University of Virginia Library

PHŒNIX INSTALLED EDITOR OF THE SAN
DIEGO HERALD.[1]

“Facilis decensus Averni,” which may be liberally, not literally
translated, it is easy to go to San Francisco. Ames has
gone; departed in the “Goliah.” During his absence, which
I trust will not exceed two weeks, I am to remain in charge
of the `Herald,' the literary part thereof—I would beg to be
understood—the responsible portion of the editoral duties
falling upon my friend Johnny, who has, in the kindest manner,
undertaken “the fighting department,” and to whom I
hereby refer any pugnacious or bellicose individual who may
take offence at the tone of any of my leaders. The public at
large, therefore, will understand that I stand upon “Josh

Haven's platform,” which that gentleman defined some years
since to be the liberty of saying any thing he pleased about
any body, without considering himself at all responsible. It
is an exceedingly free and independent position, and rather
agreeable than otherwise; but I have no disposition whatever
to abuse it.

It will be perceived that I have not availed myself of the
editorial privilege of using the plural pronoun in referring to
myself. This is simply because I consider it a ridiculous affectation.
I am a “lone, lorn man,” unmarried (the Lord be
praised for his infinite mercy), and though blessed with a consuming
appetite “which causes the keepers of the house where
I board to tremble,” I do not think I have a tape worm, therefore
I have no claim whatever to call myself “we,” and I
shall by no means fall into that editorial absurdity.

San Diego has been usually dull during the past week,
and a summary of the news may be summarily disposed of.
There have been no births, no marriages, no arrivals, no departures,
no earthquakes, nothing but the usual number of
drinks taken, and an occasional “small chunk of a fight” (in
which no lives have been lost), to vary the monotony of our existence.
Placidly sat our village worthies in the arm-chairs in
front of the “Exchange,” puffing their short clay pipes, and
enjoying their “otium cum dignitate,” a week ago, and placidly
they sit there still.

The only topic of interest now discussed among us is the

approaching election, and on this subject I desire to say a
few words:

To those old soldiers who were with us before the
adoption of the Constitution, and, in consequence, are entitled
to vote, I would say: remember, my lads, that the duty
of a good soldier in time of peace is to be an estimable citizen,
and, as such, to assist in the election of good men to office.
The man who seeks your vote for any office by furnishing you
with whiskey, gratis, and credit at his little shop (if he happens
to keep one), is by no means calculated to be either a
good maker or dispenser of the laws. Drink his whiskey, by
all means, if you like it, and he invites you, but make him no
pledges, and on the day of election vote any other ticket than
that he gives you. You know well enough, oh! my soldiers,
how much he cares for you, and can appreciate his professions
of attachment. They amount to precisely the same as
those of Jacob, who bought the birthright of Esau for a mess of
pottage. Don't barter yours for a little whiskey, and make for
the county a worse mess than Esau could ever have concocted.

Should any gentleman, differing with me in opinion, feel
anxious “to give utterance to the thought,” I can only say,
my dear sir, the “Herald” is an Independent paper, and
while I have charge of it, its light shall shine for all; express
yourself, therefore, fully, but concisely, in an ably written
article; hand it to me, and I will, with pleasure, present it to
the world, through the columns of this wide-spread journal,
merely reserving for myself the privilege of using you up, as

I shall infallibly do, and to a fearful extent, if facts are facts,
reason is reasonable, and “I know myself intimately,” of
which, at present, I have no manner of doubt.

And thus having said my say, in a plain, straightforward
manner, I shall close, for the present, with the assurance to
the public, that I remain their very obedient, and particularly
humble servant.

Mr. Kerren drove the Chaplain to the Mission from Old
Town last Sunday, after the performance of the afternoon
service—

The rattling 2.40 pace at which they tore along, was rather
too much for the worthy preacher.

“Kerren,” gasped his anxious reverence, as he held firmly
by the back seat, after a flying leap over a stone of unusually
large dimensions, “do you know why you are like the
Pharisees?” “No, sir,” said Kerren, touching up his off
leader. “Why,” rejoined the good old man, “ye appear
unto men too fast.”

Kerren gave a deep groan, and the horses struck a religious
walk, which they adhered to until their arrival at the
Mission.

“The Squire's Story.”—“Oh!” says the squire, “I
wish't I was married and well of it, I dread it powerful—I'd
like to marry a widow—I allers liked widows since I knowed
one down in Georgia that suited my ideas, adzactly.

“About a week after her husband died, she started down
to the grave-yard whar they'd planted of him, as she said, to
read the prescription onto his monument. When she got
there, she stood a minute a looking at the stones which was put
at each end of the grave, with an epithet on 'em that the minister
had writ for her. Then she bust out, `Oh! boo hoo,'
says she, `Jones—he was one of the best of men; I remember
how the last time he come home, about a week ago, he
brought down from town some sugar, and a little tea, and
some store goods for me, and lots of little necessaries, and a
little painted hoss for Jeems, which that blessed child got his
mouth all yaller with sucking of it, and then he kissed the children
all round, and took down that good old fiddle of his'n
and played up that good old tune,

“Here,” says the Squire, “she begin to dance, and I
just thought she was the greatest woman ever I see.”

“The Squire” always gives a short laugh, after telling
this anecdote, and then filling and lighting his pipe, subsides
into an arm-chair in front of the “Exchange,” and indulges
in calm and dreamy reflection.

Wanted.—Back numbers of the Democratic Review
speeches and writings of Jefferson, Coffroth, Calhoun, Bigler
Van Buren and others. Copies of the San Joaquin Republican
(with George's daguerreotype), Files of the Times and Transcript
(a few at a time), and a diagram representing the construction
of the old United States Bank for the use of a young
man desirous of turning Democrat.—Apply at this office (by
firing a gun, or punching on the ceiling, he being deeply engaged
in study in the garret), to
J. PHŒNIX.

The Comedy of Errors.—We have been accused, with
great injustice, of a “reckless propensity to lampoon.” We
disclaim, with indignation, any such propensity. On the contrary,
such has been our anxiety to avoid personalities, or unpleasant
allusions, that we have actually suppressed some of
the very funniest things we have ever heard—little drolleries
over which we have laughed, ourselves, in the sanctity of the
sanctum, until the “arm-chair” has cracked again, and wondering
men in the billiard room below, have poked up against
the ceiling with their cues (that they might take their cue
from us), simply because the mention of some name, Jones,
Brown or Muggins, has rendered us unable to present them to
the public. The conductor of a public journal is responsible
for every thing that he presents, and he should never indulge in
personalities, however humorous they may appear, or however
much they may amuse himself, or be calculated to amuse his
readers.

It is for this reason that we forbear publishing the following
capital thing, dramatized expressly for our paper, and
which we are solemnly assured, occurred very nearly, if not
exactly, as represented.

Scene.—The interior of the City Post Office at San Francisco, Gov. B —.
discovered, sitting, holding a copy of the San Francisco Herald at arms-length,
in a pair of tongs, and reading it with every mark of scorn and deep
disgust. Enter Judge A. from the South, Editor of the San Diego Herald.

Judge A. Ah! Governor, your most obedient; how do you
do, sir?

Governor B. (Putting the Herald in a bucket of water, and
laying down the tongs). How do you do, A., how d'ye do?
Well, how are matters going on in San Diego county?

Judge A. Oh! admirably; you may depend on the unanimous
support of that county, sir, the Herald has an immense,
a commanding influence there, it will be felt, sir. I have
left the paper in the charge of an able literary friend there,
sir, Mr. Phœnix, probably you may have heard of him, a man
of great ability; I expect an admirable paper from him this
week, sir.

Governor B. (With a bland smile).—Ah! thorough Democrat,
eh?

Judge A. Oh! certainly; I never thought to ask him,
but—oh, of course, certainly he is a Democrat.

Governor B. Oh! certainly; I shall be glad to see his
paper, Mr. A., ah! very glad, sir.

Here the mail is opened, the Judge eagerly receives a bundle

of the first Phœnix Herald, hastily tears off the envelop,
hands one copy to the Governor, and takes another himself.
Each put on spectacles and glance at the first column, where
appears in fatal capitals the respectable name of William
Waldo. Grand Tableau!!! The Governor and the Judge
gaze at each other over the tops of their respective papers,
the one, with wrathful and indignant glance, the other, with
the most concentrated expression of horror and misery of
which the human countenance is capable.

[Here the Ghost of old Squibob himself (ought to have been)
seen rising, and hovering for an instant over the pair in
an attitude of benediction, murmuring, “Bless ye, my
children,” larfs and disappears in a “sweet scented”
cloud.]

We forebear to give the conversation that ensued—this is
a Christian community in which we live, and the introduction
of excessive profanity in the columns of a public journal
even as a quotation, would not and ought not to be tolerated.

We have received by the Goliah, an affecting letter from
Judge Ames, beseeching us to return to the fold of Democracy
from which he is inclined to intimate we have been
straying. Is it possible that we have been laboring under
a delusion—and that Waldo is a Whig! Why! lor! How
singular! But anxious to atone for our past errors, willing
to please the taste of the Editor, and above all, ever solicitous
to be on the strong side, we gladly abjure our former
opinions, embrace Democracy with ardor, slap her on the
back, declare ourselves in favor of erecting a statue of Andrew

Jackson in the Plaza, and to prove our sincerity, run
up to-day at the head of our columns, a Democratic ticket for
1855, which we hope will please the most fastidious. Being
rather hard up for principles for our political faith, we have
commenced the study of the back numbers of the Democratic
Review, and finding therein that “Democracy is the supremacy
of man over his accidents,” we hereby express our
contempt for a man with a sprained ankle, and unmitigated
scorn for any body who may be kicked by a mule or a
woman. That's Democratic, ain't it? Oh, we understand
these things.—Bless your soul, Judge, we're a Democrat.

Late—Passing by one of our doggeries about 3 A. M.,
the other morning, from which proceeded “a sound of revelry
by night,” a hapless stranger on his homeward way paused to
obtain a slight refreshment, and to the host he said. “It appears
to me your visitors are rather late to-night.” “Oh
no,” replied the worthy landlord, “the boys of San Diego
generally run for forty-eight hours, stranger; it's a little late
for night before last, but for to-night! why, it's just in
the shank of the evening.” Volumes could not have said
more.

Wanted—By the subscriber, a serious young man, with
fixed principles of integrity and sobriety, to make beds,
sweep a room, black boots and bring water. For a youth of

religious principles, to whom a large salary is not of so much
object as a knowledge of the business, an eligible situation is
here offered.

The best of references given and required.
J. PHŒNIX.
N. B. No female in disguise need apply.

An Apt Quotation.—His Reverence coming into the
Colorado House last Sunday afternoon, was invited by the
urbane proprietor to irrigate. Being in an arid state, he
consented to take a glass of lemonade, but accidentally took
a brandy cocktail which had been mixed for Mr. Mariatowskie,
and drank it off without noticing his mistake. “Why, Doctor,”
said Frank, when he observed the disappearance of his
sustenance, “that was my horn you drank.” Ah, my young
friend, quoth the good old man, with a benevolent smile and
a smack of his lips, while the moisture stood on the inside of
his venerable spectacles—“Ah, my young friend, the horn
of the ungodly shall be put down.” Psalms 75: 10.

For Sale.—A valuable Law Library, lately the property
of a distinguished legal gentleman of San Francisco, who has
given up practice and removed to the Farralone Islands. It
consists of one volume of “Hoyle's Games,” complete, and
may be seen at this office.

Our friend Charley Poole was complaining bitterly the
other morning of the muddy quality of the water brought him
for his daily ablutions, when he was consoled by a remark of
“Phœnix,” that he was probably a descendant of old Pool
of Bethesda, mentioned in the Scriptures, and that, the angel
that used to “come down and trouble” his ancestor's water,
still continued his attentions to the family.

“There's many a slip 'tween the cup and the lip.”
Proverbs 53: 14.—It was my intention to have devoted
about two columns of this journal, this week, to an exposition
of the nefarious scheme of the “Water Front Extension,” at
San Francisco, and the abuse of the gubernatorial power that
has been exercised in the matter of the “State Printing,”
during the past year.

But I have been deterred from doing all this by two
good and sufficient reasons. In the first place, I can find
but one man in the county who ever intended to vote for
Bigler, and I have labored with him to prove the errors of
opinion into which he has fallen, to that extent, that partly
from the effects of the Fiesta, at San Luis Rey (where, as a
matter of course, he became excessively inebriated), and
partly from agitation of mind produced by my arguments, he
has fallen into a violent fit of sickness, from which his physician
thinks he cannot possibly recover before the day of
election. And, secondly, I have a horrible misgiving that
the editor de facto will return before this edition has gone to

press, in which case, coming down on me from San Francisco
“like a young giant refreshed with new wine,” and finding
(what he would consider) such abominable heresy in his columns,
he would doubtless knock the whole matter into pi, and
perhaps, in the extremity of his wrath, inflict some grievous
bodily injury on me, all of which would be intensely disagreeable.
Moved by these considerations, therefore, I shall
let John Bigler entirely alone, and in case of his re-election,
shall make a great merit of having done so, and apply to him
immediately for a commission as Notary Public.

The great event of the past week has been the Fiesta at
San Luis Rey.—Many of our citizens attended, and a very
large number of native Californians and Indians collected
from the various ranchos in the vicinity. High mass was
celebrated in the old church on Thursday morning, an Indian
baby was baptized, another nearly killed by being run over
by an excited individual on an excited horse, and that day
and the following, were passed in witnessing the absurd
efforts of some twenty natives to annoy a number of tame
bulls, with the tips of their horns cut off. This great national
amusement, ironically termed bull-fighting, consists in
waving a serape, or handkerchief, in front of the bull until he
is sufficiently annoyed to run after his tormentor, when that
individual gets out of his way, with great precipitation. The
nights were passed in an equally intellectual manner.

The “Phœnix Ticket” generally, appears to give general
satisfaction. It was merely put forward suggestively, and not
being the result of a clique or convention, the public are at
perfect liberty to make such alterations or erasures as they
may think proper. I hope it may meet with a strong support
on the day of election; but should it meet with defeat,
I shall endeavor to bear the inevitable mortification that
must result, with my usual equanimity.

Like unto the great Napoleon after the battle of Waterloo,
or the magnanimous Boggs after his defeat, in the gubernatorial
campaign of Missouri, I shall fold my arms
with tranquillity, and say either “C'est fini,” or Oh shaw, I
know'd it!”

Though this is but my second bow to a San Diego audience,
I presume it to be my last appearance and valedictory, for
the editor will doubtless arrive before another week elapses—
the gun will be removed from my trembling grasp, and the
Herald will resume its great aims, and heavy firing, and I
hope will discharge its debt to the public with accuracy, and
precision. Meanwhile “The Lord be with you.” “Be virtuous
and you will be happy.”

☞ We have received for publication, an article signed
“Leonidas,” from the pen of an old and esteemed friend of
ours, intended to counteract the effect of our leader last
week, which we should publish were it not for its length,
and the rather strong style in which it is written. Many of

the principal points of “Leonidas”' opposition are removed
in this issue of the paper, and we doubt if it would serve
any useful purpose to publish extracts from his letter, or if
he would be pleased with our doing so.

He winds up by exhorting the Democrats “to keep together”
(we hope they will, it would give us unfeigned regret
to see any man explode or fall to pieces), and by calling
us, indirectly, “a rabid Whig.”

In this, “Leonidas,” you are mistaken. Our ideas on
political matters are precisely those of the lamented Joseph
Bowers, who when running for the office of — in the state
of — was asked by the — committee, “Mr. Bowers, what
are your politics?” To which he replied, “Gentlemen, I
have no politics”—“What,” exclaimed the committee in
surprise,—“no politics.” “No, gentlemen,” rejoined the
imperturbable Joseph, “not a d—d politic.”

He was elected unanimously, as many of our readers
from — will doubtless remember, and we hope, should it
ever come to pass, that we are a candidate for public office,
we may meet with the like good fortune.

So farewell, oh Leonidas, we trust you are not yet “boiling
with indignation;” but if unhappily that is the case, we
can only placidly remark—“Boil on.”

As an incident of the election we are told that late
in the afternoon an elderly gentleman, much overcome by
excitement and spirituous potations, was found like Peter

“weeping bitterly,” as he reclined on the cold cold ground,
behind the Court House. “I'm an old man, gentle-men,”
sobbed he, “and a poor old man, and a d—d ugly old man,
and I've gone and voted for Bigler!” “Well, you have
done it,” remarked one of the crowd, and with this expression
of sympathy, the unhappy old fellow was left to the
stings of his conscience. A melancholy instance of misplaced
attachment.

A Game of Poker.—An Eastern paper mentions the case
of an individual in Terra Haute, Ind., who attacked his wife
with a poker, and was arrested by a gentleman attracted by
the lady's screams. Ah, the gentleman passed, the lady
saw him and called.

☞ We carelessly threw a bucket of water from our
office door the other day, the most of which fell upon an
astonished Spaniard, sitting upon his horse, before tho Colorado
House. He made the brief remark “Carajo,” meaning
that we were courageous, and on observing his stalwart form,
and the forocity of his expression and moustaches, we thought
we were.

A Syllogism.—David was a Jew—Hence, “the Harp of
David” was a Jewsharp. Question—How the deuce did
he sing his Psalms and play on it the same time?

We recommend this difficult question to “Dismal Jeems”
for solution, the answer to be left at Barry and Patten's,
directed to “Phœnix.”

RETURN OF THE EDITOR.

“Te Deum Laudamus.”—Judge Ames has returned!
With the completion of this article my labors are ended;
and wiping my pen on my coat-tail, and placing it behind
my sinister ear, with a graceful bow and bland smile for my
honored admirers, and a wink of intense meaning for my
enemies, I shall abdicate, with dignity, the “Arm-Chair,” in
favor of its legitimate proprietor.

By the way, this “Arm-Chair” is but a pleasant fiction
of “the Judge's,”—the only seat in the Herald Office being
the empty nail keg, which I have occupied while writing my
leaders upon the inverted sugar box, that answers the purpose
of a table. But such is life. Divested of its poetry
and romance, the objects of our highest admiration become
mere common-places, like the Herald's chair and table.
Many ideas which we have learned to love and reverence,
from the poetry of imagination, as tables, become old sugar
boxes on close inspection, and more intimate acquaintance.
“Sic—but I forbear that sickening and hackneyed quotation.

During the period in which I have had control over the
Herald, I have endeavored to the best of my ability to amuse
and interest its readers, and I cannot but hope that my good
humored efforts have proved successful. If I have given
offence to any by the tone of my remarks, I assure them that
it has been quite unintentional, and to prove that I bear no
malice, I hereby accept their apologies. Certainly no one
can complain of a lack of versatility in the last six numbers.
Commencing as an Independent Journal, I have gradually
passed through all the stages of incipient Whiggery, decided
Conservatism, dignified Recantation, budding Democracy
and rampant Radicalism, and I now close the series with an
entirely literary number, in which, I have carefully abstained
from the mention of Baldo and Wigler, I mean, Wagler and
Bildo, no—never mind—as Toodles says, I haven't mentioned
any of 'em, but been careful to preserve a perfect
armed neutrality.

The paper this week will be found particularly stupid.
This is the result of deep design on my part; had I attempted
any thing remarkably brilliant, you would all have
detected it, and said, probably with truth;—Ah, this is
Phœnix's last appearance, he has tried to be very funny, and
has made a miserable failure of it. Hee! hee! hee! Oh!
no, my Public, an ancient weasel may not be detected in
the act of slumber, in that manner. I was well aware of all
this, and have been as dull and prosy as possible to avoid it.
Very little news will be found in the Herald this week: the
fact is, there never is much news in it, and it is very

well that it is so; the climate here is so delightful, that
residents, in the enjoyment of their dolce far niente, care
very little about what is going on elsewhere, and residents
in other places, care very little about what is going on in
San Diego, so all parties are likely to be gratified with the
little paper, “and long may it wave.”

In conclusion, I am gratified to be able to state that
Johnny's office (the fighting department), for the last six
weeks, has been a sinecure, and with the exception of the
atrocious conduct of one miscreant, who was detected very
early one morning, in the act of chalking A S S on our office
door, and who was dismissed with a harmless kick, and a
gentle admonition that he should not write his name on other
persons' property, our course has been peaceful, and undisturbed
by any expression of an unpleasant nature.

So, farewell Public, I hope you will do well; I do, upon
my soul. This leader is ended, and if there be any man
among you who thinks he could write a better one, let him
try it, and if he succeeds, I shall merely remark, that I could
have done it myself if I had tried. Adios!
Respectably Yours.

INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE EDITOR AND PHŒNIX.

The Thomas Hunt had arrived, she lay at the wharf at
New Town, and a rumor had reached our ears that “the

“Judge” was on board. Public anxiety had been excited to
the highest pitch to witness the result of the meeting between
us. It had been stated publicly that “the Judge”
would whip us the moment he arrived; but though we
thought a conflict probable, we had never been very sanguine
as to its terminating in this manner. Coolly we gazed
from the window of the Office upon the New Town road; we
descried a cloud of dust in the distance; high above it waved
a whip lash, and we said, “the Judge” cometh, and “his
driving is like that of Jehu the son of Nimshi, for he driveth
furiously.”

Calmly we seated ourselves in the “arm chair,” and continued
our labors upon our magnificent Pictorial. Anon, a
step, a heavy step, was heard upon the stairs, and “the
Judge” stood before us.

“In shape and gesture proudly eminent, stood like a
tower:...... but his face deep scars of thunder had intrenched,
and care sat on his faded cheek; but under brows
of dauntless courage and considerate pride, waiting revenge.”

We rose, and with an unfaltering voice said: “Well,
Judge, how do you do?” He made no reply, but commenced
taking off his coat.

We removed ours, also our cravat.

The sixth and last round, is described by the pressman
and compositors, as having been fearfully scientific. We held

“the Judge” down over the Press by our nose (which we
had inserted between his teeth for that purpose), and while
our hair was employed in holding one of his hands, we held
the other in our left, and with the “sheep's foot” brandished
above our head, shouted to him, “say Waldo,” Never! he
gasped—
At this moment, we discovered that we had been laboring
under a “misunderstanding,” and through the amicable intervention
of the pressman, who thrust a roller between our
faces (which gave the whole affair a very different complexion),
the matter was finally settled on the most friendly
terms—“and without prejudice to the honor of either
party.” We write this while sitting without any clothing,
except our left stocking, and the rim of our hat encircling our
neck like a `ruff' of the Elizabethan era—that article of
dress having been knocked over our head at an early stage
of the proceedings, and the crown subsequently torn off,
while the Judge is sopping his eye with cold water, in the
next room, a small boy standing beside the sufferer with a
basin, and glancing with interest over the advertisements on
the second page of the San Diego Herald, a fair copy of
which was struck off upon the back of his shirt, at the time
we held him over the Press. Thus ends our description of
this long anticipated personal collision, of which the public
can believe precisely as much as they please; if they disbelieve
the whole of it, we shall not be at all offended, but
can simply quote as much to the point, what might have been
the commencement of our epitaph, had we fallen in the
conflict,

“Here Lies Phœnix.'