“Dead[“Dead] Chinaman all the same like one live Chinaman! Las’ year one Chinaman git die here in this town, git bury over China bury-ground. Nex’ night he come back he say to one man: ‘Me no can sleep; my one leg he crook up, me belly (very) sore.’ But that one man he will no go straight he leg, so he go to some other several Chinaman and all time say: ‘Come fix me leg.’ Well, when they can no do other way some Chinaman go dig up fix he leg; he sleep belly well, he come back no more. Dead Chinaman he not get plenty eat, he come back, sure—you bet! Dead Chinaman all same like one live Chinaman!”
CHAPTER LII.
CHINESE OPIUM-DENS.
In Virginia City, as in all other places where there is a considerable Chinese population, are found opium-dens. These are sometimes on the first floor, but are generally in a cellar or basement. We will take a look at one not in any building: it is a subterranean opium-den—a cave of oblivion:—
In the side of a little hill in the eastern part of the Chinese quarter of Virginia City is to be seen a low door of rough boards. An open cut, dug in the slope of the hill and walled with rough rocks, leads to the door. The boards forming the door and its frame are blackened by smoke, particularly at the top, for the den has neither chimney nor flue. The surface of the hill forms its roof. All that is to be seen on the outside is the door and the walled entrance leading up to it. Not a sound is heard within or about the place. The cave of the Seven Sleepers was not more silent. But gently pushing the door, it opens—opens as noiselessly as though hinged in cups of oil.
At first we can see nothing, save a small lamp suspended from the centre of the ceiling. This lamp burns with a dull red light that illuminates nothing. It seems more like a distant fiery star than anything mundane. Though at first we see nothing but the lamp, gradually our eyes adapt themselves to the dim light, and we can make out the walls and some of the larger objects in the place. A voice says: “What you want?” Looking in the direction whence proceeds the inquiry, we see a sallow old Mongolian seated near a small table. He is the proprietor of the den. “What you want?” he repeats. We feel that we have no business where we are, but to speak the truth is always best, therefore we simply say, in pigeon-English: “Me comee see your smokee saloon.” The old fellow settles one elbow on the table before him, and makes a remark which appears to be the Chinese equivalent for “Humph!”
“THE HEATHEN CHINEE.”
Before this taciturn dispenser of somnial drugs are a number of little horn boxes of opium, several opium-pipes, small scales for weighing, with beam of bone, covered with black dots instead of figures; small steel spatulas, wire probes, and[and] other smoking-apparatus.
We now observe that two sides of the den are fitted up with bunks, one above the other, like the berths on shipboard. A cadaverous opium-smoker is seen in nearly every bunk. These men are in various stages of stupor. Each lies upon a scrap of grass mat or old blanket.[blanket.] Before him is a small alcohol lamp burning with a blue flame which gives out but little light—only enough to cast a sickly glare upon the corpse-like face of the smoker, as he holds his pipe in the flame, and by a long draught inhales and swallows the smoke of the loved drug. These fellows are silent as dead men, and seem unconscious of our presence. Occasionally, at a sign, the proprietor arises and furnishes the customer a fresh supply of the drug. The peculiar sweetish-bitter odor of the burning opium fills and saturates the whole place—one can almost taste it.