the 20th of
February--his birthday--fell on the 23rd day of the Chinese First
Moon. Once more it fell on the 23rd of the First Moon in 1854, the
year he came to China, and not again until 1873, when his son first
opened his eyes on this best of all possible worlds. A coincidence if
you like, but still a very remarkable one all the same.

In 1875 the famous Margary affair, destined to become so complicated
later on, first appeared upon the stage of politics in the simplest
possible form. There was one hero and one villain, with a crowd of
shadowy accomplices looking over his shoulder. To this day it is not
certain how many there actually were. We can distinctly follow the
unfortunate hero--his name was Margary, his occupation Interpreter
at a Consulate--on his journey across Yunnan to Burmah as far as
Tengyueh. We know he was cruelly done to death there, but we cannot
sift out truth from falsehood in the rumours that he met his death
with the connivance--and perhaps even under the orders of--the
provincial authorities.

The simple fact of a white man's murder was, of course, bad enough;
but when that white man was an official and on a mission, it was a
hundred times worse. Negotiations between the British Legation and
the Chinese began immediately. On the one side heavy compensation was
demanded, on the other it was argued over and delayed. Neither party
would move a step forward, and presently the Yunnan outrage got
hopelessly mixed with every other disputed question of the day; new
demands sprang up beside old ones; both parties, as Michie says, found
themselves "entangled in a perfect cat's-cradle of negotiations,"
and the Chinese in the privacy of their yamens were beginning to
ask themselves gloomily, "Will the English fight unless we make full
reparation?"

Would they? There was the rub. But now, the crisis being safely
passed, I may tell that they would--that they very nearly did--and
that the thing that prevented them was nothing more nor less than
the moving of the Customs pew in the British Legation Chapel from the
front of the church to the back. So do great events sometimes hang
upon trifles.

After the arbitrary moving of his accustomed seat, the I.G. remained
away from the Sunday services for more than a year. Then, just when
the political atmosphere was most electric, Bishop Russell, an old
friend of Ningpo days and a charming and genial Irishman, came to
Peking on a visit. He was to preach in the Le