University of Virginia Library

SQUIBOB IN SAN FRANCISCO.

Time! At the word Squibob comes cheerfully up to the
scratch, and gracefully smiling upon his friends and supporters,
lets fly his one, two, as follows;—

Sonoma is a nice place. As my Sabbath school instructor
(peace to his memory) used to add, by way of a
clincher to his dictum—Piety is the foundation of all Religion—“thar
can't be no doubt on't.” Situated in the
midst of the delightful and fertile valley which bears its name,
within three miles of the beautiful creek upon whose “silvery
tide, where whilom sported the tule boats of the unpleasant
Indians, the magnificent (ly little) steamer Georgina
now puffs and wheezes tri-weekly from San Fransicso; enjoying
an unvaryingly salubrious climate, neither too warm
nor too cold. With little wind, few fleas, and a sky of that
peculiarly blue description, that Fremont terms the Italian,
it may well be called, as by the sentimentally struck travelling
snob it frequently is, the Garden of California. I remained

there ten whole days—somewhat of a marvel for so
determined a gad-about as myself—and don't remember of
ever passing ten days more pleasantly. It is useless for me
to occupy time, and trespass upon your patience by a lengthy
description of Sonoma. If any of your readers would know
the exact number of houses it contains, the names of the
people who dwell therein, the botanical applications of the
plants growing in its vicinity, or any thing else about it that
would be of any mortal use to any one, without being positively
amusing, let them purchase Revere, or some other
equally scientific work on California, and inform themselves;
suffice it to say that there is delightful society, beautiful
women, brave men, and most luscious grapes to be found
there; and the best thing one can possibly do, if a tired and
ennuyeed resident of San Francisco, Benicia, or any other
great city of all work and no play, is to take the Georgina
some pleasant afternoon and go up there for a change. He'll
find it! General Smith and his staff reside at Sonoma, and
a small detachment of troops have their station and quarters
there. I saw a trooper in the street one day; he wore a
coat with a singularly brief tail, and a nose of a remarkably
vivid tinge of redness. I thought he might have just returned
from the expedition, for his limbs were evidently weakened
by toil and privation, and his course along the street slow in
movement and serpentine in direction. I would have asked
him to proceed to the Sink of Mary's River, and recover an
odd boot that I left there last fall, but he looked scarcely fit
to make the journey. I feared he might be Jenkins, and
forbore. But it's a glorious thing to reflect that we have an
army at our disposal in this country, and a blessed reflection,
that should we lose any old clothing in the wilderness, we
can get Mr. Crawford to get that branch of the service to
pick it up.

Tired at last of monotony, even in beautiful Sonoma, I
packed up my carpet bag, and taking the two-mule stage,
passed through pretty little “Napa” again, and found myself,
one evening, once more at Benicia. It had increased
somewhat since I had left it. I observed several new clothes
poles had been erected, and noticed a hand cart at the corner
of a street, that I had never seen before. But I had little
time for observation, for the “New World” came puffing up
to the hulks as I arrived, and I hastily stepped on board.
Here I met my ancient crony, and distinguished friend Le
Baron Vieux, who was on his way from Sacramento to
the metropolis. The Baron is a good fellow and a funny man.
You have frequently laughed over his drolleries in the “True
Delta,” and in his usually unimpeachably “good style,” he
showed me about the boat, introduced me to the captain,
pointed out the “model artists” who were on board, and
finally capped the climax of his polite attention by requesting
me to take a drink. I didn't refuse, particularly—and we
descended to the bar. And “what,” said the Baron with a
pleasant and hospitable smile, “what, my dear fellow, will you
drink?” I chose Bine and Witters,—the Baron himself
drinking Bin and Gitters. We hob-a-nobbed, tossed off our
glasses, without winking, and, for an instant gazed at each

other in gasping, unspeakable astonishment. “Turpentine
and aqua fortis!” shuddered I. “Friend!” said the Baron,
in an awful voice, to the bar-keeper, “that drink is fifty cents;
but I will with pleasure give you a dollar to tell us what it
was we drank.” “We call it,” replied that imperturbable
man, “Sherry Wine, but I don't know as I ever saw
any one drink it before.” Quoth the Baron, who by this
time had partially recovered his circulation and the consequent
flow of his ideas: “I think, my friend, you'll never see
it drank before or behind, hereafter.” The New World is
an excellent and, for California, an elegant boat. Her Captain
(who don't know Wakeman?) is a pleasant gentleman.
Her accommodations are unequalled—but, and I say this
expressly for the benefit of my brethren of the “Dumfudgin
Club,” never call for “wine and bitters” at her bar. Ascending
to the cabin on the upper deck, I had the satisfaction of a
formal presentation to Dr. Collyer and his interesting
family. Sober, high-toned, moral and well-conducted citizens
may sneer if they please; rowdies may visit, and with
no other than the prurient ideas arising from their own obscene
imaginations, may indorse the same opinions more
forcibly by loud ejaculations and vulgar remarks; but I
pretend to say that no right-minded man, with any thing like
the commencement of a taste for the beautiful and artistic,
can attend one of these “Model Artist” exhibitions without
feeling astonished, gratified, and, if an enthusiast, delighted.
As our gallant boat, dashing the spray from her bow, bore
us safely and rapidly onward through the lovely bay of San
Pablo, the moon tipping with its silvery rays each curling
wave around us, and shedding a flood of yellow light upon
our upper deck, “I walked with Sappho.” And “oh,
beautiful being,” said I, somewhat excited by the inspiring
nature of the scene, and possibly, the least thought, by the turpentine
I had imbibed, “do you never feel, when in the pride
of your matchless charms you stand before us, the living,
breathing representation of the lovely, poetic, and ill-fated
Sappho; do you never feel an inspiration of the moment, and,
entering into the character, imagine yourself in mind, as in
form, her beauteous illustration?” “Well—yes,” said she,
with the slightest possible indication of a yawn, “I don't
know but I do, but it's dreadful tearing on the legs!”

Hem! a steamer's motion always made me feel unpleasantly,
and the waves of San Pablo Bay ran high that
evening. The Baron and I took more turpentine immediately.
We landed in your metropolis shortly after, and succeeding
in obtaining a man to carry my valise a couple of squares,
for which service, being late, he charged me but thirty-two
dollars, I repaired to, and registered my name at, the St.
Francis Hotel, which being deciphered with an almost imperceptible
grin by my own and every other traveller's agreeable
and gentlemanly friend, Campbell, I received the key of
No. 12, and incontinently retired to rest. What I have seen
in San Francisco I reserve for another occasion. I leave for
San Diego this evening, from which place, I will take an
early opportunity of addressing you. I regret that I cannot
remain to be a participant in the coming celebration, but my

cousin Skewball, a resident of the city, who writes with a
keen if not a “caustic pen,” has promised to furnish you an
elaborate account of the affair, which, if you print, I trust you
will send me. Write me by the post orifice. Au reservoir.