Chapter 1: First Light in Canton

Robert Morrison and the Pioneers

The Voyage

On September 4, 1807, after one hundred and thirteen days at sea, the American vessel Trident made the approaches to Macao. The peninsula resolved itself from the haze of the Pearl River estuary—a line of Portuguese churches and stone fortifications above a crowded harbor, the hills behind them green and close in the late monsoon heat. Standing at the rail was a young Northumbrian of twenty-five, slight, watchful, carrying a modest trunk and an appointment from the London Missionary Society¹ to serve as its first emissary to the Chinese Empire. Robert Morrison had no colleague waiting on the quay, no mission house prepared, no patron in the colony, and no legal right to remain. The Portuguese authorities in Macao were Catholic; the East India Company agents in Canton were hostile; the Qing government, whose territory began where the Portuguese enclave ended, had forbidden the teaching of its language to foreigners on pain of death. He had come to translate the scriptures of his faith into the oldest continuous written language on earth, and every power whose permission he needed had declined to grant it.

Three days later he crossed the estuary to Canton and entered the cramped waterfront quarter known as the Thirteen Factories², where he would live, study, and work in near-total obscurity for the next twenty-seven years. He was the first Protestant missionary to set foot in China.

Christianity had reached China before. In 635, a Nestorian named Alopen arrived at the court of the Tang emperor Taizong, and for two centuries the Church of the East—known in Chinese as 景教 (Jǐngjiào), the “Luminous Religion”—maintained monasteries and won converts across northern China. Then came the great persecution of 845, and the imperial court swept the Luminous Religion away along with Buddhism and every other foreign faith. It did not return. Seven centuries later, the Franciscan John of Montecorvino built a Catholic church in the Mongol capital of Khanbaliq—present-day Beijing—and baptized thousands. When the Yuan dynasty fell to the Ming in 1368, that mission vanished with it. The pattern was already legible: a foreign faith arrives, finds a patron, flourishes briefly, and is extinguished when the dynasty shifts or the court turns hostile.

The Jesuits broke the pattern—or seemed to. Matteo Ricci dressed as a Confucian scholar, mastered classical Chinese, and won the patronage of the Wanli Emperor in 1601. Martino Martini produced the Novus Atlas Sinensis of 1655, giving Europe its first accurate maps of China’s provinces. Johann Adam Schall von Bell served the early Qing court as an astronomer. The Jesuits left a deeper mark than any of their predecessors—translations, maps, astronomical instruments, and a small but educated Catholic community that persists in China to this day.

But accommodations invite suspicion from both sides. The Chinese Rites Controversy of the early eighteenth century saw Rome condemn the very practices that had earned the Jesuits their place at court—their tolerance of ancestor veneration, their use of Confucian terminology for God. The Kangxi Emperor, who had once defended the missionaries, now turned against them. He restricted, then banned, missionary work. The court shut the door. By 1800 the Catholic mission in China was diminished, its priests operating in the margins, its era of imperial favor long past.

It was into this aftermath that Protestant Christianity arrived—not through the court, not through scholarship, not through the patronage of emperors, but through the cramped waterfront factories of Canton, carried by men of a very different kind.

The man on the Trident had come a long way from the village of Buller’s Green, near Morpeth in Northumberland, where he had been born the youngest of eight children in the household of a Scottish last maker³. His father, James Morrison, shaped the wooden forms around which shoemakers bent their leather—humble, exacting work, done by hand and lantern. The boy apprenticed to the same trade. But at night, when the shop was dark and the lasts were hung, he lit a candle and read. By twelve he had recited the whole of Psalm 119⁴ from memory before his pastor—176 verses without a slip. He began Latin under the guidance of a Presbyterian minister in Newcastle, then Hebrew, then Greek—squinting at conjugations in a cold room above his father’s workshop while the rest of the household slept. His mother wished he would stay. He kept reading.

He had no connections, no fortune, and no patron beyond the small nonconformist society that had commissioned him. What he had was a conviction—shared by a small but growing number of British and American Protestants—that the Gospel must be carried to every nation on earth, and that among those nations, the vast empire of China represented the greatest single challenge and the greatest potential harvest.

In 1792 a Baptist cobbler from Northamptonshire named William Carey had published An Enquiry into the Obligations of Christians to Use Means for the Conversion of the Heathens, arguing that the Great Commission bound every Christian alive, and that the duty was immediate. The next summer he sailed for Bengal. Societies sprang up in his wake: the Baptist Missionary Society the year of the Enquiry, the London Missionary Society in 1795, the Church Missionary Society—founded by the evangelical Anglicans of the Clapham Sect, William Wilberforce among them—in 1799, the British and Foreign Bible Society in 1804. The LMS, twelve years after its founding, would commission Morrison.

The East India Company, which held a monopoly on British trade with China, had refused him passage. The Company’s directors understood that missionaries were bad for business. The Qing court had confined the foreign traders to a small quarter in Canton and tolerated them there because they kept to commerce and left Chinese customs, beliefs, and governance alone. A missionary—especially a Protestant missionary, lacking even the institutional cover that Jesuit scholars had once enjoyed at the imperial court—would be a provocation. The Company wanted no part of it.

Morrison was therefore obliged to travel via New York, where he might find an American vessel willing to carry him to Canton. On a January morning in 1807, he left the London docks aboard the ship Remittance, bound for the United States. The detour would prove symbolically apt: it was American ships, American money, and eventually American missionaries who would transform what Morrison had begun as a solitary British enterprise into a vast transatlantic project. In New York, while arranging his passage, Morrison called on the offices of a ship owner. The encounter produced what became, in missionary lore, one of the most quoted exchanges of the nineteenth century. The ship owner, regarding this slight, earnest young man with what we may imagine was a mixture of amusement and incredulity, asked: “And so, Mr. Morrison, you really expect that you will make an impression on the idolatry of the great Chinese Empire?”

Morrison replied: “No, sir, I expect God will.”

The anecdote was repeated in missionary sermons, fundraising appeals, and devotional literature for the next hundred years. It had the qualities that such stories require: modesty, confidence, and the implicit suggestion that divine purpose was at work in human history. Whether the exchange occurred precisely as reported is impossible to verify—the earliest source is the memoir published by Morrison’s second wife, Eliza, five years after his death. What is certain is that Morrison sailed from New York on May 12, 1807, aboard the Trident, and arrived in Macao on September 4, reaching Canton three days later. He would not be the last.

The Impossible Task

The Canton that Morrison entered in the autumn of 1807 was not a city that welcomed foreigners—or rather, it was a city that had devised an elaborate system to profit from them while keeping them at arm’s length.

The Qing dynasty’s system of managed trade—the Canton system, in force since 1757—confined all foreign commerce to a narrow strip of waterfront outside the city walls known as the Thirteen Factories. The factories were not industrial buildings but trading houses and residences, strung along the northern bank of the Pearl River in a district of roughly twenty-two acres. Foreign merchants were permitted to reside here during the trading season, roughly October to March, and were required to leave when business concluded. They could not bring their wives or families. They could not enter the walled city of Canton itself. They could not travel into the interior. They conducted all business through a small number of licensed Chinese merchants, the cohong (公行, gōngháng), who served as intermediaries and guarantors. Old China Street, New China Street, and Hog Lane divided the factories from one another, lined with shops selling silk, tea, porcelain, and carved ivory to the foreigners who strolled them in the evenings—a bazaar designed to extract Western silver while conceding nothing of Chinese sovereignty. The system was, from the Qing perspective, an elegant solution: it harvested the economic benefits of foreign trade while minimizing foreign contamination of Chinese society. It worked.

For a missionary, the restrictions were almost insuperable. Morrison’s task was not to trade in tea and silk but to learn the Chinese language, translate the Christian scriptures, and—if the opportunity ever arose—preach the Gospel to Chinese people. Every element of this program was either prohibited or functionally impossible under the Canton system. The Qing government had made it a capital offense for any Chinese subject to teach the Chinese language to a foreigner. The rationale was strategic as much as cultural: linguistic knowledge was a form of intelligence, and the court had no intention of granting barbarians access to the written culture that undergirded the empire’s administration. Morrison would need to find tutors willing to risk their lives.

He found them. The details are murky—Morrison was deliberately vague in his correspondence, understanding that specifics could endanger his teachers—but within months of his arrival he had engaged Chinese assistants who taught him in secret, sometimes meeting at night, sometimes working behind locked doors in his cramped quarters in the American factory. His early diary entries betray the grinding loneliness of the work: the heat and damp of a Cantonese summer, the isolation among merchants who regarded him as an eccentric nuisance, the constant fear that his tutors would be discovered and punished. He ate Chinese food, wore Chinese dress when it served to reduce his visibility, and spent his days hunched over manuscripts in a room that smelled of ink and river water.

The work was not merely difficult; it was a confrontation with an entirely different architecture of thought. Chinese, with its tonal system, its logographic script, and its vast literary tradition, presented challenges of a different order from any European language. There were no textbooks designed for English speakers, no grammars, no precedent to follow. Morrison was laying the path as he walked it. The nine tones of Cantonese⁵ could turn a single syllable into several different words; a misplaced inflection could transform a greeting into an insult, or a prayer into nonsense. The written language, with its thousands of characters each carrying layers of classical allusion, bore no relation to anything in Morrison’s prior education. He had arrived equipped with Hebrew, Latin, and Greek—languages of the Book—and found himself before a civilization whose written tradition was older, vaster, and organized on entirely different principles.

In 1809, Morrison married Mary Morton, the daughter of an East India Company surgeon in Macao. The marriage brought companionship to a life that had been achingly solitary, but Mary’s health was fragile, and the climate punished her. For long stretches, she was restricted to Macao while Morrison worked in Canton, the two separated by the sixty miles of estuary between them. She bore him three children. She suffered. On June 10, 1821, she died of cholera, and Morrison’s grief was, by his own account, nearly annihilating. “Mary died!” he wrote, “and our little babe, alas! found a grave in its mother’s womb.” He would remarry in 1824—Eliza Armstrong, who would later compile his biography from his papers—but the years between Mary’s death and his own were colored by an exhaustion that went beyond the physical.

Through all of it, the language mastered. The translation continued, not by power nor by strength, but by his perseverance. For sixteen years, Morrison worked on what became the first complete rendering of the Bible into Chinese by a missionary based in China, a project he finished in 1823 with the assistance of William Milne⁶, a fellow LMS missionary stationed in Malacca. The two men divided the Old Testament between them and worked in parallel, one planting and the other watering across a thousand miles of sea. Milne did not live to see the completed Bible in print; he died in 1822, a year before the full text was published.

The translation was imperfect. Later Chinese Christians would find Morrison’s prose stiff and foreign-sounding—the cadences of King James rendered into characters that a native reader could parse but never mistake for natural Chinese. Subsequent versions would supersede it. But its significance was not primarily literary. It was infrastructure. Morrison had created the foundational text. Every missionary who followed him, every tract distributed, every sermon preached, every convert baptized, would stand on it. The path he had laid was now one others could walk.

The Dictionary as Diplomatic Instrument

Morrison’s other great projects were linguistic. The Serampore Mission Press in Bengal printed his Grammar of the Chinese Language in 1815, a 280-page description of Chinese syntax in English, following by a year the same press’s issue of Joshua Marshman’s Clavis Sinica.

That same summer the first volume of Morrison’s Dictionary of the Chinese Language appeared in Macao. He compiled the bulk of it alone, working by candlelight in his Canton factory room with Chinese assistants whose lives were at risk for helping him—“the natives who assist me”, he wrote, “are hunted from place to place and sometimes seized”—and without the institutional support that a university or government bureau might have provided. The work grew across the next eight years into three parts and six quarto volumes: 4,595 pages, 47,035 head characters drawn from the Kangxi Dictionary of 1716, each one traced by hand, cross-referenced, and glossed with English definitions, usage examples, and tonal marks. After completing the first volume, he recognized that if he continued at the same encyclopedic scale he might not finish in his lifetime; he compressed the remaining volumes, working at a pace that wrecked his eyesight. “I require your indulgence as to the manner of writing”, he told a correspondent in 1819, “for after writing long I become almost blind and have to feel my way.” The East India Company, recognizing that the dictionary would benefit its own translators and commercial agents, agreed to fund the printing⁷. Typesetting alone was an ordeal: each Chinese character had to be cut individually into a wooden block or cast in metal, thousands of distinct sorts where a Latin press needed hundreds. The cost placed the finished work in institutional libraries rather than on the shelves of ordinary readers. But its influence radiated outward from those libraries. Morrison’s dictionary gave English-speaking merchants, diplomats, and missionaries their first systematic access to the Chinese language. It was, in a sense, the key to a locked room.

Before Morrison, the European understanding of Chinese was fragmentary, dependent on the work of Catholic missionaries—the Jesuits above all—whose scholarship, however impressive, had been conducted in the service of a different theological and institutional tradition and was not widely available in Protestant circles. Morrison’s dictionary changed this. It was the Protestant world’s Rosetta Stone for China, and its publication marked the moment when the Anglo-American engagement with the Chinese language ceased to be the private struggle of a solitary genius and became an institutional resource.

The East India Company recognized this before anyone else. The same directors who had refused Morrison passage in 1807 employed him as their official translator by 1809—two years after his arrival, before the dictionary was even begun. The Company needed Morrison’s tongue even as it deplored his mission. It was a tension that would recur throughout the history of Western engagement with China: missionaries learned the languages that merchants could not be bothered to learn, lived where traders only visited, accumulated the cultural knowledge that no commercial intelligence could match. They were ideologically inconvenient and practically indispensable.

In 1818 the two men co-founded the Anglo-Chinese College at Malacca, where Milne could teach openly under British colonial law. Its charter named the school’s purpose as “the cultivation of English and Chinese literature in order to the spread of the Gospel”. Milne served as first principal until his death in 1822; Morrison, held in Canton by his Company duties, sustained the school from a distance with funds and counsel. Enrollments rarely passed a dozen, yet it was the first Western institution of higher learning established for Chinese students. It outlived both founders: after the Treaty of Nanjing⁸, the College relocated to Hong Kong in 1843 as one of the new colony’s first schools.

By 1834, Morrison had spent twenty-seven years in China. He had baptized, by most accounts, exactly ten Chinese converts. By any conventional measure of missionary success—souls saved, churches planted, communities transformed—his career was a failure.

But he had never understood his work in those terms alone. He had built something more durable than a congregation: the linguistic and institutional infrastructure without which no subsequent missionary work in China would have been possible. The Bible, the dictionary, the grammar, the small circle of trained Chinese assistants who had risked their lives to help him—these were foundations. The stone was six quarto volumes and a pair of ruined eyes. The edifice would be an empire.

The Tract

Among the small circle was a Cantonese block printer named Liang Fa⁹. He had come to Canton as a young man from the villages north of the city, apprenticed to a wood-carver, and set to the ordinary work of cutting Confucian classics and almanacs into the pear-wood blocks from which Chinese books were printed. What distinguished his apprenticeship from thousands like it was Morrison’s commission: the Chinese New Testament, chapter by chapter, printed from blocks Liang cut by hand. He worked slowly, by lamplight when the days ran short. The text went by in front of him character by character, and by the second year of the work the paragraphs he was cutting had begun to make their own argument in his mind.

He traveled to Malacca with Milne in 1815, was baptized there on November 3, 1816, and returned to China a Protestant. Morrison ordained him in 1827—the first Chinese Protestant minister in history, thirty-eight years old, and under Qing law a criminal by profession for having accepted a foreign creed. He had been arrested in 1819, when Canton magistrates discovered the tracts he was printing at a back-alley press—beaten, fined, his blocks burned. The missionaries paid the fine. He went back to his types.

His most important work, Good Words to Admonish the Age (勸世良言, Quànshì Liángyán), appeared in 1832—nine slim volumes of sermons, quoted scriptures, and exhortations rendered in a Cantonese vernacular cadence that a village schoolmaster could read aloud to men who could not themselves read. It was the first sustained Christian literature written by a Chinese hand for a Chinese audience. Liang knew his readers. He knew that the villages of Guangdong were full of men who had been studying for the imperial examinations since boyhood and would sit them again this year as they had last year; he knew that among those men were some who had already failed and were returning to fail again; he knew, from his own pre-conversion years, what it was to be a literate Chinese man with nothing yet to show for a decade of study.

When the civil service examinations¹⁰ were held in Canton, thousands of candidates would file into the walled compound of the examination hall; as many relatives, servants, and food-sellers would wait outside the gates. Liang and the small band of Chinese Christians he had gathered around him would take up positions along the narrow streets the candidates had to pass. The tracts were small, four or six leaves, sewn at the spine, cheap to print. He pressed them into the hands of men who would not refuse paper. Most of the seed, he understood, would fall on stone. Some would be read on the way home. A very few would be carried back into the villages of Guangdong and Guangxi.

One of the candidates who had walked past Liang’s distributors in 1837 was a twenty-three-year-old Hakka from Hua County named Hong Xiuquan¹¹. He had already failed twice at the prefectural level; each attempt had carried him a rung higher. He failed thrice. He carried the tracts to his village, set them on a shelf, and came home shaking with fever. His family brought in a coffin. In the delirium he dreamed of a bearded old man who gave him a sword and ordered him to purge the earth of demons. He recovered. For six years he did not open the tracts. In 1843 he sat the provincial examination for the first time—and failed there too. This last rejection sent him back to the shelf, and by lamplight he read Liang Fa’s pages and found the man from his dream. What he found he read by his own light. He concluded that he was the younger brother of Jesus Christ, sent to complete what the old man had assigned him. Years later he would set down the theology in his Instructions on the Original Way to Awaken the Age (原道覺世訓, Yuándào Juéshì Xùn):

The Sovereign God alone is Emperor. Though the rulers of this world may style themselves kings, that is title enough—how dare any of them usurp what is above them? The Savior Jesus, Crown Prince of the Sovereign God, is himself called only “Lord.” In Heaven, on earth, and among men, who is greater than Jesus?¹²

The American Arrival

The Americans came next, and they came with the organizational resources that Morrison had lacked.

On a February evening in 1830, a boat rowed up the Pearl River toward Canton, and the young man in the stern watched the city assemble itself from the dusk—the sun throwing its last rays on lofty pagodas, then darkness, then floating habitations lit with lamps, huge junks appearing in what he would describe as “all the rudeness of antiquity”. Elijah Coleman Bridgman¹³ was the son of a farming family in Belchertown, Massachusetts, four generations on the same hill, sent by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions¹⁴—the first American Protestant missionary to China. He had come through Amherst College and Andover Seminary with a temperament that the British Chief Superintendent Lord Napier would later describe as “simple, pious and judicious”—qualities better suited to a study than a waterfront. The merchant who had arranged his passage was David Olyphant, whose firm was one of the few American trading houses that refused to deal in opium—a scruple that earned it the nickname “Zion’s Corner” among the less fastidious merchants of the Canton waterfront. Olyphant’s letter to his partner in Canton promised him “a room, a servant, his washing, and a seat at your table, at my expense”. Within days Bridgman commenced the study of Chinese, de novo, in the room Olyphant had given him.

In May 1832, Bridgman founded the Chinese Repository, a monthly journal published in Canton that ran until 1851. The first issue described China as “a stupendous anomaly” and reported on the Yao rebellion raging along the borders of Guangdong and Guangxi, a secret society called “the Wonderful Association” discovered in Peking, and two hundred Canton soldiers found unfit for service from opium addiction. Subsequent issues carried translations of imperial edicts, analyses of legal codes, dispatches from the interior that reached American readers nowhere else. Before the Repository, Americans who wished to learn about China had almost nowhere to turn—travelers’ accounts, most of them superficial; merchants’ reports on tea prices and tariff schedules; Morrison’s dictionary, which was a reference work, not a narrative. The journal filled the void. It was America’s first China expertise—and it was produced entirely by missionaries.

Three years after Bridgman, Samuel Wells Williams¹⁵ sailed for Canton. His mother, a Presbyterian elder’s wife in Utica, New York, had once found herself without money when the church collection basket came round; she wrote on a slip of paper, “I give two of my sons”, and put it in with a prayer. She died before either son sailed. Williams’s father—a master printer who had trained Thurlow Weed among his apprentices—passed along a letter from Rufus Anderson of the ABCFM, asking whether he knew “some promising young man” to run the mission press in Canton. Williams had just been elected a professor at Rensselaer. He abandoned the appointment. He was twenty-one when his ship reached Whampoa, and Bridgman put him to work at once.

His Chinese teacher—obtained despite the death penalty that still hung over any Chinese subject who taught the language to a foreigner—kept a foreign lady’s shoe on his desk at all times, so that if the police came he could claim to be a Chinese manufacturer of foreign shoes. Williams bent over the dictionary, one word at a time. “I always have had, and for aught I know always will have”, he confessed in a letter home, “a sort of timidity in going into the company of those with whom I am unacquainted.” The timidity did not prevent him from becoming, over the next four decades, one of the most important American interpreters of China—serving successively as printer, scholar, editor, diplomat, and author. His Middle Kingdom, published in 1848 and revised in 1883, was for decades the standard English-language reference work on China¹⁶—two volumes written with genuine admiration for Chinese civilization and frank frustration at what Williams, in the language of his era, called its “heathenism”. The book that educated Americans consulted when they wished to understand the civilization across the Pacific was written by a man who had gone to China to convert it.

When Morrison died in August 1834, Bridgman and Williams were among the handful of Protestant missionaries in all of China. Converts were few; the restrictions of the Canton system remained in force until the Treaty of Nanjing. But in an era before foreign correspondents, before diplomatic staffs of any size, before academic departments devoted to the study of Asia, missionaries were America’s primary source of knowledge about China. Their letters home—reprinted from the Missionary Herald¹⁷ in denominational newspapers from Boston to St. Louis—shaped the mental image of China that ordinary Americans carried in their heads. The men who knew the language held the lens.

Missionaries as Interpreters of China

The first American treaty with China—the Treaty of Wanghia¹⁸, signed on July 3, 1844—was negotiated by Caleb Cushing¹⁹, a Massachusetts congressman who spoke no Chinese and had never visited Asia. His interpreters were missionaries: Bridgman and Peter Parker. The men who controlled the language controlled the text. Article 17 guaranteed Americans the right to build churches and hospitals in the treaty ports—a provision inserted at the missionaries’ urging. The Gospel had been written into the treaty.

Morrison died on August 1, 1834, in Canton—ten years before the treaty his dictionary had made possible. He was fifty-two. They buried him four days later in the Old Protestant Cemetery at Macau, beside his first wife and their infant son. His grave is still there—a flat stone on the hillside above the harbor, shaded by frangipani, visited occasionally by seminary students from Hong Kong and by Chinese tourists who read the inscription and move on. The dictionary he had spent half his life compiling would sit on the desk of every American consul, every missionary translator, and every naval officer posted to the China coast for the next fifty years.

A young American physician, sailing for Canton eight weeks before his death, would consult the dictionary. What the thousands who followed built on Morrison’s foundations—the hospitals, the universities, the treaties, the assumptions—was not yet visible. The grief was not yet imaginable.

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1. Founded in London in September 1795 as “The Missionary Society” (renamed “London Missionary Society” in 1818), it drew Congregationalists, Presbyterians, Methodists, and evangelical Anglicans into a single interdenominational body.

2. The English word “factory” here derives from the Portuguese feitoria, meaning a trading post, not a place of manufacture. The name persisted even after the original thirteen establishments had been consolidated and rebuilt many times.

3. A last maker fabricated the wooden foot-shaped forms—“lasts”—around which shoemakers shaped leather. It was skilled artisanal work, but humble.

4. An alphabetic acrostic of twenty-two stanzas, eight verses each, every stanza beginning with a successive letter of the Hebrew alphabet from א (aleph) to ת (taw).

5. Cantonese has six phonemic tones (nine in traditional Chinese phonology, which counts three additional “checked” tones on syllables ending in stop consonants). Mandarin has four, or five counting the neutral tone.

6. William Milne (1785–1822), born in Kennethmont, Aberdeenshire, lost his father at six and worked as a shepherd boy before his conversion led him to the London Missionary Society. Trained at Gosport and ordained at Portsea in 1812, he was sent to China as the second Protestant missionary. He reached Macao in July 1813, was expelled by the Portuguese, and settled at Malacca in 1815, where he established the LMS press and launched Chinese Monthly Magazine (察世俗每月統記傳, Cháshìsú Měiyuè Tǒngjìzhuàn), the first modern Chinese-language periodical.

7. The Company underwrote a print run of 750 copies at a total cost of over £10,000, a sum that reflected both the ambition of the project and the expense of typesetting thousands of Chinese characters in an era before mechanized printing. Each copy sold for twenty guineas.

8. Treaty of Nanjing (南京條約, Nánjīng Tiáoyuē), signed on August 29, 1842, aboard HMS Cornwallis at Nanjing. It ended the First Opium War (1839–1842), opened four additional ports—Amoy (Xiamen), Fuzhou, Ningbo, and Shanghai—and Canton (Guangzhou) itself to foreign trade and residence on new terms, and ceded Hong Kong to Britain.

9. 梁發 (Liáng Fā, 1789–1855), a Guangdong woodblock printer who had apprenticed in Canton before his conversion. He originated the practice—carried on by Chinese Protestants for the next century—of distributing tracts at the examination halls, a tactic that dispersed Christian literature widely among the literate class and that Qing officials periodically suppressed.

10. The Qing civil service examination system had multiple tiers. Candidates first sat the prefectural examinations (童生試, tóngshēngshì), held every two or three years at the county and prefectural level, to earn the title of 生員 (shēngyuán), also known as 秀才 (xiùcái), the lowest scholarly rank. Those who passed could then attempt the provincial examination (鄉試, xiāngshì), held once every three years, for the 舉人 (jǔrén) degree.

11. 洪秀全 (Hóng Xiùquán, 1814–1864), a Hakka schoolteacher from Hua County (花縣, Huāxiàn) in Canton. He failed the civil service examinations four times—at the prefectural level in 1828, 1834, and 1837, and at the provincial level in 1843—before founding the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom (太平天國, Tàipíng Tiānguó) in 1851.

12. The original text: “皇上帝乃是帝也。雖世間之主，稱王足矣。豈容一毫僭越于其間哉？救世主耶蘇，皇上帝太子也，亦只稱主己耳。天上地下人間，有誰大過耶蘇者乎？”

13. Elijah Coleman Bridgman (1801–1861), an Amherst graduate and Andover seminarian. He reached the China coast on February 19, 1830, aboard the Roman, a vessel belonging to Olyphant & Company. He remained in China for thirty-one years.

14. The first American organization to send missionaries abroad, founded in 1810 and headquartered in Boston. It grew out of the “haystack prayer meeting” of 1806 at Williams College, where five students took shelter from a thunderstorm and resolved to devote their lives to foreign missions.

15. Samuel Wells Williams (1812–1884), ABCFM missionary and sinologist. He served as interpreter for Commodore Perry’s expedition to Japan in 1853–54 and as Secretary and chargé d’affaires of the American legation in Beijing.

16. Surveying geography, government, education, social life, arts, history, religion and other topics across more than 1,500 pages.

17. ABCFM’s widely circulated periodical. It remains a primary source for the study of nineteenth-century American missions.

18. Treaty of Wanghia (望廈條約, Wàngxià Tiáoyuē), modeled on the Treaty of Nanjing but included additional provisions favorable to American interests—and to missionary interests in particular.

19. Caleb Cushing (1800–1879), congressman from Newburyport, Massachusetts, appointed by President John Tyler as the first American envoy to China. A Harvard graduate and chairman of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs, he had no prior experience with Asia.