University of Virginia Library

INAUGURATION OF THE NEW COLLECTOR!—TREMENDOUS
EXCITEMENT.!!

Passing up Montgomery street yesterday afternoon, between
3 and 4 o'clock, my attention was attracted by a little gentleman
with a small moustache, who rushed hastily past me, and
turning down Commercial street sought to escape observation
by plunging among the crowd of drays that perpetually tangle
up Long Wharf. Though slightly lame, he had passed
me with a speed that may have been equalled, but for a man
of his size could never have been excelled; and his look of
frantic terror—his countenance, wild, pallid with apprehension,
as I caught for an instant his horror-stricken gaze, I
shall never forget. I had turned partly around to watch his
flight, when with a sudden shock I was borne hurriedly
along, and in an instant found myself struggling and plunging
in the midst of a mighty crowd who were evidently in hot
pursuit. There were old men young men and maidens,—at

least I presume they were maidens, but it was no time for
close scrutiny;—there were Frenchmen, Englishmen, Chinamen,
and every other description of men; gentlemen with
spectacles and gentlemen who were spectacles to behold; men
with hats and men without hats; an angry sea of moustaches,
coat-tails and hickory shirts, with here and there a dash of
foam in the way of a petticoat; and all pouring and rushing
down Long Wharf with me in the midst, like a bewildered
gander in a mill race.

There was no shouting—a look of stern and gloomy determination
sat on the countenance of each individual; and
save an occasional muttered ejaculation of “There he goes!”
“I see him!” we rushed on in horrid silence.

A sickly feeling came over me as the conviction that I
was in the midst of the far-famed and dreaded Vigilance
Committee, settled on my mind; here was I, borne along
with them, an involuntary and unwilling member—I, a life
member of the Anti-Capital Punishment Scociety, and author
of the little work called “Peace, or Directions for the use of
the Sword as a Pruning Hook,” who never killed a fly in
my life—here I was, probably about to countenance, by my
presence, the summary execution of the unhappy little culprit
with the small moustache, who, for aught I knew to the
contrary, might be as immaculate as Brigham Young himself.

What would Brother Greeley say to see me now? But it
was no time for reflection. “Onward we drove in dreadful
race, pursuers and pursued,” over boxes, bales, drays and

horses; the Jews screamed and shut their doors as they saw
us coming; there was a shower of many-bladed knives,
German silver pencils, and impracticable pistols, as the showcases
flew wildly in the air. It was a dreadful scene. I am
not a fleshy man—that is, not particularly fleshy—but an
old villain with a bald head and spectacles, punched me in
the abdomen; I lost my breath, closed my eyes, and remember
nothing further. On recovering my faculties, I found
myself jammed up flat against a sugar box, like a hoe cake,
with my head protruding over the top in the most uncomfortable
manner, and apparently the weight of the whole crowd
(amounting by this time to some six thousand) pressed against
me, keeping me inextricably in my position. Here for an
instant I caught a glimpse of a Stockton boat just leaving the
wharf;—then every thing was obscured by a sudden shower
of something white, and then burst from the mob a deep and
melancholy howl, prolonged, terrific, hideous. I wrenched
myself violently from the sugar box, and confronted a seedy-looking
individual with a battered hat; in his hand he held a
crumpled paper, and on his countenance sat the gloom of despair.
“In the name of heaven,” I gasped, “what is this?”
“He has escaped,” he replied, with a deep groan. “What
has he done?” said I; “who is the criminal?” “Done,”
said he of the seedy garments, turning moodily away, “nothing—
it is the new Collector!!! He's off to Stockton.” The
crowd dispersed; slowly and sadly they all walked off. I
looked over the side of the wharf. I am not given to exaggeration.
You will believe me when I tell you that the sea
was white with letters that had been thrown by that crowd;
for miles it was white with them, and far out in the stream her
wheels filled with letter paper, her shafts clogged with dissolving
wafers, lay the Stockton boat. On her upper deck, in a
frenzied agony, danced the Pilot, his hand grasping his shattered
jaw. An office-seeker had thrown a letter attached to
a stone, which had dislodged four of his front teeth! As I
gazed, the steamer's wheels began to move. At her after-cabin
window appeared a nose above a small moustache, a
thumb and fingers twinkled for an instant in the sun-light,
and she was gone. I walked up the wharf, and gazed ruefully
on my torn clothing and shattered boots, which had
suffered much in this struggle of democracy. “Thank God!
Oh, Squibob,” said I, “that you are a fool, or what amounts
to the same thing in these times—a Whig—and have no offices
to dispense, and none to seek for. Verily, the aphorism
of Scripture is erroneous: It should read, It is equally
cursed to give as to receive.”

I repaired to my own room at the Oriental. Passing the
chamber of the Collector, I espied within, the chambermaid,
an interesting colored person named Nancy. Now I used to
have an unworthy prejudice against the colored race; but
since reading that delightful and truthful work, “Uncle
Stowe's Log,” my sympathies are with them, and I have
rather encouraged a Platonic attachment for Nancy, which
had been engendered between us by numerous acts of civility
on my part and amiability on hers. So I naturally stopped
to speak to her. She stood up to her middle in unopened

letters. There must have been on the floor of that room
eighteen thousand unopened letters. The monthly mail
from the East would be nothing to it. “Mr. Squibob,”
said Nancy, with a sweet smile, “is you got airy shovel?”
“No, Nancy,” said I; “why do you want a shovel?” “To
clar out dese yere letters,” said she; “de Collecker said I
muss frow dem all away; he don't want no such trash about
him.” A thought struck me. I hastened to my room,
seized a slop-pail, returned and filled it with letters, opened
them, read them, and selected a few, which strike me as peculiarly
deserving. If the Collector reads the Herald—and I
know he “does nothing else”—these must attract his attention,
and the object of the writers will be attained. Here
they are. Of course, I suppress the dates and signatures;
the authors will doubtless be recognized by their peculiar
styles; and the time and place at which they were written is
quite immaterial.

So much for to-day. If any gentleman incited by a laudable
curiosity wishes to peruse more of these productions, let
him proceed to Telegraph Hill, and on the summit of the
tower at the extremity of the starboard yard-arm, in the discharge
of his duty will be found, always ready, attentive,
courteous and obliging,