To remedy this unfortunate state of affairs, the I.G., together with a certain Taotai, was sent on a mission.  Great pourparlers were held with the Hongkong authorities, who finally agreed to the concessions he asked—­provided the Macao authorities should do the same.  Luckily they did with readiness—­even with enthusiasm—­as they themselves were anxious for a quid pro quo from China.

The Portuguese position in Macao had always been a peculiar one—­unofficial is the word which best describes it—­for though they had quietly occupied the place since the far-away days of the Mings, the Chinese had tolerated the strangers without recognizing them, only now and then murdering one by way of protest.  Here, then, was their chance to obtain official status, and the Governor, a shrewd man, seized it.  The matter went through without a hitch; China, in addition to getting her own way on the likin question, was given the right to open her Custom Houses at Kowloon (Hongkong) and Lappa (Macao), while Portugal on her side agreed never to sell or cede Macao to any other Power without China’s consent.

A slight passage-at-arms between the I.G. and a certain Chinese official enlivened the proceedings, and threw an amusing sidelight on Oriental methods.  This man, when Robert Hart met him in Canton, said with amazing frankness, “I had a spy in Hongkong who repeated to me faithfully all that went on there, all that you did, all that you said; but I had nobody in Macao.  So will you please tell me what happened in the latter place?”

When the I.G. refused, saying the business concerned only himself and the Yamen, the fellow was first genuinely amazed, then righteously indignant, finally secretly vindictive.  He nursed the grievance for years, and revenged himself at last by memorializing against the I.G.’s famous Land Tax Scheme, which, weathering a storm of bitter criticism, lived to enjoy great praise.

Once this Mission was over, the I.G. travelled no more.  Things were so well established by this time that there was no need for him to tour the ports, and increasing work kept him ever closer to his desk in Peking.  Never was a man, I think, who lived a quieter or more orderly life, or who had less recreation in his days.  He went little into society; when he did, his rare appearances were immensely remarked—­much as the passage of a comet might have been—­and if he made a visit, it was talked of with pride all through the community.  Indeed, the hostess who could say “The I.G. took tea with me to-day,” was something of a heroine.  He read much and wrote prodigiously, sending out—­and receiving too—­the mail of a Prime Minister.