[-170-]
VIII.
IN AN OPIUM DEN.
AN effort is being made by a band of British philanthropists, of which the
Rev. Mr. Turner is secretary, to put down, if not the opium traffic, at any rate
that part of it which is covered by the British flag. Opium is to the Chinese
what the quid is to the British tar, or the gin-bottle to the London charwoman.
But in reality, as I firmly believe, for the purpose of opening the door to all
sorts of bribery and corruption, the traffic is prohibited as much as possible
by the Chinese Government, for the ostensible object of preserving the health
and morals of the people. This task is a very difficult [-171-]
one. A paternal Government is always in difficulties, and once we Christian
people of England have gone to war with the Chinese in order to make them take
our Indian-grown opium - a manufacture in which a large capital is invested, and
the duty of which yields the British Government in India a magnificent revenue.
It is a question for the moralist to decide how far a Government is justified in
saying to a people: "We know so and so is bad, but as you will use it, you
may as well pay a heavy tax on its use." That is the practical way in which
statesmen look at it, and of course there is a good deal to be said for that
view. But it is not pleasant to feel that money, even if it be used for State
purposes, is made in a dirty manner; though I have been in countries where the
minister of the religion of holiness and purity is content to take a part of his
living from the brothel-keeper and the prostitute. Evidently there [-172-]
are many men as ready to take the devil's money as was Rowland Hill to accept
the Bible at his hands.
But I am touching on questions not to be settled in the twinkling of an eye,
or by a phrase or two in print. Perhaps I may best serve the cause of humanity
if, instead of saying what I think and feel, I merely content myself with
describing what I saw in the East- End of London, one Saturday night, in this
year of grace one thousand eight hundred and seventy- five.
Have my readers ever been in Bluegate Fields, somewhere down
Ratchiffe
Highway? The glory of the place is departed. I am writing more Americano, where
the wickedest man in the town is always regarded as a hero. The City missionary
and the East London Railway between them have reformed the place. To the outward
eye it is a waste howling spot, but it is a garden of Eden to what it was when a
policeman [-173-]
dared not go by himself into its courts, and when respectability, if it ever
strayed into that filthy quarter, generally emerged from it minus its watch and
coat, and with a skull more or less cracked, and with a face more or less
bloody.
"Thanks to you," said a surgeon to a City missionary who has been
labouring in the spot some sixteen years, and is now recognised as a friend
wherever he goes, "thanks to you," said the surgeon, "I can now
walk along the place alone, and in safety, a thing I never expected to do;"
and I believe that the testimony is true, and that it is in such districts the
labours of the City missionary are simply invaluable. Down in those parts what
we call the Gospel has very little power. It is a thing quite outside the mass.
There are chapels and churches, it is true, but the people don't go into them. I
pass a great Wesleyan chapel. "How is it attended?" I [-174-]
ask ; and the answer is: "Very badly indeed." I hear that the
nearest Independent chapel is turned into a School Board school; and there is
Rehoboth,- I need not say it is a hyper place of worship, and was, when Bluegate
Fields was a teeming mass of godless men and women, only attended by some dozen
or so of the elect, who prayed their prayers, and read their Bible, and listened
to their parsons with sublime indifference to the fact that there at their very
door, under their very eyes, within reach of their very hands, were souls to be
saved, and brands to be snatched from the burning, and jewels to be won for the
Redeemer's crown. I can only hear of one preacher in this part who is really
getting the people to hear him, and he is the Rev. Harry Jones, who deserves to be made a bishop, and who would be, if the Church
of England was wise and knew its dangers, and was careful to avert the impending
[-175-]
storm, which I, though I may not live to see the day, know to be near. But let
us pass, on leaving Rehoboth, a black and ugly carcass, on the point of being
pulled down by the navvy. I turn into a little court on my right, one of the
very few the railway has spared for the present. It may be there are some dozen
houses in the court. The population is, I should certainly imagine, quite up to
the accommodation of the place. Indeed, if I might venture to make a remark, it
would be to the effect that a little more elbow- room would be of great
advantage to all. From every door across the court are ropes, and on these ropes
the blankets and sheets and family linen are hanging up to dry. These I have to
duck under as I walk along; but the people are all civil, though my appearance
makes them stare, and all give a friendly and respectful greeting to the City
missionary by my side.
[-176-] All at once my conductor disappears in a little door, and I follow, walking,
on this particular occasion, by faith, and not by sight; for the passage was
dark, and I knew not my way. I climb up a flight of stairs, and find myself in a
little crib - it would he an abuse of terms to call it a room. It is just
about my height, and I fancy it is a great deal darker and dingier than the room
in which a first-class misdemeanant like Colonel Baker was confined. The place
is full of smoke. It is not at first that I take in its contents. As I stand by
the door, there are two beds of an ancient character; between these beds is a
very narrow passage, and it is in this passage I recognise the master of the
house - a black-eyed, cheerful Chinaman, who has become so far naturalised
amongst us as to do us the honour of taking the truly British name of Johnson.
Johnson is but thinly clad. I see the perspiration glistening on his [-177-]
dark and shining skin; but Johnson seems as pleased to see me as if he had known
me fifty years. In time, through the smoke, I see Johnson's friends - dark,
perspiring figures curled on the beds around, one, for want of room, squatting,
cross-legged, in a corner - each with a tube of the shape and size of a German
flute in his hands. I look at this tube with some curiosity. In the middle of it
is a little bowl. In that little bowl is the opium, which is placed there as if
it were a little bit of tow dipped in tar, and which is set fire to by being
held to the little lamps, of which there are three or four on the bed or in the
room. This operation performed, the smoker reclines and draws up the smoke, and
looks a very picture of happiness and ease. Of course I imitate the bad example;
I like to do as the Romans do, and Johnson hands me a tube which I put into my
mouth, while, as I hold it to the lamp, he [-178-] inserts the heated opium into the bowl; and, as I pull, the thick smoke curls
up and adds to the cloud which makes the room as oppressive as the atmosphere of
a Turkish bath. How the little pig-eyes glisten! and already I feel that I may
say: "Am I not a man and a brother?" The conversation becomes general.
Here we are jolly companions every one. Ching tells me the Chinese don't send us
the best tea; and grins all across his yellow face as I say that I know that,
but intimate that they make us pay for it as if they did. Tsing smiles knowingly
as I ask him what his wife does when he is so long away. Then we have a
discussion as to the comparative merits of opium and beer, and my Chinese
friends sagely observe that it is all a matter of taste. "You mans like
beer, and we mans in our country like opium." All were unanimous in saying
that they never had more than a few whiffs, and all [-179-]
that I could learn of its effects when taken in excess was that opium sent them
off into a stupid sleep. With the somewhat doubtful confessions of De Quincey
and Coleridge in my memory, I tried to get them to acknowledge sudden impulses,
poetic inspirations, splendid dreams; but of such things these little fellows
had never conceived; the highest eulogium I heard was: "You have pains-
pain in de liver, pain in de head- you smoke- all de pains go." The most
that I could learn was that opium is an expensive luxury for a poor man. Three-halfpenny-worth only gives you a few minutes' smoke, and these men say they
don't smoke more at a time. Lascar Sall, a rather disreputable female, well
known in the neighbourhood, would, they told me, smoke five shillings- worth of
opium a day. Johnson's is the clubhouse of the Chinese. He buys the opium and
prepares it for smoking, and they come [-180-] and smoke and have a chat, and a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter,
and go back and sleep on board ship. Their little smoking seemed to do them no
harm. The City missionary says he has never seen them intoxicated. It made them
a little lazy and sleepy- that is all; but they had done their day's work, and
had earned as much title to a little indulgence as the teetotaler, who regales
himself with coffee; or the merchant, who smokes his cigar on his pleasant lawn
on a summer s eve. I own when I left the room I felt a little giddy, that I had
to walk the crowded streets with care; but then I was a novice, and the effect
would not be so great on a second trial. I should have enjoyed a cup of good
coffee after; but that is a blessing to which we in London, with all our boasted
civilisation, have not attained. I frankly avow, as I walked to the railway
station, I almost wished myself back in the opium den. [-181-]
There I heard no foul language, saw no men and women fighting, no sots
reeling into the gutters, or for safety shored up against the wall. For it was
thus the mob, through which I had to pass, was preparing itself for the services
of the sanctuary, and the rest of the Sabbath.