Once inside
one might almost fancy oneself three thousand miles from Paris, in
the house of some opulent mandarin of the celestial Empire. Furniture,
carpet, hangings, pictures, all had evidently been imported direct from
Hong Kong or Shanghai. A rich silk tapestry representing brilliantly
coloured figures, covered the walls, and hid the doors from view.
All the empire of the sun and moon was depicted thereon in vermillion
landscapes: corpulent mandarins surrounded by their lantern-bearers;
learned men lay stupefied with opium, sleeping under their parasols;
young girls with elevated eyebrows, stumbled upon their diminutive feet
swathed in bandages. The carpet of a manufacture unknown to Europeans,
was strewn with fruits and flowers, so true to nature that they might
have deceived a bee. Some great artist of Pekin had painted on the silk
which covered the ceiling numerous fantastic birds, opening on azure
ground their wings of purple and gold. Slender rods of lacquer, inlaid
with mother of pearl, bordered the draperies, and marked the angles of
the apartment. Two fantastic looking chests entirely occupied one side
of the room. Articles of furniture of capricious and incoherent forms,
tables with porcelain tops, and chiffoniers of precious woods encumbered
every recess or angle.
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