As I opened Hop Sing’s letter, there fluttered to the ground a square strip of yellow paper covered with hieroglyphics, which, at first glance, I innocently took to be the label from a pack of Chinese fire-crackers.  But the same envelope also contained a smaller strip of rice-paper, with two Chinese characters traced in India ink, that I at once knew to be Hop Sing’s visiting-card.  The whole, as afterwards literally translated, ran as follows: ­

“To the stranger the gates of my house are not closed:  the rice-jar is on 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 a festival.

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, 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.”

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’ allée 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 instinct of mischief, which, I fear, I possessed in common with him, impelled me to act as if oblivious of the hint.  I muttered something about not understanding him, and again bent over my work.  In a few minutes I heard his wooden shoes pattering pathetically over the floor.  I looked up.  He was standing near the door.

“You no sabe, ’Chy Lee’?”

“No,” I said sternly.

“You sabe muchee big foolee! allée 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 his offence.  As a probable peace-offering, he blacked all my boots, ­a duty never required of him, ­including a pair of buff deer-skin slippers and an immense pair of horseman’s jack-boots, on which he indulged his remorse for two hours.

I have spoken of his honesty as being a quality of his intellect rather than his principle, but I recall about this time two exceptions to the rule.  I was anxious to get some fresh eggs as a change to the heavy diet of a mining-town; and, knowing that Wan Lee’s countrymen were great poultry-raisers, I applied to him.  He furnished me with them regularly every morning, but refused to take any pay, saying that the man did not sell them, ­a remarkable instance of self-abnegation, as eggs were then worth half a dollar apiece.  One morning my neighbor Forster dropped in upon me at breakfast, and took occasion to bewail his own ill fortune, as his hens had lately stopped laying, or wandered off in the bush.  Wan Lee, who was present during our colloquy, preserved his characteristic sad taciturnity.  When my neighbor had gone, he turned to me with a slight chuckle:  “Flostel’s hens ­Wan Lee’s hens allée same!” His other offence was more serious and ambitious.  It was a season of great irregularities in the mails, and Wan Lee had heard me deplore the delay in the delivery of my letters and newspapers.  On arriving at my office one day, I was amazed to find my table covered with letters, evidently just 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 empty mail-bag in the corner, and said, “Postman he say, ’No lettee, John; no lettee, John.’  Postman plentee lie!  Postman no good.  Me catchee lettee last night allée same!” Luckily it was still early:  the mails had not been distributed.  I had a hurried interview with the postmaster; and Wan Lee’s bold attempt at robbing the United States mail was finally condoned by the purchase of a new mail-bag, and the whole affair thus kept a secret.

If my liking for my little Pagan page had not been sufficient, my duty to Hop Sing was enough, to cause me to take Wan Lee with me when I returned to San Francisco after my two years’ experience with “The Northern 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 a circuit of the outskirts), to his dislike for the discipline of the Chinese and English school to which I proposed to send him, to his fondness for the free, vagrant life of the mines, to sheer wilfulness.  That it might have been a superstitious premonition did not occur to me until long after.

Nevertheless it really seemed as if the opportunity I had long looked for and confidently expected had come, ­the opportunity of placing Wan Lee under gently restraining influences, of subjecting him to a life and experience that would draw out of him what good my superficial care and ill-regulated kindness could not reach.  Wan Lee was placed at the school of a Chinese missionary, ­an intelligent and kind-hearted clergyman, who had shown great interest in the boy, and who, better than all, had a wonderful faith in him.  A home was found for him in the family of a widow, who had a bright and interesting daughter about two years younger than Wan Lee.  It was this bright, cheery, innocent, and artless child that touched and reached a depth in the boy’s nature that hitherto had been unsuspected; that awakened a moral susceptibility which had lain for years insensible alike to the teachings of society, or the ethics of the theologian.

These few brief months ­bright with a promise that we never saw fulfilled ­must have been happy ones to Wan Lee.  He worshipped his little friend with something of the same superstition, but without any of the caprice, that he bestowed upon his porcelain Pagan god.  It was his delight to walk behind her to school, carrying her books ­a service always fraught with danger to him from the little hands of his Caucasian Christian brothers.  He made her the most marvellous toys; he would cut out of carrots and turnips the most astonishing roses and tulips; he made life-like chickens out of melon-seeds; he constructed fans and kites, and was singularly proficient in the making of dolls’ paper dresses.  On the other hand, she played and sang to him, taught him a thousand little prettinesses and refinements only known to girls, gave him a yellow ribbon for his pig-tail, as best suiting his complexion, read to him, showed him wherein he was original and valuable, took him to Sunday school with her, against the precedents of the school, and, small-woman-like, triumphed.  I wish I could add here, that she effected his conversion, and made him give up his porcelain idol.  But I am telling a true story; and this little girl was quite content to fill him with her own Christian goodness, without letting him know that he was changed.  So they got along very well together, ­this little Christian girl with her shining cross hanging around her plump, white little neck; and this dark little Pagan, with his hideous porcelain god hidden away in his blouse.

There were two days of that eventful year which will long be remembered in San Francisco, ­two days when a mob of her citizens set upon and killed unarmed, defenceless foreigners because they were foreigners, and of another race, religion, and color, and worked for what wages they could get.  There were some public men so timid, that, seeing this, they thought that the end of the world had come.  There were some eminent statesmen, whose names I am ashamed to write here, who began to think that the passage in the Constitution which guarantees civil and religious liberty to every citizen or foreigner was a mistake.  But there were, also, some men who were not so easily frightened; and in twenty-four hours we had things so arranged, that the timid men could wring their hands in safety, and the eminent statesmen utter their doubts without hurting any body or any thing.  And in the midst of this I got a note from Hop Sing, asking me to come to him immediately.

I found his warehouse closed, and strongly guarded by the police against any possible attack of the rioters.  Hop Sing admitted me through a barred grating with his usual imperturbable calm, but, as it seemed to me, with more than his usual seriousness.  Without a word, he took my hand, and led me to the rear of the room, and thence down stairs into the basement.  It was dimly lighted; but there was something lying on the floor covered by a shawl.  As I approached he drew the shawl away with a sudden gesture, and revealed Wan Lee, the Pagan, lying there dead.

Dead, my reverend friends, dead, ­stoned to death in the streets of San Francisco, in the year of grace 1869, by a mob of half-grown boys and Christian school-children!

As I put my hand reverently upon his breast, I felt something crumbling beneath his blouse.  I looked inquiringly at Hop Sing.  He put his hand between the folds of silk, and drew out something with the first bitter smile 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 of those Christian iconoclasts!