WAN LEE, THE PAGAN
As I opened Hop Sing's letter, there fluttered to the ground a squarestrip of yellow paper covered with hieroglyphics, which, at firstglance, I innocently took to be the label from a pack of Chinesefire-crackers. But the same envelope also contained a smaller strip ofrice-paper, with two Chinese characters traced in India ink, that Iat once knew to be Hop Sing's visiting-card. The whole, as afterwardsliterally translated, ran as follows:--
"To the stranger the gates of my house are not closed: the rice-jar ison the left, and the sweetmeats on the right, as you enter.
Two sayings of the Master:--
Hospitality is the virtue of the son and the wisdom of the ancestor.
The Superior man is light hearted after the crop-gathering: he makes afestival.
When the stranger is in your melon-patch, observe him not too closely:inattention is often the highest form of civility.
Happiness, Peace, and Prosperity.
HOP SING."
Admirable, certainly, as was this morality and proverbial wisdom, andalthough this last axiom was very characteristic of my friend Hop Sing,who was that most sombre of all humorists, a Chinese philosopher, I mustconfess, that, even after a very free translation, I was at a loss tomake any immediate application of the message. Luckily I discovered athird enclosure in the shape of a little note in English, and Hop Sing'sown commercial hand. It ran thus:--
"The pleasure of your company is requested at No. -- Sacramento Street,on Friday evening at eight o'clock. A cup of tea at nine,--sharp.
"HOP SING."
This explained all. It meant a visit to Hop Sing's warehouse, theopening and exhibition of some rare Chinese novelties and curios, a chatin the back office, a cup of tea of a perfection unknown beyond thesesacred precincts, cigars, and a visit to the Chinese theatre or temple.This was, in fact, the favorite programme of Hop Sing when he exercisedhis functions of hospitality as the chief factor or superintendent ofthe Ning Foo Company.
At eight o'clock on Friday evening, I entered the warehouse of Hop Sing.There was that deliciously commingled mysterious foreign odor that I hadso often noticed; there was the old array of uncouth-looking objects,the long procession of jars and crockery, the same singular blending ofthe grotesque and the mathematically neat and exact, the same endlesssuggestions of frivolity and fragility, the same want of harmony incolors, that were each, in themselves, beautiful and rare. Kites in theshape of enormous dragons and gigantic butterflies; kites so ingeniouslyarranged as to utter at intervals, when facing the wind, the cry of ahawk; kites so large as to be beyond any boy's power of restraint,--solarge that you understood why kite-flying in China was an amusement foradults; gods of china and bronze so gratuitously ugly as to be beyondany human interest or sympathy from their very impossibility; jars ofsweetmeats covered all over with moral sentiments from Confucius; hatsthat looked like baskets, and baskets that looked like hats; silks solight that I hesitate to record the incredible number of square yardsthat you might pass through the ring on your little finger,--these, anda great many other indescribable objects, were all familiar to me. Ipushed my way through the dimly-lighted warehouse, until I reached theback office, or parlor, where I found Hop Sing waiting to receive me.
Before I describe him, I want the average reader to discharge fromhis mind any idea of a Chinaman that he may have gathered from thepantomime. He did not wear beautifully scalloped drawers fringed withlittle bells (I never met a Chinaman who did); he did not habituallycarry his forefinger extended before him at right angles with his body;nor did I ever hear him utter the mysterious sentence, "Ching a ringa ring chaw;" nor dance under any provocation. He was, on the whole,a rather grave, decorous, handsome gentleman. His complexion, whichextended all over his head, except where his long pig-tail grew, waslike a very nice piece of glazed brown paper-muslin. His eyes were blackand bright, and his eyelids set at an angle of fifteen degrees; his nosestraight, and delicately formed; his mouth small; and his teeth whiteand clean. He wore a dark blue silk blouse; and in the streets, on colddays, a short jacket of astrachan fur. He wore, also, a pair of drawersof blue brocade gathered tightly over his calves and ankles, offeringa general sort of suggestion, that he had forgotten his trousers thatmorning, but that, so gentlemanly were his manners, his friends hadforborne to mention the fact to him. His manner was urbane, althoughquite serious. He spoke French and English fluently. In brief, I doubtif you could have found the equal of this Pagan shopkeeper among theChristian traders of San Francisco.
There were a few others present,--a judge of the Federal Court, aneditor, a high government official, and a prominent merchant. After wehad drunk our tea, and tasted a few sweetmeats from a mysterious jar,that looked as if it might contain a preserved mouse among its othernondescript treasures, Hop Sing arose, and, gravely beckoning us tofollow him, began to descend to the basement. When we got there, we wereamazed at finding it brilliantly lighted, and that a number of chairswere arranged in a half-circle on the asphalt pavement. When he hadcourteously seated us, he said,--
"I have invited you to witness a performance which I can at leastpromise you no other foreigners but yourselves have ever seen. Wang,the court-juggler, arrived here yesterday morning. He has never given aperformance outside of the palace before. I have asked him to entertainmy friends this evening. He requires no theatre, stage accessories, orany confederate,--nothing more than you see here. Will you be pleased toexamine the ground yourselves, gentlemen."
Of course we examined the premises. It was the ordinary basement orcellar of the San Francisco storehouse, cemented to keep out the damp.We poked our sticks into the pavement, and rapped on the walls, tosatisfy our polite host--but for no other purpose. We were quite contentto be the victims of any clever deception. For myself, I knew I wasready to be deluded to any extent, and, if I had been offered anexplanation of what followed, I should have probably declined it.
Although I am satisfied that Wang's general performance was the first ofthat kind ever given on American soil, it has, probably, since become sofamiliar to many of my readers, that I shall not bore them with it here.He began by setting to flight, with the aid of his fan, the usual numberof butterflies, made before our eyes of little bits of tissue-paper, andkept them in the air during the remainder of the performance. I have avivid recollection of the judge trying to catch one that had lit on hisknee, and of its evading him with the pertinacity of a living insect.And, even at this time, Wang, still plying his fan, was taking chickensout of hats, making oranges disappear, pulling endless yards of silkfrom his sleeve, apparently filling the whole area of the basement withgoods that appeared mysteriously from the ground, from his own sleeves,from nowhere! He swallowed knives to the ruin of his digestion for yearsto come; he dislocated every limb of his body; he reclined in the air,apparently upon nothing. But his crowning performance, which I havenever yet seen repeated, was the most weird, mysterious, and astounding.It is my apology for this long introduction, my sole excuse for writingthis article, and the genesis of this veracious history.
He cleared the ground of its encumbering articles for a space of aboutfifteen feet square, and then invited us all to walk forward, andagain examine it. We did so gravely. There was nothing but the cementedpavement below to be seen or felt. He then asked for the loan of ahandkerchief; and, as I chanced to be nearest him, I offered mine. Hetook it, and spread it open upon the floor. Over this he spread a largesquare of silk, and over this, again, a large shawl nearly covering thespace he had cleared. He then took a position at one of the points ofthis rectangle, and began a monotonous chant, rocking his body to andfro in time with the somewhat lugubrious air.
We sat still and waited. Above the chant we could hear the strikingof the city clocks, and the occasional rattle of a cart in the streetoverhead. The absolute watchfulness and expectation, the dim, mysterioushalf-light of the cellar falling in a grewsome way upon the misshapenbulk of a Chinese deity in the back ground, a faint smell of opium-smokemingling with sp
ice, and the dreadful uncertainty of what we were reallywaiting for, sent an uncomfortable thrill down our backs, and made uslook at each other with a forced and unnatural smile. This feeling washeightened when Hop Sing slowly rose, and, without a word, pointed withhis finger to the centre of the shawl.
There was something beneath the shawl. Surely--and something that wasnot there before; at first a mere suggestion in relief, a faint outline,but growing more and more distinct and visible every moment. The chantstill continued; the perspiration began to roll from the singer's face;gradually the hidden object took upon itself a shape and bulk thatraised the shawl in its centre some five or six inches. It was nowunmistakably the outline of a small but perfect human figure, withextended arms and legs. One or two of us turned pale. There was afeeling of general uneasiness, until the editor broke the silence by agibe, that, poor as it was, was received with spontaneous enthusiasm.Then the chant suddenly ceased. Wang arose, and with a quick, dexterousmovement, stripped both shawl and silk away, and discovered, sleepingpeacefully upon my handkerchief, a tiny Chinese baby.
The applause and uproar which followed this revelation ought to havesatisfied Wang, even if his audience was a small one: it was loud enoughto awaken the baby,--a pretty little boy about a year old, lookinglike a Cupid cut out of sandal-wood. He was whisked away almost asmysteriously as he appeared. When Hop Sing returned my handkerchief tome with a bow, I asked if the juggler was the father of the baby. "Nosabe!" said the imperturbable Hop Sing, taking refuge in that Spanishform of non-committalism so common in California.
"But does he have a new baby for every performance?" I asked. "Perhaps:who knows?"--"But what will become of this one?"--"Whatever you choose,gentlemen," replied Hop Sing with a courteous inclination. "It was bornhere: you are its godfathers."
There were two characteristic peculiarities of any Californianassemblage in 1856,--it was quick to take a hint, and generous to thepoint of prodigality in its response to any charitable appeal. Nomatter how sordid or avaricious the individual, he could not resist theinfection of sympathy. I doubled the points of my handkerchief intoa bag, dropped a coin into it, and, without a word, passed it to thejudge. He quietly added a twenty-dollar gold-piece, and passed it to thenext. When it was returned to me, it contained over a hundred dollars. Iknotted the money in the handkerchief, and gave it to Hop Sing.
"For the baby, from its godfathers."
"But what name?" said the judge. There was a running fire of "Erebus,""Nox," "Plutus," "Terra Cotta," "Antaeus," &c. Finally the question wasreferred to our host.
"Why not keep his own name?" he said quietly,--"Wan Lee." And he did.
And thus was Wan Lee, on the night of Friday, the 5th of March, 1856,born into this veracious chronicle.
The last form of "The Northern Star" for the 19th of July, 1865,--theonly daily paper published in Klamath County,--had just gone to press;and at three, A.M., I was putting aside my proofs and manuscripts,preparatory to going home, when I discovered a letter lying undersome sheets of paper, which I must have overlooked. The envelope wasconsiderably soiled: it had no post-mark; but I had no difficulty inrecognizing the hand of my friend Hop Sing. I opened it hurriedly, andread as follows:--
"MY DEAR SIR,--I do not know whether the bearer will suit you; but,unless the office of 'devil' in your newspaper is a purely technicalone, I think he has all the qualities required. He is very quick,active, and intelligent; understands English better than he speaks it;and makes up for any defect by his habits of observation and imitation.You have only to show him how to do a thing once, and he will repeatit, whether it is an offence or a virtue. But you certainly know himalready. You are one of his godfathers; for is he not Wan Lee, thereputed son of Wang the conjurer, to whose performances I had the honorto introduce you? But perhaps you have forgotten it.
"I shall send him with a gang of coolies to Stockton, thence by expressto your town. If you can use him there, you will do me a favor, andprobably save his life, which is at present in great peril from thehands of the younger members of your Christian and highly-civilized racewho attend the enlightened schools in San Francisco.
"He has acquired some singular habits and customs from his experienceof Wang's profession, which he followed for some years,--until he becametoo large to go in a hat, or be produced from his father's sleeve. Themoney you left with me has been expended on his education. He has gonethrough the Tri-literal Classics, but, I think, without much benefit. Heknows but little of Confucius, and absolutely nothing of Mencius. Owingto the negligence of his father, he associated, perhaps, too much withAmerican children.
"I should have answered your letter before, by post; but I thought thatWan Lee himself would be a better messenger for this.
"Yours respectfully,
"HOP SING."
And this was the long-delayed answer to my letter to Hop Sing. But wherewas "the bearer"? How was the letter delivered? I summoned hastily theforeman, printers, and office-boy, but without eliciting any thing. Noone had seen the letter delivered, nor knew any thing of the bearer. Afew days later, I had a visit from my laundry-man, Ah Ri.
"You wantee debbil? All lightee: me catchee him."
He returned in a few moments with a bright-looking Chinese boy, aboutten years old, with whose appearance and general intelligence I was sogreatly impressed, that I engaged him on the spot. When the business wasconcluded, I asked his name.
"Wan Lee," said the boy.
"What! Are you the boy sent out by Hop Sing? What the devil do you meanby not coming here before? and how did you deliver that letter?"
Wan Lee looked at me, and laughed. "Me pitchee in top side window."
I did not understand. He looked for a moment perplexed, and then,snatching the letter out of my hand, ran down the stairs. After amoment's pause, to my great astonishment, the letter came flying in thewindow, circled twice around the room, and then dropped gently, likea bird upon my table. Before I had got over my surprise, Wan Leere-appeared, smiled, looked at the letter and then at me, said, "So,John," and then remained gravely silent. I said nothing further; but itwas understood that this was his first official act.
His next performance, I grieve to say, was not attended with equalsuccess. One of our regular paper-carriers fell sick, and, at a pinch,Wan Lee was ordered to fill his place. To prevent mistakes, he was shownover the route the previous evening, and supplied at about daylight withthe usual number of subscribers' copies. He returned, after an hour,in good spirits, and without the papers. He had delivered them all, hesaid.
Unfortunately for Wan Lee, at about eight o'clock, indignant subscribersbegan to arrive at the office. They had received their copies; but how?In the form of hard-pressed cannon-balls, delivered by a single shot,and a mere tour de force, through the glass of bedroom-windows. They hadreceived them full in the face, like a base ball, if they happened to beup and stirring; they had received them in quarter-sheets, tucked in atseparate windows; they had found them in the chimney, pinned againstthe door, shot through attic-windows, delivered in long slips throughconvenient keyholes, stuffed into ventilators, and occupying the samecan with the morning's milk. One subscriber, who waited for some timeat the office-door to have a personal interview with Wan Lee (thencomfortably locked in my bedroom), told me, with tears of rage inhis eyes, that he had been awakened at five o'clock by a most hideousyelling below his windows; that, on rising in great agitation, he wasstartled by the sudden appearance of "The Northern Star," rolled hard,and bent into the form of a boomerang, or East-Indian club, that sailedinto the window, described a number of fiendish circles in the room,knocked over the light, slapped the baby's face, "took" him (thesubscriber) "in the jaw," and then returned out of the window, anddropped helplessly in the area. During the rest of the day, wads andstrips of soiled paper, purporting to be copies of "The Northern Star"of that morning's issue, were brought indignantly to the office. Anadmirable editorial on "The Resources of Humboldt County," which I hadconstructed the evening before, and which, I h
ad reason to believe,might have changed the whole balance of trade during the ensuing year,and left San Francisco bankrupt at her wharves, was in this way lost tothe public.
It was deemed advisable for the next three weeks to keep Wan Lee closelyconfined to the printing-office, and the purely mechanical part of thebusiness. Here he developed a surprising quickness and adaptability,winning even the favor and good will of the printers and foreman, whoat first looked upon his introduction into the secrets of their trade asfraught with the gravest political significance. He learned to set typereadily and neatly, his wonderful skill in manipulation aiding him inthe mere mechanical act, and his ignorance of the language confining himsimply to the mechanical effort, confirming the printer's axiom, thatthe printer who considers or follows the ideas of his copy makes a poorcompositor. He would set up deliberately long diatribes against himself,composed by his fellow-printers, and hung on his hook as copy, and evensuch short sentences as "Wan Lee is the devil's own imp," "Wan Lee is aMongolian rascal," and bring the proof to me with happiness beaming fromevery tooth, and satisfaction shining in his huckleberry eyes.
It was not long, however, before he learned to retaliate on hismischievous persecutors. I remember one instance in which his reprisalcame very near involving me in a serious misunderstanding. Our foreman'sname was Webster; and Wan Lee presently learned to know and recognizethe individual and combined letters of his name. It was during apolitical campaign; and the eloquent and fiery Col. Starbottle ofSiskyou had delivered an effective speech, which was reported especiallyfor "The Northern Star." In a very sublime peroration, Col. Starbottlehad said, "In the language of the godlike Webster, I repeat"--and herefollowed the quotation, which I have forgotten. Now, it chanced that WanLee, looking over the galley after it had been revised, saw the name ofhis chief persecutor, and, of course, imagined the quotation his. Afterthe form was locked up, Wan Lee took advantage of Webster's absence toremove the quotation, and substitute a thin piece of lead, of the samesize as the type, engraved with Chinese characters, making a sentence,which, I had reason to believe, was an utter and abject confession ofthe incapacity and offensiveness of the Webster family generally, andexceedingly eulogistic of Wan Lee himself personally.
The next morning's paper contained Col. Starbottle's speech in full,in which it appeared that the "godlike" Webster had, on one occasion,uttered his thoughts in excellent but perfectly enigmatical Chinese. Therage of Col. Starbottle knew no bounds. I have a vivid recollection ofthat admirable man walking into my office, and demanding a retraction ofthe statement.
"But my dear sir," I asked, "are you willing to deny, over your ownsignature, that Webster ever uttered such a sentence? Dare you deny,that, with Mr. Webster's well-known attainments, a knowledge of Chinesemight not have been among the number? Are you willing to submit atranslation suitable to the capacity of our readers, and deny, uponyour honor as a gentleman, that the late Mr. Webster ever uttered such asentiment? If you are, sir, I am willing to publish your denial."
The colonel was not, and left, highly indignant.
Webster, the foreman, took it more coolly. Happily, he was unaware,that, for two days after, Chinamen from the laundries, from the gulches,from the kitchens, looked in the front office-door, with faces beamingwith sardonic delight; that three hundred extra copies of the "Star"were ordered for the wash-houses on the river. He only knew, that,during the day, Wan Lee occasionally went off into convulsive spasms,and that he was obliged to kick him into consciousness again. A weekafter the occurrence, I called Wan Lee into my office.
"Wan," I said gravely, "I should like you to give me, for my ownpersonal satisfaction, a translation of that Chinese sentence whichmy gifted countryman, the late godlike Webster, uttered upon a publicoccasion." Wan Lee looked at me intently, and then the slightestpossible twinkle crept into his black eyes. Then he replied with equalgravity,--
"Mishtel Webstel, he say, 'China boy makee me belly much foolee. Chinaboy makee me heap sick.'" Which I have reason to think was true.
But I fear I am giving but one side, and not the best, of Wan Lee'scharacter. As he imparted it to me, his had been a hard life. He hadknown scarcely any childhood: he had no recollection of a father ormother. The conjurer Wang had brought him up. He had spent the firstseven years of his life in appearing from baskets, in dropping out ofhats, in climbing ladders, in putting his little limbs out of joint inposturing. He had lived in an atmosphere of trickery and deception. Hehad learned to look upon mankind as dupes of their senses: in fine, ifhe had thought at all, he would have been a sceptic; if he had been alittle older, he would have been a cynic; if he had been older still,he would have been a philosopher. As it was, he was a little imp. Agood-natured imp it was, too,--an imp whose moral nature had neverbeen awakened,--an imp up for a holiday, and willing to try virtue asa diversion. I don't know that he had any spiritual nature. He was verysuperstitious. He carried about with him a hideous little porcelain god,which he was in the habit of alternately reviling and propitiating.He was too intelligent for the commoner Chinese vices of stealing orgratuitous lying. Whatever discipline he practised was taught by hisintellect.
I am inclined to think that his feelings were not altogetherunimpressible, although it was almost impossible to extract anexpression from him; and I conscientiously believe he became attachedto those that were good to him. What he might have become under morefavorable conditions than the bondsman of an overworked, under-paidliterary man, I don't know: I only know that the scant, irregular,impulsive kindnesses that I showed him were gratefully received. Hewas very loyal and patient, two qualities rare in the average Americanservant. He was like Malvolio, "sad and civil" with me. Only once,and then under great provocation, do I remember of his exhibiting anyimpatience. It was my habit, after leaving the office at night, to takehim with me to my rooms, as the bearer of any supplemental or happyafter-thought, in the editorial way, that might occur to me before thepaper went to press. One night I had been scribbling away past theusual hour of dismissing Wan Lee, and had become quite oblivious ofhis presence in a chair near my door, when suddenly I became aware ofa voice saying in plaintive accents, something that sounded like "ChyLee."
I faced around sternly.
"What did you say?"
"Me say, 'Chy Lee.'"
"Well?" I said impatiently.
"You sabe, 'How do, John?'"
"Yes."
"You sabe, 'So long, John'?"
"Yes."
"Well, 'Chy Lee' allee same!"
I understood him quite plainly. It appeared that "Chy Lee" was a form of"good-night," and that Wan Lee was anxious to go home. But an instinctof mischief, which, I fear, I possessed in common with him, impelledme to act as if oblivious of the hint. I muttered something about notunderstanding him, and again bent over my work. In a few minutes I heardhis wooden shoes pattering pathetically over the floor. I looked up. Hewas standing near the door.
"You no sabe, 'Chy Lee'?"
"No," I said sternly.
"You sabe muchee big foolee! allee same!"
And, with this audacity upon his lips, he fled. The next morning,however, he was as meek and patient as before, and I did not recall hisoffence. As a probable peace-offering, he blacked all my boots,--a dutynever required of him,--including a pair of buff deer-skin slippersand an immense pair of horseman's jack-boots, on which he indulged hisremorse for two hours.
I have spoken of his honesty as being a quality of his intellect ratherthan his principle, but I recall about this time two exceptions to therule. I was anxious to get some fresh eggs as a change to the heavydiet of a mining-town; and, knowing that Wan Lee's countrymen were greatpoultry-raisers, I applied to him. He furnished me with them regularlyevery morning, but refused to take any pay, saying that the man did notsell them,--a remarkable instance of self-abnegation, as eggs were thenworth half a dollar apiece. One morning my neighbor Forster dropped inupon me at breakfast, and took occasion to bewail his own ill fortune,as his hens had lately stopped lay
ing, or wandered off in the bush. WanLee, who was present during our colloquy, preserved his characteristicsad taciturnity. When my neighbor had gone, he turned to me with aslight chuckle: "Flostel's hens--Wan Lee's hens allee same!" Hisother offence was more serious and ambitious. It was a season of greatirregularities in the mails, and Wan Lee had heard me deplore the delayin the delivery of my letters and newspapers. On arriving at my officeone day, I was amazed to find my table covered with letters, evidentlyjust from the post-office, but, unfortunately, not one addressed to me.I turned to Wan Lee, who was surveying them with a calm satisfaction,and demanded an explanation. To my horror he pointed to an emptymail-bag in the corner, and said, "Postman he say, 'No lettee, John; nolettee, John.' Postman plentee lie! Postman no good. Me catchee letteelast night allee same!" Luckily it was still early: the mails had notbeen distributed. I had a hurried interview with the postmaster; andWan Lee's bold attempt at robbing the United States mail was finallycondoned by the purchase of a new mail-bag, and the whole affair thuskept a secret.
If my liking for my little Pagan page had not been sufficient, my dutyto Hop Sing was enough, to cause me to take Wan Lee with me when Ireturned to San Francisco after my two years' experience with "TheNorthern Star." I do not think he contemplated the change with pleasure.I attributed his feelings to a nervous dread of crowded public streets(when he had to go across town for me on an errand, he always made acircuit of the outskirts), to his dislike for the discipline of theChinese and English school to which I proposed to send him, to hisfondness for the free, vagrant life of the mines, to sheer wilfulness.That it might have been a superstitious premonition did not occur to meuntil long after.
Nevertheless it really seemed as if the opportunity I had long lookedfor and confidently expected had come,--the opportunity of placing WanLee under gently restraining influences, of subjecting him to a life andexperience that would draw out of him what good my superficial care andill-regulated kindness could not reach. Wan Lee was placed at the schoolof a Chinese missionary,--an intelligent and kind-hearted clergyman,who had shown great interest in the boy, and who, better than all, hada wonderful faith in him. A home was found for him in the family of awidow, who had a bright and interesting daughter about two years youngerthan Wan Lee. It was this bright, cheery, innocent, and artless childthat touched and reached a depth in the boy's nature that hitherto hadbeen unsuspected; that awakened a moral susceptibility which had lainfor years insensible alike to the teachings of society, or the ethics ofthe theologian.
These few brief months--bright with a promise that we never sawfulfilled--must have been happy ones to Wan Lee. He worshipped hislittle friend with something of the same superstition, but without anyof the caprice, that he bestowed upon his porcelain Pagan god. It washis delight to walk behind her to school, carrying her books--a servicealways fraught with danger to him from the little hands of his CaucasianChristian brothers. He made her the most marvellous toys; he would cutout of carrots and turnips the most astonishing roses and tulips; hemade life-like chickens out of melon-seeds; he constructed fans andkites, and was singularly proficient in the making of dolls' paperdresses. On the other hand, she played and sang to him, taught him athousand little prettinesses and refinements only known to girls, gavehim a yellow ribbon for his pig-tail, as best suiting his complexion,read to him, showed him wherein he was original and valuable, took himto Sunday school with her, against the precedents of the school, and,small-woman-like, triumphed. I wish I could add here, that she effectedhis conversion, and made him give up his porcelain idol. But I amtelling a true story; and this little girl was quite content to fill himwith her own Christian goodness, without letting him know that he waschanged. So they got along very well together,--this little Christiangirl with her shining cross hanging around her plump, white little neck;and this dark little Pagan, with his hideous porcelain god hidden awayin his blouse.
There were two days of that eventful year which will long be rememberedin San Francisco,--two days when a mob of her citizens set upon andkilled unarmed, defenceless foreigners because they were foreigners,and of another race, religion, and color, and worked for what wages theycould get. There were some public men so timid, that, seeing this, theythought that the end of the world had come. There were some eminentstatesmen, whose names I am ashamed to write here, who began tothink that the passage in the Constitution which guarantees civil andreligious liberty to every citizen or foreigner was a mistake. Butthere were, also, some men who were not so easily frightened; and intwenty-four hours we had things so arranged, that the timid men couldwring their hands in safety, and the eminent statesmen utter theirdoubts without hurting any body or any thing. And in the midst of this Igot a note from Hop Sing, asking me to come to him immediately.
I found his warehouse closed, and strongly guarded by the police againstany possible attack of the rioters. Hop Sing admitted me through abarred grating with his usual imperturbable calm, but, as it seemed tome, with more than his usual seriousness. Without a word, he took myhand, and led me to the rear of the room, and thence down stairs intothe basement. It was dimly lighted; but there was something lying on thefloor covered by a shawl. As I approached he drew the shawl away with asudden gesture, and revealed Wan Lee, the Pagan, lying there dead.
Dead, my reverend friends, dead,--stoned to death in the streets of SanFrancisco, in the year of grace 1869, by a mob of half-grown boys andChristian school-children!
As I put my hand reverently upon his breast, I felt something crumblingbeneath his blouse. I looked inquiringly at Hop Sing. He put his handbetween the folds of silk, and drew out something with the first bittersmile I had ever seen on the face of that Pagan gentleman.
It was Wan Lee's porcelain god, crushed by a stone from the hands ofthose Christian iconoclasts!