University of Virginia Library

PHŒNIX AT THE MISSION DOLORES.

It was my intention to furnish you, this month, with an
elaborate article on a deeply interesting subject, but a serious
domestic calamity has prevented. I allude to the loss of
my stove-pipe, in the terrific gale of the 31st December.

There are few residents of this city whose business or
inclination has called them to the Mission of Dolores, that
have not seen and admired that stove-pipe. Rising above
the kitchen chimney to the noble altitude of nearly twelve
feet, it pointed to a better world, and was pleasantly suggestive
of hot cakes for breakfast. From the window of my
back porch, I have gazed for hours upon that noble structure;
and watching its rotary cap, shifting with every breeze, and
pouring forth clouds of gas and vapor, I have mused on politics,
and fancied myself a Politician. It was an accomplished
stove-pipe. The melody accompanying its movements, inaptly
termed creaking by the soulless, gave evidence of its

taste for Music, and its proficiency in Drawing was the
wonder and delight of our family circle. It had no bad
habits—it did not even smoke.

I fondly hoped to enjoy its society for years, but one by
one our dearest treasures are snatched from us: the soot fell,
and the stove-pipe has followed soot. On the night of the
31st of Dec., a gale arose, perfectly unexampled in its terrific
violence. Houses shook as with tertian ague, trees were
uprooted, roofs blown off, and ships foundered at the docks.
A stove-pipe is not a pyramid—what resistance could mine
oppose to such a storm? One by one its protecting wires
were severed; and as it bowed its devoted head to the fury
of the blast, shrieks of more than mortal agony attested the
desperate nature of its situation. At length the Storm
Spirit fell upon the feeble and reeling structure in its wrath,
and whirling it madly in the air with resistless force, breaking
several tenpenny nails, and loosening many of the upper
bricks of the chimney, dashed it down to earth. But why
harrow up the feelings of your readers by a continuation of
the distressing narrative. The suffering that we have endured,
the tears that have been shed since this loss will be
understood, and commiserated, when I add—the next morning
the kitchen chimney smoked, and has been doing it intermittently
ever since!

Since my last, scarcely a gleam of fun has come to illumine
the usual dull monotony of the Mission of Dolores,—

A little occurrence at the toll-gate, the other day, is worthy
of notice, perhaps, as betokening “the good time a-coming.”
A well-known gentleman of your city, who frequently drives
forth on the Plank Road, perched on one of those little gigs
that somebody compares to a tea-tray on wheels, with the
reins hanging down behind, like unfastened suspenders, in an
absent frame of mind, drove slowly past the Rubicon without
bifurcating the customary half-dollar. Out rushed the enthusiastic
toll-gatherers, shouting, “Toll, sir, toll! you've
forgot the toll!” “Oh! don't bother me, gentlemen,” replied
the absent one, in a lachrymose tone, and with a most
woful expression, “I'm an orphan boy!” This appeal to
the sympathies of the toll-men was effective; their hearts
were touched, and the orphan went on his way rejoicing.

It is amusing to observe the shifts a maker of Poetry will
resort to, when compelled to make use of an irrelevant subject
to eke out his rhyme to convince himself and his readers
that the faux pas was quite intentional, the result of study,
and should be admired rather than criticised. In a poem
called “Al Aaraaf,” by Edgar A. Poe, who, when living,
thought himself, in all seriousness, the only living original
Poet, and that all other manufacturers of Poetry were mere
copyists, continually infringing on his patent—occurs the following
passage, in which may be found a singular instance of
the kind alluded to:

Observe that note: “The Albatross is said to sleep on
the wing.” Who said so? I should like to know. Buffon
didn't mention it; neither does Audubon. Coleridge, who
made the habits of that rare bird a study, never found it out;
and the undersigned, who has gazed on many Albatrosses,
and had much discourse with ancient mariners concerning
them, never suspected the circumstance, or heard it elsewhere
remarked upon.

I am inclined to believe that it never occurred to Mr.
Poe, until having become embarrassed by that unfortunate
word “toss,” he was obliged to bring in either a hoss, or an
albatross; and preferring the bird as the more poetical, invented
the extraordinary fact to explain his appearance.

The above lines, I am told, have been much admired; but
if they are true poetry, so are the following:

A note for me, and the man waiting for an answer, said ye?
Now, by the shade of Shadrach, and the chimney of Nebuchadnezzar's
fiery furnace! 'tis the bill for the new chimney!
Bills, bills, bills! How can a man name his child William?
The horrid idea of the partner of his joys, and sorrows, presenting
him with a Bill!—and to have that Bill continually
in the house—constantly running up and down stairs—always
unsettled,—Distraction's in the thought! Tell that
man, Bridget, I'm sick; and, lucky thought, say it's the
smallpox; and ask him to call again when I've got better,
and gone to San Diego for my health.—He's gone. I see
him from a hole in the window curtain, flying off in a zigzag
direction, and looking back timorously, like a jacksnipe,
with his long bill. I shall write no more; like that bill, I
feel unsettled. Adieu!