photo-engraving department as perfect as possible. It is provided with
arc lamps and an acid-blasting etching machine, so that orders can be
quickly filled irrespective of the weather. A fine photographic gallery
is annexed whose chief furnishing is a new camera bought in London
and making the fifth in use. The lens is able to produce pictures 32
× 43 inches, and with a single exception is the largest in the world.
The camera rests upon a handcar, which runs back and forth over a
small track. For some years, one-fourth of the company’s stock was
held by Japanese, but at the beginning of 1914 this was bought back,
so that now the concern is wholly Chinese. This consummation of a
long-anticipated hope was celebrated with great rejoicing.
Several miles away from the works, on one of the busiest streets in a
Chinese section of the International Settlement, stands the business
house of the Commercial Press. The four-story building of reinforced
concrete, ornamented with iron pillars, is quite new, having been built
only six years ago at a cost of twenty thousand dollars. The fine show
windows at once attract attention. Those on the right of the entrance
are reserved for Chinese books and the ones on the left for English.
Among the latter, besides standard works in literature, fiction,
biography, and travel, are seen titles like the following: “Ready Made
Speeches,” “Cooking,” “How the People Rule,” “Our Sick and How to Take
Care of Them,” “Poultry and Profit,” “All about Railways,” “Railway
Conquest of the World,” and a series under the general head, “Common
Commodities of Commerce,” including tea, coffee, sugar, iron, oil,
rubber. The sales rooms are on the ground floor. But many things are
found there besides books and the usual appurtenances of a bookstore.
In the apartments at the rear, in glass cases, are displayed samples
of the many kinds of school apparatus manufactured at the works, also
a large collection of stuffed birds from different countries, various
forms of insect and animal life preserved in alcohol, besides what is
of exceeding value to Chinese students, studies in rice, cotton, the
silkworm, and other products, showing the progressive changes and best
methods of their development and the uses to which they are and may be
put. For the accommodation of customers who wish to look over the books
at their leisure, numerous benches are scattered conveniently about,
and the pleasant little reading room is always well patronized.
The second and third stories are mainly devoted to offices, while a
good part of the fourth is reserved for the dining-hall. According
to the usual custom in China, the two hundred employees have their
board furnished them as a part of their pay, and all who receive
under ten dollars a month are given lodging as well, though not in
the same building. A roof garden, where the clerks may gather for the
noon rest, or enjoy the cool evening breezes in hot weather, is one
of the attractions of the place. Perhaps the two most useful adjuncts
are the elevator, which carries both freight and passengers, and the
electric cash register and delivery system, the only one in China. The
Commercial Press has over forty branch offices in China, the large
branch in Peking being employed chiefly with work for the government.
It has besides more than a thousand selling agencies in other countries
where the Chinese have settled, and is the largest publishing house in
the Orient.
IX
THE CHINESE CITY
Many visitors to this busy port hurry on to richer fields of conquest
with never a glimpse of the Chinese City, and some doubtless do not
even know there is such a place. Yet not the International Settlement,
nor the French Concession, but the Chinese City is the real Shanghai.
The city is the nucleus north and south of whose storm-beaten walls
the foreign settlements sprang up and without which they would not
have been. The coming of the foreigner is of recent date, for few men
from the West saw the spot, and certainly not one resided there till
after Shanghai was opened as a treaty port in 1842. The city itself,
though in the heyday of youth, compared with many other cities in
China, still counts its age by centuries that creep close on to a
millennium. The walls were not built until 1555, a year after the city
had been sacked, burned to the ground, and left a howling wilderness
by Japanese raiders. Gone now are the old walls, since the revolution,
and the creaking gates that swung back and forth night and morning so
many years on their rusty hinges, or if a vestige is left it is fast
disappearing under the blows of pick-ax and hammer. But no, that is
a mistake, for a halt has just been called in the work of demolition.
The Chinese Town Council it is reported, is a house divided against
itself, and some of its members strongly advocate the rebuilding of the
walls for the sake of protection. A compromise has been effected by
voting to allow the walls to remain down but letting the gates stand,
or what is left of them, to serve as triumphal arches.
[Illustration: THE ORIGINAL WILLOW PATTERN TEA HOUSE]
Of course it is better that the old walls should go, more sanitary
and more modern. The ill-smelling moat has been covered on the north
and west by a splendid boulevard ninety feet wide. Trolley lines will
by and by encircle the whole city, as they now run along two sides.
Many of the streets in the outer circumference of the city are being
widened, while those in the heart of it are receiving some attention,
though improvement is difficult on account of property interests.
Ramshackle rat-infested hovels, here, there, and yonder, have vanished
from sight, and new tea-houses, and shops, glistening with fresh
paint, are taking their places. Public nuisances are being attacked.
A well-to-do family reports that since the pestilential creek back
of their house has been filled in, their property has advanced in
value hundreds of dollars. Street refuse is swept up and carried away
each day. Meat is inspected. Pipes have been laid and running water
introduced, so that one no longer hears the monotonous cry of the water
carriers trotting along with a pole across their shoulders from which
were suspended the overflowing buckets spilling water at every step.
Electric lights have largely superseded little smoky kerosene lamps, or
still more primitive pottery or tin lamps with a tiny wick swimming in
vegetable oil.
All this is just as it should be. The improvements are highly commended
by every one, and yet, inconsistent beings that we are, why is it that
with our rejoicing over the changes, our hearts likewise experience
a pang of regret? What is there about things old and quaint, albeit
noisome and repulsive, that things brand new somehow do not possess for
us? So with the passing of the old walls and a modicum of the old dirt,
a certain indefinable charm has slipped away too, never to return.
Nevertheless the Chinese City continues to exist, although since the
walls are down its boundaries are not so clearly defined, and enough
of the ancient landmarks remain in the way of foul-smelling alleys,
streets of gay shops, beggars and crowds, to satisfy most lovers of the
haunting allurements of the Orient.
The city is approximately three miles in circumference. There is no map
of it beyond the merest outline, and neither a Murray nor a Baedeker to
facilitate a tramp through its labyrinthian byways. But the stranger
crossing its boundaries is not left coldly to his own devices, for
the instant he appears in sight he is met by a chattering company of
self-constituted guides. If perchance their services are declined, they
still manage unobtrusively to shadow the Innocent Abroad and entice him
to shops that are almost certain to loosen his purse-strings and where
they propose to secure a fat commission on the purchases made.
The shops in the Chinese City are the originals of the replicas in
the Settlement, only that being the originals they are more bizarre
and delightful. Like birds of a feather, shops doing the same kind of
work, or selling the same kind of articles, are apt to flock together.
For example, most of the furniture shops handling the beautiful red and
black wood from the southern province of Kwangtung are found near the
north gate, also the shops selling exquisitely carved ivory. Elsewhere
are grouped the silversmiths, the jewelers with tempting displays of
jade, amber, pearls, and precious stones, cloth and silk merchants,
shoe and cap makers, dealers whose specialty is all kinds of fans;
brass, pewter, and china shops, makers of coffins from the costly red
and teak woods to the less expensive pine and ash--but the amazing
variety of the shops is fairly bewildering and defies enumeration!
There are no department stores in the city. Each tradesman confines
himself strictly to his own line of goods. Not for his life would he
dare encroach on the rights and privileges of another, for every trade
has its guild which sees to it that the interests of its members are
protected. Many of the guilds are wealthy and powerful, politically
as well as commercially, like the silk merchants’ and silversmiths’
guilds. They have their guild houses, all more or less elaborately
fitted up with rooms for conferences and feasts, and attached to them
are rows of long low buildings divided into small chambers, where,
upon the payment of a rental, the coffins of deceased members may be
deposited until a convenient time for burial.
Certain shops sell nothing but funeral trappings, but instead of
presenting a sombre appearance they are among the gayest in the
city. Hung aloft to show off to the best advantage are elaborately
embroidered crimson satin coverings for the coffin, and around on the
shelves or under glass cases is apparel for the dead, very richly
embroidered robes, slippers, and headgear, this latter in the shape
of mitres and helmets, of remarkable design and ornamentation. There
are also priests’ robes and white cotton raiment and sackcloth for the
mourners. Other shops carry only the paper furnishings that are an
essential part of a funeral ceremony. When the spirit of the deceased
leaves the body and passes to the spirit world, according to Chinese
superstition he requires for his comfort the same conveniences to which
he was accustomed in life. Hence the dutiful elder son, in proportion
to his financial ability, and often far beyond it, for Chinese funerals
are fearfully costly, sees that his honoured parent is provided with
them. The articles are made of coloured paper, the larger ones over
a light framework of bamboo, and include every conceivable object,
from a sedan chair to a teacup. These images are borne in the funeral
procession through the streets and burned at the grave, the smoke
being supposed to waft them through ether to the waiting spirit.
They are such exact facsimiles of the real thing, especially in the
case of small articles like vases, jewelry boxes, braziers, lamps,
clocks, basins, that it is hard to believe they are false. One of the
best imitations ever produced in a Shanghai city shop was that of
a fur-lined Mandarin coat, so perfect in every detail as almost to
deceive the Chinese themselves.
A shopkeeper who always attracts custom is the portrait painter. He
is an important personage and does business behind closed doors--that
is, his shop is not open to the street as most are; but has a front
partition with a door and show window. On the window is pasted a
collection of small pictures of human heads cut from newspapers and
magazines. Inside the shop quantities more are stored away. When a
widow, it may be, wishes a likeness of her consort who left no pictured
memorial behind him, or a youth perhaps craves a reminder of the
grand-uncle he never saw, they find their way to one of these portrait
shops. The shopkeeper spreads out before them an array of pictures, and
after careful study a selection is made of a particular portrait which
either bears some imaginary resemblance to the dear departed, or is
what the sorrowing relatives would choose to have him look like. The
shopkeeper then paints the head in life size and adds a body clothed
in whatever style of garments may be mutually decided on. The finished
portrait is finally hung on the wall of the family dwelling and pointed
to with pride and affection as the face of the deceased ancestor.
Drug shops are many and are invested with an air of quiet exclusiveness
and semi-professionalism, which suffers but a slight declension when
in hot weather the clerks, after the manner of most shopkeepers,
divest themselves of their non-essential upper garments and pass the
day stripped to the waist. Upon the shelves of the shop stand rows and
rows of large pewter cannisters and blue and white china jars, innocent
enough to look at and yet designed to arouse the curiosity of the
beholder as to the nature and character of their contents. Below are
quantities of drawers containing dried roots, herbs, bones, seaweed,
chalk, things indescribable and inscrutable, drawn from the air above,
the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth. In addition to drugs
the shop frequently keeps on exhibition some special attractions,
such as glass jars with snakes preserved in alcohol, dried alligator
skins, corals and geological specimens. In filling prescriptions
china bottles, coloured pasteboard boxes and squares of white paper
are used. Sometimes a score or more of the paper squares are placed
on the counter at once, and from the different drawers an interesting
assortment of medicines is laid on them. Here is dried orange peel,
said to be an unfailing remedy for loss of appetite, a yellow berry
that removes phlegm, a dried beetle that in a solution of water makes
the best kind of eyewash. The silkworm taken from the cocoon when eaten
with rice greatly assists digestion, and so does a flat bug that from
its appearance might be great-grandfather to the bedbug. The ladybug,
or what resembles one, is a sure cure for liver complaint, and another
insect if rubbed on wounds quickly heals them. Also in certain troubles
it has been found that a little of the alcohol in which a serpent
is preserved, if taken internally, proves particularly efficacious.
On the wall at the back of the shop is painted a picture of the god
of medicine, at whose shrine tapers are kept burning. Chinese shops
carrying foreign drugs, some of them excellent shops, too, are not
uncommon in the Settlement but are seldom to be seen in the Chinese
City.
The dentist, like his confreres in other countries, is ever in demand.
Occasionally an aspiring, prosperous fellow is discovered doing
business in a shop where the patient may balance himself on a stool,
though still in full view of the curious street crowd, and tilting his
head back, have the offending molar extracted without further ado. But
ordinarily the professional outfit is limited to a small wooden table
and what it will hold, set out in the street. Back of the weather-worn
stand lounges the dentist, soiled and uncouth, keeping guard over his
stock in trade, bottles of ointments, salves, a pair of forceps and
other nondescript instruments, a few sets of teeth under a dust-covered
glass case, and last but not least, piles of decayed teeth successfully
extracted from tortured victims and kept as decoys to attract
patronage. There are travelling dentists whose shop is a wheelbarrow
which carries the dental equipment, with the inevitable pile of teeth
conspicuous in the centre. They move from point to point, in inclement
weather under cover of a mammoth coloured umbrella, and sound a gong to
draw the ever-ready crowd.
More common still are the peripatetic restaurants. The outfit of the
manager of the Liliputian establishment is a model of convenience
and compactness. A simple bamboo frame, easily borne by one man even
with all the appurtenances, is divided into two sections. On one side
in a pocket rests a clay stove, with a place underneath for holding
the wood. On the other is a series of drawers of various sizes, in
which the dough, sugar, and spices are kept. A little kneading board
pulls out from a slit between the drawers, and on it the baker deftly
fashions his cakes and meat pies, frying them in vegetable oil in
a shallow iron basin, or if they are to be baked, plastering them
against the inner sides of the clay stove above the fire. Despite the
dirt, dust, and flies, even the ultra fastidious can not deny that the
finished product is decidedly appetizing.
Not a foot of valuable land in the Chinese City is wasted on sidewalks.
Hence everybody and everything is right on the street, and the very
narrow passages are badly congested. Rickety jinricshas, a few sedan
chairs which are fast disappearing from Shanghai, burden-bearers and
pedestrians hurry continually to and fro, shouting in shrill falsetto
tones to one another to clear the way and running in imminent danger of
colliding with the unwary and trampling on children. Yet not all the
streets are mere alleyways. A few, but it must be admitted a very few,
are wide enough to allow a carriage to pass through with comparative
ease, and they seem in comparison like boulevards. Then there are
others along which a carriage can manage to creep providing the driver
is skillful and the people hug the sides of the roads or retire
precipitately into the shops out of harm’s way, but this is too risky a
venture to be indulged in often and is seldom permitted by the police.
Once in a while it happens that a carriage gets wedged into a tight
place where it can neither move forward, back out nor even find room to
turn at right angles into a cross street. The only thing then is to
unhitch the horse, lead him out, pull the carriage back, and finally
lifting it up bodily, turn it around and harness the horse to it again.
Not all the city is laid out in streets, for there are some open places
and even flourishing vegetable gardens which quite suggest the country.
That this is possible in so densely populated an area seems a marvel,
and where and how the people are all hidden away is a puzzle. In the
poorer sections, with the closing down of night they vanish as if by
magic, except in hot weather when many camp on the streets, and in the
morning the crowds swarm forth as mysteriously, like rats from their
holes.
The best known and most popular breathing spot in the city is that
about the lake or pond, in whose centre on a small island rises
the far-famed Willow Ware Tea-House, for the identical tea-house
pictured on the much sought for willow-ware porcelain is located in
the Chinese City. This to the average globe-trotter is the city’s
chief attraction, but alas, never was the saying “Distance lends
enchantment” more truly applicable, for while the pictures of the old
tea-house are undeniably charming, with its graceful upturned gables
and the zigzag bridges leading to it, made zigzag to ward off evil
spirits who are said to travel in straight lines, yet seen near at
hand how quickly the enchantment is dispelled! Filth, rottenness, and
roistering are the main present-day characteristics of this tea-house
of fair renown. Instead of reflecting the blue sky above, the water is
covered with a thick vegetable scum, green and unwholesome. The shores
around are made lively with a colony of small vendors whose wares are
set on tables or spread out over the ground. They evidently reap a
paying harvest from the sale of scrolls, pottery, towels, sheepskin
coats, toys, and all manner of cheap foreign knickknacks which are
much sought after by the people. Switches of long, jet black hair,
especially plentiful since queues went out of fashion, are given places
of prominence. Many doubtless are sent abroad to add beauty to the
coiffures of dames of high degree.
The business of the man who deals in rags must flourish like the green
bay tree judging from the number engaged in it. What a sight is a
rag-man’s shop, rags, rags everywhere, stuffed in baskets and bags,
hanging from the walls, covering the floor in huge piebald bundles and
mounds, germ-infected, poisonous, alive with vermin, gathered up and
brought in from heaven knows where! Yet every day women and children
spend long hours industriously picking them over and making them up
into mops and the soles of Chinese shoes, for which they find a ready
sale.
Shanghai once boasted a supremely great citizen. He lived back in the
sixteenth century, a veritable Chinese Maecenas. Besides being a man
of letters and encouraging Western learning, he rose to the highest
position in the empire, as Premier and Chancellor of the Privy Council.
His name will be of little consequence to the outside world, but it
is Siu Kuang-ki, should any one care to know it. He was converted to
Christianity under the Jesuit Fathers, and lived a pure, consistent,
devoted life, dying so poor in spite of large emoluments that his
funeral expenses had to be paid from the public treasury. He built in
the Chinese City the first Christian church ever seen in these parts.
During the exigencies of later years it was converted into a temple
sacred to the god of war, but was afterward redeemed and restored to
its original use. This church is still standing, a striking edifice
back a little from the noisy street, with a typical Chinese roof, and
below it on the front outside wall, a beautiful gilded cross.
The present war god’s temple is near the temple of Confucius, with its
grass-grown court and deserted halls. Once a year, in the early dawn,
the military governor of Shanghai and the city officials enter the
sanctuary dedicated to the god of war and conduct a weird pageant-like
ceremony in honour of two local military heroes. The tutelary deities
of the Chinese City, black and repelling, occupy a large centrally
located temple more frequented by worshippers than any other. The roomy
outer court, like the temple court in Jerusalem, is given up to buying
and selling, also to eating and drinking, gambling and fortune-telling,
and there is no busier, noisier mart in all the city.
The local official in the Chinese City is called the “Chih-hsien,”
or District Magistrate, and is appointed from Peking. His official
residence styled the Yamen, is a common, ordinary building, approached
through several untidy courts lined with the low one-story quarters of
the Yamen retainers and petty officials. Every day, in three small,
bare rooms of the Yamen, court is held, the Chinese judges in their
professional gowns looking distinctly out of keeping with their
surroundings. To the left and back of the Yamen is the City Prison and
adjoining it a much smaller one for women. Stories are afloat regarding
the unsanitary condition of the prison and the treatment of prisoners
that cause one to cringe and dread an investigation, but whatever may
have been the state of affairs under the old régime, and the prison
manager is frank to confess that things were very different ten years
ago, there is now little to criticise and a great deal to commend. The
grey brick buildings are in thoroughly good repair, the cells of the
four hundred men and the fifty women prisoners, clean and fairly well
lighted and ventilated, though, as the manager himself will hasten to
tell the visitor, too crowded for health. A few carefully tended plants
are growing in the centre of each of the courts, a praiseworthy effort
to introduce a touch of the æsthetic. Industrial work on a considerable
scale is carried on in the men’s prison, though the grant of money from
the government is too small to keep all at work. Wooden and rattan
furniture, towels, mats, shoes, and clothing are made. A very little
industrial work is given the women in the way of cutting out and making
garments, but from lack of funds to supply workrooms and material, most
of the poor creatures are forced to pass their days in idleness. The
wardens of the women’s prison are women. The discipline is excellent,
yet not severe, the prisoners look well fed and well cared for, and the
men especially, happy and contented. Provision is made to send sick
prisoners to a Chinese hospital, where they receive the best of care.