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 Ihad 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, Ioffered 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.
