reigners, unacquainted with the
marvellous abundance of human life in very small spaces, as it is seen
in China, are very rarely correct. For instance, it is not uncommon to
find that residents of this city differ as much as a million of people
in their views of its population, their estimates ranging from nine
hundred thousand to two million. It is not unlikely that a medium
between these two extremes will prove to be correct, the figure twelve
hundred thousand appearing to be the favorite at present among those
conversant with the great changes of the last year.[1]

Unfortunately this vast increase in so short a period has led to great
mortality among the Chinese, from the dense crowding it has occasioned,
and in the summer months they are severe sufferers from Asiatic cholera,
which rages among them with shocking mortality. The air, even of the
foreign concessions, becomes tainted by the foul miasma rising from the
Chinese city, and no part of Shanghai can be esteemed healthy in the
months of July and August. A more perfect system of drainage in the
foreign concessions will probably lessen the mortality among Europeans,
and it is pleasing to note that this matter is now receiving the
attention which should have been given to it years ago; but no system of
laws or attempts at organizing better sanitary arrangements can
seemingly be successful among the Chinese themselves. Large sums of
money are now appropriated annually for these purposes, according to
their own account, but the mandarins embezzle it, the work is left
undone, and the filth and horrible stench of a Chinese city is
indescribable; it is something monstrous. Europeans and Americans,
accustomed to their own cleanly cities, cannot conceive of it. New York
streets have an unenviable notoriety on the Western continent for their
dirty condition, but New York is a garden of roses compared with a
genuine Chinese city, such as Shanghai within the walls. Even the
Chinese, who might be supposed to be accustomed to it, carry little bags
of musk to their noses as they ride through in their sedans; and half
the Chinese women one meets in Shanghai hold the nostril with the
forefinger and thumb, with a grace and dexterity only acquired by long
practice.

Mr. Fortune, the celebrated botanist[1] and indefatigable Chinese
traveller, gives to Tient-sin the glory of being the filthiest and most
noisome of Chinese cities, although he mentions Shanghai with high
honor. Cant