Government. If not, we shall have our Chinatown less than ten years hence, with its warrens of gambling and crime: a Yellow Peril to which Hooliganism would be child's-play.

Lastly, I will try to grapple with Mr. Pearson's prophecy that the Chinese will take to manufacturing with European machinery, directed by foremen knowing the European taste. If his premisses are correct, the conclusions follow the loss by England and America of the Eastern markets, possibly of the world's, the huge commercial flotilla bringing the products of cheap labour to our doors, the emergence of China as a great and terrible Power. But were they founded on tangible evidence, or on misapprehension? On misapprehension assuredly. National Life and Character' was published seven years ago, when oily mandarins were bamboozling the West with a simulated accessibility to the ideas of the West. We sighed at the reactionary tendencies of the many; but we confided in the progressive disposition of the few, notably of Li Hung Chang, the doggedest Tory of them all. The glare of the Boxer conflagration has shown them in their true light, as undeviating haters of foreign innovation. For a season they bowed to the concessionaire; but their fingers were itching to be at his throat. Even the poor jolting little railway from Tientsin had to be built by stealth (so an observant correspondent, Mr. Angus Hamilton, tells us) while officialdom was taking an official nap. The greed of gain can accomplish much; but it will not lure a ministerial hierarchy like the Chinese, which can satisfy that instinct by the more primitive process of extortion, into the paternal protection of new industries. Mr. Pearson does not quite seem to have settled in his own mind how another Lancashire or Pennsylvania would come to pass in China. He talks of 'foremen knowing the European taste'; meaning natives, it would seem, who had gone abroad for their education. The Japanese can learn in foreign schools, but not the Chinamen. Even if white overseers were insincerely encouraged to settle down in China, it would be the old story of those Englishmen who tried to reorganise the Chinese fleet their advice was disregarded; they lost heart against the stolid obstruction of the Viceroys. Official China will never foster manufactures; without its sanction they will never be planted by purely native enterprise, which cowers before the mandarin. Bankers and traders as they are, the mercantile classes need but little stimulus to organise establishments and subdivide toil, until they swamp the East with the inferior cotton fabrics and the less elaborate steel-work. That stimulus, however, will be wanting while the Chinese character continues to pursue its immemorial path. Europe and America may contrive one day to thrust their goods far up the waterways; but those waterways are most unlikely to carry down cargoes that will undersell the factories of the Anglo-Saxon and the German. If China becomes a country of machinery, that machinery will be

under the ownership of the white man. Sir Robert Hart's dread of a continuous national hostility may be banished by military and diplomatic coercion; instead may follow a time of sullen acquiescence. In that case capitalists may be tempted to set up their plant within hail of the Treaty ports, and the supply of industriously docile labour would be without stint. Still, the Straits Settlements are a more suitable field than a land where the secret societies would always be alert to wreck the mills; and India than either. Mr. Pearson's comprehensive gaze skipped, most unaccountably, the cotton and jute produced under the beneficent rule of the Empress-Queen. He looked forward to a gloomy day when England would have to disarrange her industrial system by imposing a stringently protective tariff against Chinese products. He failed altogether to gauge the opposition of Manchester and Dundee to unrestricted trade with India; an opposition damped down some five years ago by the statesmanship of Sir Henry Fowler, but still capable, in seasons of industrial hardship, of a formidable revival. The Brown Peril, however, is not the Yellow; and as to the Yellow directed by white against white, there are the consoling statistics that it has taken a century of ambassadorial menace, of military and naval expeditions, to get admission for 672 foreign firms only upon the seaboard of China.

The Yellow Peril I firmly believe to be, to a great extent, a Yellow Delusion. It has been bred by worthless population returns, and by false historical analogies; it has been magnified by the dramatic swiftness with which the Legations were sundered from civilisation, and in blindness of the consummate ease with which civilisation, once ready, reasserted itself. Under wise guidance, international relations with China can be restored to their normal condition of the right of might: the looting of palaces and removal of ancestral tablets, described so vividly by Mr. Smith in the New York Outlook, will make the Ocean men more feared, if more hated. My aim, however, has been to pursue the Yellow Peril past the present embroilment and down the twentieth century to Sir Robert Hart's a hundred years hence,' and to the distant future which Mr. Pearson, with all his political courage, never dated with exactitude. I cannot, after a survey necessarily crammed with conjecture, conceive that the Yellow Peril will devastate Europe, or endanger the East Indies, though it may change their populations. Still less am I able to conceive of a Yellow Peril commercially prepotent. The Yellow Peril will have, however, to be kept hermetically out of the white man's breeding-places, and any tampering with that principle would bring to pass Mr. Pearson's forecast: that the higher races are doomed to be thrust aside by people whom they now scorn as servile.

LETTERS OF THE WELLESLEYS
EDITED BY FLORENCE ANNA
FULCHER1

T present, when the heart of the nation quivers under the dread touch of war, our thoughts revert to the English leader in the conflict that crimsoned the dawn of the century. Life after Life is written, received with words of welcome, read; yet it is not so long since the time of the Great Duke but that some fresh testimony from his own hand may come to light. There still remain in remote places, among distant branches of the family, treasures of portrait and of autograph not generally known. It has been my good fortune to be shown such a collection by a friend who owns the pictures and the letters; and, by her kind permission, I am able to reproduce some of them in the ANGLO-SAXON REVIEW.

There is an endless interest in the changes of feature and character that are shown in family portraits, which, unfortunately, are usually hung according to a system that has only chronology to justify it. May I suggest a better plan? Take the hero of your race there is generally one in a family, howsoever distinguished the line, that takes precedence-and hang him in the centre of the gallery. Next to him, on the right, place not necessarily his father, or his mother, or even his wife, but that spiritually linked next of kin who has dowered him with his most speaking traits, the expression of his face and his general bearing. It may be you will have to search far afield for this and find it in a great-great-grandmother or a great-grand-aunt; for this natural entail is a matriarchal as well as patriarchal system, and knows none of the restrictions which have been formulated in feudal law. Hang on his left the ancestor who gave him his hands; above him and around him the ancestors who held in trust the general contour of his head and face, his mouth and chin and ears and nose and eyes, always first appraising the expression of each feature rather than its form; and so you shall find the springs of his strength and the sources of his weakness. Lastly, hang below him such members of the younger generations as inherit the features that have been made famous in his person. Still more interesting would such a group become if family history or tradition, or a packet of time-stained letters, or the dusty documents of the muniment room, confirmed the judgment of the eye; but this will not always be. Each human being is bewilderingly complex, embodying much more than the single emotion or principle witnessed by the twist of a lip or the curve of 1 By kind permission of Mrs. Beresford Massy.

an eye; and opportunity and other circumstances twist and turn the waters of life as the stones in its rocky bed divert a stream.

The most striking example I can recall of a family portraitgallery that told at a glance something of the qualities that had made the story of the family is at Chequers Court in Buckinghamshire. The present owner is a direct descendant of both the Stuarts and the Cromwells, and inherits a fine collection of portraits and relics from both sources. It is not generally known that a daughter of a Cromwell married one of the royal Stuarts; but the fact is well attested by the treasures possessed by the heiress of both houses. One half of the wall of the long library is hung with the melancholy portraits of ill-fated Stuarts; the most sorrowful of all looks down upon a table where lies the roll of the regicides. The other half of the great gallery bears the stern pictures of the Cromwells. It needs no deep student of character to read the tale. A child led down the long line will know, as the light streams through the mullioned windows upon the leather jerkins of Roundheads and the graceful plumes of Cavaliers, that here is no mere contrast of rank or of policy, but the comparison of weakness with strength, the story of forces that, once opposed, could have but one issue.

The chance encounter of a likeness in an unknown face may often lead to interesting discoveries. Passing the window of an old curiosity shop, we were attracted by a beautiful mezzotint portrait which bore a striking likeness to a favourite uncle. We entered, and examined the portrait, hoping to find some familiar name inscribed below. The legend, The Right Honourable Hugh Percy, Earl of Northumberland,' brought no enlightenment at the moment; but we bought the engraving for the sake of the resemblance. Long after, in some remote channel of family history, we found that there had been a marriage which connected the two strangers who were so much alike quite nearly enough to account for the resemblance. Such discoveries are a constant delight to those to whom portraits are storied monuments.

In this far-away Irish home of cousins of the first Duke of Wellington hang portraits of several of his near relations. Perhaps the most interesting is the beautiful picture of his mother, the Lady Anne Hill, daughter of the Marquis of Downshire, which accompanies these notes. Here at a glance, if we may give the artist credit for more than the usual honesty, are the hands: those hands that were so remarkably slender and small and white. I have had on my finger-the third finger of a very thin hand-a ring which the Duke wore constantly, and it was not too large. The ring, of Indian workmanship, was presented to Colonel Arthur Wesley during his term of service in India. The present owner of it told me that many persons to whom she showed it had had misgivings as to whether such a tiny circlet could ever have fitted an English