigers, one would think these animals were as thick
as blackberries. Nothing was more common than for villagers to say
to me, “There is a tiger about here; would you be good enough to go
out and shoot it?” as if I had only to step to the door in order to find
one; whereas the fact is, that I never saw the slightest trace of any,
though a few certainly do exist. At first I used to be startled by the
information constantly tendered that there was a party of road-
robbers watching the path a little way on; but as they never
appeared, I began to get quite sceptical on the subject, until at last I
did unexpectedly meet with five of them, armed with short swords,
who were holding the top of a mountain pass. I was travelling in a
chair at the time, and on seeing this obstacle my coolies at once put
down the chair, and refused to proceed farther. I tried to represent to
them that though the robbers were five, we were five also; they
replied that they were paid to carry me, not to fight. Deeming it safer
to go forward than to go back, I walked up to the men, revolver in
hand; and whenever they saw I was so armed, they made off, greatly
to my relief, as only three chambers were loaded. Chinese pirates and
highwaymen do not live to rob, but rob to live; and so they like to be
pretty safe in what they do. As they are lawless only to prolong their
lives, it seems to them the height of absurdity to put themselves in
any decided peril for the sake of plunder. Theirs is a highly rational
system, in consonance with the practical tendencies of the Celestial
mind.
Notwithstanding Aheung’s terrors, we got quite undisturbed over
the Tai Mon, and reached before dusk a solitary Buddhist monastery,
situated in a wood at the head of and overlooking the Pak-heung, or
“Eight Village” Valley. As we came down on this place, I heard the
firing of a clan-fight at one of the villages below; and often as I have
been in the Pak-heung, never have I been there without finding a
fight going on, either between two or more of its own villages, or
between one or all of its villages and those of the Shap-heung, or
“Ten Village” Valley, immediately contiguous. They seemed to have
as much stomach for fighting as Aheung had for worship, and the
blame was laid chiefly on a large village called Kum-tin, or “Fertile
Land,” which suffered from a plethora of wealth, and had disputed
claims to land in various directions. Of all places I knew in that
neighbourhood, this monastery was my favourite haunt, from the
view it commanded, its cleanliness, its secluded position, and its
internal quiet. The two or three monks occupying it were always glad
to see me, as I gave them presents, and afforded relief to the tedium
of their life. On this occasion they gave me, as usual, a hearty
welcome; but I was rather startled, on being awakened about
midnight by loud shouts, knocking at the outer door, and the flashing
of torches beneath my window. This turned out to be some men from
one of the fighting villages, who had taken it into their heads to come
up to the monastery at that unseasonable hour for mingled purposes
of thanksgiving and jollification, and who remained there till
morning. They were, however, perfectly civil, and showed no
disposition to interfere with me in any way, except in questioning
Aheung as to where he came from, and what clan he belonged to.
Had he been one of that with which they were fighting, the
probability is they would have made him a prisoner.
It was delightful in the morning to sit in the cool air on the terrace
in front of this cold or Icy-Cloud Monastery, as it is called, and watch
the light mist rolling off the Pak-heung Valley, and brightening over
the waters of Deep Bay. Soon from every village the smoke of
household fires rose into the calm clear air, while, every ten minutes
or so, the boom of a gingall came from the combatants beneath, and
reverberated on the grand cliff behind us. The young green rice of the
fields below was like a vast lake lying round the villages and wooded
knolls, except where in the upper slopes it flowed down from field to
field like a river, bearing good promise for the stomachs of
industrious hungry men. The little wooded islets rose from the rice
sea with their temples and ancestral halls as out of the world’s
everyday work and life. On either side of the wide Pak-heung were
great, bare, sublime blocks of mountains, with white fleecy clouds
occasionally floating across God’s bright blue sky, while fish were
leaping in the pond below, and doves were cooing in the trees
around.
But one must have breakfast. The resources of the country are
confined to rice, salted vegetables, and bean-paste, which are not
particularly tempting; but we brought some fish with us, and Aheung
has procured some eggs and pork in the nearest village. Strictly
speaking, this being a Buddhist place of worship, no food that has
had life in it should be allowed to enter; but there are only two
monks here at present—an old man and a neophyte—and my
sacrilege is winked at. Nay, it is more than winked at, for, as we
breakfast together, the chopsticks of the monk gradually deviate
towards the palatable fried salt-water fish. Curiously and inquiringly
he turns one over, and then, as if satisfied with the result of his
careful examination, the old sophist exclaims, “Hai
tsai!”—“Vegetables of the sea!” and immediately swallows a piece.
Under this cunning and specious phrase he continues to dispose of a
very fair quantity of fish; but the pork was a little too much for his
conscience, and he affected not to see it at all. He also pretended, my
hair being cropped close, to believe that I was a Buddhist. On
learning that we were going to a place called Li-long, he briefly
informed me that the men of Li-long were robbers, and immediately
thereafter shovelled in a vast quantity of rice into his mouth, as if he
were afraid to say anything more on that painful subject. This monk,
who was quite hale and strong, said he was seventy years old, and
looked as if he might live as many more. His occupations, which he
took very easily, were praying, chanting, bowing, and reading. The
Chinese Buddhists have the idea that, by retiring to solitary places,
avoiding bodily activity and all sensual indulgence, living with
extreme temperance, and spending their days in meditation and
prayer, the vital power is preserved in the system, and gradually
collects towards the crown of the head, until at last the devotee gains
the possession of supernatural powers. I did not observe that this old
gentleman was distinguished in that particular; and the neophyte, it
is to be feared, was in a bad way, for I once detected him, the monk
being absent, sitting down with a youthful visitor to a dinner where
figured the unholy articles of fowl, pork, and Chinese wine, of the
two former of which he partook. On a previous visit to this place, a
wicked friend of mine, who had full command of the language,
disturbed the mind of the neophyte by ardent praise of the gentler
sex; and on reading the inscription, “May the children and
grandchildren of the contributors [to the monastery] gloriously
increase,” he asked him how he could expect his children to increase!
This youth was also fond of reading Christian tracts in Chinese.
Altogether, what with forbidden literature, forbidden diet, and
discourses on the forbidden sex, I fear the neophyte will never attain
to miraculous powers.
These Buddhist temples and monasteries are thickly scattered over
China. They are often buildings of great size, and afford the best
resting-place for travellers, but usually the staff of priests is very
small indeed, and these bear no very good name among the people.
This one of the Icy Cloud had not so much as a dozen rooms of
various sizes, but it was compact and well built. The walls had a few
frescoes of non-perspective landscapes, with grotesque devils in the
foreground; there were also statues of Buddha, of Kiu-tsaang-keun,
or the “Heavenly General,” and of Koon Yum, the Hearer of Cries, or
Goddess of Grace, to whom it was specially dedicated. Worshippers
were very rarely to be seen in it. Many inscriptions, of which the
following are examples, were hung upon the walls:—

“It is easy to leave the world; but if the heart is gross, and you cannot cease
thinking of the mud and trouble of life, your living in a deep hill is vain.”
“To be a Buddhist is easy, but to keep the regulations is difficult.”
“It is easy to preach doctrines (taali), but to apprehend principles is difficult.”
 “If you do not put forth your works, but only preach, your strength is emptily
wasted; and if you talk till you break your teeth, even then it will be in vain.”
“If you are entirely without belief and desire (will), and do not attend to the
prohibitions, then your strength will have been uselessly wasted, and your head
shaved to no purpose.”
“May the precious ground (of the monastery) be renewed.”
“To be intimate, and not divided, consists in the virtuous roots being gathered in
a place.”
“When the image was asked why it turned round and fell backward, it said,
‘Because the people of the time would not turn their heads;’” [they probably being
a stiff-necked generation, like the people of many other times and places.]
“Peacefully seclude and regulate yourselves.”

It will be observed that some of these inscriptions are most

sensible as well as appropriate. While the last is quite in place in such
an institution, it is wisely modified by the five first, which show how
retirement can be made profitable, or at least warn against its being
unprofitable. The seclusion of a monastery can only be of advantage
to those who, having experienced the turmoil and passion of worldly
life, really know its bitterness, and desire something better. It is not
only the old monk who breaks his teeth in vain, or the neophyte who
shaves his head to no purpose. Youth is the time for action—for “the
mud and trouble of life”—and in vain do men try to evade it by
planting the unhappy slip “in a deep hill,” bidding him observe “the
trees of the clouds and the flowers of the mountains,” or oppressing
him with moral and religious ideas which he cannot appreciate. Old
age, again, is the proper period for meditation and wisdom. How
often, in all countries, do we see the virtues suitable to one period of
life, or to one station of life, forced upon persons of other ages and of
different stations, until their souls revolt within them against all
virtue whatever!
Passing northward from the “Eighth Village” Valley, we walked
over undulating moorland, broken by low hills covered with white
quartz, passing one village called Kum-chin, or the “Golden Cash,”
which was surrounded by acres of large fir-trees, lychus and other
fruit-trees, well stocked with doves; and another which bore the
fragrant name of Wa-cheang, or “Fine-smelling Grain,” though
eminently dirty, and surrounded by a stagnant ditch. About two
miles after crossing a creek, we skirted the small walled town of Sam-
chun, but took good care not to enter. Doubtless at that time we
might have done so with tolerable safety, but I once had such a
narrow escape in that place, that I had no desire whatever again to
tempt its hospitality. Sam-chun is a mart of bad repute, being at the
head of a creek, and rather a depôt for goods, frequently pirated,
rather than giving hostage for its respectability in cultivation of the
soil. Aheung, who was an old man himself, explained its iniquities by
the fact that there were few or no old men to be found in it. The first
time I visited it, along with a friend, hostilities were going on at
Canton, and rewards were out for the heads of foreigners. One of our
coolies asked us to go into a shop in the town which was kept by
some relatives of his, and in doing so we passed through two small
gateways, and also the butchers’ bazaar. The shopmen received us
very well, but we had scarcely time to drink a cup of tea before the
room was filled by a crowd of ruffians, chiefly butchers from the
neighbouring bazaar, armed with knives and choppers. They first
began shouting derisively, pressing in and hustling us; then got up
the cry “Tá tá!”—“Strike, strike!” with which Chinese commence all
their assaults; and then the ominous words “Fanquiei sha tao”—“Cut
off the heads of the Foreign Devils”—coupled with some remarks as
to what amount of dollars these articles would bring at Fat-shan.
Those who know only the ordinary placid appearance of the
Chinaman, have happily little idea of the spectacle he presents when
working himself into a fury, or the atrocities which he is capable of
committing. The butchers round us—and there must have been
nearly a hundred in the shop—were pushing one another on and
rapidly rising to blood-heat. Another minute would have proved
fatal, and as it was, I had no hope of final escape, the only ambition
which occurred being that of getting up into a loft close to where I
stood, and where our revolvers could have been used with effect. The
coolie who brought us into the fix wanted us to fire, but that would
have been madness, pressed in as we were by the crowd. Fortunately
the shopkeepers, and some more respectable Chinese who were
beside us, so far took our part as to assist in getting us hustled out
through a door before the bolder of the ruffians had quite worked
their way to us; and as we got through, a yell of rage and
disappointment rose from the crowd; and it is to be feared that the
shopmen suffered, for there was a general row inside, with great
crashing of furniture. As the crowd could not get quickly out of the
shop, we had the start of it in the streets, but were soon overtaken by
the rabble, who pressed closely on us and threw bricks, besides
exhausting indecent language in their remarks. Luckily they were
rather afraid of our revolvers, and the street was too narrow to allow
of their passing to get the gates shut. They called upon the Chinamen
we passed at shop doors and side streets to strike us down; and one
individual offered to do so with a long hoe, but failed, while on others
we tried very hard to smile blandly, as if the whole affair were a joke
or a popular ovation. Even on the plain beyond the crowd followed us
for two miles; some men from a neighbouring village, armed with
gingalls, threatened to cut off our retreat, and a number of junkmen,
with filthy gestures and language, invited us to stop and fight them,
as if two strangers, just escaped from imminent death, were at all
likely to delay for the pleasure of encountering about two hundred
pirates. As my friend could not swim, I was afraid we might be
brought up at the creek; but the boat was just starting, and, by
holding a revolver to his head, we persuaded the ferryman to take us
over, notwithstanding the counter-threats addressed to him by those
of the ruffians who had still continued to follow.
The whole affair took us so much by surprise, and there was such
necessity for immediate action, that we did not fully realise it until
we were safe enough to take a rest, when we both began to feel rather
faint, and had immediate recourse to our flasks for a glass of brandy.
I experienced, however, a peculiarly disagreeable sensation when the
crowd was howling round us in the shop; it was not fear of the
consequences, but a kind of magnetic effect from the noise and
brutal hostility of so many human beings. A little terrier-bitch which
I had with me, and which I carried out in my arms, as otherwise it
would have been trampled down, was so affected by this that it
trembled violently, quivering like an aspen leaf. There is something
very trying in the hostility of a howling crowd, and a species of
almost physical effluence goes out from it beyond visible positive
action. A man who was lynched in Texas a few years ago, and whom
a party of soldiers tried to save, was so affected by the conflict round
him that he besought his friends either to hang him or to give him up
at once. I have heard an old Californian settler say that it was
nothing to be in a stampede of wild cattle, compared with being
surrounded by a crowd of either terrified or infuriated men.
 This occurrence, I daresay, is a sufficient excuse for my never
having again entered Sam-chun, though often passing it. The General
commanding her Majesty’s forces at Canton got, at our complaint,
the Governor of Kwang-tung to issue a proclamation warning against
the recurrence of similar outrages; but the Governor-General
exercises very little power in that part of the country. Sam-chun is a
place of very bad general repute, and even Chinese travellers
carefully avoid it, so I had no desire to experiment as to the actual
effect of the proclamation. Aheung was with me when this perilous
incident occurred; but he carefully disappeared, and only turned up
again towards evening, carrying a basket, which he had saved, as the
excuse for his absence. After we are fairly past Sam-chun on this our
present excursion, he turns round to look at it, grins at me, and
draws his hand significantly across his throat. We stop this night at
his own village of San-kong, a little further on, and sleep in the
schoolhouse, which is large and airy. Moved by the report of my
coolie, the people there were particularly civil; and Aheung insisted
on providing the morning and evening repast, with abundance of hot
t’san, or Chinese wine, at his own expense. He also brought his very
aged mother to see me, and she would have kow-towed had I
allowed her. Frequently the Chinese are accused of ingratitude, but I
must say I have always found a very strong desire on their part to
reciprocate favours. At this place a rather curious proposal was made
by a Chinese traveller who was halting at a tea-house in front of the
village. On seeing me he took off his coat and displayed to the people
his bare back, which was cruelly scored by the strokes of a rattan.
“See,” he said, “how the foreign devils in Hong-Kong treat a
respectable Chinaman: now that we have got this foreign devil
amongst us, let us tie him up and flog him, and see how he will like
it.” Immediately on this Aheung’s inarticulate voice rose in vehement
protest, and the people would not listen to the proposal for a
moment; but it made my back shiver, for had it been advanced in a
village where I was unknown, it might very possibly have been
carried into execution—which would have been neither profit nor
glory, and would have been all the harder because I strongly
disapproved of the way in which such punishments were carried out
by the police. It used to be a most horrid spectacle to see, as often
might be done, a poor wretch, with his back all raw and bloody,
exposed in Queen’s Road, the most crowded thoroughfare of the
town, trembling from pain, shame, and cold, and trying to conceal
his face from the passers-by. I could not wonder if a man who had so
suffered tried to murder a dozen Europeans, especially if he had
suffered unjustly, as was nearly as likely to be the case as not, or for
some trivial offence, such as stealing three hairs from a horse’s tail,
for which I have known a flogging with the rattan inflicted.
Our next day’s journey was also a short one of only twelve miles.
Shady paths along the side of a stream led us to Pu-kak, a large
Hakka village, where the German missionaries had formerly a station
in the hue, or marketplace, but were forbidden to enter the village
itself, or to walk on a neighbouring hill, lest they should disturb the
dragon beneath, who could not be supposed to stand the insult of
foreigners trampling upon his neck! At the outbreak of hostilities at
Canton, the Rev. Messrs Lobschied and Winnes, who were labouring
here, were assailed by the people, and had to barricade themselves in
their house. The former gentleman got out at night by a back
window; and, being pursued, escaped by concealing himself in the
water and among the lotus-leaves of a small pond, enjoying the
pleasure, while lying there, of hearing the Chinese thrusting their
long spears close to him. Mr Winnes was held to ransom for 240
dollars, and was released; but it is doubtful whether that would have
taken place had a small military force not been despatched from
Hong-Kong for his relief.
At Li-lang, or the village of “Flourishing Plums,” which we next
reached, I was glad to find Mr Winnes, and to stay with him. He had
been residing there alone, most of the time, for nearly six months, in
a small room above a very small chapel and schoolhouse, which were
built before the commencement of the war. All his attempts to get a
suitable site for a house had been unsuccessful, owing to the
geomantic fears of the Hakkas. At one place they were afraid that the
White Tiger, whatever that may be, would be disturbed by his
building. Another suitable site was refused because the spirits of the
ancestors wandering about the graves on the opposite hill would be
disturbed by any change of the aspect of the scene, such as a new
house would cause. This geomancy is a rather mysterious and
difficult subject, which has its own priests, and exercises much
influence over the minds of the Chinese. One of the converts of the
missionary had been a geomancer, and had written an essay on the
subject, in which he makes mention of such awful things as the
Deadly Vapour around the dwelling, the Fiery Star which brings
destruction, the Nightly Dog who causes apparitions, the Abandoned
Spirits who promote ignorance, the White Tiger of the Heavenly
Gate, the Seven Murderers, the Gate of Death, the Pestilential Devil,
the Hanging Devil, the Strangler, the Poisoner, the Knocker at the
Door, the Lamenting Devil, the Scatterer of Stones, the Barking
Dragon, the Ravenous Heavenly Dog, and the Murderer of the Year.
Talk of the Chinese not being an imaginative people! Why, these
mere names suggest a whole world of terror; they are enough to
make one shudder and have recourse immediately to a solemn study
of the seventy-two principles of the mysterious laws of the efficacious
charm for protecting houses.
Another interesting subject on which Mr Winnes gave me novel
information was the practice of Spirit-Writing among the Chinese,
which has existed from an early period, and strikingly resembles the
Western Spirit-Rapping of modern times. I have pretty full notes on
this Geister Shrift, as the German called it, but must avoid tedious
details. It is sometimes had recourse to by mandarins and educated
persons, as well as by the ignorant, for the purpose of gaining
information as to the future intentions of Heaven, which are
otherwise hid from human beings. One of the most frequent
inquiries put is as to whether the questioner will have a number of
male children, but all sorts of subjects are inquired into, both
personal and political; and many volumes exist, both in prose and
verse, alleged to have been written by spirits; so the Seer of
Poughkeepsie has been anticipated in the Flowery Land. The Spirit-
Writing is called by the Chinese Kong-pit, or “Descending to the
Pencil,” and the first step is to cut a bent twig from an apricot tree,
affixing at the same time to the tree certain characters which notify
that the twig or magic pencil is taken, because the spirit will descend
in order to reveal hidden things. Having thus consoled the tree for its
loss, the twig is cut into the shape of a Chinese pen, and one end is
inserted at right angles into the middle, not the end, of a piece of
bamboo, about a foot long and an inch thick, so that were this
bamboo laid upon a man’s palms turned upwards, the twig might
hang down and be moved over a piece of paper. In a temple, a
schoolhouse, or an ancestral hall, chairs are then set apart for the
spirit to be summoned, and for the god or saint of the temple or
village under whose power the summoned spirit is supposed to be
wandering. One table is covered with flowers, cakes, wine, and tea
for the refreshment and delectation of the supernatural visitors,
while another is covered with fine sand, in order that the spirit may
there write its intimations. In order to add to the solemnity of the
scene, proceedings are not commenced till after dark, and the
spectators are expected to attend fasting, in full dress, and in a
proper frame of mind.
The usual way of communicating in China with the higher
supernatural powers is by writing supplications or thanksgivings on
red or gold-tissue paper, and then burning the paper, the idea being
that the characters upon it are thus conveyed into a spiritual form. In
order to spirit-writing, a piece of paper is burnt containing some
such prayer as this to the tutelary deity or saint of the place:—“This
night we have prepared wine and gifts, and we now beseech our great
Patron to bring before us a cloud-wandering spirit into this temple,
in order that we may communicate with him.” After the saint has had
sufficient time to find a spirit, two or three of the company go to the
door to receive him, and the spirit is conducted to the seat set apart
for him, with much honour, with many genuflexions, and the
burning of gold paper. The bamboo is then placed in the palms of a
man, so that the apricot twig touches the smooth sand upon one of
the tables; and it is usually preferred that the person in whose hands
the magic pen is thus placed should be unable to write, as that gives
some guarantee against collusion and deception. It is then asked if
the spirit has arrived from the clouds; on which, if he is there, the
spirit makes the bamboo shake in the hands of the individual who is
holding it, so that the magic twig writes on the sand the character to,
or “arrived.” When it is thus known that the supernatural guest is
present, both he and the tutelary deity are politely requested to seat
themselves in the arm-chairs which have been provided, the latter, of
course, being on the left, or in the post of honour according to
Chinese ideas. They are then refreshed by the burning of more paper,
and by the pouring out of wine, which they are thus supposed
spiritually to drink; and those who wish to question the ghost are
formally introduced to it, for nothing would be considered more
shocking than for any one suddenly and rudely to intrude himself
upon its notice. After these ceremonies, it is thought proper that the
visitor from the clouds should communicate something about
himself; so inquiries are made as to his family and personal names,
the period at which he lived, and the position which he occupied. The
question as to time is usually made by asking what dynasty he
belonged to, a few hundred years more or less not being thought
anything of among this ancient people, and a ghost of at least a
thousand years old being preferred to younger and consequently less
experienced persons. The answers to these questions are given as
before, the spirit, through the medium, tracing characters upon the
sand.
After that, those who have been introduced to the invisible guest
put their inquiries as to the future. The questions and the name of
the questioner are written upon a piece of gold paper, as thus:—“Lee
Tai is respectfully desirous to know whether he shall count many
male children and grandchildren.” “Wohong would gladly know
whether his son Apak will obtain a degree at the examination at
Canton next month.” The paper with the question is then burned,
and the spirit moves the magic pen until an answer, most frequently
in verse, is traced upon the sand. If the bystanders cannot make out
the answer, the ghostly interpreter will sometimes condescend to
write it again, and to add the word “right” when it is at last properly
understood. After the sand on the table is all written over, it is again
rolled smooth, and the kind spirit continues its work. When the
answer is in verse, the bystanders often take to flattery, and say, “The
illustrious spirit has most distinguished poetical powers.” To which
the illustrious spirit usually replies, in Chinese—“Hookey Walker!”
Whenever a question is put, the paper is burned and wine is poured
out; for Chinese ghosts appear to be thirsty souls, and are not above
reprimanding those who neglect to give them wine, or do not regard
their utterances with sufficient respect. It is believed that the man in
whose hands the magic pen lies has nothing to do with its
movements, and its motions can be easily seen, and cause some little
noise, thumping down on the table.
These operations go on till shortly after midnight, when, according
to the principles of Chinese physical science, the yung, or male
principle of life, gains the ascendancy. I am not aware that any covert
satire is intended in thus making the ghost loquacious only when
under the influence of the yong, or female principle; but it may be so,
or there may be something in common in this respect between
Chinese spirits and the ghosts of our own land, which used to vanish
at the first crowing of the cock. At all events, soon after midnight, the
celestial visitor, who is not less formally polite than Chinese still in
the flesh, writes on the table—“Gentlemen! I am obliged for your
liberal presents, but now I must take my departure.” The gentlemen
reply to this, still through the medium of burned paper—“We
beseech the illustrious ghost still to remain with us a little longer,
and still further to enlighten our minds.” “Permit me to go,” politely
answers the spirit, “for I am urgently required elsewhere;” whereon
the whole assembly rises, and, advancing to the door with burning
papers, escort the ghost out, complimenting him, bowing to him, and
begging for his pardon if they have at all failed in doing him honour.
At the door they respectfully take leave of him, and allow him to
wander on into the darkness and the clouds.
It is curious to find that this supposed modern form of delusion, or
else of communication with the spirit world, has been in existence in
the Middle Empire for centuries, and it is only one of many things
recently springing up in Europe which have been anticipated by the
Celestials. A good deal of faith is attached to these ghostly utterances,
and the ceremonies are conducted with solemnity. It may be
observed that communication with the supernatural world by means
of burned papers is not an isolated notion in the circle of Chinese
ideas. Everything is considered as having an existence beyond that
which it presents to the bodily eye. Even inanimate objects may be
said to have a soul; and things (to use the word in its widest sense)
have the same relationships to each other in their spiritual as in their
visible existence. Thus, the spirits of the dead must eat, whether they
be in heaven or hell, in clouds or sunshine. They devour not spiritual
turnips, rice, and pork, but the soul or spiritual existence of visible
turnips, rice, and pork; and, like other Chinese, they prefer fowl,
ducks, and birds’-nest soup, when they can get these luxuries. So far
is this carried, that in the “Universal Rescue,” to which I have already
referred, separate bathing-rooms are set apart for spirits of the
different sexes, in which they are supposed to perform their spiritual
ablutions. Thus the present and the past, the visible and the invisible,
are inseparably connected, while both are seen to shape the
unformed future.
 At Li-long Mr Winnes had a small congregation of converts from
among the peasantry, and a few intelligent young men whom he was
training for missionary or educational purposes; hymns were sung in
Chinese, but set to German music. Besides conveying instruction, the
missionaries—who have all studied medicine more or less—give
medicine and medical treatment to many of the Chinese with whom
they come in contact, and try to cure inveterate debauched opium-
smokers by taking them in charge for two or three weeks, keeping
them under their own eye, and supplying such drugs as are necessary
to prevent the system from breaking up when the narcotic food on
which it has been accustomed to depend is withdrawn. Credit is due
to these educated and intelligent men who thus cut themselves off
from the enjoyments of their own civilisation, and devote themselves
to the improvement of a somewhat rude and wild people like those
who inhabit these mountainous districts of Kwang-tung. In many
respects their work is important, and especially as acting as a
“buffer,” to use a railway phrase, between two antagonistic races and
antagonistic civilisations. In ordinary circumstances they are treated
not merely with respect, but also with a friendly confidence rarely
extended to foreigners, though when war is abroad and the minds of
the people are exasperated their services may be forgotten. By
mingling with the people, speaking their language, sympathising
with their humble joys and sorrows, and alleviating their sufferings,
they present the foreigner in a new and beautiful light to the Chinese,
and dissipate the prejudice which has attached itself to his name.
On leaving Li-long next day the German missionary asked me to
visit a village called Ma-hum, in the Yeang-tai Mountains, to which I
was bound, as it had suffered severely in a prolonged clan-fight, and
he thought that the advent of a foreigner would give its inhabitants
some little prestige which might save them from the utter
destruction with which they were threatened by the neighbouring
and more powerful village of Schan-tsun. As the day was warm and
the way was long, I engaged a chair and a couple of coolies, who went
on sturdily through narrow valleys between low hills frequently
covered with pine-apple trees or rather bushes. After passing the
large wealthy village of Tsing-fer, or “Clear Lake,” where there are
some enormous trees, and, among others, a bastard banian, the
trunk of which is forty feet in circumference, we began to enter the
Yeang-tai Mountains, where the Throne of the Sun is supposed to be
situated. At first they appeared not nearly so beautiful and striking as
when I had visited them the previous summer. At that time the
orchards of peach, plum, pear, and apple trees, which form the main
attraction of the valleys, were loaded with leaves, blossoms, and
fruit; the grass was everywhere green; the red sides of the more
barren hills were diversified by numerous waterfalls and foaming
streams; while fantastic clouds, here dark and threatening, but there
lit golden by the sunlight, wreathed the summits of the mountains.
In this dry season the more western portions of the Yeang-tai looked
bare and unsatisfactory. The spring was not sufficiently advanced for
the trees to show more than barely visible, though budding knobs;
the grass on the hills was dry and yellow, and our path wound away
through interminable small valleys, where the slopes around seemed
neither solid rock nor fruitful earth, but ridges of decayed granite
which the rains had washed bare and the sun had bleached to a dirty
reddish-white. It was like finding a once fair lady in a faded
condition and a dubious undress. The fruits which form the product
of this district are not particularly satisfactory to European
judgment. The plums, apricots, and peaches, though small, are much
the best; but it is difficult to get them in good condition, as the
Chinese seem to prefer them either unripe or rotten; and they are
always gathered too soon, partly on this account and partly to
preserve them from the ravages of birds and thieves. The large juicy
pears are exceedingly coarse-grained, and have not much taste; the
pulp feels dry and gritty in the mouth, and the only way to enjoy
them properly is to eat them stewed. The dry leathery apples are
miserable indeed. Those fruits in the south of China which belong to
the tropical zone are much better than those whose proper place is in
the temperate. The pine-apples, the custard-apples, the guavas, the
pomegranates, and the olives are very good indeed; but the mangos
are small, and much inferior to those of India, Manilla, and the
Straits. Some fruits are indigenous and peculiar to the country, as the
whampee, which tastes not unlike a gooseberry; and the lychu
(whose trees form a fragrant and agreeable feature in the landscape),
which is about the size of a large strawberry, and has, within a rough
red skin, a white sweet watery pulp, somewhat resembling that of the
mangosteen, and not unpleasant to the taste, though the flavour
suggests a faint suspicion of castor-oil. It is scarcely necessary to
make mention of the numerous varieties of the orange, which is the
most abundant and perfect fruit in the south of China.
As we advanced into the larger valleys and among the higher hills,
the scenery became more picturesque; and often, far up the
mountains, were some large white graves. The Chinese are unlike all
other nations in their treatment of the dead. In the first place, they
like to have their own coffins ready and in their houses, being in no
way disturbed by having such a memento mori constantly before
their eyes. I once heard two women disputing violently in Hong-
Kong, and on inquiring into the cause, the younger one said to me in
“pidgin English,” “That woman belong my moder. I have catchee she
number one piccy coffin, and she talkee, ‘No good, no can do!;’”
Anglice: “That woman is my mother. I have got for her a coffin of the
best kind, and she says it’s not good, and won’t do!” After death the
body is closed up in a coffin along with quicklime. This is often kept
for some time in the house, and then, most frequently, the bones are
taken out and placed in an earthenware urn. The most usual form of
the grave is an attempt at representing the shape of an armchair
without legs, but this is often thirty or forty feet round, and is built of
stone, or of bricks covered with white chunam. At the back of this the
urn is placed in an excavation, and the spirit of the defunct is
supposed to seat himself there and enjoy the view. Care is taken to
give him a dry place, where he will not be disturbed by damp or
streams of water, and where the spiritual existence of ants will not
annoy. The Chinese love of nature comes out remarkably in their
selection of spots for graves. They prefer solitary places, where
sighing trees wave over the departed, the melody of birds will refresh
his spirit, where he can gaze upon a running stream and a distant
mountain-peak. In the ‘Kia Li,’ or Collection of Forms used in Family
Services, there occurs the following beautiful funeral lament, which
is wont to be uttered at burial:—
“The location of the spot is striking,
The beauty of a thousand hills is centred here. Ah!
And the Dragon coils around to guard it.
A winding stream spreads vast and wide. Ah!
And the egrets here collect in broods.
Rest here in peace for aye. Ah!
The sighing firs above will make you music.
For ever rest in this fair city. Ah!
 Where pines and trees will come and cheer you.”
Much more than that in which lies the tomb of Shelley is the
situation of some of these Celestial graves fitted to make one “in love
with death,” and there is much consoling in the thought which the
Chinaman can entertain, that when the cold hand has stilled the
beatings of the troubled heart, his disembodied spirit does not want
a home, his name and memory are perpetuated in the ancestral hall,
his wants are provided for, and the daughter whom he left a child
feels that he is near her even to her old age. How different these
convictions from the melancholy complaint of Abd-el-Rohaman, the
Arab poet, as, fancying himself in the grave, forsaken and forgotten
by all his kin, he wrote:—
“They threw upon me mould of the tomb and went their way,—
A guest, ’twould seem, had flitted from the dwellings of the tribe.
My gold and my treasures, each his share, they bore away,
Without thanks, without praise, with a jest and with a jibe.

“My gold and my treasures, each his share, they bore away;
On me they left the weight, with me they left the sin.
That night within the grave, without hoard or child, I lay:
No spouse, no friend was there, no comrade and no kin.

“The wife of my youth soon another husband found;

A stranger sat at home on the hearthstone of my sire;
My son became a slave, though unpurchased, unbound,
The hireling of a stranger who begrudged him his hire.”

The Celestial does not regard death as the termination of delights

or separation of companions, and he comforts himself with the
thought that the affectionate wishes of all his kin will follow him into
Dead Man’s Land, that he will there enjoy companionship, that his
spirit may hover for ever over the village and the stream, reverenced
to latest generations, influencing the fruitfulness of the all-
nourishing earth, the sweep of the winds of heaven, and the courses
of the life-giving streams. Until some better ideas be introduced, it
would be a pity were this belief disturbed, as it exercises a powerful
influence for good by leading the Chinese mind from things seen and
temporal—for which it is apt to have too much respect—towards
those which are unseen and eternal. It gives to his horizon the awe of
another world, and has much effect in preserving those family
relationships which lie at the foundation of Chinese social success. It
also has a singular effect in consoling the bereaved, and
“Doomed as we are, our native dust,
To meet with many a bitter shower,
It ill befits us to disdain
The altar, to deride the fane
Where simple sufferers bend, in trust
To win a happier hour.”

At the same time, it must be admitted that there is a great deal of

confusion and contradiction in Chinese ideas as to the state of the
dead. While they speak of the departed spirit as still retaining a full
personality of its own, they also, or at least many of them, believe in
the separation and return to the primal elements of the various
spirits of which the human being is composed. Thus the animal
spirit, for instance, would return to and be lost in the great reservoir
of animal existence, just as a drop of water in the ocean, and the
mind or intellect return to that of mind. Yet their ideas on this
subject, however contradictory, and all their feelings, point to death
as not an evil in itself, or an event to be dreaded. Hence, in fact, their
indifference to life and extreme fondness for suicide. Almost every
Chinaman lives in the spirit of their proverb, “The hero does not ask
if there be evil omens; he views death as going home.”
At Ma-hum I had a letter of introduction to one of the elders, and
found that village small, much impoverished, and greatly
dilapidated. Long warfare with Schan-tsun had exhausted its
resources; many habitations were empty; the temple and
schoolhouse were in ruins; there were very few women—some, I fear,
having been sold from distress—and the people had a crushed,
desponding air. These clan-fights in the south of China are rather
curious, and attention has not been called to them. I never could
master all their intricacies, but they occur sometimes between people
of different family names, and sometimes between those of different
villages and districts. Two villages having the same patronymic
sometimes fight, but most usually it is the clanship which determines
and guides the quarrel. People of another name visiting the parties
are very seldom interfered with, unless it is by the hired combatants,
who are generally bad characters, and are sometimes employed by
wealthy villages. At one place to which I came, the elders sent out
word they would not allow us to enter, as they had more than a
thousand mercenary soldiers there, and they could not insure our
safety. It is no unusual thing for notice to be given when a battle is to
come off, and on these occasions I have seen the hills lined with
hundreds of spectators from other places, who entertained no fears
for their own safety, were not interfered with, and applauded both
parties impartially according to the valour or energy displayed. I say
energy, because at one of the most vigorous fights I have seen there
was no enemy in sight, or within several miles. Files of men gathered
in groups and stretched into line; they ran down hills and up hills
again, waving huge flags; they shook their spears, made ferocious
attacks upon an imaginary foe, poured out volleys of abuse, and now
and then a single brave, half naked, with a turban or napkin round
his head, would heroically advance before his comrades, throw
himself into all sorts of impossible postures, and indulge in a terrific
single combat; but though all this was done, the opposite side never
made its appearance at all. Another time I got up into a tree close to
two villages, about a couple of hundred yards, from each other,
which were doing battle with gingalls. The marksmen protected
themselves behind trees and walls and the roofs of houses. Every ten
minutes or so, some one would come out and show himself, making
derisive insulting gestures; on which a shot or two was fired at him,
and the gingall-men on his side tried in their turn to pick off the
marksmen. Before any one was wounded, however, I had to descend
from the tree and beat a retreat. These fights go on sometimes for
days and even weeks in this way, without any more serious loss on
either side than a vast expenditure of time, powder, and bullets; but
woe to the unfortunate who happens to fall into the hands of the
opposite clan or village! If his head is not taken off at once, and his
heart cut out, which frequently happens, he may perhaps be
exchanged against some prisoner; but it is just as likely that he is put
to death in a prolonged and painful way, such as being disjointed or
sliced. When a feud has gone on for some time, when all attempts at
mediation have proved abortive, and great irritation exists, then the
combatants usually come to closer quarters, sometimes in the
daytime, but more usually at night. The stronger side in such
circumstances relaxes its hostility, and tries to lull its opponents into
a feeling of false security. When it has succeeded in doing so, then a
strong party will make a sudden dash at the hostile village during the
daytime, and kill and carry away as many persons as it possibly can.
More frequently, however, a midnight attack is organised. When the
enemy are supposed to feel themselves tolerably secure, a vigorous
attempt is made to crush them altogether. Some dark night the
inhabitants of the doomed village suddenly awake to find themselves
surrounded by armed men who have scaled their walls, and set fire to
their houses by throwing in among them a number of blazing stink-
pots, which also confuse by their fumes and smoke. Then rise to
heaven the yell of fury and the shriek of despair. Quickly the fighting-
men seize their spears and gingalls, but, distracted by the surprise
and by their blazing houses, they are soon shot, pinned down with
those terrible three-pronged spears, or driven back into the flames.
Little or no mercy is granted to them. Terrified women seek to
strangle their children, and themselves commit suicide; but as many
of these as possible are saved, in order that they may become
servants to the victors. Where the golden evening saw a comfortable
village and happy families, the grey dawn beholds desolation and
ashes, charred rafters and blackened corpses.
It may be asked whether the Government exercises no control over
these local feuds; but in those districts where they exist the
mandarins rarely interfere, except by way of mediation and advice.
Their power is not so great that they can afford to do more; and,
besides, it is not in accordance with Chinese ideas that they should
do so. Notwithstanding its nominally despotic form of government,
China is really one of the most self-governing countries in the world.
Each family, village, district, and province is to a very great extent
expected to regulate or “harmonise” itself. In order to this end, great
powers are allowed within these limits. The father, or the head of a
family, can inflict most serious and even very cruel punishments on
its members, without his neighbours thinking they have any right to
interfere with him; and, on the other hand, he is held responsible for
the misdeeds of his children, and when these have offended against
public justice, and are not to be got hold of, he often suffers
vicariously in their place. In like manner, villages are allowed great
power in the settling of their internal affairs through their elders.
Within certain wide limits the district is left to preserve its own
peace, without troubling the higher authorities of the province; and if
it choose to indulge in the expensive luxury of clan-fights, why that is
its own loss. The mandarin of Nam-taw, the capital of the district,
had told both the Ma-hum and Schan-tsun people that they were
very foolish to go on fighting as they were doing, and he had ordered
the latter, as the aggressors, to desist, but there his interference
ended: there ought to be virtue enough in the district to put down
such a state of matters, but there was not; and by late news from
China it appears that the warlike inhabitants of Schan-tsun have
been continuing and flourishing in their career of violence; for about
a couple of months ago their “young people”—the frolicsome portion
of the population—made a night-attack upon the neighbouring
village of Sun-tsan, sacked every house, carried off provisions,
destroyed the whole place except the temple, and killed at random
men, women, and children to the number of 150, no less than 75 of
the latter having been destroyed. It is, in fact, this local weakness of
the Government which causes the rebellions that devastate the
country. A gentleman thoroughly acquainted with the language,
writing to me by last mail from the centre of China, truly remarks on
this subject: “The causes of the rebellion are, so far as I can see, the
overpopulation of the country, the inefficiency of the mandarins, and
the indifference of the people. The Chinese enjoy an amount of
freedom and self-government which, I suppose, is nowhere
surpassed, if equalled; and their social system, which is the result of
so many centuries’ experience of what human life is, is sufficient to
meet most of their requirements. But it is not sufficient to suppress
the uprising of the dangerous classes. To do this the power of the
country must be organised into some sort of shape, and then wielded
with energy and honesty. Unfortunately, the present mandarins
neither have the one nor the other. But the beginning of great
changes in China is at hand. I am convinced that any attempt at
foreign interference in the civil government of the provinces would
do great mischief.”
It will illustrate the sort of democratic feeling which prevails in
China, to mention that the elder with whom I stayed had Aheung and
my stranger chair-coolies as well as myself to sit down at dinner with
him in the evening. The extreme politeness of the Chinese prevents
this being disagreeable, and I never saw the commonest coolie either
inclined to presume upon such contact, or particularly pleased by it.
The German and the Catholic missionaries have their meals in this
way when travelling, and I found it, upon trial, to be much the best.
In its then condition the resources of Ma-hum were limited, and the
house we were in was a mere hovel of sun-dried bricks; but our host
produced at dinner fresh and salt fish, pork and turnip soup, boiled
pork and salted eggs, fine pork and small white roots like potatoes,
with cabbage, bean-paste, and rice, apologising for not having had
warning to prepare a better repast. When unafflicted by famine or
rebellion, I should say that the labouring Chinese live better than any
other people of the same class, except in Australia and the United
States. Though they only take two meals a day, yet they often refresh
themselves between with tea and sweet cakes; and at these meals
they like to have several dishes, among which both fish and pork are
usually to be found; often eggs, ducks, and fowls; in some parts of the
country mutton, and in others beef. Their cookery is also very good; I
never met anything very outré in it, except on one single occasion,
chips of dog-ham, which were served out as appetisers, and are very
expensive, and come from the province of Shan-tung, where the
animal is fed up for the purpose upon grain. The breeding of fish in
ponds is one of the most plentiful and satisfactory sources for the
supply of food in China, and attempts are being made at present to
introduce it into France. The great secret of their cookery is that it
spares fuel and spares time. In most of their dishes the materials are
cut up into small pieces before being placed upon the fire, and some
are even cooked by being simply steamed within the pan in which the
invariable rice is cooked. The rice tastes much more savoury than
that which we get in this country, and is not unpleasant to eat alone,
steam rather than water being used in preparing it for the table—a
sea voyage exercising some damaging effect upon its flavour. The
great drawback of the food of the lower Celestials is that the
vegetables are often salt, and resemble sour kraut; the pork is too fat,
and the salt fish is frequently in a state of decay. Bean-paste also—a
frequent article among the poor—cannot be too strongly condemned;
nor is it redeemed by the fact that it is in much use among the holy
men of the Buddhist monasteries, for they have a decided preference
for “vegetables of the sea.”
At Ma-hum I got a small empty cottage to sleep in, with only the
company of a phoong quei, or “wind box,” used for preparing corn,
and exactly the same in construction and appearance as the
“fanners” which used to be employed in Scottish barns. My trip, so
far as it was by land, ended next day at Nam-tow, the district capital,
a large walled town of, I should think, not less than a hundred
thousand souls. This place had been bombarded about eighteen
months before by our gunboats, in consequence of the mandarins
stopping the supplies of Hong-Kong, and withdrawing the native
servants; so I was rather afraid of being mobbed, or otherwise ill-
treated, if I delayed in it, or turned on my footsteps when looking for
the passage-boat to Hong-Kong. Even when there is no positive
danger, a Chinese mob is rather trying to a solitary European; but
China is a civilised country, and fortunately there were two boats and
competition. The consequence of this was, that the touter of one of
them waylaid us about a mile and a half from the town, and led me
direct to his junk, in which I at once embarked, to the
disappointment of the crowd which had begun to gather upon our
heels.
I used to find it safer to go about that part of the coast in passage-
boats rather than in one of my own, and of course in that way saw
much more of the people. These vessels usually go two and two in
company, in order to assist one another against the not unfrequent
attacks of pirates; and are pretty well armed with stink-pots, two or
three small cannon, and spears innumerable. When not crowded
they do very well, and a small sum procures the sole use of a small
matted cabin without any furniture, if it is not pre-engaged. On this
occasion the extra cabin was occupied, and in that of the supercargo,
which is also usually available, there was a portion of his family; so I
had to content myself with the deck and the “first-class” cabin, which
was occupied by shopkeepers and small merchants. The Chinese are
not very clean, especially in cold weather, when they put on coat over
coat without ever changing the inner one: in the poorer houses the
dirt and water are not properly “balanced,” and they have a saying
which associates “lice and good-luck;” but, most fortunately for
travellers, their pediculi, like horses in Japan, appear to participate
in the national antipathy for foreigners. There were about fifty
passengers in this boat bound for Hong-Kong, and the cargo
consisted of vegetables and sugar-cane. One little boy on board
appeared to have been told off to do the cooking and religion. He
would suddenly stop in his task of cutting up fish or turnips, and
burn a red joss-paper with a prayer upon it, for the success of our
voyage; then as suddenly utter an exclamation and dive down again
among the pots. This little wretch of a cook, though chaffed at by the
sailors and afflicted by a severe cold, appeared perfectly contented,
happy, and even joyful—which may be a lesson to some other doctors
elsewhere. The Universe, acting under the Chinese system, had
found a place which suited him, work adapted to his nature, and
such small enjoyments as he could appreciate. He always found time,
every five minutes, to snatch a chew at sugar-cane, and even lost five
cash by gambling. In these passage-boats the fare is not, and cannot
be expected to be, very good; but our diminutive artist prepared for
dinner stewed oysters, fried and boiled fish, fat pork, salt eggs, rice,
greens, turnips, and onions.
The British sailor adorns his bunk with a rude portrait of lovely
Nancy, but our junk had inscriptions savouring of a lofty kind of
poetry and morality. In the cabin there was written up in Chinese
characters, “The virtue which we receive from Heaven is as great as a
mountain;” and also, “The favour (grace) received from the Spirit of
the Ocean is as deep as the ocean itself.” On the roof we were
informed that Heaven, and not only wood, was above us, by the
inscription, “The virtue of the (divine) Spirit illuminates everything.”
These were intelligible, but this one, which was on the mainmast,
requires interpretation—“There is majesty on the Eight Faces.” It
must be understood to mean that there is majesty, or glory,
everywhere around. The paper on the rudder exclaimed—“Keep us
secure, Tai Shon!” or “Great mountain,” a very holy and “powerful”
hill in Schan-tung, to which Confucius has alluded, and to which
pilgrimages are made. At the bows there was the cheering assurance,
“The ship’s head prospers,” which in our passage was not falsified.
These evidences of high moral feeling, however, were hardly borne
out by the conduct of the crew. As ‘Punch’s’ footman observed of the
leg-of-mutton dinner, they were “substantial, but coarse;” quite
without the politeness of the peasantry; friendly enough, but
indulging in rough play, such as giving each other, and some of the
passengers, sundry violent pats on the head. The captain, as is
everywhere usual at sea, gave his orders roughly, and required them
to be promptly obeyed. They don’t think much of firing into another
boat, by way of amusement or gentle warning; and are not altogether
averse to a quiet little piece of piracy when it comes in their way. On
leaving the Canton river the wind and tide in the Kup-shui-moon
pass or strait were so strong that we ran in-shore, anchored, and
spent the night there. Most of the crew and some of the passengers
sat up most of the night gambling, which surely did not look as if
their virtue was quite the size of a mountain, and indulged in some
violent disputes. Their playing-cards were more elaborate than ours,
having many characters and devices upon them, but not a fourth of
the size. Being scarcely half an inch broad, though about the same
length as ours, and with more distinctive marks, they were held and
handled with much greater ease. Instead of being dealt out, they
were laid down on their faces between the players, and each man
helped himself in order.
The Kup-shui-moon is a great place for pirates, and as I was
courting sleep some of the passengers were discussing the
probability of our being taken by them, and hung up by the thumbs
and great toes to make us send for an outrageous ransom. They did
not use Hai traák, the Chinese word for “sea-robbers,” but Pi-long,
which is a Chinesified form of the English word “pirate,” and La-lì-
loong, which is doubtless their form of the Portuguese word ladrone.
Like the Italians with their bifstecca for our abrupt “beefsteak,” the
Chinese, when they adopt or use European words, throw them into
an extended mellifluous form, in which it is difficult to recognise the
original sound. La-lì-loong is a good illustration of this, and so also is
pe-lan-dia, by which they mean “brandy.” The estuary of the Pearl
river and the neighbouring coast have long been famous for pirates,
and the passengers were not without some cause of apprehension. I
have seen these professional pirate junks watching in the Kup-shui-
moon at one time, and only a few mails ago there came out accounts
of an attempt to take an English steamer in or close to it. Not less
than their names, Pi-long and La-lì-loong, the pirates of China are a
result of foreign contact, and as yet give no signs of diminishing
either in numbers or in power.
However, no sea-robbers disturbed our repose. Next morning I
found we had passed the strait, and were drawing under the shadow
of Victoria Peak.
 MARRIAGE BELLS.

The British nation has just had one of its grand spontaneous
holidays—a holiday so universal and unanimous that imagination is
at a loss where to find that surprised and admiring spectator whose
supposed presence heightens ordinary festivities by giving the
revellers a welcome opportunity of explaining what it is all about.
There is not a peasant nor a babe within the three kingdoms which
has not had his or its share in the universal celebration, and is not as
well aware as we are what the reason is, or why every sleeper in
England was roused on this chill Tuesday morning by the clangour of
joy-bells and irregular (alas! often thrice irregular) dropping of the
intermittent feu-de-joie, with which every band of Volunteers in
every village, not to speak of great guns and formal salutes, has
vindicated its British rights—every man for himself—to honour the
day. We are known as a silent nation in most circumstances, and a
nation grave, sober-minded, not enthusiastic; yet, barring mountains
and moors, there is not a square mile of British soil in any of the
three kingdoms in which the ringing of joyful bells, the cheers of
joyful voices, have not been the predominating sound from earliest
dawn of this March morning. Labour has suspended every exertion
but that emulation of who shall shout the loudest and rejoice the
most heartily. If there was any compulsion in the holiday, it was a
pressure used by the people upon a Government which has other
things to do than invent or embellish festivals. We have insisted
upon our day’s pleasuring. We have borne all the necessary expenses,
and taken all the inevitable trouble. Is it sympathy, loyalty, national
pride? or what is it? It is something embracing all, yet more simple,
more comprehensive, more spontaneous than either: it is a real
personal joy which we have been celebrating—the first great personal
event in the young life which belongs to us, and which we delight to
honour. The Son of England receives his bride in the sight of no
limited company, however distinguished, but of the entire nation,
which rejoices with him and over him without a dissentient or
discontented voice. Our sentiments towards him are of no secondary
description. It is our wedding, and this great nation is his father’s
house.
His father’s house—not now is the time to enlarge upon these
words, nor the suggestions of most tender sadness, the subduing
Lenten shadow upon the general joy which they convey, and which is
in everybody’s mind. It is the house of his Mother whom her people
have come to serve, not with ordinary tributes of loyalty, but with
intuitions of love. England has learned to know, not what custom
exacts or duty requires towards her Royal Mistress, but, with a
certain tender devotion which perhaps a nation can bear only to a
woman, to follow the thoughts, the wishes, the inclinations of her
Queen. Something has come to pass of which constitutional
monarchy, popular freedom, just laws, offer no sufficient
explanation. The country is at one with the Sovereign. A union so
perfect has come about by degrees, as was natural; and the heart of
the race which expanded to her in natural sympathy, when, young
and inexperienced, she ascended the throne, has quickened gradually
into a warmer universal sentiment than perhaps has ever been felt
for a monarch. We use the ancient hyperboles of loyalty with
calmness in this island, knowing that they rather fall short of the fact
than exceed it. It is barely truth to say that any trouble or distress of
Hers affects her humble subjects in a degree only less acute than
their own personal afflictions; and that never neighbour was wept
over with a truer heart in the day of her calamity than was the Queen
in hers by every soul of her subjects, great and small. Intense sorrow
cannot dwell long in the universal bosom; but the country, not
contented with rendering its fullest tribute of grief for the lost, has
dedicated many an occasional outbreak of tears through all these
months to that unaccustomed cloud which veiled the royal house.
And now it is spring, and the purest abstract type of joy—young love
and marriage—comes with strange yet sweet significance in Lent, to
open, as we all hope, a new chapter in that household history in
which we are so much concerned. With all the natural force of
revulsion out of mourning, with all the natural sympathy for that
visible representation of happiness in which men and women can
never refuse to be interested, there has mingled, above all, a wistful
national longing “to please the Queen.” Curiosity and interest were
doubtless strongly excited by the coming of the bride—but not for the
fair Danish Princess alone would London have built itself anew in
walls of human faces, and an entire community expended a day of its
most valuable time for one momentary glimpse of the sweet girlish
countenance on which life as yet has had time to write nothing but
hope and beauty. The sentiment of that wonderful reception was but
a subtle echo of our Lady’s wish, lovingly carried out by the nation,
which is her Knight as well as Subject. To hide our dingy London
houses, we could not resort to the effective tricks with which skilful
French hands can make impromptu marble and gold: but we did
what art and genius could never attempt to do—what nothing but
love could accomplish; we draped and festooned and clustered over
every shabby line of architecture with a living illumination of English
faces, all glowing and eager not only to see the new-comer, but to
show the new-comer, what no words could ever tell her, that she
came welcome as a daughter to that heart of England in which,
without any doubt or controversy, the Mother-Monarch held a place
more absolute than could be conquered by might or won by fame. Let
us not attempt to read moral lessons to the princely lovers, who, it is
to be hoped, were thinking of something else than moralities in that
moment of their meeting, and were for the time inaccessible to
instruction; but without any moral meaning, the sentiment which
swayed the enthusiastic multitude on the day of the Princess
Alexandra’s arrival was more like that of a vast household, acting
upon the personal wish of its head, than a national demonstration
coldly planned by official hands. The Queen, who sat at her palace
window in the soft-falling twilight, looking out like any tender
mother for the coming of her son and his bride, till the darkness hid
her from the spectators outside, gave the last climax of truth and
tenderness to that welcome, which was no affair of ceremony, but a
genuine universal utterance of the unanimous heart.
Loyalty seems an inherent quality in our race; but it has been a
loyalty of sections up to the present time, whenever it has been at all
fervent or passionate. It has been reserved for Queen Victoria to
make of it a sentiment as warm as in days of tumult, as broad as in
times of peace. So thoroughly has she conquered the heart of the
nation, that it seems about time to give up explaining why. To those
who have been born under her rule, and even to her own