Project Gutenberg's A Bit of Old China, by Charles Warren Stoddard

Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check

the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.

We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an

electronic path open for the next readers.

Please do not remove this.

This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book.

Do not change or edit it without written permission. The words

are carefully chosen to provide users with the information they

need about what they can legally do with the texts.

**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and

further information is included below. We need your donations.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3)

organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541

As of 12/12/00 contributions are only being solicited from people in:

Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,

Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Montana,

Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota,

Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.

International donations are accepted,

but we don't know ANYTHING about how

to make them tax-deductible, or

even if they CAN be made deductible,

and don't have the staff to handle it

even if there are ways.

As the requirements for other states are met,

additions to this list will be made and fund raising

will begin in the additional states. Please feel

free to ask to check the status of your state.

International donations are accepted,

but we don't know ANYTHING about how

to make them tax-deductible, or

even if they CAN be made deductible,

and don't have the staff to handle it

even if there are ways.

These donations should be made to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

PMB 113

1739 University Ave.

Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Title: A Bit of Old China

Author: Charles Warren Stoddard

Release Date: July, 2002 [Etext #3313]

[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]

[The actual date this file first posted = 04/01/01]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Project Gutenberg's A Bit of Old China, by Charles Warren Stoddard

*******This file should be named ldchn10.txt or ldchn10.zip*******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, ldchn11.txt

VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, ldchn10a.txt

This etext was produced by David A. Schwan <davidsch@earthlink.net>

Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,

all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a

copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any

of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our books one year in advance

of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.

Please be encouraged to send us error messages even years after

the official publication date.

Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till

midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.

The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at

Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A

preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment

and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our sites at:

http://gutenberg.net

http://promo.net/pg

Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement

can surf to them as follows, and just download by date; this is

also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the

indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an

announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext02

or

ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext02

Or /etext01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,

as it appears in our Newsletters.

Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The

time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours

to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright

searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This

projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value

per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2

million dollars per hour this year as we release fifty new Etext

files per month, or 500 more Etexts in 2000 for a total of 3000+

If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total

should reach over 300 billion Etexts given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext

Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]

This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,

which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third

of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we

manage to get some real funding.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created

to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

Presently, contributions are only being solicited from people in:

Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,

Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Nevada,

Montana, Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina,

South Dakota, Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.

As the requirements for other states are met,

additions to this list will be made and fund raising

will begin in the additional states.

These donations should be made to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

PMB 113

1739 University Ave.

Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation,

EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541,

has been approved as a 501(c)(3) organization by the US Internal

Revenue Service (IRS). Donations are tax-deductible to the extent

permitted by law. As the requirements for other states are met,

additions to this list will be made and fund raising will begin in the

additional states.

All donations should be made to the Project Gutenberg Literary

Archive Foundation. Mail to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

PMB 113

1739 University Avenue

Oxford, MS 38655-4109 [USA]

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html

***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,

you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org

if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if

it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.

***

Example command-line FTP session:

ftp ftp.ibiblio.org

login: anonymous

password: your@login

cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg

cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext02, etc.

dir [to see files]

get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]

GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]

GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]

**The Legal Small Print**

(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***

Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.

They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with

your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from

someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our

fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement

disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how

you may distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT

By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm

etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept

this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive

a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by

sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person

you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical

medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS

This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etexts,

is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart

through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").

Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright

on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and

distribute it in the United States without permission and

without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth

below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext

under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market

any commercial products without permission.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable

efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain

works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any

medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other

things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or

corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other

intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged

disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer

codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES

But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,

[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may

receive this etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims

all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including

legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR

UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,

INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE

OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE

POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of

receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)

you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that

time to the person you received it from. If you received it

on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and

such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement

copy. If you received it electronically, such person may

choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to

receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER

WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS

TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT

LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A

PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or

the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the

above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you

may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY

You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,

and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated

with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm

texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including

legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the

following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this etext,

[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the etext,

or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"

You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by

disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this

"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,

or:

[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this

requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the

etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,

if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable

binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,

including any form resulting from conversion by word

processing or hypertext software, but only so long as

*EITHER*:

[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and

does *not* contain characters other than those

intended by the author of the work, although tilde

(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may

be used to convey punctuation intended by the

author, and additional characters may be used to

indicate hypertext links; OR

[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at

no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent

form by the program that displays the etext (as is

the case, for instance, with most word processors);

OR

[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at

no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the

etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC

or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this

"Small Print!" statement.

[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the

gross profits you derive calculated using the method you

already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you

don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are

payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"

the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were

legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent

periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to

let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?

Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of

public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed

in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,

public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.

Money should be paid to the:

"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or

software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:

hart@pobox.com

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END*

This etext was produced by David A. Schwan <davidsch@earthlink.net>

Here little China flaunts her scarlet streamers overhead, and flanks her

doors with legends in saffron and gold; even its window panes have a

foreign look, and within is a glimmering of tinsel, a subdued light, and

china lamps flickering before graven images of barbaric hideousness.

A Bit of Old China

by Charles Warren Stoddard

China is not more Chinese than this section of our Christian city,

nor the heart of Tartary less American.

This description Of Old San Francisco's Chinatown has been taken from

Charles Warren Stoddard's book, entitled, "In the Footprints of the

Padres," which contains his memories of early days in California.

A Bit of Old China

"It is but a step from Confucius to confusion," said I, in a brief

discussion of the Chinese question. "Then let us take it by all means,"

replied the artist, who had been an indulgent listener for at least ten

minutes.

We were strolling upon the verge of the Chinese Quarter in San

Francisco, and, turning aside from one of the chief thoroughfares of the

city, we plunged into the busiest portion of Chinatown. From our

standpoint - the corner of Kearny and Sacramento Streets - we got the

most favorable view of our Mongolian neighbors. Here is a goodly number

of merchant gentlemen of wealth and station, comfortably, if not

elegantly, housed on two sides of a street that climbs a low hill quite

in the manner of a tea-box landscape.

A few of these gentlemen lodge on the upper floors of their business

houses, with Chinese wives, and quaint, old-fashioned children gaudily

dressed, looking like little idols, chatting glibly with one another,

and gracefully gesticulating with hands of exquisite slenderness.

Confucius, in his infancy, may have been like one of the least of these.

There are white draymen and porters in the employ of these shrewd and

civil merchants, and the outward appearance of traffic, as conducted in

the immediate vicinity, is rather American than otherwise.

Farther up the hill, on Dupont Street, from California to Pacific

Streets, the five blocks are almost monopolized by the Chinese. There

is, at first, a sprinkling of small shops in the hands of Jews and

Gentiles, and a mingling of Chinese bazaars of the half-caste type,

where American and English goods are exposed in the show-windows; but as

we pass on the Asiatic element increases, and finally every trace of

alien produce is withdrawn from the shelves and counters.

Here little China flaunts her scarlet streamers overhead, and flanks her

doors with legends in saffron and gold; even its window-panes have a

foreign look, and within is a glimmering of tinsel, a subdued light, and

china lamps flickering before graven images of barbaric hideousness. The

air is laden with the fumes of smoking sandalwood and strange odors of

the East; and the streets, swarming with coolies, resound with the

echoes of an unknown tongue. There is hardly room for us to pass; we

pick our way, and are sometimes curiously regarded by slant-eyed pagans,

who bear us no good-will, if that shadow of scorn in the face has been

rightly interpreted. China is not more Chinese than this section of our

Christian city, nor the heart of Tartary less American.

Turn which way we choose, within two blocks, on either hand we find

nothing but the infinitely small and astonishingly numerous forms of

traffic on which the hordes around us thrive. No corner is too cramped

for the squatting street cobbler; and as for the pipe-cleaners, the

cigarette-rollers, the venders of sweetmeats and conserves, they gather

on the curb or crouch under overhanging windows, and await custom with

the philosophical resignation of the Oriental.

On Dupont Street, between Clay and Sacramento Streets - a single block,

- there are no less than five basement apartments devoted exclusively

to barbers. There are hosts of this profession in the quarter. Look down

the steep steps leading into the basement and see, at any hour of the

day, with what deft fingers the tonsorial operators manipulate the

devoted pagan head.

There is no waste space in the quarter. In apartments not more than

fifteen feet square three or four different professions are often

represented, and these afford employment to ten or a dozen men. Here is

a druggist and herb-seller, with huge spectacles on his nose, at the

left of the main entrance; a butcher displays his meats in a show-window

on the right, serving his customers over the sill; a clothier is in the

rear of the shop, while a balcony filled with tailors or cigar-makers

hangs half way to the ceiling.

Close about us there are over one hundred and fifty mercantile

establishments and numerous mechanical industries. The seventy-five

cigar factories employ eight thousand coolies, and these are huddled

into the closest quarters. In a single room, measuring twenty feet by

thirty feet, sixty men and boys have been discovered industriously

rolling real Havanas.

The traffic which itinerant fish and vegetable venders drive in every

part of the city must be great, being as it is an extreme convenience

for lazy or thrifty housewives. A few of these basket men cultivate

gardens in the suburbs, but the majority seek their supplies in the city

markets. Wash-houses have been established in every part of the city,

and are supplied with two sets of laborers, who spend watch and watch on

duty, so that the establishment is never closed.

One frequently meets a traveling bazaar - a coolie with his bundle of

fans and bric-a-brac, wandering from house to house, even in the

suburbs; and the old fellows, with a handful of sliced bamboos and

chairs swinging from the poles over their shoulders, are becoming quite

numerous; chair mending and reseating must be profitable. These little

rivulets, growing larger and more varied day by day, all spring from

that great fountain of Asiatic vitality - the Chinese Quarter. This

surface-skimming beguiles for an hour or two; but the stranger who

strolls through the streets of Chinatown, and retires dazed with the

thousand eccentricities of an unfamiliar people, knows little of the

mysterious life that surrounds him.

Let us descend. We are piloted by a special policeman, one who is well

acquainted with the geography of the quarter. Provided with tapers, we

plunge into one of the several dark recesses at hand. Back of the highly

respectable brick buildings in Sacramento Street - the dwellings and

business places of the first-class Chinese merchants - there are pits

and deadfalls innumerable, and over all is the blackness of darkness;

for these human moles can work in the earth faster than the shade of the

murdered Dane. Here, from the noisome vats three stories underground to

the hanging gardens of the fish-dryers on the roofs, there is neither

nook nor corner but is populous with Mongolians of the lowest caste. The

better class have their reserved quarters; with them there is at least

room to stretch one's legs without barking the shins of one's neighbor;

but from this comparative comfort to the condensed discomfort of the

impoverished coolie, how sudden and great the change!

Between brick walls we thread our way, and begin descending into the

abysmal darkness; the tapers, without which it were impossible to

proceed with safety, burn feebly in the double night of the subterranean

tenements. Most of the habitable quarters under the ground are like so

many pigeon-houses indiscriminately heaped together. If there were only

sunshine enough to drink up the slime that glosses every plank, and

fresh air enough to sweeten the mildewed kennels, this highly eccentric

style of architecture might charm for a time, by reason of its novelty;

there is, moreover, a suspicion of the picturesque lurking about the

place - but, heaven save us, how it smells!

We pass from one black hole to another. In the first there is a kind of

bin for ashes and coals, and there are pots and grills lying about - it

is the kitchen. A heap of fire kindling-wood in one corner, a bench or

stool as black as soot can paint it, a few bowls, a few bits of rags, a

few fragments of food, and a coolie squatting over a struggling fire, a

coolie who rises out of the dim smoke like the evil genii in the Arabian

tale. There is no chimney, there is no window, there is no drainage. We

are in a cubic sink, where we can scarcely stand erect. From the small

door pours a dense volume of smoke, some of it stale smoke, which our

entry has forced out of the corners; the kitchen will only hold so much

smoke, and we have made havoc among the cubic inches. Underfoot, the

thin planks sag into standing pools, and there is a glimmer of poisonous

blue just along the base of the blackened walls; thousands feed daily in

troughs like these!

The next apartment, smaller yet, and blacker and bluer, and more

slippery and slimy, is an uncovered cesspool, from which a sickening

stench exhales continually. All about it are chambers - very small ones,

- state-rooms let me call them, opening upon narrow galleries that run

in various directions, sometimes bridging one another in a marvelous and

exceedingly ingenious economy of space. The majority of these

state-rooms are just long enough to lie down in, and just broad enough

to allow a narrow door to swing inward between two single beds, with two

sleepers in each bed. The doors are closed and bolted; there is often no

window, and always no ventilation.

Our "special," by the authority vested in him, tries one door and

demands admittance. There is no response from within. A group of

coolies, who live in the vicinity and have followed close upon our heels

even since our descent into the underworld, assure us in soothing tones

that the place is vacant. We are suspicious and persist in our

investigation; still no response. The door is then forced by the

"special," and behold four of the "seven sleepers" packed into this

air-tight compartment, and insensible even to the hearty greeting we

offer them!

The air is absolutely overpowering. We hasten from the spot, but are

arrested in our flight by the "special," who leads us to the gate of

the catacombs, and bids us follow him. I know not to what extent the

earth has been riddled under the Chinese Quarter; probably no man knows

save he who has burrowed, like a gopher, from one living grave to

another, fleeing from taxation or the detective. I know that we thread

dark passages, so narrow that two of us may not cross tracks, so low

that we often crouch at the doorways that intercept pursuit at

unexpected intervals. Here the thief and the assassin seek sanctuary; it

is a city of refuge for lost souls.

The numerous gambling-houses are so cautiously guarded that only the

private police can ferret them out. Door upon door is shut against you;

or some ingenious panel is slid across your path, and you are

unconsciously spirited away through other avenues. The secret signals

that gave warning of your approach caused a sudden transformation in the

ground-plan of the establishment.

Gambling and opium-smoking are here the ruling passions. A coolie will

pawn anything and everything to obtain the means with which to indulge

these fascinations. There are many games played publicly at restaurants

and in the retiring-rooms of mercantile establishments. Not only are

cards, dice and dominoes common, but sticks, straws, brass rings, etc.,

are thrown in heaps upon the table, and the fate of the gamester hangs

literally upon a breath.

These haunts are seldom visited by the officers of justice, for it is

almost impossible to storm the barriers in season to catch the criminals

in the very act. Today you approach a gambling-hell by this door,

tomorrow the inner passages of the house are mysteriously changed, and

it is impossible to track them without being frequently misled;

meanwhile the alarm is sounded throughout the building, and very

speedily every trace of guilt has disappeared. The lottery is another

popular temptation in the quarter. Most of the very numerous wash-houses

are said to be private agencies for the sale of lottery tickets. Put

your money, no matter how little it is, on certain of the characters

that cover a small sheet of paper, and your fate is soon decided; for

there is a drawing twice a day.

Enter any one of the pawn-shops licensed by the city authorities, and

cast your eye over the motley collection of unredeemed articles. There

are pistols of every pattern and almost of every age, the majority of

them loaded. There are daggers in infinite variety, including the

ingenious fan stiletto, which, when sheathed, may be carried in the hand

without arousing suspicion, for the sheath and handle bear an exact

resemblance to a closed fan. There are entire suits of clothes, beds and

bedding, tea, sugar, clocks - multitudes of them, a clock being one of

the Chinese hobbies, and no room is completely furnished without at

least a pair of them, - ornaments in profusion; everything, in fact,

save only the precious queue, without which no Chinaman may hope for

honor in this life or salvation in the next.

The throngs of customers that keep the pawnshops crowded with pledges

are probably most of them victims of the gambling-table or the

opium-den. They come from every house that employs them; your domestic

is impatient of delay, and hastens through his daily task in order that

he may nightly indulge his darling sin.

The opium habit prevails to an alarming extent throughout the country,

but no race is so dependent on this seductive and fatal stimulant as the

Chinese. There are several hundred dens in San Francisco where, for a

very moderate sum, the coolie may repair, and revel in dreams that end

in a death-like sleep.

Let us pause at the entrance of one of these pleasure-houses. Through

devious ways we follow the leader, and come at last to a cavernous

retreat. The odors that salute us are offensive; on every hand there is

an accumulation of filth that should naturally, if it does not, breed

fever and death. Forms press about us in the darkness, - forms that

hasten like shadows toward that den of shades. We enter by a small door

that is open for a moment only, and find ourselves in an apartment about

fifteen feet square. We can touch the ceiling on tiptoe, yet there are

three tiers of bunks placed with headboards to the wall, and each bunk

just broad enough for two occupants. It is like the steerage in an

emigrant vessel, eminently shipshape. Every bunk is filled; some of the

smokers have had their dream and lie in grotesque attitudes, insensible,

ashen-pale, having the look of plague-stricken corpses.

Some are dreaming; you see it in the vacant eye, the listless face, the

expression that betrays hopeless intoxication. Some are preparing the

enchanting pipe, - a laborious process, that reminds one of an

incantation. See those two votaries lying face to face, chatting in low

voices, each loading his pipe with a look of delicious expectation in

every feature. They recline at full length; their heads rest upon blocks

of wood or some improvised pillow; a small oil-lamp flickers between

them. Their pipes resemble flutes, with an inverted ink-bottle on the

side near the lower end. They are most of them of bamboo, and very often

are beautifully colored with the mellowest and richest tints of a wisely

smoked meerschaum. A small jar of prepared opium - a thick black paste

resembling tar - stands near the lamp.

The smoker leisurely dips a wire into the paste; a few drops adhere to

it, and he twirls the wire in the flame of the lamp, where they fry and

bubble; he then draws them upon the rim of the clay pipe-bowl, and at

once inhales three or four mouthfuls of whitish smoke. This empties the

pipe, and the slow process of feeding the bowl is lazily repeated. It is

a labor of love; the eyes gloat upon the bubbling drug which shall anon

witch the soul of those emaciated toilers. They renew the pipe again and

again; their talk grows less frequent and dwindles to a whispered

soliloquy.

We address them, and are smiled at by delirious eyes; but the ravenous

lips are sealed to that magic tube, from which they draw the breath of a

life we know not of. Their fingers relax; their heads sink upon the

pillows; they no longer respond, even by a glance, when we now appeal to

them. Here is the famous Malay, the fearful enemy of De Quincey, who

nightly drugged his master into Asiatic seas, and now himself is basking

in the tropical heats and vertical sunlight of Hindustan. Egypt and her

gods are his; for him the secret chambers of Cheops are unlocked; he

also is transfixed at the summit of pagodas; he is the idol, the priest,

the worshiped, the sacrificed. The wrath of Brahma pursues him through

the forests of Asia; he is the hated of Vishnu; Siva lies in wait for

him; Isis and Osiris confront him.

What is this key which seems for a time to unlock the gates of heaven

and of hell? It is the most complicated drug in the pharmacopoeia.

Though apparently nothing more than a simple black, slimy paste,

analysis reveals the fact that it contains no less than five-and-twenty

elements, each one of them a compound by itself, and many of them among

the most complex compounds known to modern chemistry. This "dread agent

of unimaginable pleasure and pain," this author of an "Iliad of woes,"

lies within reach of every creature in the commonwealth. As the most

enlightened and communicative of the opium-eaters has observed: "

Happiness may be bought for a penny, and carried in the waistcoat

pocket; portable ecstasy may be had corked up in a pint bottle; peace of

mind may be set down in gallons by the mail-coach."

This is the chief, the inevitable dissipation of our coolie tribes; this

is one of the evils with which we have to battle, and in comparison with

which the excessive indulgence in intoxicating liquors is no more than

what a bad dream is to hopeless insanity. See the hundred forms on opium

pillows already under the Circean spell; swarms are without the chambers

awaiting their turn to enter and enjoy the fictitious delights of this

paradise.

While the opium habit is one that should be treated at once with wisdom

and severity, there is another point which seriously involves the

Chinese question, and, unhappily, it must be handled with gloves.

Nineteen-twentieths of the Chinese women in San Francisco are depraved!

Not far from one of the pleasure-houses we intruded upon a domestic

hearth smelling of punk and pestilence. A child fled with a shrill

scream at our approach. This was the hospital of the quarter. Nine cases

of smallpox were once found within its narrow walls, and with no one to

care for them. As we explored its cramped wards our path was obstructed

by a body stretched upon a bench. The face was of that peculiar smoke

color which we are obliged to accept as Chinese pallor; the trunk was

swathed like a mummy in folds of filthy rags; it was motionless as

stone, apparently insensible. Thus did an opium victim await his

dissolution.

In the next room a rough deal burial-case stood upon two stools; tapers

were flickering upon the floor; the fumes of burning punk freighted the

air and clouded the vision; the place was clean enough, for it was

perfectly bare, but it was eminently uninteresting. Close at hand stood

a second burial-case, an empty one, with the cover standing against the

wall; a few hours more and it would find a tenant - he who was dying in

rags and filth in the room adjoining. This was the native hospital of

the quarter, and the mother of the child was the matron of the

establishment.

I will cast but one more shadow on the coolie quarter, and then we will

search for sunshine. It is folly to attempt to ignore the fact that the

seeds of leprosy are sown among the Chinese. If you would have Proof,

follow me. It is a dreary drive over the hills to the pest-house.

Imagine that we have dropped in upon the health officer at his city

office. Our proposed visitation has been telephoned to the resident

physician, who is a kind of prisoner with his leprous patients on the

lonesome slope of a suburban hill. As we get into the rugged edge of the

city, among half-graded streets, strips of marshland, and a semi-rustic

population, we ask our way to the pest-house. Yonder it lies, surrounded

by that high white fence on the hill-top, above a marsh once clouded

with clamorous water-fowl, but now all, all under the spell of the

quarantine, and desolate beyond description. Our road winds up the

hill-slope, sown thick with stones, and stops short at the great solid

gate in the high rabbit fence that walls in the devil's acre, if I may

so call it. We ring the dreadful bell - the passing-bell, that is seldom

rung save to announce the arrival of another fateful body clothed in

living death.

The doctor welcomes us to an enclosure that is utterly whitewashed; the

detached houses within it are kept sweet and clean. Everything connected

with the lazaret is of the cheapest description; there is a primitive

simplicity, a modest nakedness, an insulated air about the place that

reminds one of a chill December in a desert island. Cheap as it is and

unhandsome, the hospital is sufficient to meet all the requirements of

the plague in its present stage of development. The doctor has weeded

out the enclosure, planted it, hedged it about with the fever-dispelling

eucalyptus, and has already a little plot of flowers by the office

window, - but this is not what we have come to see. One ward in the

pest-house is set apart for the exclusive use of the Chinese lepers, who

have but recently been isolated. We are introduced to the poor creatures

one after another, and then we take them all in at a glance, or group

them according to their various stages of decomposition, or the peculiar

character of their physical hideousness.

They are not all alike; with some the flesh has begun to wither and to

slough off, yet they are comparatively cheerful; as fatalists, it makes

very little difference to them how soon or in what fashion they are

translated to the other life. There is one youth who doubtless suffers

some inconveniences from the clumsy development of his case. This lad,

about eighteen years of age, has a face that is swollen like a sponge

saturated with corruption; he cannot raise his bloated eyelids, but,

with his head thrown back, looks downward over his cheeks. Two of these

lepers are as astonishing specimens as any that have ever come under my

observation, yet I have morbidly sought them from Palestine to Molokai.

In these cases the muscles are knotted, the blood curdled; masses of

unwholesome flesh cover them, lying fold upon fold; the lobes of their

ears hang almost to the shoulder; the eyes when visible have an inhuman

glance that transfixes you with horror. Their hands are shapeless stumps

that have lost all natural form or expression.

Of old there was a law for the leprosy of a garment and of a house; yet,

in spite of the stringency of that Mosaic law, the isolation, the

purging with hyssop, and the cleansing by fire, St. Luke records: "There

met Him ten men who were lepers, who stood afar off; and they lifted up

their voices and cried, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us! " And today,

more than eighteen hundred years later, lepers gather on the slopes of

Mount Zion, and hover at the gates of Jerusalem, and crouch in the

shadow of the tomb of David, crying for the bread of mercy. Leprosy once

thoroughly engrafted on our nation, and nor cedar-wood, nor scarlet, nor

hyssop, nor clean birds, nor ewes of the first year, nor measures of

fine flour, nor offerings of any sort, shall cleanse us for evermore.

Let us turn to pleasanter prospects - the Joss House, for instance, one

of the several temples whither the Chinese frequently repair to

propitiate the reposeful gods. It is an unpretentious building, with

nothing external to distinguish its facade from those adjoining, save

only a Chinese legend above the door. There are many crooks and turns

within it; shrines in a perpetual state of fumigation adorn its nooks

and corners; overhead swing shelves of images rehearsing historical

tableaux; there is much carving and gilding, and red and green paint. It

is the scene of a perennial feast of lanterns, and the worshipful enter

silently with burnt-offerings and meat-offerings and drink-offerings,

which they spread before the altar under the feet of some colossal god;

then, with repeated genuflections, they retire. The thundering gong or

the screaming pipes startle us at intervals, and white-robed priests

pass in and out, droning their litanies.

At this point the artist suggests refreshments; arm in arm we pass down

the street, surfeited with sight-seeing, weary of the multitudinous

bazaars, the swarming coolies, the boom of beehive industry. Swamped in

a surging crowd, we are cast upon the catafalque of the celestial dead.

The coffin lies under a canopy, surrounded by flambeaux, grave

offerings, guards and musicians.

Chinatown has become sufficiently acclimatized to begin to put forth its

natural buds again as freely as if this were indeed the Flowery Land.

The funeral pageant moves, - a dozen carriages preceded by mourners on

foot, clad in white, their heads covered, their feet bare, their grief

insupportable, so that an attendant is at hand to sustain each mourner

howling at the wheels of the hearse. An orchestra heads the procession;

the air is flooded with paper prayers that are cast hither at you to

appease the troubled spirit. They are on their way to the cemetery among

the hills toward the sea, where the funeral rites are observed as

rigorously as they are on Asian soil.

We are still unrefreshed and sorely in need of rest. Overhead swing huge

balloon lanterns and tufts of gold-flecked scarlet streamers, - a sight

that maketh the palate of the hungry Asiatic to water, for within this

house may be had all the delicacies of the season, ranging from the

confections of the fond suckling to funeral bakemeats. Legends wrought

in tinsel decorate the walls. Here is a shrine with a vermilion-faced

god and a native lamp, and stalks of such hopelessly artificial flowers

as fortunately are unknown in nature. Saffron silks flutter their

fringes in the steams of nameless cookery - for all this is but the

kitchen, and the beginning of the end we aim at.

A spiral staircase winds like a corkscrew from floor to floor; we ascend

by easy stages, through various grades of hunger, from the economic

appetite on the first floor, where the plebeian stomach is stayed with

tea and lentils, even to the very housetop, where are administered

comforting syrups and a menu that is sweetened throughout its length

with the twang of lutes, the clash of cymbals, and the throb of the

shark-skin drum.

Servants slip to and fro in sandals, offering edible birds'-nests,

sharks'-fins, and beche de mer, - or are these unfamiliar dishes

snatched from some other kingdom? At any rate, they are native to the

strange people who have a little world of their own in our midst, and

who could, if they chose, declare their independence tomorrow.

We see everywhere the component parts of a civilization separate and

distinct from our own. They have their exists and their entrances; their

religious life and burial; their imports, exports, diversions,

tribunals, punishments. They are all under the surveillance of the six

companies, the great six-headed supreme authority. They have laws within

our laws that to us are sealed volumes. * * *

After supper we leaned from the high balcony, among flowers and

lanterns, and looked down upon the street below; it was midnight, yet

the pavements were not deserted, and there arose to our ears a murmur as

of a myriad humming bees shut in clustering hives; close about us were

housed near twenty thousand souls; shops were open; discordant

orchestras resounded from the theaters; in a dark passage we saw the

flames playing upon the thresholds of infamy to expel the evil shades.

Away off in the Bay in the moonlight glimmered the ribbed sail of a

fishing-junk, and the air was heavy with an indefinable odor which to

this hour puzzles me; but it must be attributed either to sink or

sandalwood - perchance to both!

"It is a little bit of old China, this quarter of ours," said the

artist, rising to go. And so it is, saving only a noticeable lack of

dwarfed trees and pale pagodas and sprays of willowy bamboo; of clumsy

boats adrift on tideless streams; of toy-like tea-gardens hanging among

artificial rocks, and of troops of flat-faced but complaisant people

posing grotesquely in ridiculous perspective.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Bit of Old China, by Charles Warren Stoddard