General Washington's Negro Body-Servant (Mark Twain)
A Tough Story (unknown author of Dutch Flat)
Reflections (unknown author of Dutch Flat)
Letter From Nimrod (unknown author of Dutch Flat)
Wan Lee, the Pagan (Bret Harte)
From his Condensed Novels, one of Bret Harte's several mentions of Dutch Flat arises, in
Muck-A-Muck: A Modern Indian Novel After Cooper
CHAPTER I
It was toward the close of a bright October
day. The last rays of the
setting sun were reflected from one of those sylvan lakes peculiar
to the
Sierras of California. On the right the curling smoke of an Indian
village
rose between the columns of the lofty pines, while to the left
the log
cottage of Judge Tompkins, embowered in buckeyes, completed the
enchanting
picture.
Although the exterior of the cottage was humble
and unpretentious, and in
keeping with the wildness of the landscape, its interior gave
evidence of
the cultivation and refinement of its inmates. An aquarium, containing
goldfishes, stood on a marble centre-table at one end of the apartment,
while a magnificent grand piano occupied the other. The door was
covered
with a yielding tapestry carpet, and the walls were adorned with
paintings
from the pencils of Van Dyke, Rubens, Tintoretto, Michael Angelo,
and the
productions of the more modem Turner, Kensett, Church, and Bierstadt.
Although Judge Tompkins had chosen the frontiers of civilization
as his
home, it was impossible for him to entirely forego the habits
and tastes of
his former life. He was seated in a luxurious armchair, writing
at a
mahogany escritoire, while his daughter, a lovely young girl of
seventeen
summers, plied her crotchet-needle on an ottoman beside him. A
bright fire
of pine logs flickered and flamed on the ample hearth.
Genevra Octavia Tompkins was Judge Tompkins's
only child. Her mother had
long since died on the Plains. Reared in affluence, no pains had
been spared
with the daughter's education. She was a graduate of one of the
principal
seminaries, and spoke French with a perfect Benicia accent. Peerlessly
beautiful, she was dressed in a white moiré antique robe
trimmed with tulle.
That simple rosebud, with which most heroines exclusively decorate
their
hair, was all she wore in her raven locks.
The Judge was the first to break the silence.
"Genevra, the logs which compose yonder
fire seem to have been incautiously
chosen. The sibilation produced by the sap, which exudes copiously
therefrom, is not conducive to composition."
"True, father, but I thought it would
be preferable to the constant
crepitation which is apt to attend the combustion of more seasoned
ligneous
fragments."
The Judge looked admiringly at the intellectual
features of the graceful
girl, and half forgot the slight annoyances of the green wood
in the musical
accents of his daughter. He was smoothing her hair tenderly, when
the shadow
of a tall figure, which suddenly darkened the doorway, caused
him to look
up.
CHAPTER II
It needed but a glance at the new-comer to
detect at once the form and
features of the haughty aborigine, -- the untaught and untrammeled
son of
the forest. Over one shoulder a blanket, negligently but gracefully
thrown,
disclosed a bare and powerful breast, decorated with a quantity
of
three-cent postage-stamps which he had despoiled from an Overland
Mail stage
a few weeks previous. A cast-off beaver of Judge Tompkins's, adorned
by a
simple feather, covered his erect head, from beneath which his
straight
locks descended. His right hand hung lightly by his side, while
his left was
engaged in holding on a pair of pantaloons, which the lawless
grace and
freedom of his lower limbs evidently could not brook.
"Why," said the Indian, in a low
sweet tone, -- "why does the Pale Face
still follow the track of the Red Man? Why does he pursue him,
even as O-kee
chow, the wild cat, chases Ka-ka, the skunk? Why are the feet
of Sorrel-top,
the white chief, among the acorns of Muck-a-Muck, the mountain
forest? Why,"
he repeated, quietly but firmly abstracting a silver spoon from
the table,
-- "why do you seek to drive him from the wigwams of his
fathers? His
brothers are already gone to the happy hunting-grounds. Will the
Pale Face
seek him there?" And, averting his face from the Judge, he
hastily slipped a
silver cake-basket beneath his blanket, to conceal his emotion.
"Muck-a-Muck has spoken," said Genevra
softly. "Let him now listen. Are the
acorns of the mountain sweeter than the esculent and nutritious
bean of the
Pale Face miner? Does my brother prize the edible qualities of
the snail
above that of the crisp and oleaginous bacon? Delicious are the
grasshoppers
that sport on the hillside, -- are they better than the dried
apples of the
Pale Faces? Pleasant is the gurgle of the torrent, Kish-Kish,
but is it
better than the cluck-cluck of old Bourbon from the old stone
bottle?"
"Ugh!" said the Indian, -- "ugh!
good. The White Rabbit is wise. Her words
fall as the snow on Tootoonolo, and the rocky heart of Muck-a-Muck
is
hidden. What says my brother the Gray Gopher of Dutch Flat?"
"She has spoken, Muck-a-Muck," said
the Judge, gazing fondly on his
daughter. "It is well. Our treaty is concluded. No, thank
you, -- you need
not dance the Dance of Snow-shoes, or the Moccasin Dance, the
Dance of Green
Corn, or the Treaty Dance. I would be alone. A strange sadness
overpowers
me."
"I go," said the Indian. "Tell
your great chief in Washington, the Sachem
Andy, that the Red Man is retiring before the footsteps of the
adventurous
pioneer. Inform him, if you please, that westward the star of
empire takes
its way, that the chiefs of the Pi-Ute nation are for Reconstruction
to a
man, and that Klamath will poll a heavy Republican vote in the
fall."
And folding his blanket more tightly around him, Muck-a-Muck withdrew.
CHAPTER III
Genevra Tompkins stood at the door of the log-cabin,
looking after the
retreating Overland Mail stage which conveyed her father to Virginia
City.
"He may never return again," sighed the young girl,
as she glanced at the
frightfully rolling vehicle and wildly careering horses, -- "at
least, with
unbroken bones. Should he meet with an accident! I mind me now
a fearful
legend, familiar to my childhood. Can it be that the drivers on
this line
are privately instructed to dispatch all passengers maimed by
accident, to
prevent tedious litigation? No, no. But why this weight upon my
heart?"
She seated herself at the piano and lightly
passed her hand over the keys.
Then, in a clear mezzo-soprano voice, she sang the first verse
of one of the
most popular Irish ballads:--
"O Arrah ma dheelish, the distant dudheen
Lies soft in the moonlight, ma bouchal vourneen:
The springing gossoons on the heather are still,
And the caubeens and colleens are heard on the hill."
But as the ravishing notes of her sweet voice
died upon the air, her hands
sank listlessly to her side. Music could not chase away the mysterious
shadow from her heart. Again she rose. Putting on a white crape
bonnet, and
carefully drawing a pair of lemon-colored gloves over her taper
fingers, she
seized her parasol and plunged into the depths of the pine forest.
CHAPTER IV
Genevra had not proceeded many miles before
a weariness seized upon her
fragile limbs, and she would fain seat herself upon the trunk
of a prostrate
pine, which she previously dusted with her handkerchief. The sun
was just
sinking below the horizon, and the scene was one of gorgeous and
sylvan
beauty. "How beautiful is nature!" murmured the innocent
girl, as, reclining
gracefully against the root of the tree, she gathered up her skirts
and tied
a handkerchief around her throat. But a low growl interrupted
her
meditation. Starting to her feet, her eyes met a sight which froze
her blood
with terror.
The only outlet to the forest was the narrow
path, barely wide enough for a
single person, hemmed in by trees and rocks, which she had just
traversed.
Down this path, in Indian file, came a monstrous grizzly, closely
followed
by a Californian lion, a wild cat, and a buffalo, the rear being
brought up
by a wild Spanish bull. The mouths of the three first animals
were distended
with frightful significance, the horns of the last were lowered
as
ominously. As Genevra was preparing to faint, she heard a low
voice behind
her.
"Eternally dog-gone my skin ef this ain't the puttiest chance yet!"
At the same moment, a long, shining barrel
dropped lightly from behind her,
and rested over her shoulder.
Genevra shuddered.
"Dern ye -- don't move!"
Genevra became motionless.
The crack of a rifle rang through the woods.
Three frightful yells were
heard, and two sullen roars. Five animals bounded into the air
and five
lifeless bodies lay upon the plain. The well-aimed bullet had
done its work.
Entering the open throat of the grizzly it had traversed his body
only to
enter the throat of the California lion, and in like manner the
catamount,
until it passed through into the respective foreheads of the bull
and the
buffalo, and finally fell flattened from the rocky hillside.
Genevra turned quickly. "My preserver!"
she shrieked, and fell into the arms
of Natty Bumpo, the celebrated Pike Ranger of Donner Lake.
CHAPTER V
The moon rose cheerfully above Donner Lake.
On its placid bosom a dug-out
canoe glided rapidly, containing Natty Bumpo and Genevra Tompkins.
Both were silent. The same thought possessed
each, and perhaps there was
sweet companionship even in the unbroken quiet. Genevra bit the
handle of
her parasol, and blushed. Natty Bumpo took a fresh chew of tobacco.
At
length Genevra said, as if in half-spoken reverie:--
"The soft shining of the moon and the
peaceful ripple of the waves seem to
say to us various things of an instructive and moral tendency."
"You may bet yer pile on that, miss,"
said her companion gravely. "It's all
the preachin' and psalm-singin' I've heern since I was a boy."
"Noble being!" said Miss Tompkins
to herself, glancing at the stately Pike
as he bent over his paddle to conceal his emotion. "Reared
in this wild
seclusion, yet he has become penetrated with visible consciousness
of a
Great First Cause," Then, collecting herself, she said aloud:
"Me-thinks 't
were pleasant to glide ever thus down the stream of life, hand
in hand with
the one being whom the soul claims as its affinity. But what am
I saying?"
-- and the delicate-minded girl hid her face in her hands.
A long silence ensued, which was at length broken by her companion.
"Ef you mean you're on the marry,"
he said thoughtfully, "I ain't in no wise
partikler."
"My husband!" faltered the blushing girl; and she fell into his arms.
In ten minutes more the loving couple had landed at Judge Tompkins's.
CHAPTER VI
A year has passed away. Natty Bumpo was returning
from Gold Hill, where he
had been to purchase provisions. On his way to Donner Lake rumors
of an
Indian uprising met his ears. "Dern their pesky skins, ef
they dare to touch
my Jenny," he muttered between his clenched teeth.
It was dark when he reached the borders of
the lake. Around a glittering
fire he dimly discerned dusky figures dancing. They were in war
paint.
Conspicuous among them was the renowned Muck-a-Muck. But why did
the fingers
of Natty Bumpo tighten convulsively around his rifle?
The chief held in his hand long tufts of raven
hair. The heart of the
pioneer sickened as he recognized the clustering curls of Genevra.
In a
moment his rifle was at his shoulder, and with a sharp "ping"
Muck-a-Muck
leaped into the air a corpse. To knock out the brains of the remaining
savages, tear the tresses from the stiffening hand of Muck-a-Muck,
and dash
rapidly forward to the cottage of Judge Tompkins, was the work
of a moment.
He burst open the door. Why did he stand transfixed
with open mouth and
distended eyeballs? Was the sight too horrible to be borne? On
the contrary,
before him, in her peerless beauty, stood Genevra Tompkins, leaning
on her
father's arm.
"Ye'r not scalped, then!" gasped her lover.
"No. I have no hesitation in saying that
I am not; but why this abruptness?"
responded Genevra.
Bumpo could not speak, but frantically produced
the silken tresses. Genevra
turned her face aside.
"Why, that's her waterfall!" said the Judge.
Bumpo sank fainting to the door.
The famous Pike chieftain never recovered from
the deceit, and refused to
marry Genevra, who died, twenty years afterwards, of a broken
heart. Judge
Tompkins lost his fortune in Wild Cat. The stage passes twice
a week the
deserted cottage at Donner Lake. Thus was the death of Muck-a-Muck
avenged.
Mark Twain was the source of this pleasantry in the 1864 Californian:
"MELTON MOWBRAY," Dutch Flat.--This correspondent sends a lot of doggerel, and says it has been regarded as very good in Dutch Flat. I give a specimen verse:
"The Assyrian came down, like a
wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of his spears shone like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee."
There, that will do. That may be very good Dutch Flat poetry, but it won't do in the metropolis. It is too smooth and blubbery; it reads like buttermilk gurgling from a jug. What the people ought to have is something spirited -- something like "Johnny Comes Marching Home." However, keep on practicing, and you may succeed yet. There is genius in you, but too much blubber.
For those of us who have not read widely, and
remembered deeply, the above verse is from Byron.
GENERAL WASHINGTON'S
NEGRO BODY-SERVANT
A Biographical Sketch
Mark Twain
The stirring part of this celebrated colored
man's life
properly began with his death--that is to say, the
notable features of his biography began with the first
time he died. He had been little heard of up to that
time, but since then we have never ceased to hear of
him; we have never ceased to hear of him at stated,
unfailing intervals. His was a most remarkable career,
and I have thought that its history would make a
valuable addition to our biographical literature.
Therefore, I have carefully collated the materials for
such a work, from authentic sources, and here present
them to the public. I have rigidly excluded from these
pages everything of a doubtful character, with the
object in view of introducing my work into the schools
for the instruction of the youth of my country.
The name of the famous body-servant of General
Washington was George. After serving his illustrious
master faithfully for half a century, and enjoying
throughout his long term his high regard and
confidence, it became his sorrowful duty at last to lay
that beloved master to rest in his peaceful grave by
the Potomac. Ten years afterward-- in 1809--full of
years and honors, he died himself, mourned by all who
knew him. The Boston GAZETTE of that date thus refers
to the event:
George, the favorite body-servant of the
lamented Washington, died in Richmond, Va.,
last Tuesday, at the ripe age of 95 years.
His intellect was unimpaired, and his memory
tenacious, up to within a few minutes of his
decease. He was present at the second
installation of Washington as President, and
also at his funeral, and distinctly
remembered all the prominent incidents
connected with those noted events.
From this period we hear no more of the favorite
body-servant of General Washington until May, 1825, at
which time he died again. A Philadelphia paper thus
speaks of the sad occurrence:
At Macon, Ga., last week, a colored man
named
George, who was the favorite body-servant of
General Washington, died at the advanced age
of 95 years. Up to within a few hours of his
dissolution he was in full possession of all
his faculties, and could distinctly recollect
the second installation of Washington, his
death and burial, the surrender of
Cornwallis, the battle of Trenton, the griefs
and hardships of Valley Forge, etc. Deceased
was followed to the grave by the entire
population of Macon.
On the Fourth of July, 1830, and also of 1834
and 1836,
the subject of this sketch was exhibited in great state
upon the rostrum of the orator of the day, and in
November of 1840 he died again. The St. Louis
REPUBLICAN of the 25th of that month spoke as follows:
"ANOTHER RELIC OF THE REVOLUTION GONE.
"George, once the favorite body-servant
of
General Washington, died yesterday at the
house of Mr. John Leavenworth in this city,
at the venerable age of 95 years. He was in
the full possession of his faculties up to
the hour of his death, and distinctly
recollected the first and second
installations and death of President
Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the
battles of Trenton and Monmouth, the
sufferings of the patriot army at Valley
Forge, the proclamation of the Declaration of
Independence, the speech of Patrick Henry in
the Virginia House of Delegates, and many
other old-time reminiscences of stirring
interest. Few white men die lamented as was
this aged negro. The funeral was very largely
attended."
During the next ten or eleven years the subject
of this
sketch appeared at intervals at Fourth-of-July
celebrations in various parts of the country, and was
exhibited upon the rostrum with flattering success. But
in the fall of 1855 he died again. The California
papers thus speak of the event:
ANOTHER OLD HERO GONE
Died, at Dutch Flat, on the 7th of March,
George (once the confidential body-servant of
General Washington), at the great age of 95
years. His memory, which did not fail him
till the last, was a wonderful storehouse of
interesting reminiscences. He could
distinctly recollect the first and second
installations and death of President
Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the
battles of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker
Hill, the proclamation of the Declaration of
Independence, and Braddock's defeat. George
was greatly respected in Dutch Flat, and it
is estimated that there were 10,000 people
present at his funeral.
The last time the subject of this sketch died
was in
June, 1864; and until we learn the contrary, it is just
to presume that he died permanently this time. The
Michigan papers thus refer to the sorrowful event:
ANOTHER CHERISHED REMNANT OF THE REVOLUTION
GONE
George, a colored man, and once the favorite
body-servant of George Washington, died in
Detroit last week, at the patriarchal age of
95 years. To the moment of his death his
intellect was unclouded, and he could
distinctly remember the first and second
installations and death of Washington, the
surrender of Cornwallis, the battles of
Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the
proclamation of the Declaration of
Independence, Braddock's defeat, the throwing
over of the tea in Boston harbor, and the
landing of the Pilgrims. He died greatly
respected, and was followed to the grave by a
vast concourse of people.
The faithful old servant is gone! We shall
never see
him more until he turns up again. He has closed his
long and splendid career of dissolution, for the
present, and sleeps peacefully, as only they sleep who
have earned their rest. He was in all respects a
remarkable man. He held his age better than any
celebrity that has figured in history; and the longer
he lived the stronger and longer his memory grew. If he
lives to die again, he will distinctly recollect the
discovery of America.
The above resume of his biography I believe
to be
substantially correct, although it is possible that he
may have died once or twice in obscure places where the
event failed of newspaper notoriety. One fault I find
in all the notices of his death I have quoted, and this
ought to be corrected. In them he uniformly and
impartially died at the age of 95. This could not have
been. He might have done that once, or maybe twice, but
he could not have continued it indefinitely. Allowing
that when he first died, he died at the age of 95, he
was 151 years old when he died last, in 1864. But his
age did not keep pace with his recollections. When he
died the last time, he distinctly remembered the
landing of the Pilgrims, which took place in 1620. He
must have been about twenty years old when he witnessed
that event, wherefore it is safe to assert that the
body-servant of General Washington was in the
neighborhood of two hundred and sixty or seventy years
old when he departed this life finally.
Having waited a proper length of time, to see
if the
subject of his sketch had gone from us reliably and
irrevocably, I now publish his biography with
confidence, and respectfully offer it to a mourning
nation.
P.S.--I see by the papers that this imfamous
old fraud
has just died again, in Arkansas. This makes six times
that he is known to have died, and always in a new
place. The death of Washington's body-servant has
ceased to be a novelty; its charm is gone; the people
are tired of it; let it cease. This well-meaning but
misguided negro has not put six different communities
to the expense of burying him in state, and has
swindled tens of thousands of people into following him
to the grave under the delusion that a select and
peculiar distinction was being conferred upon them. Let
him stay buried for good now; and let that newspaper
suffer the severest censure that shall ever, in all the
future time, publish to the world that General
Washington's favorite colored body-servant has died
again.
From the Dutch Flat Enquirer, November 26,
1863
Mr. Enquirer:-Though a resident of this place, I am but little known; and my acquaintance with yourself leads me to hope that I am not proceeding too far in asking you to vouch for my general character for moderation; my proverbial habit of putting a check and rein upon my fancy; and more observable endeavors to confine myself within the limits of reasonable possibility.
Well, sir, last Saturday evening I brought home a beef-steak for
my Sunday breakfast. I remarked nothing unusual while bringing
it home, nor before going to bed; and the steak remained in the
market basket over night. In the morning I arose as usual, and
set about preparing breakfast, but upon laying hold of the steak,
to take it from the basket, I soon became aware it was of unusual
dimensions; and while wondering at its extreme length, I experienced
a counteracting jerk upon my arm, and became conscious that the
steak was pulling against me; when, with an unexpected contortion,
it slipped from my grasp, and drew back into the basket; but gripping
it firmly with both hands, I succeeded, after a vigorous pulling,
in forcing it out and landing it upon the table, where, after
a series of spasmodic shiverings, it subsided. Whipping out my
rule (I am a carpenter by trade), I proceeded to measure the wonder!
It was thirty-six inches in length; thirty-two inches in breadth,
and in thickness so irregular as to baffle all attempts at measurement,
being in some places, at the highest, two and three-fourths inches,
thereby considered; and, in a preponderance of other places approaching
transparency-presenting a general appearance of a stringed mass,
sawed, chopped, and otherwise sundered, by some wretched apprentice,
from a river-horse, or other unconsidered animal. By my balances,
(always hanging over the sink) it proved to weigh (incredible
as it may appear), all told, but three and a half pounds, light
weight! After a consultation with my wits, apprehension and appetite,
I concluded to endeavor to eat a piece of it for my breakfast;
and finally succeeded in severing a section for frying purposes--completely
turning the edge of one of Wade & Butcher's best Sheffield
carving knives in the operation. But what was my surprise, at
finding the section I held in my hand corresponded in length,
by the rule, with the original measurement of the entire mass!
It had lost something like half its original width, however; but
had gained correspondingly in thickness (which possibly might
be accounted for upon the hypothesis of much pulling), now presenting
a chorded, ribbonly appearance, and suggesting the propriety of
considering its market value by the yard. Loading the frying pan
to the extent of its capacity, I coiled the remainder of the section
up on the top of the coffee broiler, fired up, and awaited the
result. Gentlemen, the heat had no sooner "struck" the
steak than the portion upon the coffee broiler began to crawl
into the frying pan, and mass itself, when it assumed the form
and general characteristics of an enraged cat: humping itself
belligerently, spitting venomously, and repeatedly essaying to
jump out of the pan; but it was met and repulsed by myself, fork
in hand; until repelled by its fast leathering aspect, I seized
an occasion to flirt it out the window, into the yard, when, upon
striking the ground, it assumed, to my gaze, the appearance of
a monster tarantula, and moved, perceptibly-plain facts, gentlemen-toward
my dog, who was sunning himself, and who arose and retreated from
it, growling, into his kennel. Well, satisfied that it was not
adapted to frying purposes, I concluded to try a "boil,"
and succeeded in getting another section of it into the pot, and
fired up under it for two hours, when, upon raising the lid, my
first impression was that I had forgotten to put the "boil"
aboard; but, as the steam cleared away I beheld an object the
size of my fist, gentlemen, resembling a ribbed and fluted gutta
percha ball floating upon the clear surface of the water (not
a shred of meat, nor a globule of grease visible), and diving
as repeatedly as I struck it with my fork! In lifting off the
pot to examine the wonder more closely, the pot capsized and the
Wonder rolled out when, upon striking the floor it commenced bounding
repeatedly, hitting the ceiling and flying through the pantry
window into the adjoining lot where a group of children were at
play, and who immediately started in pursuit. Well, I then determined
to try a "roast;" got another section of it aboard a
roasting pan and fired up under it for two hours more, when upon
opening the stove-door I discovered the "roast" reared
to a perpendicular, and swaying to and fro, (its pedestal part
held to the roaster by numerous guys resembling whip-cords and
banjo strings) suffering a horrid contortion of muscle, and pounding
with its knotted head alternately upon either wall of its torturesome
prison. Gentlemen, I didn't pause long enough to be able to give
you a more vivid description of that demonine roast, hammering
away like a maddened Goliath, and threatening every moment to
tear itself loose, but closed the oven door, cracked on the fire,
and after caving in the top of my stove, succeeded in comparatively
destroying it-reducing it to a mass of whip-cords and lashes,
which, having no appetite for myself, I emptied through a trap
door in my kitchen floor, for my cat and her kittens who live
under the house, whereupon a tremendous scampering and caterwauling
ensued; since which time, gentlemen, I have neither seen nor heard
of my cat and her kittens, and rats are about to take over my
house! Well, a section of IT still remained, and satisfied that
if it could be cooked I could cook it, and eat it, if it could
be ate, (for craving for food was beginning to be felt) and remembering
there was an anvil and hammer belonging to the Geewillikens Mining
Company in my woodshed, I determined on calling in their aid,
and "returning to first principles"-the fry-pan-for
a final trial. Accordingly I laid the remaining section over the
anvil, striking it lustily with a six pound hammer (the hammer
frequently flying back the full extent of my arm), sledged the
result into my fry pan, fired up and awaited the issue with deepest
solicitude. For a moment nothing was heard but the usual "scissle"
of frying fat, but my heart misgave me at a report like the bursting
of a percussion cap, which being twice or thrice repeated was
followed by a report resembling that of a brass pistol, which
was succeeded by a discharge like unto shotguns, when the "steak"
lifting one edge aloft, descended with a "flap" (traveling
around the pan and alternately elevating opposite edges, gentlemen)
until the grease was all out of the pan and I was out of the room;
when convinced by the subsiding of the tumult that immediate danger
was passed, I returned in, and perceived the "steak"
gluing its edges to the bottom of the fry-pan and pulling up largely
in the center, and, big with a presentiment that something remarkable
was going to occur, I armed myself with a three-legged stool and
came to a "guard against cavalry." The "steak"
continuing to expand from the center, until it reached the form
and dimensions of a well-inflated, large-sized, candle-balloon,
when with sort lifting motions upon the pan, and an ejaculation-which
I have no hesitation in pronouncing a horse-laugh-it arose! sailed
to the far end of the room, turned and began darting at me like
the very mischief! Gentlemen, after half an hour's conflict with
IT, (during which time the floor was strewn with the debris of
my household furniture) I succeeded in knocking it down, and beating
the wind out of it, and dragging it to the door, when my dog,
attracted by the noise of the conflict, ventured out of his kennel,
but no sooner caught sight of IT (still rampant and dangerous,
with fry-pan attached, gentlemen), than he broke his chain and
ran howling for the woods. Now comes the strangest part of my
story: The dog had not made fifty yards before IT-the Wonder-the
"steak," was after him, propelling itself by somersaulting
over the pan-handle, and traveling with incredible swiftness.
The last I saw of the chase, the "steak" was gaining
perceptibly upon the dog, who, with tail dropped and ears laid
back was calling vociferously for "pen-and-ink."
To sum it up, gentlemen, I am out and injured the price of the
"steak" (I always pay cash); a fine terrier dog, one
full blown mouser, and some half dozen others in embryo; my household
furniture, consisting of stools and benches; a collapsed cooking
stove, and a dear old fry-pan, a relic of other days, which I
never could have been brought to part with in any other manner.
I am thankful that I myself escaped; but gentlemen, I consider
that a man may be thankful to Providence, and still harbor just
wrath toward a person who would sell an honest carpenter an enchanted
piece of meat!
Snickleford.
From the Dutch Flat Enquirer, December 4,
1863
Mr. Editor:Etiquette is a study to which I have devoted too
little attention. I may say I am lamentably ignorant of it. In
fine, (I may as well admit it) I fear that my education, in this
respect, was wholly neglected in my youth. I absolve from all
blame the loving hearts who, goodness knows, worshipped the ground
their darling played upon. It was something quite frenchy to their
honest minds, and they did not see the use of it. Still, the fact
remains: I am a very vulgar person. I could bear with my own consciousness,
but I fear that others are not so completely blinded to the fact,
as I could wish. Indeed, I am not certain but it has long been
patent in the minds of my superior acquaintances whose true good
breeding forbids a word or sign that would give me pain. How can
it be otherwise? It is impossible for me to appear in public without
proclaiming it. Upon the street, I am betrayed by my carriage,
and general demeanor. Assuming to hide my native gait, I essay
the gay, or grave, as the case may be, of extreme good breeding.
Unacquainted with their intermediate regulations I pass to the
extreme forms upon all occasions. Ignorant of a proper form of
salutation for a passing acquaintance, I usually use, "How
are you, by this time?" I ignore the employment of the adjective
Mr., unless when the person addressed is my superior in fortune;
when I employ it, I may say, lavishly; accompanied by marked blandishments.
Addressed by an inferior, I return a patronizing nod, or direct
my gaze aslant, and pass oblivious to the salutation. It is only
to ladies that I doff my hat; when, despairing of rendering the
ceremony a-la-mode, I usually endeavor to make a joke out of it.
In the drawing-room, the evidences of my vulgarity are mercilessly
multiplied. Unblest with a knowledge of drawing-room manners,
I am constrained to take my cue from others; and my happiest efforts
are but caricatures of questionable models. I am not abashed,
however, in exhibiting my conception of those rare and delicate
shades which distinguish caste; (and which, it is assumed, can
only be acquired by constant association with good company) and,
arriving at the acme of deceptions, vault from the detecting gaze
of Mr. Maccassar, and Madam Patchouly, the elite of society, into
the brusque form of behavior; which more unsophisticated observers
kindly attribute to "eccentricity of taste," or "excessive
exuberance of spirit." How estimable their ignorance! Do
they never reflect that, in the whole course of their observations,
I have not been known to continue these elegant delineations beyond
a brief moment? and that they immutably terminate in smirking
conceits, and contemptible familiarities? Seeking a partner for
the execution of a dance, I approach in my gayest demeanor; and,
dazzling my object by a few superior flourishes, humorously insist
(without inquiring concerning possible existing engagements) that
the pleasure is mine, by specific arrangement. If the fair sitter
affects an air of giggling bewilderment, I seize her, and away,
without further ado; but if she proves repellant, I respond: "Bully
for you;" and flit gaily to another. I do not escort a partner
to a seat, and thank her for the pleasure she has enabled me to
enjoy; but if she lingers, looking wistfully thirsty, and adds
a modest request for a glass of water, I respond: "That's
played out," and evaporate in the direction of a "bar."
But I am a modest escort to the supper-room, when a gentle companion
insures to myself an equitable amount of the delicacies of the
occasion; and where my vice is heard, half smothered in viands,
in loud personalities, and guffaws of the Merry Andrew order.
In the cottage parlor, my arrogance and presumption are beyond
the art of veiling. Indeed, they are so surprising as sometimes
to upset, so to speak, my own extraordinary self-possession; and
the reflection obtrudes itself that my presence is but tolerated
to enable the unpolished to discover where vulgarity ends, and
refinement may possibly have a beginning. Utterly regardless of
the worldly condition of my listeners, I dilate largely upon the
innovations, and aristocratic modes of the day; sketching with
sympathetic glance, a picture of some poor family whose circumstances
correspond as nearly as may be with the circumstances of my listeners;
(as the simplest method of visiting blushes, and heart-burnings,
and virtually abolishing all possibly meditated attempts to vault
into my own sphere of gyrations) ending with a fabulous computation
of my own income, and a judicious jingling of the loose change
in my pantaloons pocket. I observe no rule in calling upon such
acquaintances, simply turning to their doors when more aristocratic
doors are closed to me; passing in and out, upon any day of the
week, or hour of the day, or evening; saluting as hereinbefore
mentioned by jestingly tipping my hat, and playfully repeating:
"How are you, by this time?" I am never repulsed by
delicacy of demeanor; nor do I pause to consult the trifling hinderance
I may offer to the execution of household duties; but comporting
myself to the habits of poor people, I gaily invade the precincts
of cook stove, and wash tub; and, in the presence of ears sobered
by long marriage, vivaciously deliver the most startling familiarities.
I am sometimes forced to omit visiting, for a time, at certain
cottages; and, though I have never experienced the absolute loss
of an acquaintance, I have suffered great embarrassment from the
wits who do congregate in the lobby of the post-office; and whose
extraordinary facilities for obtaining contraband information,
is only equalled in their surprising art in dressing it for circulation.
At church, it is manifestly incredible that my prismatic offences
escape the plain gaze of faithful worshipers. Alas! I owe it to
the good beadle that he does not turn me out! My progress up the
aisle is scarcely calculated to show that the house is God's,
not Caesar's. Accustomed to consider myself an ornament wherever
I go, I cannot refrain from exhibiting my proudest gait, flipping
my personal appendages, and nodding to the most important personage
along the route. I accomplish a seat with my drawing-room flourishes,
done in detail; and assume my conception of graceful ease by covering
as much territory as possible with my various members; usually
resting my head in my right hand passed through my locks, with
crooked elbow poised upon the pew combing; my left arm negligently
stretched along the pew combing on my left, or gracefully dangling
in the pew in the rear. This achieved, I begin to distribute my
glances over the house, varying my attitude, to favor my gaze,
by changing the guardianship of my head to my left hand; and stretching
away, or dangling, as hereinbefore mentioned, my right hand; which
attitudes, I sometimes vary by assuming an upright position, inserting
my thumbs in the arm-holes of my vest, and crossing my left leg,
or more properly speaking, limb, over my right, and my right limb
over my left; which series of attitudes I endeavor to confine
myself to, and enliven, and embellish by working at prayer times,
and pauses preceding the giving out of hymns, upon my teeth with
a goose quill tooth pick; extracting the result by explosive suction,
and discharging it, in a highly audible manner, upon the pew floor-in
accordance with my conception of aristocratic usage. I move out,
as I moved in; with a visible supercilious contempt of the sanctity
of the place, and the foundation-doctrines, all of true and unassailable
behavior. In common intercourse with my assumed equals, I essay
the standing of a wit; and I owe it to their forbearance, and
my liliputian dimensions that I have escaped many merited drubbings.
I dispute smartly with any person, expressing an opinion at variance
with my own, without further consideration of the subject; for
while error is the natural stepping-stone to knowledge, it is
quite apparent that it is not I who am tarrying there, but my
fellow disputant.
On the street, in the drawing-room, in the cottage parlor, at
church, and among my associates, I have, then, I fear, without
the aid of types, published myself a very vulgar person. Types,
I have not achieved. My nearest approach to them may, possibly,
be discovered in the following witticism; viz., namely, to-wit:
In my career, I am typical of a printing press remorselessly urged,
with an imp for a "roller boy," and the devil for "pressman;"
and night and day working off, and circulating copies charged
with the secrets of the office, free gratis for nothing.
"I serve."
Rapier.
From the Dutch Flat Enquirer, December 11,
1863
Mr. Editor:--Nimrod himself was a mighty hunter who roamed the
dim forests of the Past, crying, havoc, and letting loose his
javelin among many and divers strange and savage beasts which
therein had their lair. But Nimrod of to-day (alas, for the degeneracy
of the times!) has little to boast, save being a Dutch Flatter
of the eccentric clan that roam with blunderbuss their native
hills. With the scope of whose individual havoc for one day will
be unfolded herein. With all due deference to the skill of Nimrod
of old, your Nimrod submits that he would hunt for prestige with
that mighty personage, in the adjacent hills; and furthermore,
your Nimrod would obligate himself to eat everything (wood-peckers
and ox-drivers, excepted) by which he might, would could or should
be overmatched-fur, feathers, and all.
In the piney wood skirting the stage road, just this side of the
glimmering "Dixie," one day this week, there might have
been seen a sportsman sitting upon a rail fence with arms diagonally
laid across his lap; or perhaps more neatly described by the employment
of the figure of a rail fence, "parade rest." The view
was cheerful-the landscape view, not the sportsman, dear reader.
"Dixie" just glimmering through the thinned wood whose
slaughtered trunks lay heaped in inextricable axe and fire-scarred
confusion; grimly presided by tall, roughly lacerated, and blackened
stumps grouped, as in Congress, upon man's fell wrath; and crooning
over their tales of sorry deaths by unskillful axe-men, and further
torture by smouldering fires. A waste, figureless and silent,
all, save a crimson tufted woodpecker who worked with loud tappings
upon a near neighboring tree, keeping a sharp look out upon the
sportsman, and winding around more deftly as approaching his view.
Quoth the sportsman, "Beshrew me, but I am insensible to
a noble favor of Jove's!" And bang went the gun. There was
wild fluttering in the neighboring tree, and lo, a feathery form,
wide spread, and clinging to the tree wherein it had been arrested
in its rounds, frantically fanning the air, and wildly beating
the tree. Now, bolt upright, and shaking the crimson drops from
its blinded eyes, and darkly crimsomed plume; now, burying its
slender talons in the rough bark and rearing back and uttering
piercing little screams; now, fanning the air faintly and careering
over backward and-giving up the ghost. Now hanging pendant by
one little claw; and now, loosening its last fragile hold upon
hearth and thereof, and swiftly descending with a "thud"
to the ground. "Bravo!" cried the sportsman, leaping
from his perch in the enthusiasm attendant upon a successful shot,
and advancing upon his trophy.
"Jacob! Jacob!" cried a voice from the branches above;
and lo, Madame Woodpecker, ascending the tree by short and rapid
stages, and peering downward upon the scene. "Jacob! Jacob!"
she cried and continued to climb. Quoth I doffing my hat, "my
dear madam, I have slain poor Jacob."
"My Ja-cob! My Ja-cob!" cried the bird, speeding away
in wavy flight. "Miserable wretch that I am!" quoth
I; "what home in a hollow tree have I rendered desolate?"
And thus I lashed myself. "Why have I slain this innocent
thing? Why spilled the gem of this feathered casket? To test my
skill? Why not turn my murderous tubes upon the cradle of a sleeping
infant; does a common Father love this little type the less because
of its varying mould and ruder habits, was it not an emblem of
His will, and extended grace, tossed by His hand into these wilds,
and bade to unfold a principle? Canst thou refashion it, oh sportsman,
is thine the secret of the wondrous germ thou scatterest so freely?
Come, then, repair thy mischief; wipe off those tell tale globules;
ope those closed eyes, smooth this poor plumage; and toss the
little form in air, and bid it fly again, an emblem of His grace
abroad!"
Quoth the sportsman, shouldering his blunderbuss: "And this
is very like a Conversion. If your good pastor were present, it
is possible he might, with this little key, walk into my tabernacle,
lock the door after him, and have it out with my devil!"
Approaching the stage road, I perceived through the brush, the
apparent phenomenon of a mountain of cord wood oscillating the
air; but upon advancing toward it rapidly, I soon discovered that
it was being drawn along the road by four oxen, with attendant
tall yeoman flourishing the long Yankee "gad stick,"
and all moving majestically in the direction of Dutch Flat. Reaching
the immediate skirting of the road, I poised myself upon a stump
to admire the approaching pyramid, and to render silent tribute
to the genius of the yeoman who evidently had conceived and executed
it, and to the noble team which, with proud and stately carriage
drew it onward. Steadily and grandly it was bearing toward me,
and when but a few yards distant the "off-fore wheel"
disappeared from view. The pyramid, with a volcanic shock suddenly
losing about a foot in altitude, miserably careening and bulging
to one side, and otherwise being swiftly and greatly disturbed
in the fair proportions which had caught my fancy.
"Now look here, boys!" cried the yeoman to his oxen,
coming to a sudden halt, and bringing his "gad-stick"
to a position which, in my ignorance of teamsterial phrases I
will describe as "charge gad-stick."
"You saw that hole just as well as I did. Didn't I see you
lookin' at it? and wouldn't I hollered 'gee,' if I hadn't knowed
you knowed better? Now will you take it out of here; or shall
I commence on you? What do you say, Buck? What have you got to
say about it Star and Line? What's your conclusion, Golden? You'll
try it, will you? Well, 'gee' a little, 'haw' Star and Line, ho,
Golden!" And in many and divers times and motions, the yeoman
charged "gad-stick," fast and furiously, passing around
the boys swiftly and frequently, swearing hoarsely and fearfully,
and gliding from the manual for oaths and arms for infantry into
the manual of oaths and arms for cavalry, employing: "Right,
left and rear moulinet; in tierce, point; in quarte, point. For
the head, point, cut, and parry; right, point; left, point; rear,
point, cut and parry; right, cut and point; left, cut and point;
front, cut; rear, cut; thrust and parry," etc., interspersing
his exercises with oaths befittingly mounted and caparisoned.
The tall yeoman, his hoarse shoutings, the terrible circle of
his "gad-stick," and the poor, striving and apparently
incapable oxen, vividly recalling to my mind's eye, dear Guard,
the picture of the hoarse, herculean Orderly of the Yolo Cavalry
before a group of mountain infantry captains, endeavoring to shout
and example it unto them how to draw their swords to befittingly
salute our Major on dress parade, at Camp Kibbe.
"Well now, look here, boys," said the yeoman, pausing,
exhausted in his fruitless strife, resuming infantry bearings,
and bringing himself and tall "gad-stick" to the position
of "rest." "You've got to take this out of here;
I shan't take off a stick. You know you can do it, and you ought
to know I know it-much as I've been along with you, and seen you
pull. You've kinder had your backs up all day, like you've got
your feelings hurt about something; now, if you've got any complaints
to make, I'll hear 'em. Don't you have as much hay and ground
barley as any oxen on airth? Ain't you got a trough where you
can go and drink without getting sick to the stomach? Ain't you
got a good shed to sleep in when the weather's cold? Do I work
you more than half the time; and when I do have you up, do I work
you half as hard as I work myself? Do you recollect of my ever
using you unkind, unless you deserved it? Do you, Buck? Do you,
Star and Line? Can you put me in mind of anything of the kind,
Golden? Well, then, what on airth is it all about; you don't mean
to say you think you can't take this out of here! What, this little
load of sticks; is that so, Buck; is that so, Star and Line; is
that your opinion too, Golden? Well, boys, it ain't mine; and
we'll see who knows the most. You can think it over, and come
round kinder graceful, if you want to, and while you're about
it, I'll jest kind o' dig like round this're wheel, if I can find
the axe to sharp a stick to do it with."
[end part 1]
by
Bret Harte
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 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 somber of 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 program 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 of Confucius; hats that
looked like baskets, and baskets that looked like hats; silk 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 number of 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 15 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 Astrakhan 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 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 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,
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 on 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 gruesome
way upon the misshapen bulk of a Chinese deity in the background,
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, 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 with 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 sandalwood. 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 noncommittalism
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," "Antæus," etc., etc.
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 3 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 postmark, 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 offense 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 of
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 anything; no one had seen the letter delivered, nor knew anything of the bearer. A few days later I had a visit from my laundryman, 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
the 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, the letter came flying in at the window, circled
twice around the room, and then dropped gently like a bird upon
my table. Before I got over my surprise Wan Lee reappeared, 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 the
bedroom windows. They had received them full in the face, like
a baseball, 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 strips 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 my 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 have
reason to believe, might have changed the whole balance of trade
during the ensuing year, and left San Francisco bankrupt at her
wharfs, 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 Colonel Starbottle of Siskiyou had delivered an effective
speech, which was reported especially for the "Northern Star."
In a very sublime peroration Colonel 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 Colonel 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 Colonel 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 cooly. 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 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 skeptic; 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 practiced 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 who were
good to him. What he might have become under more favorable conditions
than the bondsman of an overworked, underpaid 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 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 afterthought 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' 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 instinct of mischief which I fear I possessed
in common with him, impelled me to act as though oblivious to
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!-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
his offence. As a particular peace-offering, he blacked all my
boots-a duty never required of him-including a pair of buff deerskin
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 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,
Foster, 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 into 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-allee same!" His other offense 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-allee 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 U.S. 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 long 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 willfulness! 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 subsceptibility 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 for 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 marvelous toys; he would cut out of carrots and turnip
the most astonishing roses and tulips; he made lifelike 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 pigtail, 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-womanlike, 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 be long remembered
in San Francisco-two days when a mob of her citizens set upon
and killed unarmed, defenseless 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 anybody
or anything. 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 house,
and thence downstairs 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, eighteen hundred and sixty-nine,
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!
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