THE PACIFIC FERRY—SAN FRANCISCO TO JAPAN AND CHINA.
The American Steamships—A Celestial Company—Leading
Cargoes—Corpses and Coffins—Monotony of the Voyage—Emotions Caused
by the Sea—Amusements on Board “Chalked”—Cricket at Sea—Balls
Overboard—A Six Days’ Walking Match—Theatricals—Waxworks—The
Officers on Board—Engineer’s Life—The Chief
Waiter—“Inspection”—Meeting the _America_—Excitement—Her
Subsequent Fate—A Cyclone—At Yokohama—Fairy Land—The
Bazaars—Japanese Houses—A Dinner _Menu_—Music and
Dancing—Hongkong, the Gibraltar of China—Charming Victoria—Busy
Shanghai—English Enterprise.
A very ordinary trip now‐a‐days for those rounding the world is that from
San Francisco to China, calling at Japan on the way. The steamships of the
Pacific Mail Company are those principally employed, and a voyage on such
a vessel as the _China_, which is one of the crack vessels of the service,
is one almost invariably of pleasure. The _China_ is a steamship of over
4,000 tons, and cost 800,000 dollars, or, roughly, £160,000 sterling. She
will often carry 2,000 tons of tea on a return voyage, to say nothing of
perhaps from five to fifteen hundred Chinamen. A traveller(14) already
referred to states, that with only 580 on board half a ton of rice had to
be served out daily, with a modicum of meat and vegetables. One of the
leading cargoes on the outward trip from San Francisco is corpses and
coffins, few Chinamen being ever buried out of their native land. In the
splendid and roomy saloons of these steamers there are always Chinese
waiters, who are said to be most obliging, and noiseless in their motions.
Negro waiters are civil and assiduous enough in their attendance, but are
always fussy; in this respect “John” is a great improvement on “Sambo.”
“An additional proof,” said a leading journal “of the new vitality infused
into that long inert mass, the Chinese Empire, has just been supplied from
San Francisco,” and the writer goes on to describe a new development of
their mercantile enterprise. It seems that there has been in existence for
some time past an association termed the Chinese Merchants’ Steamship
Company, the stockholders of which are wealthy native merchants and
mandarins, who own many coasting steamers. The company is now about to
start a line from China to the Sandwich Islands and San Francisco, and it
is not improbable that the Chinese emigrants may prefer these steamers to
any other. The manager of this Celestial “P. and O.” is one Tong Ken Sing,
a shrewd native of Singapore; and, continues the writer, “under the
enlightened control of this man of his epoch, who is equally at home with
tails and taels, the company is sure to succeed.”
After leaving the “Golden Gate,” the entrance to the Bay of San Francisco,
and passing the rocky Farralones, islands whence a company brings a
million of sea‐birds’ eggs to the city yearly, the voyager by this route
will not see land till Japan is reached. The steamships stop nowhere _en
route_. The passengers must depend on their own resources aboard for
amusement, and every passing sail becomes an object of greatest interest.
Yet still there is always the sea itself, in its varying aspects of placid
or turbulent grandeur. “The appearance of the open sea,” says Frédol, “far
from the shore—the boundless ocean—is to the man who loves to create a
world of his own, in which he can freely exercise his thoughts, filled
with sublime ideas of the Infinite. His searching eye rests upon the far‐
distant horizon; he sees there the ocean and the heavens meeting in a
vapoury outline, where the stars ascend and descend, appear and disappear
in their turn. Presently this everlasting change in nature awakens in him
a vague feeling of that sadness ‘which,’ says Humboldt, ‘lies at the root
of all our heartfelt joys.’” When the Breton fisherman or mariner puts to
sea, his touching prayer is, “_Keep me, my God! my boat is so small, and
Thy ocean so wide!_” “We find in the sea,” says Lacepède, “unity and
diversity, which constitute its beauty; grandeur and simplicity, which
give it sublimity; puissance and immensity, which command our wonder.”
That immense expanse of water is no mere liquid desert; it teems with
life, however little that life may be visible. The inhabitants of the
water through which the good ship ploughs her way are as numerous as those
of the solid earth; although, unless the great sea‐serpent makes its
fitful appearance, the experience of a traveller over the Pacific by this
route will be repeated. Says he:—
“Few signs of life are visible outside the vessel. Occasionally a whale is
reported in sight, but for many days most of the passengers are inclined
to think it is only something very ‘like one,’ till, as the days pass,
every person has caught a glimpse of a spout of water suddenly shooting up
from the sea without any apparent reason, or of a black line cutting
through the blue surface for a moment, and then disappearing to unknown
depths. Occasionally, too, one or more sea‐birds are seen following in the
vessel’s wake, sweeping gracefully across and again across the white band
of foam, and with difficulty keeping down their natural pace to that of
the steam‐driven monster. These birds are of two kinds only: the ‘Mother
Carey’s Chicken,’ and another, called by the sailors the ‘Cape Hen’—a
brown bird, rather larger and longer in the wing than a sea‐gull. Both
birds are visible when we are in mid‐ocean, 1,000 miles at least from the
nearest dry land.” The writer of these pages has seen whales, in the North
Pacific, keep up with the vessel on which he was a passenger for half an
hour or more together. On one occasion a large whale was swimming abreast
of the steamer so closely that rifle and pistol shots were fired at it,
some undoubtedly hitting their mark, yet the great mammal did not show the
slightest symptoms of even temporary annoyance, and there is reason to
believe was not much more hurt by the shots than would the targets at
Wimbledon be affected by a shower of peas.
Occasionally a little diversity and profit are got out of passengers by
the sailors when they go for the first time on the fo’castle. The latter
draw on the deck a chalk line quickly round the former, and each visitor
so “chalked,” as it is called, must pay a fine in the shape of a bottle of
rum. This secures one, however, the freedom of the ship ever after.
[Illustration: A CRICKET‐MATCH ON BOARD SHIP.]
One of the deck games popular on long voyages is a form of quoits, played
with rings and chalked spaces, or, in some cases, on a spike driven into
the deck. A traveller(15) gives an amusing account of a cricket club
formed on the vessel in which he was a passenger. Fancy playing cricket at
sea! He says:—“The _Lord Warden_ cricket‐ground is on the main deck, and,
owing to the somewhat limited space at the disposal of the ten members,
single‐wicket matches are the invariable rule. The stumps, which are fixed
in a frame so as to remain steady on the deck, are about two feet in
height, and of course bails are provided, but never used. Of bats the club
boasts not a few, of varied construction. Of these the majority are
fashioned out of a thick deal plank, and soon go to pieces; but one of
elm, which was christened off Cape de Verde, survived many weeks of hard
usage, and was more precious to the club than the most expensive of
Cobbett’s productions. It was fully intended by a member of the Marylebone
Club to obtain for this tough little piece of elm a final resting‐place in
the Pavilion at Lord’s, but unfortunately the ‘leviathan hitter,’ in
attempting a huge drive, let it slip out of his hands, and it is lost to
us for ever.” The boatswain furnished spun‐yarn balls at sixpence each,
but these seldom had a long life, four or five being frequently hit
overboard in the course of an afternoon’s play; nearly 300 were exhausted
on the voyage. “The wicket,” continues the narrator, “is pitched just in
front of the weather poop‐ladder, the bowling‐crease being thirteen yards
further forward, by the side of the deck‐house. Behind the bowler stands
an out‐field, while mid‐on or mid‐off, according to which tack the ship is
on, has his back to the midshipmen’s berth, and has also occasionally to
climb over the boom‐board above it, and search for a lost ball among a
chaos of boats and spare spars.... Run‐getting on board ship is a matter
of difficulty, the ball having the supremacy over the bat, which is
exactly reversed on shore. A cricketer who thinks but little of the side‐
hill at Lord’s would find himself thoroughly non‐plussed by the incline of
a ship’s deck in a stiff breeze. A good eye and hard straight driving
effected much, but a steady defence and the scientific ‘placing’ of the
ball under the winch often succeeded equally well, especially on a wet
wicket. The highest score of the season was eighteen, which included two
hits on to the forecastle, feats of very rare occurrence.” The games were
highly popular, and were watched by appreciative assemblages of the
passengers. On the same vessel a glee club was organised, and an evening
in Christmas week was devoted to theatricals, by the “Shooting Stars of
the Southern Seas.” Dancing is common enough on board, and, of course, is
often pursued under difficulties; a sudden lurch of the ship may throw a
number of couples off their feet or tumble them in a chaotic heap.
Another traveller(16) gives us some amusing notes on the private
theatricals performed on board the famous old steamship _Great Britain_.
He was stage manager, and says:—“I had a great deal to do, as I was
responsible for dresses, and had to see that everybody was ready. I had
among other things to procure a chignon. I was in a dilemma, as I did not
like to ask a lady for the loan of one, even where no doubt existed as to
her wearing false hair; so at last I procured some oakum from the
carpenter, and made three large sausages, and it was pronounced a success.
The stage is erected in the saloon, and we had footlights, with a gorgeous
screen of flags, &c.” Special prologues were written for these
entertainments, one of which, on the occasion of performing the “Taming of
a Tiger” and the “Area Belle,” ran as follows:—
“Far from Australia or from British home,
Across wide ocean’s trackless breast we roam;
And though our ship both swift and steady speeds,
Yet dreary week to dreary week succeeds.
Our joys restricted, and our pleasures few,
We all must own the prospect’s rather blue.
At such a time to fill the vacant place,
A chosen few have taken heart of grace,
And tho’ unused the actor’s part to fill,
Will show, if not the deed, at least the will.”
Then came mention of some of the amateurs who had already played before
the passengers:—
“Yet not all novices—the veteran Flood
You’ve seen before, and you’ve pronounced him good;
The modest Griffiths, and the blushing Lance,
Joy of the fair and hero of the dance;”
and so forth. The performance took place while the vessel was constantly
rolling. Mr. Laird says that he had to think almost as much of his
equilibrium as of anything else; but as he had always to appear trembling
before the presence of his master in the piece, it did pretty well, except
in one lurch, when he went flying in an undignified manner across the
stage into the arms of the prompter.
On another occasion an entertainment, entitled “Mrs. Jarley’s Waxworks,”
was presented. Five children were dressed up to represent different
characters, and pretence was made of winding them up to make them go. The
best was a cannibal, converted to be a missionary; another personated Fair
Rosamond; and a third the Marquis of Lorne. The missionary handed tracts
about, and Queen Eleanor alternately presented a dagger and a cup of cold
poison to Fair Rosamond. A regularly‐organised concert followed, while a
farce and spoken epilogue concluded this, the last performance on board
the _Great Britain_. After speaking of the voyage and the fun on board, it
continued:—
“And now our sweet communion must shortly see its close,
And never more, till next time, shall we share in joys like those;
No more the fragrant sea‐pie or delectable burgoo,
No more on the same plate be seen fish, cheese, and Irish stew.
* * * * * * *
No longer Mrs. Jarley’s works our mimic stage shall grace,
Or the little missionary‐eater show his little face.
Of Mrs. J. I would not say one harsh word if I could;
No use to tread upon her toes, because they’re only wood.
No more the sailor’s plaintive song with tears our eyes shall dim,
No more on Sunday morning shall we sing the Evening Hymn;”
the fact being that a clergyman on board had once inadvertently chosen the
latter for morning service! The epilogue concluded by wishing good luck to
all the officers and men and to the good old ship.
[Illustration: LEAVING THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA.]
Baron Hübner has given us, in his published work before quoted, some
interesting reminiscences of, and graphic notes on, his voyage to Japan
from San Francisco. A few extracts may be permitted.
“_July 4._—The sky is pearly grey. The vessel is all painted white: masts,
deck‐cabins, deck, tarpaulins, benches—all are white. This deck, from poop
to prow, is all in one piece, and makes a famous walk. Almost all the
morning I am alone there. The first‐class passengers get up very late; the
second‐class—that is, the Chinese—not at all. They go to bed at San
Francisco, and never leave their berths till they reach their destination.
You never see one of them on deck. The sailors, having done their duty,
disappear likewise. And how easy that duty is in such weather! On leaving
the Golden Gate the sails were hoisted, and have remained untouched ever
since. The breeze is just strong enough to fill them and keep us steady.
The result is a complete calm. The smoke ascends up to heaven in a
straight line. So the sailors have a fine time of it. They sleep, smoke,
or play down‐stairs with their companions. The two men at the helm—these
two are Americans—are equally invisible, for a watch‐tower hides them from
sight, as well as the rudder and the officer of the watch. I have thus got
the deck of this immense ship entirely to myself. I pace it from one end
to the other, four hundred feet backwards and forwards. The only
impediment is a transverse bar of iron, as high as one’s head, which binds
in the middle the two sides of the ship. It is painted white, like all the
rest, and is difficult to see. In every position in life there is always
the worm in the bud or thorn in the flesh—or, at any rate, some dark spot.
On board the _China_ the dark spot for me is that detestable white bar.
Not only am I perpetually knocking my head against it, but it reminds me
unpleasantly of the frailty of human things. It is very thin, and yet, if
I am to believe the engineer, it is this bar alone which, in very bad
weather, prevents the enormous shell of the boat from breaking in half.
There are moments when one’s life hangs on a thread; here it hangs on an
iron bar. That is better, perhaps, but it is not enough.”
The fine vessels of the company then running were, although perhaps the
most commodious in the world, hardly the safest. The distance between San
Francisco and Japan is 5,000 miles, and, barring a few hundred miles on
the coasts of the latter, the ocean is almost one grand calm lake. But
cyclones occur in the Japanese seas when the high‐built American boats are
not safe.
Baron Hübner gives us some notes on the passengers on board, which
included nine nationalities. Among them was a dignified and venerable
Parsee merchant, a merchant prince in his way, who had wished to study
European manners, and so had proceeded as far as San Francisco. What he
saw there impressed him so unfavourably, that he immediately took passage
back again. What he observed, indeed, filled him with disgust. “The men,”
said he, “what a lack of dignity! Never in the streets of our towns will
you be shocked by the sight of drunkards and bad women.”
Hübner gives also some sketches of the officers on board. The chief
engineer is described as a thoughtful and meditative man—a Roman Catholic,
deeply imbued with the spirit of religious fervour, and spending his time
in the alternate study of theology and practical mechanics. His cabin,
opening on the one side to the deck and on the other to the machinery,
contained a well‐selected, though small, library of scientific and
classical books, and was adorned by pots of flowers, which he managed to
keep alive by constant care, in spite of the sea‐breezes, for they had
been given to him by his young and beautiful wife, whose portrait hung
upon the wall. For a couple of weeks only in each three months could he
see his better half.
“Sweetly blows the western wind
Softly o’er the rippling sea,
And thy sailor’s constant mind
Ever turns to thee.
Though the north wind may arise,
And the waves dash madly by,
Though the storm should rend the skies,
And vivid lightnings round me fly;
Then I love thee more and more,
Then art thou more dear to me,
And I sigh for that dear shore
Distant o’er the sea.”
The Baron describes the waiters on board as follows:—“The head waiter is a
native of Hamburg. He and his white comrade lead an easy life; they
confine their labours to overlooking the Chinese men, and pass the rest of
their time in flirting with the ladies’‐maids. These are the only two
idlers in the service. Thirty‐two Chinamen do the duties of waiters on the
passengers and at table. Although short, they look well enough with their
black caps, their equally black pig‐tails, which go down to their heels,
their dark‐blue tunics, their large white trousers, their gaiters or white
stockings, and their black felt shoes with strong white soles. They form
themselves into symmetrical groups, and do everything with method. Fancy a
huge cabin, in which the small table of twenty‐two guests is lost, with
all these little Chinamen fluttering round them and serving them in the
most respectful manner, without making any noise. The Hamburg chief, idly
leaning against a console, with one hand in his trousers’ pocket, directs
with the forefinger of the other the evolutions of his docile squadron.”
The daily inspection, common on all well‐regulated passenger ships, is
thus described:—
“_July 6._—Every day, at eleven o’clock in the morning and at eight
o’clock in the evening, the captain, followed by the purser, makes the
rounds of the ship. In that of the morning all the cabin‐doors are opened,
only excepting those of the ladies; but the moment these have gone out the
captain visits them with equal care. If any matches are discovered they
are pitilessly confiscated. This morning the captain invited me to
accompany him, and I could convince myself with my own eyes of the perfect
order and discipline which reign everywhere. Nothing was more tempting
than that department which one greatly avoids, the kitchens. The head cook
and his assistants, all Germans, did the honours of their domain. Every
man was at his post, and only anxious to show the visitors the most secret
corners of his department. It was like an examination of conscience
carefully made. The provision and store‐rooms were admirable. Everything
was of the first and best quality; everything was in abundance; everything
was classed and ticketed like the drugs in a chemist’s shop. The Chinese
quarter is on the lower deck. We have about 800 on board. They are all in
their berths, smoking and talking, and enjoying the rare pleasure in their
lives of being able to spend five weeks in complete idleness. In spite of
the great number of men penned into so comparatively small a space, the
ventilation is so well managed that there is neither closeness nor bad
smells. The captain inspects every hole and corner, literally
everything—and everywhere we found the same extraordinary cleanliness. One
small space is reserved for the opium‐eaters or smokers; and we saw these
victims of a fatal habit, some eagerly inhaling the poison, others already
feeling its effects. Lying on their backs and fast asleep, their deadly‐
pale features gave them the look of corpses.”
A common occurrence, but always of great interest to the passengers, is
thus described:—
“_July 7._—Contrary to our usual sleepy habits, we are all to‐day in a
state of excitement and agitation. The _China_ is to come to the point
where it ought to meet the _America_, which was to leave Hong‐Kong five‐
and‐twenty days ago. Our top‐sails are filled with little Chinamen, whose
eager eyes are fixed on the horizon. The captain and officers are standing
close to the bowsprit, their telescopes pointed in the same direction.
Even my Spanish friend has left his engine, his flower‐pots, and his
wife’s portrait, to gaze at the blue sea, slightly rippled, but, as usual,
without a speck of a sail. No _America_! The captain’s heart is in his
shoes. He consults his charts, his instruments, his officers, all in vain.
The day passes without the steamer being signalled. The dinner is silent
and sad. Every one seems preoccupied, and the captain is evidently
anxious. It seems that the directors of the company make a point of their
two boats meeting. It is to them a proof that their captains have followed
a straight course, and that the San Francisco boat has crossed, without
any accident, a third of the Pacific. The passengers gladly avail
themselves of this precious opportunity to write to their friends. For the
captains themselves it is a question of honour. They like to show their
skill in this way, and their cleverness in being able, despite the
variable and imperfectly‐understood currents of the Pacific, to make a
straight course across this enormous sheet of water.
“_July 8._—At five o’clock in the morning the second officer rushed into
my cabin—‘The _America_(17) is in sight!’ I throw on my clothes and tumble
on deck. The morning is beautiful, and this colossal steamer, the largest
after the _Great Eastern_, draws near majestically. The usual salutes are
exchanged, and the _America’s_ gig brings us an extract from their log,
the list of the passengers, the newspapers from Hong‐Kong, Shanghai, and
Yokohama, and, which is essential, takes charge of our letters for America
and Europe. A few moments after she resumes her course. What a grand and
imposing sight! At six o’clock she has already disappeared behind the
horizon. At the moment of meeting we had run exactly 1,500 miles—that is,
half the distance between England and New York.”
The _China_ encountered a cyclone, or rather the outer edge of one, which
is graphically described by Hübner. He says:—“At this moment the ocean was
really magnificent. In the boiling sea the foam was driven horizontally
towards the east. The water was positively inky, with here and there
whitish gleams of light. The sky was iron‐grey; to the west a curtain of
the same colour, but darker. The thermometer was still falling rapidly. In
the air above the waves I suddenly saw a cloud of white flakes; they were
little bits of Joss paper which the Chinese were throwing into the sea to
appease their gods. I passed before the open door of the engineer; he was
watering his plants. The passengers were all gathered together in the
saloon. Some of them were moved almost to tears. At twelve o’clock the sky
cleared a little, and the faces brightened considerably. I have often
remarked that people when in danger, whether real or imaginary, are like
children; the slightest thing will make them laugh or cry. The Bombay
master‐baker, the Chinese merchant, and the two Japanese, struck me by
their imperturbability. The first whispered in my ear, ‘The company is
very unwise to have a Chinese crew; the Malays are much better. Chinese
sailors are scared at the least danger, and would be the first to make off
in the lifeboats.’ Fung‐Tang has an equally bad opinion of his fellow‐
countrymen. He says to me, ‘Chinese good men, very good; bad sailors, very
bad!’ I reply, ‘If we go to the bottom, what will become of Fung‐Tang?’ He
replies, ‘If good, place above; if bad, _below stairs_, punished.’
“_July 20._—In the middle of the night the ocean suddenly calmed. The
_China_ has got out of the region of the cyclone. The weather is
delicious; the sea like glass. But at four o’clock in the afternoon we
suddenly find ourselves amidst colossal waves; and yet there is not a
breath of wind. They tell us that this was probably yesterday the centre
of the typhoon. It has exhausted itself or gone elsewhere; but the sea
which it lashed into fury is still agitated, like the pulse of a fever
patient after the fit is over.”
Yokohama, whose very name signifies “across the sea and shore,” has been
before briefly described in these pages. Travellers have given some
interesting accounts of it, and as in a tour round the world it would form
one of the leading stopping‐places, some further allusion to it may be
permitted.
Baron Hübner says in effect that at every step one takes there one asks if
it be not all a dream, a fairy tale, a story of the thousand‐and‐one
nights. Arriving there from San Francisco, the step from American to
Oriental civilisation is particularly noticed. The Baron refers
particularly to the courtesy and extreme cleanliness of the people. Even
the coolies, bearing great cases or baskets slung on bamboos resting on
their athletic shoulders, stop to chatter and laugh so pleasantly that
labour seems to have lost half its curse. “Misery,” says he, “is unknown
amongst them; so also is luxury.” If the Japanese have arrived at this
happy mean it would be a great pity to disturb their peaceful condition by
the introduction of a so‐called civilisation, and its attendant expenses
and new wants.
“What adds to the charm of the scene,” says the same authority, “is the
smiling look of the country, and the intense beauty, at this season
(summer), of the setting sun. The sky is positively crimson, with great
clouds of Sèvres blue; the long promontory of Thanagawa is inundated with
mother‐of‐pearl; and on the purpled violet sea the pale shadows of the
ships and junks stand out against the sky, the one rocked by the swell,
the others gliding across the water like phantoms.” The winter in Japan is
cold enough, as Mrs. Brassey discovered;(18) for icicles were hanging from
the shrouds and riggings of the _Sunbeam_.
Mrs. Brassey gives some life‐like pictures from Yokohama.
“Having landed,” says she, “we went with the Consul to the native town to
see the curio shops, which are a speciality of the place. The inhabitants
are wonderfully clever at making all sorts of curiosities, and the
manufactories of so called ‘antique bronzes’ and ‘old china’ are two of
the most wonderful sights in Yokohama. The way in which they scrape,
crack, chip, mend, and colour the various articles, cover them with dust,
partially clean them, and imitate the marks and signatures of celebrated
makers, is more creditable to their ingenuity than to their honesty.
Still, there are a good many genuine old relics from the temples and from
the large houses of the reduced Daimios to be picked up, if you go the
right way to work, though the supply is limited.
“Dealers are plentiful, and travellers, especially from America, are
increasing in numbers. When we first made acquaintance with the shops we
thought they seemed full of beautiful things, but even one day’s shopping,
in the company of experienced people, has educated our taste and taught us
a great deal; though we have still much to learn. There are very
respectable‐looking lacquer cabinets, ranging in price from 5s. to £20.
But they are only made for the foreign market. No such things exist in a
Japanese home.”
A really fine piece of old lacquer is often worth a couple of hundred
pounds.
“It is said that the modern Japanese have lost the art of lacquer‐making;
and as an illustration I was told that many beautiful articles of lacquer,
old and new, had been sent from this country to the Vienna Exhibition in
1873, but the price put on them was so exorbitant that few were sold, and
nearly all had to be sent back to Japan. Just as the ship with these
things on board reached the Gulf of Jeddo, she struck on a rock and sank
in shallow water. A month or two ago a successful attempt was made to
raise her and to recover the cargo, when it was found that the new lacquer
had been reduced to a state of pulp, while the old was not in the least
damaged. I tell you the tale as it was told to me.
[Illustration: A STREET IN JAPAN.]
“After a long day’s shopping, we went to dine, in real Japanese fashion,
at a Japanese tea‐house. The establishment was kept by a very pleasant
woman, who received us at the door, and who herself removed our
exceedingly dirty boots before allowing us to step on to her clean mats.
This was all very well, as far as it went; but she might as well have
supplied us with some substitute for the objectionable articles, for it
was a bitterly cold night, and the highly‐polished wood passages and steep
staircase felt very cold to our shoeless feet. The apartment we were shown
into was so exact a type of a room in any Japanese house that I may as
well describe it once for all. The wood‐work of the roof and the framework
of the screens were all made of a handsome dark polished wood, not unlike
walnut.
“The exterior walls under the verandah, as well as partitions between the
other rooms, were simply wooden lattice‐work screens covered with white
paper, and sliding in grooves, so that you could walk in or out at any
part of the wall you chose, and it was, in like manner, impossible to say
whence the next comer would make his appearance; doors and windows are by
this arrangement rendered unnecessary, and do not exist. You open a little
bit of your wall if you want to look out, and a bigger bit if you want to
step out. The floor was covered with several thicknesses of very fine
mats, each about six feet long by three broad, deliciously soft to walk
upon. All mats in Japan are of the same size, and everything connected
with house‐building is measured by this standard. Once you have prepared
your foundations and wood‐work of the dimensions of so many mats, it is
the easiest thing in the world to go to a shop and buy a house ready‐made,
which you can then set up and furnish in the scanty Japanese fashion in a
couple of days.
“On one side of the room was a slightly raised daïs, about four inches
from the floor. This was the seat of honour. On it had been placed a
stool, a little bronze ornament, and a china vase, with a branch of
cherry‐blossom and a few flag‐leaves gracefully arranged. On the wall
behind hung pictures, which are changed every month, according to the
season of the year. There was no other furniture of any sort in the room.
Four nice‐looking Japanese girls brought us thick cotton quilts to sit
upon, and braziers full of burning charcoal to warm ourselves by. In the
centre of the group another brazier was placed, protected by a square
wooden grating, and over the whole they laid a large silk eider‐down
quilt, to retain the heat: this is the way in which all the rooms, even
bed‐rooms, are warmed in Japan, and the result is that fires are of very
frequent occurrence. The brazier is kicked over by some restless or
careless person, and in a moment the whole place is in a blaze.”
The following gives a description of a Japanese meal:—“Presently the
eider‐down and brazier were removed, and our dinner was brought in. A
little lacquer table, about six inches high, on which were arrayed a pair
of chop‐sticks, a basin of soup, a bowl for rice, a saki cup, and a basin
of hot water, was placed before each person, whilst the four Japanese
maidens sat in our midst, with fires to keep the _saki_ hot and to light
the tiny pipes with which they were provided, and from which they wished
us to take a whiff after each dish. Saki is a sort of spirit distilled
from rice, always drunk hot out of small cups. In this state it is not
disagreeable, but we found it exceedingly nasty when cold.
“Everything was well cooked and served, though the ingredients of some of
the dishes, as will be seen from the following bill of fare, were rather
strange to our ideas. Still, they were all eatable, and most of them
really palatable.
Soup.
Shrimps and Seaweeds.
Prawns, Egg Omelette, and Preserved Grapes.
Fried Fish, Spinach, Young Rushes, and Young Ginger.
Raw Fish, Mustard and Cress, Horseradish, and Soy.
Thick Soup of Egg, Fish, Mushrooms, and Spinach; Grilled Fish.
Fried Chicken and Bamboo Shoots.
Turnip‐Tops and Root, Pickled.
Rice _ad libitum_ in a large bowl.
Hot Saki, Pipes, and Tea.
“The meal concluded with an enormous lacquer box of rice, from which all
our bowls were filled; the rice being thence conveyed to our mouths by
means of chop‐sticks. We managed very well with these substitutes for
spoons and forks, the knack of using which, to a certain extent, is soon
acquired. The long intervals between the dishes were beguiled with songs,
music, and dancing, performed by professional singing and dancing girls.
The music was somewhat harsh and monotonous, but the songs sounded
harmonious, and the dancing was graceful, though it was rather posturing
than dancing, great use being made of the fan and the long trailing
skirts. The girls, who were pretty, wore peculiar dresses to indicate
their calling, and seemed of an entirely different stamp from the quiet,
simply‐dressed waitresses whom we found so attentive to our wants. Still,
they all looked cheery, light‐hearted, simple creatures, and appeared to
enjoy immensely the little childish games they played amongst themselves
between whiles.
“After dinner we had some real Japanese tea, tasting exactly like a little
hot water poured on very fragrant new‐mown hay. Then, after a brief visit
to the kitchen, which, though small, was beautifully clean, we received
our boots, and were bowed out by our pleasant hostess and her attentive
handmaidens.”
Recommending the perusal of the interesting works last quoted, let us
finish our trip on paper at its natural termination, so far as the route
from San Francisco is concerned, in China, to which country the American
vessels take us in a week or so.
Hong Kong is a commercial port of the first order, but has not come up to
the expectations once made of it. It has not progressed in the same ratio
as has Shanghai. Its situation is picturesque. “Fancy to yourself the rock
of Gibraltar, on a large scale, looking to the north. There facing us is
_terra firma_. Let us scramble up to the flag‐staff, proudly standing on
the highest peak of the mountain. The sun, which is already low, bathes
sky, earth, and sea in crude, fantastic, exaggerated lights. Woe be to the
painter who should dare reproduce such effects! Happy would he be if he
could succeed!
“Towards the south, the sun and the fogs are fighting over the islands,
which at this moment stand out in black groups on a liquid gold ground,
framed in silver. Towards the north we look over the town, officially
called Victoria, and vulgarly Hong Kong. It is stretched out at our feet,
but we only perceive the roofs, the courts, and the streets; further on
the roadstead is crowded with frigates, corvettes, gun‐boats, steamers
belonging to the great companies, and an infinity of smaller steam and
sailing vessels of less tonnage. In front of us, at three or four miles
distance, is a high chain of rocks, bare and rugged, but coloured by the
setting sun with tints of rose colour and crimson, resembling a huge coral
bracelet. That is the continent. Towards the west are the two passages
which lead to Canton and Macao; to the north‐east is a third passage, by
which we ourselves have come. The sea here is like a lake, bordered on one
side by the rocks of _terra firma_, and on the other by the peaks and
summits of the Hong Kong cliffs. I have seen in many other lands softer
and more harmonious effects of light, but I never saw any so strange.
“Victoria is charming, sympathetic, and imposing: English and yet
tropical—a mixture of cottages and palaces. Nowhere can be found a happier
combination between the poetry of nature and the prose of commercial life;
between English comfort and the intoxicating exuberance of the south. The
streets, which are well macadamised, well kept, and beautifully clean, run
in a serpentine fashion along the rock, sometimes between houses, of which
the rather pretentious façades are coquettishly veiled by the verandahs,
sometimes between gardens, bamboo hedges, or stone balustrades. It is like
Ventnor or Shanklin seen through a magnifying‐glass and under a jet of
electric light. Everywhere there are fine trees—banians, bamboos, and
pines. One may go on foot from one end of Hong Kong to the other, and yet
always be in the shade. No one dreams of walking. Nothing is to be seen
but chairs or palanquins. The coolies, their heads sheltered by enormous
straw hats, carry you at a rattling pace. Nothing can be more delicious
than a night promenade in an open sedan‐chair. In the lower part of the
town the scene is most animated and busy; officers and soldiers in red
uniforms and with swarthy complexions (Sepoys), Parsees, Hindoos, Chinese,
Malays, European ladies in elegant toilets, and men and women with
yellowish skins, dressed like Europeans (half‐caste Portuguese). The
higher you climb the quieter you find it. Insensibly the town turns into
country. Scramble up still a little higher, and you are in the middle of
rocks, bare of trees, but covered with odoriferous shrubs, and traversed
by a fine macadamised road, with glimpses of views here and there of
marvellous beauty.”(19)
[Illustration: THE CUSTOM HOUSE, SHANGHAI.]
Shanghai, as another leading port, would naturally be visited by the
tourist of leisure, and it affords a wonderful example of English
enterprise. It is by nature the port of Suchow, ninety miles up the great
Yang‐tse‐Kiang river. Near the city its flat, green, cultivated banks
recall the Humber in Yorkshire. The port is crowded with foreign shipping:
great American steamships, the boats of the English P. and O. Company,
those of the French “Messageries,” merchant steamers straight from London,
Liverpool, and Glasgow, and sailing vessels in numbers. In a picturesque
point of view the place has little to recommend it, but commercially it is
a lively place, nine‐tenths of the capital employed being English, and the
white population counting at least six Englishmen to all the rest of the
foreigners put together. There are three “concessions,” _i.e._, tracts
ceded by the Chinese to the English, French, and Americans, for commercial
purposes. Stone being scarce, these concessions are fringed by enormous
wooden wharves, slips, and piers, outside the warehouses, depôts, and
stores. There are streets of well‐filled shops, where everything is to be
obtained that could be bought in the Strand or Oxford Street. In this
point of view, Hübner tells us, neither Yokohama nor any other European
town in Asia, saving Calcutta and Bombay, can bear a comparison with
Shanghai. The Chinese do not adopt numerals for their shops and
warehouses, but use mottoes and descriptive titles, and the great English
houses have adopted the custom of the country. Messrs. Dent & Co. have for
their _nom de maison_, “Precious and Obliging,” while Messrs. Jardine &
Co. are known, not as number 45, or what‐not, but as “Honest and
Harmonious.”
[Illustration: VIEW OF HONOLULU, SANDWICH ISLANDS.]