The question is, after sixteen years' residence in Shanghai, what report can we give of the country and of the people among whom we have sojourned? The answer, whether spoken or written, may be summed up as follows:

‘The country is well enough if one could get at it; but as there are no roads, no horses, no hotels, one is arrested at the very threshold; and as to the people, they are cheating, lying, dirty, and ugly,—and they do not understand us, whatever trouble we take to improve their intelligence. Why do not our men-of-war that are cruising hither and thither uselessly in the China Sea again carry their guns to the gates of the great cities, and from the mouth of the cannon insist on the country being opened up to foreigners and free trade everywhere, and roads and railways being made without delay? Then, indeed, the congested state of our manufactures would be relieved, and China's millions become clothed from western looms.’

This is our common talk, and nobody seems conscious of the inhumanity of the question, the onesidedness of the argument, and the presumption of the conclusion. We are a restless and unthinking race, active and energetic, like young people waltzing in a small room; we are content to enunciate one idea at all seasons, and we rotate in our narrow sphere with our narrow thoughts, till—we drop into silence.