A Queen’s Satisfaction and Public Unease

In February 1861, Queen Victoria delivered her annual parliamentary address, praising Lord Elgin and Baron Gros for achieving a “creditable and satisfactory settlement of all outstanding disputes in China.” She commended the Anglo-French military commanders for their “most cordial cooperation.” Yet beyond the Queen, Prime Minister Palmerston, and Foreign Secretary Lord Russell, few in Britain shared this enthusiasm.

The Times—whose correspondent Thomas Bowlby had been executed by Chinese authorities—expressed disappointment that Elgin had been “too lenient.” Their Christmas 1860 editorial argued China’s indemnity should have been tripled rather than merely doubled, given Britain’s massive military expenditures. The newspaper justified the burning of Yuanmingyuan (the Old Summer Palace) as retribution for China’s detention of diplomat Harry Parkes and Bowlby’s death: “The blackened ruins of the Emperor’s summer retreat will stand as a lasting monument of punishment.”

Other publications voiced discomfort. The Illustrated News of the World acknowledged the military triumph—”one of history’s most remarkable victories”—yet noted public unease. The conflict had escalated through accidents, perceived slights, and unintended consequences until “half the world’s population found themselves locked in mortal combat.” While condemning Chinese duplicity, the paper questioned whether violence could teach truthfulness: “Enfield rifles cannot make them honest, nor soften the inherent barbarism of their excited passions.”

The Scandal of Cultural Destruction

The deliberate burning of Yuanmingyuan provoked international outrage. French writer Victor Hugo, exiled for opposing Napoleon III, condemned the act in a scathing open letter: “Two bandits, England and France, looted and burned their way through China.” He drew a damning parallel between Elgin—who ordered the palace’s destruction—and his father, who had looted Greece’s Parthenon marbles. Hugo ranked Yuanmingyuan among civilization’s greatest wonders, alongside the pyramids and Notre-Dame, now erased by those who equated “Europe with civilization and China with barbarism.”

British Parliament erupted in debate when proposing formal thanks to the expeditionary forces. The Marquess of Bath compared the burning to the destruction of Alexandria’s Library—an unforgivable cultural crime. Irish MP Vincent Scully called it “an act of vandalism with few parallels in history,” akin to Alexander the Great razing Persepolis. He posed a haunting question: Were Chinese forces to burn Buckingham Palace, how would Britain respond?

Elgin defended his decision as a painful necessity. In a speech at the Royal Academy, he claimed the palace—already looted by French troops—had to be destroyed to express Britain’s collective outrage over China’s alleged atrocities. Yet his regret centered on aesthetics, not morality: “No one more sincerely laments the loss of these beautiful structures.” His underlying belief remained unchallenged—that China was a stagnant civilization requiring British intervention to revive its “sacred spark.”

The Emperor in Exile and a Fractured Court

Emperor Xianfeng fled Beijing in September 1860, retreating to the dilapidated Chengde Mountain Resort—a symbol of the Qing dynasty’s decline. Once a vibrant hunting ground showcasing Manchu martial prowess, it now stood neglected, its maintenance funds diverted to Yuanmingyuan. Accompanying Xianfeng were hawkish Manchu advisors like Duanhua and Sushun, who controlled access to the emperor and opposed any conciliation with foreigners.

Left to manage the crisis was Prince Gong, Xianfeng’s younger brother. Though more capable than the emperor, he faced immense challenges: negotiating with Western powers while excluded from the exiled court. His appeals for Xianfeng’s return fell on deaf ears; the emperor feared further foreign incursions. Gong instead established the Zongli Yamen (Foreign Affairs Office)—a compromise allowing diplomatic engagement while preserving imperial distance.

Gong’s strategy prioritized internal threats: the Taiping Rebellion was the “disease in the heart,” while Westerners were merely “limb ailments.” This logic—later echoed by Chiang Kai-shek against Japan—advised appeasing foreigners temporarily to focus on crushing domestic rebellion.

Foreign Intervention Debates

Russia seized the chaos to expand its influence. Diplomat Nikolai Ignatiev secured vast territories (over 750,000 km²) through treaties with Prince Gong, then offered military aid against the Taiping. While some officials supported using foreign troops—even proposing loot-sharing incentives—others warned of long-term blackmail.

Zeng Guofan, leading anti-Taiping forces, cautiously endorsed limited Russian arms but rejected naval support. His memorials revealed nuanced views of Western powers: Russians as strong but overbearing, Americans as “sincere and obedient,” and the British as cunning. He advocated learning Western technology to achieve self-sufficiency—a precursor to the Self-Strengthening Movement.

Meanwhile, British Admiral James Hope prepared to navigate the Yangtze, testing Taiping intentions. His mission sparked parliamentary debates about Britain’s moral responsibility in China’s turmoil. Critics like Earl Grey argued British opium wars had destabilized China, creating the Taiping crisis. He warned against repeating India’s colonial burdens: “The difficulties of India would be trifles compared to governing China.”

The Taiping Paradox

In London, divergent views emerged about the Taiping. While officials like Bruce dismissed them as bandits, others saw a nationalist movement. Former East India Company director William Sykes championed their cause in Parliament, praising Taiping reforms like railroads and newspapers. He cited missionary reports of Taiping tolerance and growing commerce in their territories.

Foreign Secretary Russell dismissed such arguments, insisting the Taiping were neither Christian nor freedom fighters. Yet British merchants and missionaries increasingly challenged official narratives. Publications like the London Review accused Bruce of ignoring positive accounts while amplifying biased critiques.

As Admiral Hope negotiated Yangtze access in 1861, British policy teetered between neutrality and intervention. Hope unilaterally declared a 50-km exclusion zone around Shanghai—violating official neutrality to protect commercial interests. His actions foreshadowed deeper entanglement in China’s civil war, setting the stage for Britain’s eventual military support of the Qing against the Taiping.

Legacy of Fire and Moral Contradictions

The burning of Yuanmingyuan became a defining symbol of 19th-century imperialism—a moment when cultural annihilation was justified as diplomatic strategy. Britain’s moral crisis revealed deep contradictions: condemning Chinese “barbarism” while employing extreme violence, advocating free trade while profiting from opium, and preaching neutrality while manipulating China’s civil war.

The debates of 1861 foreshadowed enduring tensions in East-West relations. As historian John King Fairbank observed, the collision of these civilizations was not merely political or economic, but fundamentally moral—a clash of worldviews where neither side could claim clean hands. The ruins of Yuanmingyuan stand today as Hugo predicted: not just as monuments to punishment, but to the fragility of civilizational pretensions.