This feature first appeared in February 2025 on Londonist: Time Machine, our much-praised history newsletter. To be the first to read new history features like this, sign up for free here.
“Not a single part of her… resembles any thing to be found among the infinite variety of craft which have hitherto floated in the Thames.” Morning Advertiser, 11 June 1850
I recently did a double-take. I was at the London Archives, admiring a wall-mounted, mid-19th century panorama of the Thames, mentally ticking off the familiar features on the north bank. Then I noticed this:
ROYAL CHINESE JUNK. An unfamiliar sign a little west of Waterloo Bridge. Why, I wondered, were the Chinese royal family piling up their garbage on the shores of the Victorian Thames?
Then I spotted the masts sticking out of the top. The penny dropped. Of course, a junk is also a type of Chinese sailing ship. The structure shown on the panorama was presumably a moored Chinese vessel.
That only raised further questions. What was it doing here? Who brought it to London? Was it a genuine Chinese ship?
This is why I love London. I know this bit of the Thames extremely well. I’m familiar with its history. But this city always throws up surprises, even when you think you know the terrain. So I got Googling and, well, I’m ashamed I’ve never encountered this remarkable ship before.
Slow boat from China
This is the ship in question, the Keying, named after a noted Chinese commissioner of the time:
As even the unsaltiest landlubber can see, the Keying looks nothing like western ships of this period. With its great curving hull (probably exaggerated), ribbed sails and mighty stern, it resembles one of those ‘pirate ship’ fairground rides to modern eyes. (Or, indeed, a banana, to reprise a recent theme, although the yellow colour is probably artistic licence.)
To Victorian peepers, the ship was truly special. The Illustrated London News came close to treason when it hinted that the vessel might even be superior to British vessels:
“She proved herself an excellent sea-boat; and her powers of weathering a storm equal, if not surpass, those of vessels of British build.”
There was, it has to be said, a hint of subterfuge about the Keying. One had only to learn the captain’s name, Charles Alfred Kellett, to sense that this might not be an entirely oriental affair. 30 of the ship’s crew were Cantonese, but 12 were British. Indeed, the Keying was British-owned. You might have noticed the flag on an earlier image.
Materially, though, the Keying was a thoroughly Chinese ship. Kellett and some businessmen had secretly bought the junk in 1846, much against Chinese rules prohibiting the sale of ships to foreigners on pain of death. Reports from the time suggest these men adopted disguises in order to enter the country and purchase the vessel, which might become a lucrative novelty if it could be sailed over to Britain. It’s a fascinating ‘more research needed’ topic for anyone looking to write a screenplay or novel set between the Opium Wars.
The Keying disembarked from Hong Kong in December 1846, and rounded the Cape of Good Hope three months later. After a sojourn in St Helena, the the ship made for America. It became the first Chinese vessel to reach New York City in July 1847. Here it was a sensation, visited by thousands. Greatest Showman PT Barnum was so impressed that he built a replica. Captain Kellett and his bold business partners seemed to be getting a good return on their perilous investment.
The Keying then popped up the coast to Boston, before sailing to London. It made that crossing in just 21 days, a phenomenal speed for the era. The voyage ended in tragedy when a storm damaged the ship and sent one of the hands overboard. After repairs in Jersey, it sailed on to the Thames.
For the next five years, this well-travelled ship would become a Londoner.
The Great Thrall of China
After all its scrapes and adventures, the Keying finally arrived on the Thames in late April 1848. It anchored briefly near Gravesend, before proceeding into London’s docks. Here, it found a berth at the East India Dock, which today lies opposite another curiously masted structure:
As in America, the idea was to open the ship as a novelty, to attract paying customers. East India Dock was intended as a short stop-over, where the Keying could be repainted and prepared for visitors “remote from Cockney curiosity,” as one newspaper put it. In the event, it remained at the dock for two years, and opened to the public here just a couple of weeks after arrival.
Despite being stuck out in the distant docks, many notable people trekked out to see the Keying. The very first were Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, along with the Prince and Princess of Wales, and the Prince of Prussia. They were followed by dowager Queen Adelaide on one of her last public appearances. This extraordinarily august outing addresses the second part of my ignorance from the opening paragraph — why the ship was called the “Royal” Chinese Junk. To spin out their future titles, the party included three queens, two kings and a prince consort. I think the regal adjective was deserved.
The Morning Post of 17 May 1848 gives a detailed account of the royal visit. Queen Victoria seemed particularly amused with the vessel:
“… the Queen mounted the steps leading [to the poop deck] with the activity of a school girl, and her beaming countenance, when it looked around, evidenced a degree of delight and satisfaction not inconsistent with the character allured to.”
Let us step onboard ourselves…
A visit to the Keying
We make the trip out to Blackwall by river, having read a review in The Times that promised: “one step across the entrance, and you are in the Chinese world; you have quitted the Thames for the vicinity of Canton”. We disembark at Blackwall Pier and make our way over to the entrance hut. Here, we hand over one shilling to the attendant and proceed up the gangplank. “Wait!,” he calls us back. “Would you like a catalogue?” We consider for a second, then assent. He hands over a description of the Chinese curiosities we’ll find on board, for the price of 6d.
The ship is quite a sight. Measuring around 50 metres (160ft) from bow to teak-wood stern, and capable of carrying 800 tonnes, it compares favourably with the larger ships on the Thames. Its rudder alone weighed 17 tonnes.
We are welcomed onboard and ushered directly into the galley or cook house, where ‘the ladies can have explained to them the “Celestial” method of preparing rice and fish’. We then enter the State Cabin, a treasure room of lanterns, idols, carvings and incense. About 30 crewmen are onboard, but two in particular are of note. Sam-Sing is a talented painter. Hesing, introduced as a mandarin of the fifth class, is an exquisite calligrapher. We admire samples of their handiwork.
From here, we inspect the decks and the Grand Saloon, “Gorgeously furnished in the most approved style of the Celestial Empire,” and filled with Chinese curiosities. More adventures lurk above, where we’re invited to clamber up onto the poop deck. This involves a somewhat precipitous climb, but we proceed with confidence, safe in the knowledge that out good Queen has made the ascent before us. From the poop, we get a fine view of the Peninsula across the water, and the reed beds and pastures of Bugsby’s Marshes. I dare say nothing much will ever come of that unfavourable land.
We conclude our visit in enthusiastic agreement with a recent edition of the London Evening Standard, which described the Keying as “Well worth a dozen visits; and calculated to afford ample gratification to the most intense curiosity. Every inch of her is a book full of history of the manners and customs of the Chinese.”
A Chinese Temple
After two years at Blackwall, space was finally found for the Keying in central London, specifically at Temple Pier. This was one of many landing points on the central Thames, found at the end of Essex Street.
Here, the ship was enclosed in a dry dock by a substantial timber-framed structure, apparently painted blue. This was in part to keep the elements off the ship, making it an all-weather attraction, but also added to the sense of mystery and theatre. Anyone could get a ‘teaser’ from the river, from where the masts could be seen protruding from the shed. But to witness the full glory, you had to step inside.
Despite the central location, the ship does not seem to have attracted the same attention as previously. Perhaps the novelty had worn off. Perhaps it was forgotten amid all the publicity and razzmatazz attending the Great Exhibition of 1851. Or maybe it had something to do with the open sewer, which disgorged into the Thames right alongside the attraction. You could not visit “without inhaling the effluvium”. Either way, the ship gradually faded into the background.
Keying remained at Temple Pier for about two years. For such a magnificent and popular ship, it went out with a sigh rather than a bang. By May 1852 the ship had been retired to the West India Import Dock, where today you’ll find the London Museum Docklands. Here, it was purchased by a Birkenhead firm and towed up to the Mersey. It was briefly put on public display again, in Rock Ferry, Cheshire but, by the end of 1855 the ship was “rotting neglected and uncared”. It was then broken up without ceremony, a junked junk. In just seven years it had gone from a royally endorsed wonder to a pile of broken timbers.
The dry-dock near the temple is long gone. The whole riverfront has changed beyond recognition thanks to the building of the Embankment. Were you to visit today, however, you might still spy a curvaceous golden ship. Two Temple Place — itself a treasure box of wonders — stands at the foot of Essex Street, on the site of the old dry dock.
Its rooftop sports a gilded, ship-shaped weather vane. They say it represents Christopher Columbus’s flagship Santa Maria. But from now on it’ll always remind me of another historic ship that conquered the Atlantic (twice). A ship to make the Times gush, Queen Victoria beam, and your present correspondent double-take in surprise. Let’s remember the Royal Chinese Junk Keying.
