University of Virginia Library

PHŒNIX IS ON THE SEA.

Bright and beautiful rose the sun, from out the calm blue
sea, its early rays gleaming on the snow-white decks of
the Northerner, and “gilding refined gold” as they penetrated
the state-room “A,” and lingering, played among the
tresses of the slumbering McAuburn. It was a lovely morning,
“the winds were all hushed, and the waters at rest,” and
no sound was heard but the throbbing of the engine and the
splash of the paddle wheels as the gallant old Northerner
sped on her way, “tracking the trackless sea.” Two sailors
engaged in their morning devotions with the holy stones near
my room, amused me not a little. One of them, either accidentally
or with “malice prepense,” threw a bucket of water
against the bulwark, which ricocheting, struck the other on
his dorsal extremity, as he leaned to his work, making that
portion of his frame exceedingly damp and him exceedingly
angry. “You just try that again, — your soul,” exclaimed
the offended one, “and I'll slap your chops for you.” “Oh,

yes you will,” sarcastically rejoined he of the water bucket;
“I've heerd of you afore! You're old chop-slapper's son,
aint you? Father went round slapping people's chops,
didn't he?” Then followed a short fight, in which, as might
have been expected, “Old chop-slapper's son” got rather the
worst of it.

There was no excuse for being sick that morning, so our
passengers, still pale, but with cheerful hope depicted in their
countenances, soon began to throng the deck, segars were
again brought into requisition, and we had an opportunity of
ascertaining “whether there was any Bourbon among us.”
A capital set of fellows they were. There was Moore, and
Parker, and Bowers (one of Joe Bowers' boys), and Sarsaparilla
Meade, and Freeman, which last mentioned gentlemen,
so amusing were they, appeared to be travelling expressly
to entertain us. And there were no ladies, which to me was
a blessed dispensation.

Certainly: but at sea, Woman, you are decidedly disagreeable.
In the first place, you generally bring babies with
you, which are a crying evil, and then you have to have the
best state-room and the first seat at the table, and monopolize
the captain's attention and his room, and you make remarks
to one another about us, and our segars and profanity, and

accuse us of singing rowdy songs, nights; and you generally
wind up by doing some scandalous thing yourself, when half
of us take your part and the other half don't, and we get
all together by the ears, and a pretty state of affairs ensues.
No, woman! you are agreeable enough on shore, if taken
homeopathically, but on a steamer, you are a decided nuisance.

We had a glorious day aboard the old Northerner; we
played whist, and sang songs, and told stories, many of which
were coeval with our ancient school-lessons, and like them
came very easy, going over the second time, and many drank
strong waters, and becoming mopsed thereon, toasted “the
girls we'd left behind us,” whereat one, who, being a temperance
man, had guzzled soda-water until his eyes seemed
about to pop from his head, pondered deeply, sighed, and said
nothing. And so we laughed, and sang, and played, and
whiskied, and soda-watered through the day. And fast the
old Northerner rolled on. And at night the Captain gave
us a grand game supper in his room, at which game we played
not, but went at it in sober earnest; and then there were
more songs (the same ones, though, and the same stories too,
over again), and some speechifying, and much fun, until at
eight bells we separated, some shouting, some laughing, some
crying (but not with sorrow), but all extremely happy, and so
we turned in. But before I sought state-room A that night,
I executed a small scheme, for insuring undisturbed repose,
which I had revolved in my mind during the day, and which
met with the most brilliant success, as you shall hear.

You remember the two snobs that every night, in the

pursuit of exercise under difficulties, walk up and down on
the deck, arm in arm, right over your state-room. You
remember how, when just as you are getting into your first
doze, they commence, tramp! tramp! tramp! right over
your head; then you “hear them fainter, fainter still;” you
listen in horrible dread of their return, nourishing the while
a feeble-minded hope that they may have gone below—when,
horror! here they come, louder, louder, till tramp! tramp!
tramp! they go over your head again, and with rage in your
heart, at the conviction that sleep is impossible, you sit up in
bed and despairingly light an unnecessary segar. They were
on board the Northerner, and the night before had aroused
my indignation to that strong pitch that I had determined on
their downfall. So, before retiring, I proceeded to the upper
deck, and there did I quietly attach a small cord to the
stanchions, which stretching across, about six inches from the
planking, formed what in maritime matters is known as a
“booby trap.” This done, I repaired to my room, turned in
and calmly awaited the result. In ten minutes they came, I
heard them laughing together as they mounted the ladder.
Then commenced the exercise, louder, louder, tramp! tramp!
—thump! (a double-barrelled thump) down they came
together, “Oh, what a fall was there my countrymen.” Two
deep groans were elicited, and then followed what, if published,
would make two closely printed royal octavo pages of profanity.
I heard them d—n the soul of the man that did it.
It was my soul that they alluded to, but I cared not, I lay
there chuckling; “they called, but I answered not again,”
and when at length they limped away, their loud profanity,
subdued to a blasphemous growl, I turned over in a sweet
frame of mind and, falling instantaneously asleep, dreamed a
dream, a happy dream of “home and thee”—Susan Ann
Jane!

The next morning bright and early, the Coronados hove
in sight, and at 10 o'clock we rounded Point Loma and ran
alongside the coal hulk Clarissa Andrews, at the Playa of
San Diego—just forty-nine hours from San Francisco.

The captain (he is the crew also) of the Clarissa Andrews,
the gallant Bogart, stood on her rail ready to catch our flying
line, and in a few moments we were secured alongside, our
engine motionless and my journey ended.

It was with no small regret that I bade adieu to our merry
passengers and our glorious captain. Noble fellow! I don't
wonder enthusiastic passengers get up subscriptions and make
speeches and present plate and trumpets, and what not to
such men. It's very natural.

A good captain is sure to have a good ship; a voyage
with him becomes an agreeable matter; he makes his passengers
happy and they very naturally fall in love with him, and
seek some method of displaying their attachment and “trumpeting
his praise abroad.” Our captain was one of this sort;
kind, courteous and obliging, and “every inch a sailor,” he is
as much beloved and respected by his passengers as Dick
Whiting of the California (who to my mind is the ne plus
ultra of steamboat men), and when I say that the first letter

of his name is Isham, I'm sure every body that ever travelled
with him, will agree with me.

The Northerner, too, is a splendid and most comfortable
ship, as which of the Pacific Mail boats are not? however.
And this subject brings to my mind a little circumstance
which took place the day before I left San Francisco.

A shabby-genteel individual, with a pale face, in the centre
of which shone a purple nose that couldn't be beat
(though it resembled the vegetable of that name), called on
me, and drawing from his coat-tail pocket, with an air of
mystery, a voluminous manuscript, spread it solemnly before
me and requested my signature. It was a petition to Congress,
or Mr. Pierce, or John Bigler, or somebody, to transfer
the contract for carrying the mails, from the “Pacific
Company” to “Vanderbilt's Line,” and was signed by Brown
& Co., Jones & Co., Smith & Brothers, Noakes, Stiles &
Thompson, and ever so many more responsible firms, whereof
I recognized but one, which deals in candy nightly at the corner
of Commercial and Montgomery streets, and pays no taxes,
and whose correspondence with the Eastern States I suspect
is not large. I love to sign my name. It is a weakness that
most modest men have. I love to write it, and cut it, and
scratch it in steeples, and monuments, and other places of
public resort. Most men do. It looks pretty, passes away
the time, perpetuates their memory among posterity, and costs
nothing. I frequently buy something that I don't want at
all, just for the pleasure of signing my name to a check—(I
bought a ridiculous buggy the other day for no other reason

that I can imagine.) But I had no inclination to append my
autograph to that petition, and I declined, positively and peremptorily—declined.
My friend with the nose rolled up his
eyes and rolled up his paper, pocketed it, and was about to
withdraw. “Stop!” said I, as a vivid recollection flashed
across my mind; “what are you going about with that paper
for? Didn't I see you a few months ago marching down the
street at the head of a long procession, bearing a big banner
with “Vanderbilt's Death Line!” in great letters thereon,
and giving vent to all sorts of scurrility against the Nicaragua
route?” The red nose grew redder, as he muttered
something about “a man's being obliged to get a living,” and
he retired. I saw him go and get his boots blacked by a
Frenchman right opposite, give him a quarter, and get him to
sign his name, which that exile did and thought it was a
receipt for the money, and I laughed heartily. But it is no
laughing matter.

Having taken leave of all on board the dear old Northerner,
and shaken hands twice all round, during which process
the mate sang out, “Bare a hand there,” and I mechanically
took off my glove, McAuburn and I were transported to the
shore, where, while waiting for a wagon to take us to the old
town of San Diego, we stopped at the little public house of
the Playa, kept by a civil fellow named Donahoo, whom the
Spaniards here, judging from his name (Don't know who),
believe to be the son of old “Quien sabe” himself. What
befell us there and thereafter I will shortly inform you.