The streets with shops, present the most wonderful vista of untidy ends of tattered rags flying from poles, of dingy decorations of strips of paper or cloth hanging over the doorways. The houses have a mean appearance, being only of one story, and their walls, unless they are of mud, consist of carved wood openwork, covered in with tattered yellow paper. I think I may truly say that I never saw one, where the paper was not torn and discoloured. Occasionally you come upon a shop, bright with the names of the goods written in gold and scarlet or green. They were originally all like this, and this one is only recently finished, yet in a few months will become as dull and dirty as the rest. Everything is allowed to run to decay. The Chinese never seem to think it necessary to repair or re-decorate, and the climate powerfully aids in this destruction.
In many of the streets, the road is raised on an embankment of loose dust, and then bordered by an empty space, where the garbage of the dwelling-house is increased by the refuse from the various trades pursued in it, and which is thrown out indiscriminately to fester and decay in the hot sun, or it is occupied by cheap-jacks who lay their goods in the dust, hawking and crying their wares. Here are rows of lanterns with a primitive wooden receptacle for the lamp, filled in with opaque paper, and frequent watch-houses, whence the watchmen patrol the city at night with the muffled beat of a gong.
The life in these streets, straggling, ill-compacted, and grimy as they are, is yet full of vivid interest. Not that these open shop fronts, or grimy pig-tailed men, can compare with the fascinating life of a dear little Japanese street. Here is a tea-house, with the distinguishing sign of ornamental green and gold wooden drums outside, and inside a crowd sitting cross-legged on benches, each with a bowl and chopsticks held within an inch of his nose, shovelling his food rapidly into his mouth. There a man with rows of little black balls spread out before his shop; he is a coal and these balls are made of clay mixed with coal dust--a most economical method of firing. That house in the middle with glazed windows is a bank, and whenever we see a particularly bright exterior, we may be sure that it belongs to a pawnbroker, for he does a large business, the Chinese being ever ready to pawn their all for a good gamble or perhaps a whiff of opium, as some unfortunates at home will do for a last drink. There is a man squatted on the ground, shaking some sticks in a bamboo-holder. He is largely patronized, men coming and going and choosing out a stick and putting it back with either a pleasing or dissatisfied look. He is a fortune-teller. Or there is a group intent on a game of hazard, when the stakes in question are a few cash. Yes! these Chinese are certainly inveterate gamblers, and would gamble their food, their clothing, anything away. Or it is a juggler with a simple apparatus giving a street performance, and many of our best tricks are, as we see, borrowed from the Chinese conjuror.