In June, 1878, I went to Paris, during the great Exhibition. I had been
invited by Monsieur Edmond About to attend as a delegate the Congres
Internationale Litteraire, which was about to be held in the great city.
How we assembled, how M. About distinguished himself as one of the most
practical and common-sensible of men of genius, and how we were all
finally harangued by M. Victor Hugo with the most extraordinary display
of oratorical sky-rockets, Catherine-wheels, blue-lights, fire-crackers,
and pin-wheels by which it was ever my luck to be amused, is matter of
history. But this chapter is only autobiographical, and we will pass
over the history. As an Anglo-American delegate, I was introduced to
several great men gratis; to the greatest of all I introduced myself at
the expense of half a franc. This was to the Chinese giant, Chang, who
was on exhibition at a small cafe garden near the Trocadero. There were
no other visitors in his pavilion when I entered. He received me with
politeness, and we began to converse in fourth-story English, but
gradually went down-stairs into Pidgin, until we found ourselves fairly
in the kitchen of that humble but entertaining dialect. It is a
remarkable sensation to sit alone with a mild monster, and feel like a
little boy. I do not distinctly remember whether Chang is eight, or ten
or twelve feet high; I only know that, though I am, as he said, "one
velly big piecee man," I sat and lifted my eyes from time to time at the
usual level, forgetfully expecting to meet his eyes, and beheld instead
the buttons on his breast. Then I looked up--like Daruma to Buddha--and
up, and saw far above me his "lights of the soul" gleaming down on me as
it were from the top of a lofty beacon.
I soon found that Chang, regarding all things from a giant's point of
view, esteemed mankind by their size and looks. Therefore, as he had
complimented me according to his lights, I replied that he was a "numpa
one too muchee glanti handsome man, first chop big."