TWELFTH MOON WANES

Shannon News, 23 April 1926, Page 4

TWELFTH MOON WANES

LONDON’S CHINATOWN. A NEW YEAR FEAST. “Kung-hi!” ’ In the dark arch of the doorway a .Chinese lad, who shivered in. his thin serge coat, bowed and smiled, whispering “Kung-hi!” ("I wish you joy!”) as I went in over a courtyard to the guest-room in the lodging house of Ah Tack in Limehouse Causeway, writes H. V. Morton, in a London paper. It was 11.30 and i I had been invited to see the Chinese New Year in; for the end of the Twelfth Mdon was near. Ah Tack’s hidden little house is the Ritz of Limehouse to all Chinamen who sail the seas to London. I They all lodge with Ah Tack beI tween voyages. In the kitchens hang queer fish and pallid chickens killed in a peculiar manner and instantly boiled; also . quantities of pork. There are turkey’s tongues dried and I powdered, a mixture which the I Chinese believe is good for conI sumption. Ah Tack’s is half-empty [now, because there are fewer Chin--1 ese crews about, but time was when Ihe was ahvays busy. Many of his I guests have no money, but that does I not worry him as it would worry I the manager of the Ritz. He just I smiles and looks impenetrable : J which' means that his expression I does not alter —as he , folds his I hands and says: I “You come again, perhaps next I year?” I And his penniless guest replies: I "Most assuredly, and then most I honourable debt will be discharged ] Off he goes. It may be years af--1 ter, but the bill is always settled — I now and then by a relative of the [debtor! A. strang4 .hotel for a I strange people. They' seem to have } a marked sense of the unrealities; I they seem to me to go through life I with a waiting-room air as it conJ scious that they possess a return I ticket to Paradise ...

' Tlie Sage’s Shrine. I crossed the courtyard and entered the room. In all London that night there was no stranger scene. Six or seven sat smoking on chairs round an ordinary kitchen range. At the end of the room was a shrine which extended from the floor to the ceiling. It was made of red wood, and the central feature was a picture of Confucius. The sage, sat there in crimson silk philosophising above his thin, black, drooping moustache on this stone Limehouse kitchen. Before him burned two tall garlanded candles: On either side of the candles were white flowers in vases, plates piled with oranges, washed and polished, and a big plum cake. This room is the only temple of .Confucius in London. On week-days tttp shrine is used as a 1 kind of sideboard, and the cat sleeps on it in a basket. Sometimes a Chinaman will put down his cigarette and sit before it for a long time, shivering and muttering things to himself —or Confucius—oblivious, apparently, of the cat and the empty beer bottle, which would strike a false note with us.

“Good evening,” said Ah Tack. “I velly glad to see you.” 1-Ie was in shirt sleeves, which seem the badge of his office, and he wore a black velour hat. He introduced me to his lodgers. We bowed stiffly, and smiled. Then Ah Tack took up a pewter teapot and poured out a drink for me into a wine cup. It was neat whisky. like Ancient Egypt . You must realise that -it was,, I take it, an emotional occasion. The Twelfth Moon had but a half-hour to its wane. We sat watching the clock and sipping- the fire water. The candles burned with a steady yellowness that brought out the crimson in the robe of Confucius. The eat walked in, took one look at the lit shrine, and wenlt out again. The Chinamen began to talk in that cupped sing-song which 1 find most difficult to follow. They talked about Shanghai. They talked about NewYear’s Eve at home, in China . . . shops closed for three days . lanterns in all the houses . . . cakes and fruit and flowers . . . Chinese crackers that went bang-bang-bang and covered the floor with soft red paper. New Year’s - Eve, the day that all Chinese debts are paid.

Ah 'Taclc rase, as if sad memories stirred within him, and poured himself out another neat whisky! The door opened and two wizened little Chinamen came in as silently a-s blown leaves. They drifted up to the shrine and, whispering, accepted a drink. The clock ticked on . . I began to feel (as Ah Tuck solemnly toasted me every two. minutes in neat whisky) that I was assisting at the service of some deca:/ed priesthood; at a ceremony which had lingered on from remote ages. Scenes like this must have taken place early in Christian times, when (he last priests of Thebes gathered tc celebrate the resurrection of Osiris, hardly knowing the meaning of the things they did, giying- utterance tc the death-rattle of a faith. Jt was like that. The Hour of Twelve. It was uncannily solemn and deliberate. I wondered what they were really thinking, these expression l es;s exiles. I wished they would show me some animation. I watched the clock anxiously, feeling that when midnight struck something remarkable and dramatic would occur. Perhaps they would pray before the fihrine ... It was five minutes to twelve. The cat came in, vex-y annoyed at being kept up, and attempted to reach Confucius. Ah Tack went round with the alcoholic teapot. (I think we all looked fairly swhnmy about the eyes.) Then midnight. “Happy New Year,” said Ah Tack,

rising and removing his velour hat. “Sin-hi . . ; . Sin-hi!” cried his guests, which means “May joy be yours!” Then Ah Tack advanced to the altar and took a knife. His guests put on their hats and sat down. Someone put coal on the fire. I sat watching Ah Tack’s priestly back moving about before Confucius, and it occurred the me that it would not he in the least surprising if he suddenly offered up a sacrifice. These composed, deliberate face* affect one like that. Nothing would be sur-pi-ising. He waved the knife in the air put it down on the altar, and came toward me: “Have a mincey pie?” he said. I took an admirable mince pie, and so did everyone. It was full of anti-climax. Ah Tack shuffled -to the shrine and began burning brown paper. , “What are you doing?” “Making good luck,” he said. “Much good luck.” On each piece of paper was written a sum of money. He gave thousands of pounds to the flames, sacrificing, I suppose, to the God of Wealth. I asked him for the slip oh the tear-off calendar, and, bidding eveiycne good-night and a happy New Year, walked out. into the cold, dead of Limehouse feeling that I had been to a rather sad secret society that was on its last legs and in urgent need of subsci’iptions.