University of Virginia Library

MY SUBURBAN RESIDENCE.

I live in the suburbs. My residence, to quote
the pleasing fiction of the advertisement, “is within
fifteen minutes' walk of the City Hall.” Why the
City Hall should be considered as an eligible terminus
of anybody's walk, under any circumstances,
I have not been able to determine. Never having
walked from my residence to that place, I am unable
to verify the assertion, though I may state as a
purely abstract and separate proposition, that it takes
me the better part of an hour to reach Montgomery
street.

My selection of locality was a compromise between
my wife's desire to go into the country, and my own
predilections for civic habitation. Like most compromises,
it ended in retaining the objectionable features
of both propositions—I procured the inconveniences
of the country without losing the discomforts
of the city. I increased my distance from the
butcher and green-grocer, without approximating to
herds and kitchen-gardens. But I anticipate.

Fresh air was to be the principal thing sought for.

That there might be too much of this did not enter
into my calculations. The first day I entered my
residence, it blew. The second day was windy.
The third, fresh, with a strong breeze stirring. On
the fourth, it blew; on the fifth, there was a gale,
which has continued to the present writing.

That the air is fresh, the above statement sufficiently
establishes. That it is bracing, I argue from
the fact that I find it impossible to open the shutters
on the windward side of the house. That it is
healthy, I am also convinced, believing that there is
no other force in Nature that could so buffet and ill-use
a person without serious injury to him. Let me
offer an instance. The path to my door crosses a
slight eminence. The unconscious visitor, a little
exhausted by the ascent and the general effects of
the gentle gales which he has faced in approaching
my hospitable mansion, relaxes his efforts, smoothes
his brow, and approaches with a fascinating smile.
Rash and too confident man! The wind delivers a
succession of rapid blows, and he is thrown back.
He staggers up again—in the language of the P. R.,
“smiling and confident.” The wind now makes for
a vulnerable point, and gets his hat in chancery. All
ceremony is now thrown away—the luckless wretch
seizes his hat with both hands, and charges madly
at the front door. Inch by inch, the wind contests
the ground; another struggle, and he stands upon
the verandah. On such occasions I make it a point
to open the door myself, with a calmness and serenity
that shall offer a marked contrast to his feverish,

and excited air—that shall throw suspicion of inebriety
upon him. If he be inclined to timidity and
bashfulness, during the best of the evening he is all
too-conscious of the disarrangement of his hair and
cravat. If he is less sensitive, the result is often
more distressing. A valued elderly friend once
called upon me after undergoing a two-fold struggle
with the wind and a large Newfoundland dog, (which
I keep for reasons hereinafter stated,) and not only
his hat, but his wig, had suffered. He spent the
evening with me, totally unconscious of the fact that
his hair presented the singular spectacle of having
been parted diagonally from the right temple to the
left ear. When ladies called, my wife preferred to
receive them. They were generally hysterical, and
often in tears. I remember, one Sunday, to have
been startled by what appeared to be the balloon
from Hayes Valley drifting rapidly past my conservatory,
closely followed by the Newfoundland dog.
I rushed to the front door, but was anticipated by
my wife. A strange lady appeared at lunch, but the
phenomenon remained otherwise unaccounted for.
Egress from my residence is much more easy. My
guests seldom “stand upon the order of their going,
but go at once;” the Newfoundland dog playfully harrassing
their rear. I was standing one day, with my
hand on the open hall door, in serious conversation
with the minister of the parish, when the back door
was cautiously opened. The watchful breeze seized
the opportunity, and charged through the defenceless
passage. The front door closed violently in the middle
of a sentence, precipitating the reverend gentleman
into the garden. The Newfoundland dog, with
that sagacity for which his race is so distinguished,
at once concluded that a personal collision had taken
place between myself and visitor, and flew to my defence.
The reverend gentleman never called again.

The Newfoundland dog above alluded to was part
of a system of protection which my suburban home
once required. Robberies were frequent in the
neighborhood, and my only fowl fell a victim to the
spoiler's art. One night I awoke, and found a man
in my room. With singular delicacy and respect for
the feelings of others, he had been careful not to
awaken any of the sleepers, and retired upon my rising,
without waiting for any suggestion. Touched
by his delicacy, I forebore giving the alarm until
after he had made good his retreat. I then wanted
to go after a policeman, but my wife remonstrated,
as this would leave the house exposed. Remembering
the gentlemanly conduct of the burglar, I suggested
the plan of following him and requesting him
to give the alarm as he went in town. But this proposition
was received with equal disfavor. The
next day I procured a dog and a revolver. The former
went off—but the latter wouldn't. I then got a
new dog and chained him, and a duelling pistol, with
a hair-trigger. The result was so far satisfactory that
neither could be approached with safety, and for
some time I left them out, indifferently, during the
night. But the chain one day gave way, and the
dog, evidently having no other attachment to the

house, took the opportunity to leave. His place was
soon filled by the Newfoundland, whose fidelity and
sagacity I have just recorded.

Space is one of the desirable features of my suburban
residence. I do not know the number of
acres the grounds contain except from the inordinate
quantity of hose required for irrigating. I perform
daily, like some gentle shepherd, upon a quarter-inch
pipe without any visible result, and have had serious
thoughts of contracting with some disbanded fire
company for their hose and equipments. It is quite
a walk to the wood-house. Every day some new
feature of the grounds is discovered. My youngest
boy was one day missing for several hours. His
head—a peculiarly venerable and striking object—
was at last discovered just above the grass, at some
distance from the house. On examination he was
found comfortably seated in a disused drain, in company
with a silver spoon and a dead rat. On being
removed from this locality he howled dismally and
refused to be comforted.

The view from my suburban residence is fine.
Lone Mountain, with its white obelisks, is a suggestive
if not cheering termination of the vista in one
direction, while the old receiving vault of Yerba
Buena Cemetery limits the view in another. Most
of the funerals which take place pass my house. My
children, with the charming imitativeness that belongs
to youth, have caught the spirit of these passing
corteges, and reproduce in the back yard, with
creditable skill, the salient features of the lugubrious

procession. A doll, from whose features all traces
of vitality and expression have been removed, represents
the deceased. Yet unfortunately I have been
obliged to promise them more active participation in
this ceremony at some future time, and I fear that
they look anxiously forward with the glowing
impatience of youth to the speedy removal of
some of my circle of friends. I am told that the
eldest, with the unsophisticated frankness that belongs
to his age, made a personal request to that effect to
one of my acquaintances. One singular result of the
frequency of these funerals is the development of a
critical and fastidious taste in such matters on the
part of myself and family. If I may so express myself,
without irreverence, we seldom turn out for anything
less than six carriages. Any number over this
is usually breathlessly announced by Bridget as,
“Here's another, mum—and a good long one.”

With these slight drawbacks my suburban residence
is charming. To the serious poet, and writer
of elegiac verses, the aspect of Nature, viewed
from my veranda, is suggestive. I myself have
experienced moments when the “sad mechanic exercise”
of verse would have been of infinite relief. The
following stanzas, by a young friend who has been
stopping with me for the benefit of his health, addressed
to a duck that frequented a small pond in the
vicinity of my mansion, may be worthy of perusal,
as showing the debilitated condition of his system.
I think I have met the idea conveyed in the first verse
in some of Hood's prose, but as my friend assures

me that Hood was too conscientious to appropriate
anything, I conclude I am mistaken:

LINES TO A WATER FOWL.

(Intra Muros.)