The Californian, 1882, Vol. 6: A Western Monthly Magazine (Classic Reprint) (Paperback)
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Language: English . Brand New Book ***** Print on Demand *****.Excerpt from The Californian, 1882, Vol. 6: A Western Monthly Magazine Casting aside, then, all thoughts as to his present or future effect upon our civilization, let us look upon him for himself, regarding him more as a piece of animated bric-a-brac - which he largely resembles - than anything else. The Chinese idea seems to be, as a rule, to do everything as exactly opposite to our way as possible, though perhaps the Chinese idea is that it is we who do everything outlandishly, and they who are right. Be that as it may, we will study them from our standpoint. The stroller on Kearney Street, feeling inclined for a cup of chocolate and a roll, steps into a restaurant, where the best display possible is made in the room he enters. The stroller on Dupont Street, one block farther west, wishing to taste a cup of tea, passes without stopping through a room opening on the street, where nothing seems designed to tempt or invite; and ascending one flight of dingy, smoke-begrimed stairs, finds himself in the second-class department of the establishment. If he chooses to rest there, he may be served with such as the common herd enjoy, and at corresponding prices. But should he soar, as it were, should he desire to move in what are literally the upper circles, he climbs another stair. This, in an American establishment, would bring him in the vicinity of the garret, and a greater or less degree of poverty; but here his eye is greeted, and somewhat startled it may be, by a wealth of carving, gilding, and bright colors. The Chinaman has a decided eye for color - or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say an eye for decided colors - and revels in startling combinations of green, yellow, and red. He is lavish, too, of gold-leaf, laying it on in solid masses, and ornamenting his gods and goddesses, warriors, chiefs, etc., with innumerable fluffy flakes of it, which tremble and quiver in every passing breeze. The furniture is the best the proprietor can command: of dark wood, sometimes ebony, carved and gilded. A balcony opening from the room gives a bird s-eye view of the passing throng below. The fang ti s gas gives light, tis true, but the beloved lanterns of his fatherland hang profusely about, gladdening his eye with the memories of a home across the ocean, and compensating him in some respect for the absence of the hundred or so of odoriferous tallow candles which would have performed its duty in the city of perfect delight. The proprietor does not in most cases possess the suaviter in modo - the manner, as it were - of his French prototype in the block below. The waiters do not wear dress-coats, but are somewhat prone to carry their hats on their heads. There is a general lack of what to us constitutes ceremony and style. But in his own way, with a banquet for a dozen to arrange, he is as ceremonious and profoundly impressed with the importance of his mission as any chef of the cordon blue. As we are not probably of those who dine at the ambassador s table, or attend grand banquets given by the upper-ten of Chinadom, we will content ourselves with a passing glance at the large circular table yonder, where appear, in symmetrical, concentric circles, a regiment of toy dishes, each with some delicacy as strange to our barbarian taste as its hue and odor to our other senses; and seating ourselves at a less pretentious board, request the boy to bring us some tea and sweetmeats. If he brings us cakes, we will not kill him; but we will not eat the cakes, lest they kill us. Watch him as he brings the tea, and learn the only true and proper way to concoct that beverage. First, two little pewter holders, in which the cups are set, and so prevented from tipping; then some tea leaves, I don t know how many or how much; then the cups are filled with boiling, fiery, red-hot water, and covered in a trice with saucers fitting just inside their rims. We stand our cups in saucers; he sta.

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Excerpt from The Californian, 1882, Vol. 6: A Western Monthly Magazine Casting aside, then, all thoughts as to his present or future effect upon our civilization, let us look upon him for himself, regarding him more as a piece of animated bric-a-brac - which he largely resembles - than anything else. The Chinese idea seems to be, as a rule, to do everything as exactly opposite to our way as possible, though perhaps the Chinese idea is that it is we who do everything outlandishly, and they who are right. Be that as it may, we will study them from our standpoint. The stroller on Kearney Street, feeling inclined for a cup of chocolate and a roll, steps into a restaurant, where the best display possible is made in the room he enters. The stroller on Dupont Street, one block farther west, wishing to taste a cup of tea, passes without stopping through a room opening on the street, where nothing seems designed to tempt or invite; and ascending one flight of dingy, smoke-begrimed stairs, finds himself in the second-class department of the establishment. If he chooses to rest there, he may be served with such as the common herd enjoy, and at corresponding prices. But should he soar, as it were, should he desire to move in what are literally the "upper circles," he climbs another stair. This, in an American establishment, would bring him in the vicinity of the garret, and a greater or less degree of poverty; but here his eye is greeted, and somewhat startled it may be, by a wealth of carving, gilding, and bright colors. The Chinaman has a decided eye for color - or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say an eye for decided colors - and revels in startling combinations of green, yellow, and red. He is lavish, too, of gold-leaf, laying it on in solid masses, and ornamenting his gods and goddesses, warriors, chiefs, etc., with innumerable fluffy flakes of it, which tremble and quiver in every passing breeze. The furniture is the best the proprietor can command: of dark wood, sometimes ebony, carved and gilded. A balcony opening from the room gives a bird's-eye view of the passing throng below. The "fang ti's" gas gives light, 'tis true, but the beloved lanterns of his fatherland hang profusely about, gladdening his eye with the memories of a home across the ocean, and compensating him in some respect for the absence of the hundred or so of odoriferous tallow candles which would have performed its duty in "the city of perfect delight." The proprietor does not in most cases possess the suaviter in modo - the "manner," as it were - of his French prototype in the block below. The waiters do not wear dress-coats, but are somewhat prone to carry their hats on their heads. There is a general lack of what to us constitutes ceremony and style. But in his own way, with a banquet for a dozen to arrange, he is as ceremonious and profoundly impressed with the importance of his mission as any "chef" of the "cordon blue." As we are not probably of those who dine at the ambassador's table, or attend grand banquets given by the upper-ten of Chinadom, we will content ourselves with a passing glance at the large circular table yonder, where appear, in symmetrical, concentric circles, a regiment of toy dishes, each with some delicacy as strange to our barbarian taste as its hue and odor to our other senses; and seating ourselves at a less pretentious board, request the "boy" to bring us some tea and sweetmeats. If he brings us cakes, we will not kill him; but we will not eat the cakes, lest they kill us. Watch him as he brings the tea, and learn the only true and proper way to concoct that beverage. First, two little pewter holders, in which the cups are set, and so prevented from tipping; then some tea leaves, I don't know how many or how much; then the cups are filled with boiling, fiery, red-hot water, and covered in a trice with saucers fitting just inside their rims. We stand our cups in saucers; he stands his saucers upside, Paperback, Label: Forgotten Books, Forgotten Books, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2015-09-27, Studio: Forgotten Books.

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Unknown Author, Books, Fiction and Literature, Fiction, The Californian, 1882, Vol. 6: A Western Monthly Magazine (Classic Reprint), The Californian, 1882, Vol. 6: A Western Monthly Magazine (Classic Reprint).

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