Skip to content

Susanna Ives | My Floating World

“Turning our attention to the pleasures of the moon, the snow, and the cherry blossoms.” – A Tale Of A Floating World, 1665

  • Home
  • My Floating World Blog
  • My Books
  • Table Of Contents
  • About Me
  • Newsletter
  • Search

Tag: East India Company

Posted on April 17, 2012March 6, 2016

An American View on the Opium Wars from 1850, Part II

Welcome back! In part one of this post series, we examined the facts around the opium trade between India and China as brokered by the East India Company. Now we are going to take a more personal and in-depth look at the damage done to the Chinese populace.  The below article can be found in The Merchants’ Magazine and Commercial Review, Volume 23, 1850.  I have edited out sections that medically explain opium’s effect on the body.

The images come from two editions of The Truth about Opium Smoking: with Illustrations of the Manufacture of Opium, etc, published by Hodder & Stroughton in 1882 and Wikimedia Commons. All are in public domain, of course.

The Opium Trade 

As carried between India and China, including a sketch of its history, extent, effects, etc.  

Part II

OPIUM is one of the oldest and most valuable articles in the Materia Medica. It is used in medicine, in its various preparations, under a greater variety of circumstances, and to accomplish more important results, than any other single article. Strike out this drug from the list of therapeutical remedies, and it would be very difficult for the whole class of narcotics or sedatives, or even both combined, to make good its place. The immortal Sydenham once remarked, that if he could be allowed only two weapons with which to combat disease, in its multifarious forms, opium would be his first choice. So on the other hand, the evils growing out of its abuse, surpass in magnitude, permanency, and extent, those of all other medicinal agents combined, unless it be that of ardent spirits.

Continue reading “An American View on the Opium Wars from 1850, Part II”

Posted on April 15, 2012March 6, 2016

An American View on the Opium Wars from 1850, Part I

I admit I’m ignorant of many, many things in history, including the Opium Wars. So I found this American article detailing the facts around the initial wars fascinating.

The two-part article is found in The Merchants’ Magazine and Commercial Review, Volume 23, 1850.  I will post part one tonight.

The images (except for poppy flower) come from two editions of The Truth about Opium Smoking: with Illustrations of the Manufacture of Opium, etc, published by Hodder & Stroughton in 1882. The introduction to this book includes the words:

Twenty, thirty, forty and more years ago, there were those who earnestly protested against England’s connection with the opium trade as then carried on with China. Their efforts to arouse public attention seemed unavailing. Few apparently gave heed.

It is otherwise now. Motions in Parliament, resolutions adopted in Convocation, in Church Congresses, Wesleyan Conferences, Congregational and Baptist Unions, and in public meetings all over the country, condemnatory of England’s connection with the opium trade, are so many indications of the awakening of the public conscience to the national sin committed by England in forcing the Government of China to admit our Indian opium.

The Opium Trade (from The Merchants’ Magazine and Commercial Review) 

As carried between India and China, including a sketch of its history, extent, effects, etc.  

Part 1

Few persons in this country are aware of the extent of traffic, or amount of capital invested in what is called the “opium trade,” and carried on mostly in South Eastern Asia. China expends for this single article, annually, more money than the entire revenue of the United States from all sources whatever, and a larger sum than any one nation on the globe pays to another for a single raw material, with the exception of what Great Britain pays to this country for cotton. The traffic is yet comparatively new——has grown with unparalleled rapidity, and is almost unknown, except to those personally concerned in it.

Opium is a production of the common English poppy, originally a native of Persia, but it may now be found growing as an ornamental plant in gardens throughout the civilized world. Most of the opium used for medical purposes in Europe and America is exported from Turkey; but India affords a far more extensive field for its cultivation. It is estimated by good judges, that more than 100,000 acres of the richest plains of Central India, are occupied for this purpose, giving employment to many thousands of men, women, and children. Formerly these same grounds were used for the production of sugar, indigo, corn, and other grain; but these useful crops have yielded to the more profitable culture of the poppy. It appears that a mild climate, rich soil, plentiful irrigation, and diligent husbandry, are absolutely necessary for its successful cultivation. The seed is sown in November, and the juice is collected during February and March. The falling of the flowers from the plant is the signal for making incissions, which is done by the cultivators in the cool of the evening, with hooked knives, in a circular direction, around the capsules. From these incisions, a white, milky juice exudes, which is concreted into a dark brown mass by the heat of the next day’s sun, and this, scraped off every evening, as the plant continues to exude, constitutes opium in its crude state. It is then converted into balls or cakes, covered with dried poppy leaves, and packed in chests of mango-wood, made expressly for the purpose, each chest containing from 125 to 150 pounds.

Continue reading “An American View on the Opium Wars from 1850, Part I”

Follow me:

  • Facebook
  • Amazon
  • Pinterest
  • Goodreads
  • Threads
  • Instagram

New!
Audiobook of How To Impress A Marquess

Comedy with shades of family drama. Victorian. Heartfelt. Artsy

Excerpt:

London
Spring, 1879
A day without Lilith Dahlgren was a fine day indeed, George, Marquess of Marylewick, mused as he eased back in his brougham seat.

He was finally heading home after surviving another insipid musical evening of delicate young darlings in dainty gowns gently butchering Bach or Mozart. He removed his top hat, tugged his tie loose, and gazed out at the night. Gold halos glowed around the gaslights, turning the London night a silken deep gray. The moody atmosphere reminded him of Joseph Mallord William Turner’s paintings. Turner was a real painter, unlike Lilith’s ramshackle bohemian friends whose art resembled the plum jelly drawings a four- year-old George had created on his nursery walls. These new artists should be punished for their pathetic attempts at art the same way he had been: their hands dipped in iced water and then slapped with a leather strap. Indolent wastrels, all of them.

George released a long stream of tired breath and reviewed his day to make sure he had squeezed every drop of productive juice from it. He had attended the boxing parlor as he did every morning. He had danced about the ring, thinking about the metaphorical punches he needed to deliver in the heated debate of the contentious Stamp Duty Extension Bill. After a brief breakfast with his sister, he had reviewed estate, bank, and stock accounts with his man of business. Then he had legged over to White’s to pass the remainder of the morning making political battle plans with the lord chancellor. Two more hours had been allocated in the afternoon for the business of his numerous wards and dependents, including the sugar-coated orders from his mama as she readied Tyburn Hall for the upcoming house party. Three Maryle relatives had appointments and were each given fifteen minutes. George believed that was sufficient time for them to express the matter at hand without lapsing into tears or drama. He abhorred sentimentality and rapturous overtures of any kind— all the things that characterized Lilith.

Learn more about How To Impress A Marquess>

Wicked, My Love
Zany comedy. Victorian. Roadtrip. Enemies-to-Lovers

Excerpt:

Prologue
1827

Nine-year-old Viscount Randall gazed toward Lyme’s coast but didn’t see where the glistening water met the vast sky. He was too lost in a vivid daydream of being all grown-up, wearing the black robes of the British prime minister, and delivering a blistering piece of oratorical brilliance to Parliament about why perfectly reasonable boys shouldn’t be forced to spend their summer holidays with jingle-brained girls.

“You know when your dog rubs against me it’s because he wants to make babies,” said Isabella St. Vincent, the most jingled-brained girl of them all, interrupting his musings

The two children picnicked on a large rock as their fathers roamed about the cliffs, searching for ancient sea creatures. Their papas were new and fast friends, but the offspring were not so bonded, as evidenced by the line of seaweed dividing Randall’s side of the rock from hers.

“All male species have the barbaric need to rub against females,” she continued as she spread strawberry preserves on her biscuit.

She was always blurting out odd things. For instance, yesterday, when he had been concentrating hard on cheating in a game of whist in hopes of finally beating her, she had piped up, “Do you know the interest of the Bank of England rose by a half a percentage?” Or last night, when she caught him in the corridor as he was trying to sneak a hedgehog into her room in revenge for losing every card game to her, including the ones he cheated at. “I’m going to purchase canal stocks instead of consuls with my pin money because at my young age, I can afford greater investment risks,” she’d said, shockingly oblivious to the squirming, prickly rodent under his coat.

Learn more about Wicked, My Love >

Zany. Hot. Banter. Victorian. Blackmail.

Excerpt:

No. 15 Wickerly Square, London
Tuesday, March 11, 1845

Vivienne Taylor repressed a mischievous smile as she gazed at the female members of the Wesley Congregation. The way the ladies sat in three neat rows, with their earnest faces poking out from their morning caps, resembled a gardening bed of black and white lacy flowers. They gathered for the weekly Bible lessons held in the parlor of Gertrude Bertis’s home on Wickerly Square.

Aunt Gertrude banged her cane on the floor, signaling the beginning of the lessons and scaring Garth, her pug dog, who had been snoozing at her feet. “Sisters, today we shall have a special reading in celebration.” Her mouth hiked slightly around the edges… the closest she came to smiling. For though she had a plump, flushed face—the kind made for grins and laughter—she kept her mouth and brow in tense, severe lines, making her appear decades older than her forty-one years. She wore her hair in a snug bun, but a few rebellious strands of silver and brown escaped and curled about her face. Her corset was laced tight, constraining her expansive, round form into rigid feminine contours. Yet when she gazed at her niece, a tender glow melted all the hardness in her eyes.

“My little Vivvie is engaged.” Aunt Gertrude reached over and patted the top of Vivienne’s hand. A wave of warmth flowed through Vivienne’s body.

The ladies cooed, “How lovely,” and “Won’t you be a beautiful bride?”—not the sort of disapproving words Vivienne had heard most of her twenty-two years, words such as, “Proper young ladies do not bring up the marriage customs of the ancient Spartans at the dinner parties,” and “Proper young ladies do not ask the circulating library for books by the Marquis de Sade,” and, the one that embarrassed her father the most, “Proper young ladies are not asked to leave Ladies Seminary.”

Learn more about Wicked Little Secrets >

Victorian. Drama. Second Chance Love.

Excerpt:

Dorian Hall. Essex.
Late Spring. 1867

Markham Litton peered into the darkness beyond the great arc windows in the drawing room as his guests prattled on. The night enjoyed a full moon. Usually, under such a celestial lamp, he could make out the dim shape of the church’s belfry rising above the churchyard trees. However, dense low-hanging clouds and rain concealed the landscape around Dorian Hall tonight. During the day, he could peer over the patchwork of fields to where the village church’s brick temple rose over the slate rooftops. There, beneath the sprawling yew tree in the churchyard, rested the graves of his son and wife.

Frederick Markham Tristan Litton
Beloved son
1857-1866
Lady Emmaline
Beloved wife and mother. 
1836-1859

 Although their marriage had been a strained one, the passing of his wife had hurt him deeply. But nothing could stem the pain of losing his eldest son. At Tristan’s funeral, the vicar had assured Markham that the souls of the dead rested for the day when they would rise again and be reunited with their loved ones. Markham was never of the religious inclination. He didn’t know what he believed anymore. Nonetheless, it was comforting to think that his son Tristan simply slumbered in this bucolic setting, as peaceful as when he was an infant in his cradle, and one day, he would awaken to find his father at his side once again.

“Markham, old boy.” Lord Simon rested his hand on Markham’s shoulder.

Markham realized that his friend had been looking at him, waiting for a response, but he had drifted miles away. “My apologies,” he muttered.

Markham’s sister, Alice Grosse, flashed Simon a meaningful look from beneath her lashes. As much as his sister and friend tried to make their visit to Dorian Hall appear casual, their motive could hardly be disguised. They had joined forces, determined to “help” Markham.

Learn more about Amends >

Victorian. Drama. Wales. Veteran. Societal Ruin

Excerpt:

December 1860 
I should have taken the first train out of London.

Music thundered in Theo’s ears. His hands shook. Sweat poured down his back, drenching the shirt beneath his evening coat.

On the chalked dance floor, couples swept to a waltz being played by a chamber orchestra of violins, flutes, and a harp. The light of the gas flames in the chandeliers glistened on the silk and taffeta skirts as they swished to the lift and fall of the dance. The young ladies’ cheeks were flushed from the heat, and their hair was styled into stiff waves and spirals and adorned with beads and flowers. The scent of perfumes and men’s hair oils burned Theo’s nose. He balled and flexed his hands, taking long breaths to slow his racing heart. The last five years tending his gardens and living like a monk in the Snowdonia mountains of North Wales hadn’t managed to lessen his angst at coming back to the city.

“Pray, Theo, it’s but a dance, not a parliamentary debate,” Theo’s stepmother Marie, the Countess of Staswick, said. She scanned the ballroom with her shiny cocoa eyes. “You are going to scare off the ladies with that glower you wear.”

He forced a smile. Before him, another season’s fresh crop of debutantes whirled—one of whom, his stepmother had assured him, would make a lovely bride. Marie had never surrendered her belief that the soft arms of a loving wife could “cure” Theo where quack doctors and opiates had failed.

Learn more about Frail >

Contemporary Romance. Drama. Southern. Small Town. Friendship

Excerpt:

 “I’m late. I’m so effing late,” Kiki muttered like a profane white rabbit. She hurried along as fast as was gracefully possible in four-inch heels over the pavers of the Atlanta Botanical Garden. She missed her warm, comfy yoga pants and fuzzy socks she had left abandoned in a puddle on her bathroom floor. Instead of spending a low-energy, low-risk evening cuddled with her warm laptop in bed, eating popcorn from the microwavable bag and binge-watching anime, she was attending an awkward evening of real, person-to-person networking. All stiff smiles, saying where she worked and then making small talk about the weather because that’s what she was left with as she wasn’t a sports fan unless commenting about the hotness of soccer players on the big screen at a bar counted.

Ahead of her, red, orange, and yellow tulips, planted in color-coordinated lines, bordered the path. Their vivid hues visually popped against the gloaming jewel tones striping the skyline. The midtown skyscrapers rose in harsh vertical lines above organic curves formed by the treetops. White-gold lights created hazy haloes along the building tops.

A picture of color and symmetry.

She reached to pull her camera from her red Japanese schoolgirl-style backpack and capture the moment, but then remembered she had left her backpack and camera at home. All she had was a useless clutch that held the basics: car keys, lipstick, phone, ID, credit card, business card, and two twenty-dollar bills—because her grandpa always said it was dangerous to go around without cash.

Learn more about Junk Shop Girl >

Regency. Comedy-drama.

Excerpt:

Norfolk, England 1819

Lord Blackraven could see her from the rocky cliff. She walked, trancelike, into the murky ocean of her doom. The moonlight illuminated her pale skin as her raven hair floated on the water. He jammed his heels into his stallion’s ribs, sending the beast sailing over the ravine. The branches slapped his face, keeping him from his beloved. He screamed her name wildly, “Arabellina! Arabellina!”

She heard his call but mistook it for the fevered voices in her confused mind. Lord Blackraven was never coming back. He was dead. Stabbed. Every dream of happiness lay buried with him. She took a long breath, her last, and sank into the swirling waves, the stone tied to her feet taking—

A quick motion in the periphery of Henrietta’s watering eye yanked her attention from her book. Had the mail coach come? She anxiously peered out the window to the cobblestone road just beyond the ivy-covered garden gate.

No mail coach. Just her elderly neighbor standing in her worn, sagging morning dress, shooing chickens off the road with a straw broom. Henrietta’s heart sank. The mantel clock chimed the hour, sounding like two spoons being clanked together ten times. The mail was twenty minutes late! This proved what she always suspected, that the Royal Mail Service held a personal grudge against her.

Learn more about Rakes And Radishes>

Some Other Stories

I Wrote A Fantasy Romance Short Story!
The Homemaker

©Susanna Ives. All rights reserved.
  • Facebook
  • Amazon
  • Pinterest
  • Goodreads
  • Threads
  • Instagram

Privacy Policy Proudly powered by WordPress

 

Loading Comments...