University of Virginia Library

SQUIBOB IN BENICIA.

Leaving the metropolis last evening by the gradually-increasing-in-popularity
steamer, “West Point,” I `skeeted' up
Pablo Bay with the intention of spending a few days at the
world-renowned seaport of Benicia. Our Captain (a very
pleasant and gentlemanly little fellow by the way) was named
Swift, our passengers were emphatically a fast set, the wind
blew like well-watered rose bushes, and the tide was strong
in our favor. All these circumstances tended to impress me
with the idea, that we were to make a wonderfully quick
passage, but alas, “the race is not always to the Swift,” the
“Senator” passed us ten miles from the wharf, and it was nine
o'clock and very dark at that, when we were roped in by the
side of the “ancient and fishlike” smelling hulk that forms
the broad wharf of Benicia. As I shouldered my carpet bag,
and stepped upon the wharf among the dense crowd of four
individuals that were there assembled, and gazing upon the

mighty city whose glimmering lights, feebly discernible through
the Benician darkness, extended over an area of five acres, an
overpowering sense of the grandeur and majesty of the great
rival of San Francisco, affected me.—I felt my own extreme
insignificance, and was fain to lean upon a pile of water melons
for support. “Boy!” said I, addressing an intelligent specimen
of humanity who formed an integral portion of the above
mentioned crowd, “Boy! can you direct me to the best hotel
in this city?”—“Aint but one,” responded the youth, “Winn
keeps it; right up the hill thar.” Decidedly, thought I, I will go
in to Winn, and reshouldering my carpet bag, I blundered down
the ladder, upon a plank foot-path leading over an extensive
morass in the direction indicated, not noticing, in my abstraction,
that I had inadvertently retained within my grasp the
melon upon which my hand had rested. “Saw yer!” resounded
from the wharf as I retired—“Saw yer!” repeated several individuals
upon the foot-path. For an instant my heart beat
with violence at the idea of being seen accidentally appropriating
so contemptible an affair as a water-melon; but hearing
a man with a small white hat, and large white monstache,
shout “hello!” and immediately rush with frantic violence up
the ladder, I comprehended that Sawyer was his proper name,
and by no means alluded to me or my proceedings; so slipping
the melon in my carpet bag, I tranquilly resumed my
journey. A short walk brought me to the portal of the best
and only hotel in the city, a large two-story building dignified
by the title of the “Solano Hotel,” where I was graciously
received by mine host, who welcomed me to Benicia in the
most winning manner. After slightly refreshing my inner
man with a feeble stimulant, and undergoing an introduction
to the oldest inhabitant, I calmly seated myself in the bar-room,
and contemplated with intense interest the progress of a game
of billiards between two enterprising citizens; but finding after
a lapse of two hours, that there was no earthly probability of its
ever being concluded, I seized a candlestick and retired to my
room. Here I discussed my melon with intense relish, and
then seeking my couch, essayed to sleep.—But, oh! the fleas!
skipping, hopping, crawling, biting! “Won't some one establish
an agency for the sale of D. L. Charles & Co's. Flea
bane, in Benicia?” I agonizingly shouted, and echo answered
through the reverberating halls of the “Solano Hotel,” “Yes,
they won't!” What a night! But every thing must have an
end (circles and California gold excepted), and day at last
broke over Benicia. Magnificent place! I gazed upon it
from the attic window of the “Solano Hotel,” with feelings
too deep for utterance. The sun was rising in its majesty,
gilding the red wood shingles of the U. S. Storehouses in the
distance; seven deserted hulks were riding majestically at
anchor in the bay; clothes-lines, with their burdens, were
flapping in the morning breeze; a man with a wheelbarrow
was coming down the street!—Every thing, in short, spoke of
the life, activity, business, and bustle of a great city. But in
the midst of the excitement of this scene, an odoriferous
smell of beef-steak came, like a holy calm, across my olfactories,
and hastily drawing in my cabeza, I descended to breakfast.
This operation concluded, I took a stroll in company
with the oldest inhabitant, from whom I obtained much valuable
information (which I hasten to present), and who
cheerfully volunteered to accompany me as a guide, to the
lions of the city. There are no less than forty-two wooden
houses, many of them two stories in height, in this great
place—and nearly twelve hundred inhabitants, men, women
and children! There are six grocery, provision, drygoods,
auction, commission, and where-you-can-get-almost-any-little-thing-you-want-stores,
one hotel, one school-house—which is
also a brovet church—three billiard tables, a post-office—from
which I actually saw a man get a letter—and a ten-pin-alley,
where I am told a man once rolled a whole game, paid $1.50
for it, and walked off chuckling.—Then there is a “monte
bank”—a Common Council, and a Mayor, whom my guide
informed me, was called “Carne,” from a singular habit he
has of eating roast beef for dinner.—But there isn't a tree
in all Benicia. “There was one,” said the guide, “last year
—only four miles from here, but they chopped it down for
firewood for the `post.' Alas! why didn't the woodman spare
that tree?” The dwelling of one individual pleased me indescribably—he
had painted it a vivid green! Imaginative
being. He had evidently tried to fancy it a tree, and in the
enjoyment of this sweet illusion, had reclined beneath its
grateful shade, secured from the rays of the burning sun, and
in the full enjoyment of rural felicity even among the crowded
streets of this great metropolis. How pretty is the map of
Benicia! We went to see that, too. It's all laid off in
squares and streets, for ever so far, and you can see the pegs
stuck in the ground at every corner, only they are not exactly
in a line, sometimes; and there is Aspinwall's wharf, where
they are building a steamer of iron, that looks like a large pan,
and Semple Slip, all divided on the map by lines and dots, into
little lots, of incredible value; but just now they are all under
water, so no one can tell what they are actually worth. Oh!
decidedly Benicia is a great place. “And how much, my dear
sir,” I modestly inquired of the gentlemanly recorder who
displayed the map; “how much may this lot be worth?” and
I pointed with my finger at lot No. 97, block 16,496—situated
as per map, in the very centre of the swamp. “That, sir,”
replied he with much suavity, “ah! it would be held at about
three thousand dollars, I suppose.”—I shuddered—and retired.
The history of Benicia is singular. The origin of its
name as related by the oldest inhabitant is remarkable. I put
it right down in my note-book as he spoke, and believe it
religiously, every word. “Many years ago,” said that aged
man, “this property was owned by two gentlemen, one of
whom, from the extreme candor and ingenuousness of his
character, we will call Simple; the other being distinguished
for waggery, and a disposition for practical joking, I shall
call, as in fact he was familiarly termed in those days—Larkin.
While walking over these grounds in company, on one
occasion, and being naturally struck by its natural advantages,
said Simple to Larkin. `Why not make a city here, my
boy? have it surveyed into squares, bring up ships, build
houses, make it a port of entry, establish depots, sell lots, and
knock the centre out of Yerba Buena straight.' (Yerba
Buena is now San Francisco, reader.) `Ah!' quoth Larkin with
a pleasant grin diffusing itself over his agreeable countenance
`that would be nice, hey?”' Need we say that the plan was
adopted—carried out—proved successful—and Larkin's memorable
remark “be nice, hey,” being adopted as the name of the
growing city, gradually became altered and vulgarized into its
present form Benicia! A curious history this, which would
have delighted Horne Took beyond measure. Having visited
the Masonic Hall, which is really a large and beautiful building,
reflecting credit alike on the Architect and the fraternity,
being by far the best and most convenient hall in the country,
I returned to the Solano Hotel, where I was accosted
by a gentleman in a blue coat with many buttons, and a sanguinary
streak down the leg of his trowsers, whom I almost
immediately recognized as my old friend, Captain George P.
Jambs, of the U. S. Artillery, a thorough-going adobe, as the
Spaniard has it, and a member in high and regular standing
of the Dumfudgin Club. He lives in a delightful little cottage,
about a quarter of a mile from the centre of the city—
being on duty at the Post—which is some mile, mile and
a half or two miles from that metropolis—and pressed me so
earnestly to partake of his hospitality during my short sojourn,
that I was at last fain to pack up my property, including the
remains of the abstracted melon, and in spite of the blandishments
of my kind host of the Solano, accompany him to his
domicile, which he very appropriately names “Mischief Hall.”
So here I am installed for a few days, at the expiration of
which I shall make a rambling excursion to Sonoma, Napa
and the like, and from whence perhaps you may hear from
me. As I set here looking from my airy chamber, upon the
crowds of two or three persons, thronging the streets of the
great city; as I gaze upon that man carrying home a pound
and a half of fresh beef for his dinner; as I listen to the bell of
the Mary (a Napa steam packet of four cat power) ringing for
departure, while her captain in a hoarse voice of authority, requests
the passengers to “step over the other side, as the larboard
paddle-box is under water;” as I view all these unmistakable
signs of the growth and prosperity of Benicia, I cannot
but wonder at the infatuation of the people of your village,
who will persist in their absurd belief that San Francisco
will become a place, and do not hesitate to advance the
imbecile idea that it may become a successful rival of this
city. Nonsense!—Oh Lord! at this instant there passed by
my window the—prettiest—little—I can't write any more
this week; if this takes, I'll try it again.