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