time—that it was quite useless his remaining longer.

But as Robert Hart listened with equal politeness and remained, the Viceroy's patience finally began to wear thin. He then sent a subordinate official to make one last effort to persuade the Officiating Inspector-General to go. This failed, just as the other attempts at persuasion had failed. Hart simply told the man that he was acting under orders, and further hinted that when he reported to Peking and the Emperor Tung Chih heard that difficulties had been made about the establishment of the Customs at Hankow, it would not look well. "But the Emperor's name is not Tung Chih," remarked the Taotai scornfully. "You should know that as well as I." "To me," retorted Robert Hart calmly, "it seems equally strange that you as a Chinese official do not know the name of your own Emperor."

He thereupon went to a drawer, took out a new Peking Gazette announcing the famous coup d'état of November 2nd, 1861, when Prince Soo Sun's party was absolutely overthrown by the party of Prince Kung and the Emperor's official style altered from Chi Hsiang ("Lucky") to Tung Chih ("Pull Together"), and handed it to him. The man was utterly surprised. This was the very first news of the important event to reach Hankow, and as soon as it became generally known all the officials who had hitherto shaped their actions to please Prince Soo were quick to change their attitude. Even the Viceroy promptly sent for Hart and begged him, with every expression of cordiality, to do just as he pleased about everything; above all, to proceed with his business immediately.

A few weeks later, all being in working order, the Officiating Inspector-General was on his way down the river again. He had a message for the other Yangtsze Viceroy, Tseun Kuo Fan, and accordingly paid five hundred taels (£70) to stop the little steamer Poyang for two hours at Nanking in order to deliver it. This message was comparatively prosaic, concerning as it did nothing more interesting than the Viceroy's views relative to some unimportant trade matters.

But the Viceroy's answer is worth recording. "You have asked me my opinion on many matters," said old Tseun. "Some of these must be settled direct with the Wai-Wu-Pu (the Foreign Office at Peking). But I will tell you this much now. Whatever is good for Chinese and foreigners I will support; whatever is good for foreigners and does not harm Chinese I will approve; but whatever is bad for Chinese, no matter how good it is for foreigners, I will die rather than consent to." In this grand old statesman's confession of his political faith it is good to find a convincing answer to the arguments of those who pretend that there are no patriots in China.

Robert Hart's next mission was to Peking itself, the grey, wall-ringed mediæval city where he was afterwards to spend so many years, and where he stayed with Sir Frederick Bruce at the British Legation—then, as now, housed in a fine old Chinese building.

[Illustration: A VIEW OF PEKING SHOWING CONDITION OF ROADS.]

Sir Frederick Bruce was a most striking type of man, like a straight, healthy tree, most cordial in manner, with a beautiful voice that made even oaths sound like splendid oratory, a keen intelligence flavoured with a pinch of humour, and a great gift of diplomatic suavity.

Between himself and young Robert Hart a bond of friendship rapidly grew—strong enough to bear the lapse of time and even the occasional bursts of frank criticism to which the host treated his guest. At least on one occasion it was very sharp indeed. Hart and another young man (afterwards Sir Robert Douglas) had gone riding in the outer city of Peking on the fifth of the fifth moon—a feast day—when, on their way home, a yelling mob collected around them, shouting disrespectful names and even throwing things at them. True, they did it all in a spirit of playfulness, but a moment or a trifle might easily have turned mischief into malice, and, realizing this, Hart pulled up at one of the shops in the big street and asked the shopkeeper, a respectable greybeard, to tell the crowd not to pass his shop door.

"But," said the old fellow, "we have nothing to do with these people."

"I know that," was the reply, "but if they misbehave themselves I shall not be able to report them, because they are vagabonds who will disappear into the holes and corners of the city. They would be impossible to find again, but you are a man with a fixed place of residence; it will be easy enough to find you. I see, by the way, your shop is called 'Renewed Affluence' on the signboard. And if you plead that the affair was no business of yours, people will never believe that a word from a respectable man like yourself would not suffice to control a crowd of ragamuffins."

Hart's use of this argument, so peculiarly Chinese in its reasoning, showed how well he already understood the character of the people—how well he appreciated the underlying principle of their community life, the responsibility of a man for his neighbour's behaviour. The shopkeeper was, of course, duly impressed. He spoke to the crowd and they melted away.

But when at luncheon Hart told his host how narrowly he had escaped rough treatment, all the satisfaction he got was: "Served you right, you two young fools, riding about where you were not wanted. Served you right, I say. If I had been there I'd have had a shy at you myself."

This remark was characteristic of Sir Frederick Bruce, who, either from character or experience, or both, took a conservative view of everything—even of trifles. I know Robert Hart afterwards attributed some of his own caution to his friend's example. "In all things go slowly," Bruce was wont to say in his booming, bell-like tone. "Never be in a hurry—-especially don't be in a hurry about answering letters. If you leave things long enough and quiet enough they answer themselves, whereas if you hurry matters balanced on the edge of a precipice, they often topple over instead of settling and remaining comfortably there for ever."

During Hart's visit to Peking a very important question arose concerning the policing of the China Seas. Great Britain had hitherto been doing the work, but the arrangement was considered unsatisfactory. The first idea that China should invest in a fleet of her own came up in the course of a friendly conversation between the British Minister and the Officiating Inspector-General.

Later, when they had talked the subject over at length, and Bruce asserted that Great Britain would probably be willing to lend officers and sell ships of war to China for the nucleus of the proposed navy, Hart laid the matter before Prince Kung. There were endless negotiations, the difficulty and delicacy of which cannot be exaggerated. But they ended satisfactorily.

[Illustration: A ROAD IN OLD PEKING DURING THE RAINY SEASON.]

Prince Kung memorialized the Throne, with the result that £250,000 was directed to be set aside for the purpose. Then, at Robert Hart's suggestion, the money was sent to the Inspector-General—Mr. Lay—to be spent by him in England, together with a long letter of instructions (written by Prince Kung) urging Lay to purchase everything as soon as possible, and to see that the "work put into the vessels should be strong and the materials genuine."

This delicious phrase, a true touch of human nature, is solemnly recorded in one of the despatches, and may still be seen in the correspondence on the subject in the Blue Book for the year.

It is only fair to point out that it was Robert Hart who stated that "the ability of the Inspector-General is great; that he possesses a mind which embraces the minutest details, and is therefore fully competent to make the necessary