Admirable, certainly, as was this morality and proverbial wisdom, and
although this last axiom was very characteristic of my friend Hop Sing,
who was that most sombre of all humorists, a Chinese philosopher, I must
confess, that, even after a very free translation, I was at a loss to
make any immediate application of the message. Luckily I discovered a
third enclosure in the shape of a little note in English, and Hop Sing's
own 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, the
opening and exhibition of some rare Chinese novelties and curios, a chat
in the back office, a cup of tea of a perfection unknown beyond these
sacred precincts, cigars, and a visit to the Chinese theatre or temple.
This was, in fact, the favorite programme of Hop Sing when he exercised
his functions of hospitality as the chief factor or superintendent of
the 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 had
so often noticed; there was the old array of uncouth-looking objects,
the long procession of jars and crockery, the same singular blending of
the grotesque and the mathematically neat and exact, the same endless
suggestions of frivolity and fragility, the same want of harmony in
colors, that were each, in themselves, beautiful and rare. Kites in the
shape of enormous dragons and gigantic butterflies; kites so ingeniously
arranged as to utter at intervals, when facing the wind, the cry of a
hawk; kites so large as to be beyond any boy's power of restraint,--so
large that you understood why kite-flying in China was an amusement for
adults; gods of china and bronze so gratuitously ugly as to be beyond
any human interest or sympathy from their very impossibility; jars of
sweetmeats covered all over with moral sentiments from Confucius; hats
that looked like baskets, and baskets that looked like hats; silks so
light that I hesitate to record the incredible number of square yards
that you might pass through the ring on your little finger,--these, and
a great many other indescribable objects, were all familiar to me. I
pushed my way through the dimly-lighted warehouse, until I reached the
back office, or parlor, where I found Hop Sing waiting to receive me.
Before I describe him, I want the average reader to discharge from
his mind any idea of a Chinaman that he may have gathered from the
pantomime. He did not wear beautifully scalloped drawers fringed with
little bells (I never met a Chinaman who did); he did not habitually
carry his forefinger extended before him at right angles with his body;
nor did I ever hear him utter the mysterious sentence, “Ching a ring
a ring chaw;” nor dance under any provocation. He was, on the whole,
a rather grave, decorous, handsome gentleman. His complexion, which
extended all over his head, except where his long pig-tail grew, was
like a very nice piece of glazed brown paper-muslin. His eyes were black
and bright, and his eyelids set at an angle of fifteen degrees; his nose
straight, and delicately formed; his mouth small; and his teeth white
and clean. He wore a dark blue silk blouse; and in the streets, on cold
days, a short jacket of astrachan fur. He wore, also, a pair of drawers
of blue brocade gathered tightly over his calves and ankles, offering
a general sort of suggestion, that he had forgotten his trousers that
morning, but that, so gentlemanly were his manners, his friends had
forborne to mention the fact to him. His manner was urbane, although
quite serious. He spoke French and English fluently. In brief, I doubt
if you could have found the equal of this Pagan shopkeeper among the
Christian traders of San Francisco.
There were a few others present,--a judge of the Federal Court, an
editor, a high government official, and a prominent merchant. After we
had drunk our tea, and tasted a few sweetmeats from a mysterious jar,
that looked as if it might contain a preserved mouse among its other
nondescript treasures, Hop Sing arose, and, gravely beckoning us to
follow him, began to descend to the basement. When we got there, we were
amazed at finding it brilliantly lighted, and that a number of chairs
were arranged in a half-circle on the asphalt pavement. When he had
courteously seated us, he said,--
“I have invited you to witness a performance which I can at least
promise you no other foreigners but yourselves have ever seen. Wang,
the court-juggler, arrived here yesterday morning. He has never given a
performance outside of the palace before. I have asked him to entertain
my friends this evening. He requires no theatre, stage accessories, or
any confederate,--nothing more than you see here. Will you be pleased to
examine the ground yourselves, gentlemen.”
Of course we examined the premises. It was the ordinary basement or
cellar of the San Francisco storehouse, cemented to keep out the damp.
We poked our sticks into the pavement, and rapped on the walls, to
satisfy our polite host--but for no other purpose. We were quite content
to be the victims of any clever deception. For myself, I knew I was
ready to be deluded to any extent, and, if I had been offered an
explanation of what followed, I should have probably declined it.
Although I am satisfied that Wang's general performance was the first of
that kind ever given on American soil, it has, probably, since become so
familiar 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 number
of butterflies, made before our eyes of little bits of tissue-paper, and
kept them in the air during the remainder of the performance. I have a
vivid recollection of the judge trying to catch one that had lit on his
knee, and of its evading him with the pertinacity of a living insect.
And, even at this time, Wang, still plying his fan, was taking chickens
out of hats, making oranges disappear, pulling endless yards of silk
from his sleeve, apparently filling the whole area of the basement with
goods that appeared mysteriously from the ground, from his own sleeves,
from nowhere! He swallowed knives to the ruin of his digestion for years
to come; he dislocated every limb of his body; he reclined in the air,
apparently upon nothing. But his crowning performance, which I have
never yet seen repeated, was the most weird, mysterious, and astounding.
It is my apology for this long introduction, my sole excuse for writing
this article, and the genesis of this veracious history.
He cleared the ground of its encumbering articles for a space of about
fifteen feet square, and then invited us all to walk forward, and
again examine it. We did so gravely. There was nothing but the cemented
pavement below to be seen or felt. He then asked for the loan of a
handkerchief; and, as I chanced to be nearest him, I offered mine. He
took it, and spread it open upon the floor. Over this he spread a large
square of silk, and over this, again, a large shawl nearly covering the
space he had cleared. He then took a position at one of the points of
this rectangle, and began a monotonous chant, rocking his body to and
fro in time with the somewhat lugubrious air.
We sat still and waited. Above the chant we could hear the striking
of the city clocks, and the occasional rattle of a cart in the street
overhead. The absolute watchfulness and expectation, the dim, mysterious
half-light of the cellar falling in a grewsome way upon the misshapen
bulk of a Chinese deity in the back ground, a faint smell of opium-smoke
mingling with spice, and the dreadful uncertainty of what we were really
waiting for, sent an uncomfortable thrill down our backs, and made us
look at each other with a forced and unnatural smile. This feeling was
heightened when Hop Sing slowly rose, and, without a word, pointed with
his finger to the centre of the shawl.
There was something beneath the shawl. Surely--and something that was
not there before; at first a mere suggestion in relief, a faint outline,
but growing more and more distinct and visible every moment. The chant
still continued; the perspiration began to roll from the singer's face;
gradually the hidden object took upon itself a shape and bulk that
raised the shawl in its centre some five or six inches. It was now
unmistakably the outline of a small but perfect human figure, with
extended arms and legs. One or two of us turned pale. There was a
feeling of general uneasiness, until the editor broke the silence by a
gibe, that, poor as it was, was received with spontaneous enthusiasm.
Then the chant suddenly ceased. Wang arose, and with a quick, dexterous
movement, stripped both shawl and silk away, and discovered, sleeping
peacefully upon my handkerchief, a tiny Chinese baby.
The applause and uproar which followed this revelation ought to have
satisfied Wang, even if his audience was a small one: it was loud enough
to awaken the baby,--a pretty little boy about a year old, looking
like a Cupid cut out of sandal-wood. He was whisked away almost as
mysteriously as he appeared. When Hop Sing returned my handkerchief to
me with a bow, I asked if the juggler was the father of the baby. “No
sabe!” said the imperturbable Hop Sing, taking refuge in that Spanish
form 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 born
here: you are its godfathers.”
There were two characteristic peculiarities of any Californian
assemblage in 1856,--it was quick to take a hint, and generous to the
point of prodigality in its response to any charitable appeal. No
matter how sordid or avaricious the individual, he could not resist the
infection of sympathy. I doubled the points of my handkerchief into
a bag, dropped a coin into it, and, without a word, passed it to the
judge. He quietly added a twenty-dollar gold-piece, and passed it to the
next. When it was returned to me, it contained over a hundred dollars. I
knotted 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 was
referred 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,--the
only 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 under
some sheets of paper, which I must have overlooked. The envelope was
considerably soiled: it had no post-mark; but I had no difficulty in
recognizing the hand of my friend Hop Sing. I opened it hurriedly, and
read 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 technical
one, 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 repeat
it, whether it is an offence or a virtue. But you certainly know him
already. You are one of his godfathers; for is he not Wan Lee, the
reputed son of Wang the conjurer, to whose performances I had the honor
to introduce you? But perhaps you have forgotten it.
“I shall send him with a gang of coolies to Stockton, thence by express
to your town. If you can use him there, you will do me a favor, and
probably save his life, which is at present in great peril from the
hands of the younger members of your Christian and highly-civilized race
who attend the enlightened schools in San Francisco.
“He has acquired some singular habits and customs from his experience
of Wang's profession, which he followed for some years,--until he became
too large to go in a hat, or be produced from his father's sleeve. The
money you left with me has been expended on his education. He has gone
through the Tri-literal Classics, but, I think, without much benefit. He
knows but little of Confucius, and absolutely nothing of Mencius. Owing
to the negligence of his father, he associated, perhaps, too much with
American children.
“I should have answered your letter before, by post; but I thought that
Wan 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 where
was “the bearer”? How was the letter delivered? I summoned hastily the
foreman, printers, and office-boy, but without eliciting any thing. No
one had seen the letter delivered, nor knew any thing of the bearer. A
few 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, about
ten years old, with whose appearance and general intelligence I was so
greatly impressed, that I engaged him on the spot. When the business was
concluded, I asked his name.
“Wan Lee,” said the boy.
“What! Are you the boy sent out by Hop Sing? What the devil do you mean
by 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 a
moment's pause, to my great astonishment, the letter came flying in the
window, circled twice around the room, and then dropped gently, like
a bird upon my table. Before I had got over my surprise, Wan Lee
re-appeared, smiled, looked at the letter and then at me, said, “So,
John,” and then remained gravely silent. I said nothing further; but it
was understood that this was his first official act.
His next performance, I grieve to say, was not attended with equal
success. 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 shown
over the route the previous evening, and supplied at about daylight with
the usual number of subscribers' copies. He returned, after an hour,
in good spirits, and without the papers. He had delivered them all, he
said.
Unfortunately for Wan Lee, at about eight o'clock, indignant subscribers
began 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 had
received them full in the face, like a base ball, if they happened to be
up and stirring; they had received them in quarter-sheets, tucked in at
separate windows; they had found them in the chimney, pinned against
the door, shot through attic-windows, delivered in long slips through
convenient keyholes, stuffed into ventilators, and occupying the same
can with the morning's milk. One subscriber, who waited for some time
at the office-door to have a personal interview with Wan Lee (then
comfortably locked in my bedroom), told me, with tears of rage in
his eyes, that he had been awakened at five o'clock by a most hideous
yelling below his windows; that, on rising in great agitation, he was
startled by the sudden appearance of “The Northern Star,” rolled hard,
and bent into the form of a boomerang, or East-Indian club, that sailed
into the window, described a number of fiendish circles in the room,
knocked over the light, slapped the baby's face, “took” him (the
subscriber) “in the jaw,” and then returned out of the window, and
dropped helplessly in the area. During the rest of the day, wads and
strips of soiled paper, purporting to be copies of “The Northern Star”
of that morning's issue, were brought indignantly to the office. An
admirable editorial on “The Resources of Humboldt County,” which I had
constructed the evening before, and which, I had 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 to
the public.
It was deemed advisable for the next three weeks to keep Wan Lee closely
confined to the printing-office, and the purely mechanical part of the
business. Here he developed a surprising quickness and adaptability,
winning even the favor and good will of the printers and foreman, who
at first looked upon his introduction into the secrets of their trade as
fraught with the gravest political significance. He learned to set type
readily and neatly, his wonderful skill in manipulation aiding him in
the mere mechanical act, and his ignorance of the language confining him
simply to the mechanical effort, confirming the printer's axiom, that
the printer who considers or follows the ideas of his copy makes a poor
compositor. He would set up deliberately long diatribes against himself,
composed by his fellow-printers, and hung on his hook as copy, and even
such short sentences as “Wan Lee is the devil's own imp,” “Wan Lee is a
Mongolian rascal,” and bring the proof to me with happiness beaming from
every tooth, and satisfaction shining in his huckleberry eyes.
It was not long, however, before he learned to retaliate on his
mischievous persecutors. I remember one instance in which his reprisal
came very near involving me in a serious misunderstanding. Our foreman's
name was Webster; and Wan Lee presently learned to know and recognize
the individual and combined letters of his name. It was during a
political campaign; and the eloquent and fiery Col. Starbottle of
Siskyou had delivered an effective speech, which was reported especially
for “The Northern Star.” In a very sublime peroration, Col. Starbottle
had said, “In the language of the godlike Webster, I repeat”--and here
followed the quotation, which I have forgotten. Now, it chanced that Wan
Lee, looking over the galley after it had been revised, saw the name of
his chief persecutor, and, of course, imagined the quotation his. After
the form was locked up, Wan Lee took advantage of Webster's absence to
remove the quotation, and substitute a thin piece of lead, of the same
size as the type, engraved with Chinese characters, making a sentence,
which, I had reason to believe, was an utter and abject confession of
the incapacity and offensiveness of the Webster family generally, and
exceedingly 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. The
rage of Col. Starbottle knew no bounds. I have a vivid recollection of
that admirable man walking into my office, and demanding a retraction of
the statement.
“But my dear sir,” I asked, “are you willing to deny, over your own
signature, that Webster ever uttered such a sentence? Dare you deny,
that, with Mr. Webster's well-known attainments, a knowledge of Chinese
might not have been among the number? Are you willing to submit a
translation suitable to the capacity of our readers, and deny, upon
your honor as a gentleman, that the late Mr. Webster ever uttered such a
sentiment? 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 beaming
with 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 week
after the occurrence, I called Wan Lee into my office.
“Wan,” I said gravely, “I should like you to give me, for my own
personal satisfaction, a translation of that Chinese sentence which
my gifted countryman, the late godlike Webster, uttered upon a public
occasion.” Wan Lee looked at me intently, and then the slightest
possible twinkle crept into his black eyes. Then he replied with equal
gravity,--
“Mishtel Webstel, he say, 'China boy makee me belly much foolee. China
boy 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's
character. As he imparted it to me, his had been a hard life. He had
known scarcely any childhood: he had no recollection of a father or
mother. The conjurer Wang had brought him up. He had spent the first
seven years of his life in appearing from baskets, in dropping out of
hats, in climbing ladders, in putting his little limbs out of joint in
posturing. He had lived in an atmosphere of trickery and deception. He
had learned to look upon mankind as dupes of their senses: in fine, if
he had thought at all, he would have been a sceptic; if he had been a
little 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. A
good-natured imp it was, too,--an imp whose moral nature had never
been awakened,--an imp up for a holiday, and willing to try virtue as
a diversion. I don't know that he had any spiritual nature. He was very
superstitious. 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 or
gratuitous lying. Whatever discipline he practised was taught by his
intellect.
I am inclined to think that his feelings were not altogether
unimpressible, although it was almost impossible to extract an
expression from him; and I conscientiously believe he became attached
to those that were good to him. What he might have become under more
favorable conditions than the bondsman of an overworked, under-paid
literary man, I don't know: I only know that the scant, irregular,
impulsive kindnesses that I showed him were gratefully received. He
was very loyal and patient, two qualities rare in the average American
servant. He was like Malvolio, “sad and civil” with me. Only once,
and then under great provocation, do I remember of his exhibiting any
impatience. It was my habit, after leaving the office at night, to take
him with me to my rooms, as the bearer of any supplemental or happy
after-thought, in the editorial way, that might occur to me before the
paper went to press. One night I had been scribbling away past the
usual hour of dismissing Wan Lee, and had become quite oblivious of
his presence in a chair near my door, when suddenly I became aware of
a voice saying in plaintive accents, something that sounded like “Chy
Lee.”