Hong Kong lies along the shore, with a steep cliff rising abruptly behind it, called the Peak, and the typhoon had laid parts of it in ruins, and unroofed many of the houses, so that it was by no means looking its best. British pride swelled within me as I thought of the transformation that had taken place in half a century. When it was ceded to the British it was a barren island, with a population of 5000 inhabitants; now it is the second largest port in the Empire, with a population of 238,724. There is an immense boat population; whole families have lived from generation to generation in their boats along the shore. In Hong Kong, East and West live happily together, learning to appreciate one another. Chinese merchants are members of its council and take an active part in its government. It has become not only the greatest shipping but also the greatest banking centre of the East, and it is a significant fact that it contributes annually £20,000 to the British Treasury as its military contribution.
From Hong Kong to Shanghai is but a step, and at first sight the latter seems almost as European as the former. The landing, after coming up one of the mouths of the Yangtze River, is in the centre of a promenade, with broad grass borders between it and the road, along which lie the finest commercial buildings of the city for the distance of more than a mile. This is the Bund, the most imposing part of the concession. It may be well to mention what a “concession” is, as this is a term continually used with regard to the treaty ports, such as Tientsin, Hankow, and Shanghai. It is a right granted to Europeans to inhabit a certain defined area, to possess property in it (no private individual except a Chinaman has the right to buy land for building on, in China, although it is occasionally done in the interior), to live under European law, to have their own police and manage their own affairs. The Shanghai concession was mapped out in 1843 by Sir George (then Captain) Balfour, and is on a broad cosmopolitan basis: later on the French obtained one adjoining it, and then the Americans. Many Europeans live outside the concession, especially in a quarter where the English have laid out a charming shady road, perhaps the most tortuous in existence—so as to avoid desecrating graves; it is called the Bubbling Well Road. The concessions have their own post-offices, where you call for letters, if you happen to expect any from the country to which they belong. We found the Russian post-office up a staircase in a thoroughly unofficial-looking house.
The traveller, however, on landing at Shanghai ought not to drive along the Bund to the pleasant Astor House Hotel, but should make a détour into the Chinese streets Nankin Loo, or Foochow Loo, densely thronged streets, where nineteen out of every twenty people wear blue robes, varying in shade from deepest ultramarine to palest aquamarine. One is accustomed to think of the Chinese as quiet, slow-going people, but the traffic of Shanghai is so great that I know no place where you are more conscious of business bustle. The crowd in the streets is almost entirely composed of men and boys, so that it is hard to imagine where room is found for the women and children, even the balconies and shops as well as streets being packed with men. It is estimated that Shanghai has 160,000 inhabitants to the square mile. It is necessary to visit old Shanghai really to see what it can be, and it is a mistake to be deterred from doing this (as many visitors are) on account of its special squalor and dirt, or by the absurd statement that all Chinese cities are alike.
You pass into the real Shanghai through two low gateways, set at right angles from one another, where no vehicle is ever allowed to enter; indeed, such a thing is practically impossible. The streets are so narrow and tortuous that it is hard even for carriers to force a passage through the crowd. The houses are fairly high, and innumerable signboards (long, narrow boards covered with gilt characters which read from bottom to top) hanging overhead block out the light and hinder any current of air from driving away evil smells. The entrances to the shops are lined with Chinese lanterns of every shape, size, and colour: when lit, they cast a kindly glamour over the celestials below, very different from the pitiless glare of electric light. There is no gaudy display of goods in shop windows, for there are no windows; just an open counter on which a few specimens may be lying, probably in a glass case. The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with shallow drawers, filled with endless little parcels containing the rest of the stock-in-trade. Despite the squalid surroundings and the tininess of the shops, this may be very valuable (for the Chinese are great lovers of curios), jade, bronze, ivory, china, or silver. Along with such things are mixed the most absurd rubbish, mainly European goods. Many shops contain a row of finely carved chairs to accommodate purchasers, and elaborately decorated woodwork, such as screens with beautiful groups of figures at one end. We should have liked to buy many things, but this is not to be done lightly, and several days of diplomatic dealing are required before purchaser and seller can come to terms in the orthodox way. No Eastern would be satisfied with the monotony of our Western methods. The whole street is interested in the performance, and looks on as at a play. The amount of business transacted appears to be in inverse proportion to the number of shops.
We threaded our way through a maze of lanes till we came to the centre of the town—the original of the celebrated willow pattern[1]—and as picturesque a spot, in the mellow evening light, as you could possibly imagine. A weed-covered pond, fringed by willows, surrounds the group of tea-houses, which are reached by a zigzag bridge, across which passes a ceaseless stream of blue-robed passengers: gentlemen carrying their birds out for an airing; mothers with babies in their arms, wearing gaily coloured caps surmounted by scarlet tufts; coolies with heavy loads; children dangling sundry purchases, such as a bit of meat or vegetables, from the end of a string or blade of grass—a fascinating throng to watch, if not to be absorbed into!
Close to the garden is a mandarin’s palace, into which we gained admittance after much hammering. The reception-rooms were lofty and dignified, furnished only with Chinese lanterns, some handsomely carved chairs, alternating with little tables (just large enough to accommodate tea-things) set in two rows facing one another, and scrolls on the walls. The garden was entirely composed of rockwork, with the greatest possible length of pathway comprised in the smallest possible area. One of the stairways led up to a handsome summer-house with a balustrade consisting of a sinuous dragon, some forty feet long, carved in stone. Beside his gaping jaws sat a little stone frog, preparing to leap in—a good specimen of the humour which makes Chinese art so attractive. A few willows and shrubs adorned the garden, but no flowers—a feature characteristic of Chinese gardens, where design and architectural work such as summer-houses, bridges, and walls are the most important matters. On different parts of the inner walls of this garden were stone medallions, representing scenes in the Mandarin’s life.
TEA-HOUSE IN OLD SHANGHAI
On emerging from the garden by a different door from the one we came in at, we were confronted by a row of images, and found it was a joss (= worship) house; the few worshippers present were prostrating themselves—two at a time—before the altar, behind which stood the gods. The air was laden with the smell of incense, joss-sticks burning in a stand on the altar; and huge stone lions guarded the door. It was apparently the quietest and least frequented part of the city.
In the courtyard was a fine bronze monument, said to be over 2000 years old, round which a market was going on; the people sitting on the ground, surrounded by their wares, mainly vegetables. By way of variety there was a man with a large assortment of coal-black tresses of hair for sale, as even the poorest Chinaman is not above improving his queue with a false addition: also there was a large basket full of grasshoppers in cages about an inch square, “shrilling” at the top of their voices. From this courtyard ran a street full of shops of cooked meats. Above the counters hung split dried ducks, which looked as if they had been petrified in the act of flying with outstretched necks and wings. Below them were baskets full of eggs, black with age, preserved in a mixture of straw and lime, esteemed a great delicacy, as also seaweeds and sea-slugs—the most revolting, evil-smelling things—like fat caterpillars. Rows of little dishes contained various kinds of relishes, and there were piles of white square steamed flour dumplings, which is the Chinese form of bread.