"One of the most romantic looking cities that imagination can picture"

"The Canton Chinese, Or The American's Sojourn In The Celestial Empire" é um título que se insere na categoria de literatura de viagem publicado nos EUA em 1849. Foi escrito por Osmond Tiffany Jr. (1823-1895) e relata a sua viagem pelo Oriente com passagem por Macau em 1844. Pode considerar-se um dos primeiros registos de um turista em viagem de lazer.

Na introdução o autor explica o que pretendeu deixar como testemunho:

"In May 1844 I sailed in the barque "Pioneer for Canton" and after a tedious passage arrived at Macao on the 22d of September following. It was uncertain how long we should remain but thought at first that our stay would occupy a very few days. We at once went to Canton and as I had little or nothing to do connected with the vessel my time was my own and I soon found that it was amply employed. Desirous of studying as far as lay in my power the aspect manners customs habits and ranks of Chinese life I determined to come in actual contact with the people instead of remaining in the hongs and obtaining all my information from the numerous books which had been written on the Celestials. In this spirit, day after day, I went about the streets into all kinds of shops passed much time on the densely peopled river and made acquaintance as far as lay in my power with the various ranks of the inhabitants."

Em cima o convento/igreja e Forte de S. Francisco. 

Em baixo uma pintura que retrata a baía da Praia Grande junto ao fortim de S. Pedro.

Duas ilustrações da época (não incluídas na obra referida)

A passagem de Osmond Tiffany por Macau deu-se após uma estadia em Cantão. Fez a viagem por via marítima até Hong Kong e depois seguiu para Macau de onde partiu rumo a casa. 

Excerto do capítulo 13 "Macao and Hong Kong":

"Across the broad sheet of water that forms the mouth of the Pekiang River lies the old city of Macao. Enter a ship and spreading sail dash out of the harbor of Hong Kong and a few hours run brings you within hailing distance of the old Portuguese city. There is nothing Chinese in its appearance it bears a striking resemblance to Naples in its curving beach and hills and its buildings. Around the beach is a stone pier wide and level the resort of the inhabitants at the hour of sunset when the sea breeze comes gently over the waves. 

The quiet of the place is also soothing after the close reeking Canton and the upstart Hong Kong The residents enjoy perfect freedom from the curiosity or ill will of the natives and one may live in complete European style.

The houses are in many instances large with vast rooms palatial staircases and mysterious verandahs behind which a great deal of fun is often going on. Along the pier the garden gates of these old residences warily open and disclose the gay parterres the solitary courts and green lattices. 

Macao is one of the most romantic looking cities that imagination can picture probably the illusion is increased after a sojourn among the matter of fact Chinese but its air of loneliness and antiquity is always interesting. Every thing in China is old so old as to run back into dim ages but in Macao the time worn buildings date only a few centuries prior to our own being.

The inhabitants look as secluded and as singular as the houses in the broad day few are seen but in the evening they saunter along the beach and the women in the garb of old Portugal turn a dark eye on the stranger. Few of the residents are of consequence they are of old decayed families as proud as Lucifer the men lazy and the women mischievous and they doze away the days and only appear as the night approaches.

A man sick of the world worn out and disgusted with himself and every one else would find Macao a home more suited to his palled tastes and jaded spirit than any other spot that I could name.

Around the city are good roads and one may pass the barrier enjoy a gallop along the sands wind around by the native fort and look far over the bay from the green eminence. The cave of Camoens is a shrine for all who ever heard the name of the first. I might almost say the only poet that Portugal can claim. Here in sight of the rolling wave it is said he wrote his Lusiad and the old residents would utter a curse on him who dared to doubt the story. Be that as it may he was banished to this spot and if it bore its present look in his time his feelings might have flowed in poetry.

The Chinese town back of the city is a hole of filth and wretchedness which few persons find worth visiting. Along the brow of the hill are scattered mansions surrounded with high walls and in the midst of large cultivated inclosures. Pleasure grounds with bright grass and luxuriant trees houses with vast airy apartments and the perfect seclusion of these chosen spots make Macao beautiful. It was my good fortune to be domiciled in one of these for the little time I spent in the old city. The house was an ancient family property with a hall wide and lofty enough for a palace in Lisbon. It was placed on the summit of the hill and from its deep shaded verandah the eye could through the waving trees catch glimpses of the city below and of the broad blue flashing bay. Above the garden on a precipitous crag an old deserted convent rose high into air. Throughout the day the breeze blew through the halls and the sun's fierceness was tempered by the leafy shade. And when the luminary sunk in his splendor and twilight stillness brooded over the scene the ear drank in the music that arose where the curving beach bent in pity to the moan of the waters. (...)