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, ****** 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, Icalled 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.
