University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
BUTTERFIELD AT THE BALL.

You have not heard from me for some time.
I have been “round,” however, which is a pleasant
metaphorical way of expressing the fact that I
have been about, and is not intended as an allusion
to my figure, though I weigh two hundred and
forty-three net, and it might appear appropriate
to scoffers. Since my unfortunate expedition to
Oregon, I have been attending closely to my legitimate
business, and do not mind saying that
I have been tolerably successful. I did a little
thing in butter last week, not after the manner
of the celebrated sculptor Canova — who, I am
told, used to carve horses and other animals
out of that oleaginous substance, which looked
well but became unpleasant to the smell in a short
time — but in the way of speculation, which increased

my satisfaction and my balance at Doolittle,
Walker & Leggett's, my bankers, in no small
degree.

I was sitting in my counting-room a few days
since, in an amiable frame of mind, thinking of
that butter which I had sold to a manufacturer to
grease the wheels of his manufactory, and wondering
whether its strength increased the power of
the machinery, when Podgers, of Gawk & Podgers,
Battery street, dropped in. “Butterfield,”
said he, “don't you want to go to a ball?” A
vision of Mrs. Butterfield resplendent in her new
dress, which, though of late importation, she calls
“more antique,” passed before my mind. I
thought of the balance at Doolittle's, and in my
usual prompt and decided manner replied, “Well,
I don't know.” “It's a complimentary ball,”
said Podgers, given for the benefit of the officers
of the Army and Navy, and comes off at Madame
Pike's on Friday. (The name is Pique, and is
pronounced Pi-quee, but Podgers don't understand
French.” Now I always liked the officers, poor

fellows; they look so prettily in their brass-mounted
clothes, and walk around with such a melancholy
air, as though they were wondering how
they manage to support existence on their pay and
allowance — and how the deuce they do puzzles
me. So after a few words more with Podgers, we
started off to purchase the necessary pasteboard.
I suppose it was because the ball was a national
affair that we went to the United States Mint for
that purpose. Here we were introduced to a singularly
handsome young fellow, who gazed rather
dubiously on Podgers and myself when he preferred
our request. “The ball is to be very select,”
said he. “Ah,” replied I, “that's exactly the
reason we wish to patronize it.” The young gentleman
could not withstand the smile with which
these words were accompanied. “What name?”
said he. “Butterfield,” I replied. “Flour and
Pork,” said he, with a kindly expression. “Corner
of Battery and Front,” I answered, and the
thing was done. Podgers got his ticket also, and
we left the Mint arm in arm, wondering if the
lovely design for a head on the new three dollar
piece was intended for a likeness of the U. S.
Treasurer, of whose agreeable countenance we
caught a glimpse as we retired. Mrs. Butterfield
was delighted, so was Austin, I fancy; he sent me
a note a day or two after, very prettily conceived,
with Honiton, Valenciennes, point, edging, and
other hard words in it, which must have given him
great satisfaction to compose. I purchased of
Keyes (not that Keyes, but the other firm) a new
blue dress coat with brazen buttons, military, you
know; a pair of cinnamon colored leg scabbards,
and a very tasty thing in the way of a vest, garnet
colored velvet with green plush cross bars, in
which I fancied I should create something of a
sensation. I also dropped in at Tucker's, and seeing
a pretty breastpin in the form of a figure 2,
which he said was a tasteful conceit for married
men, showing that there were two in the family, I
bought that also, and hereby acknowledge that it
has given me great satisfaction. Friday evening
at last arrived. Podgers was to come for us in a
carriage at 8 o'clock, and we commenced dressing
at three, immediately after dinner. My friends
have sometimes flattered me by remarking something
in my air and personal appearance resembling
the late eloquent Daniel Webster (formerly
Secretary of State under Tyler's administration.)
After dressing, and going through the operation
which Mrs. Butterfield unpleasantly terms prinking,
I walked into the room of our next neighbor,
(we board at the corner of Stockton and Powell)
under the pretence of borrowing a candle. He
was sitting by the fire smoking a cigar and reading
Tennyson's poems, which I take this opportunity
of declaring are the silliest trash I ever had the
misfortune to get hold of.

“Mr. Brummell,” said I complacently, “do you
think I look at all like the great Daniel?” Brumell
gazed on me with evident admiration. “Yes,”
he replied, “but you are not near as heavy as he
was.” “No?” said I, “Why, Daniel Webster
was not a very large man.” “Oh!” replied he,

“I thought you alluded to Daniel Lambert.” This
was a damper.

We worked for three mortal hours getting little
Amos to sleep. That child is two years of age,
possesses a wakefulness of disposition perfectly astonishing
in one so young, and has a pleasing peculiarity
of howling terrifically in the night at intervals
of about twenty-five minutes. Paregoric
and taffy were too much for him this time, however;
he succumbed at last, and dropped peacefully
to repose at half-past seven, to a second. At
eight, Podgers and the carriage arrived. Mrs.
Podgers came up in Mrs. Butterfield's room to
show herself. She was tastefully and magnificently
attired. She wore a white crape illusion with
eighteen flounces, over a profusely embroidered
tulle skirt, looped up on the side with a bouquet
of Swiss meringues. Her boddice was of sea-green
tabbinet, with an elegant pincushion of
orange-colored moire antique over the bertha.
Her head-dress was composed of cut velvet cabbage
leaves, with turnip au naturel, and a small

boned turkey secured by a golden wire, “a la maitre
d' hotel,” crowned the structure. Podgers
gazed upon her with complacent and pardonable
pride. We descended to the carriage, but finding
it impossible for all of us to ride within, Mrs. Podgers
stood upon the seat with the driver, Mrs. Butterfield
and I got inside, and Podgers walked.
[By the way, on this account, he subsequently, in
an unjustifiable manner, objected to paying his
proportion of the expenses of transportation, as had
been agreed upon between us.] On arriving at
Mrs. Pique's, I regret to say, an unpleasant altercation
took place between myself and our driver
on the subject of the fare. I was finally compelled
to close the discussion by disbursing ten dollars,
which that disagreeable individual unnecessarily
remarked, “was only a dollar a hundred after all.”
On entering the hall, which was brilliantly illuminated,
we were struck with its size and elaborate
ornaments, and also with the unpleasant fact that
nobody was there. The fact is, we had arrived a
little too early. However, we amused ourselves
walking about, and Podgers got into the supper
room, where he broke a sugar chicken off the top
of a large cake, to carry home to his little Anna
Maria, and being detected therein, was summarily
ejected, and had the chicken taken away from him,
at which Mrs. B. and I secretly rejoiced. At ten
o'clock, the company began to arrive, and in half
an hour the large hall was crowded with the beauty,
fashion and extravagance of the city. It really
brought tears of delight to my eyes to see the
number of lovely women that San Francisco can
produce, and to think what immense sums of money
their beautiful dresses must cost their husbands
and fathers. Sets of quadrilles were formed, then
followed the fancy dances, polkas, redowas, and
that funny dance where the gentleman grabs the
lady about the waist with one hand, and pumps
her arm up and down with the other, while hopping
violently from side to side, after the manner
of that early and estimable Christian — St. Vitus.
I cannot pretend to enumerate the ladies whose
charms particularly impressed me. Moreover, if
I could, it would be of little service to the public,
for it is in the fashion to do this sort of thing by
initials, and who would recognize “lovely Mrs.
A., with her ugly daughter, in white cottonet, and
magnificent Mrs. B., the cynosure of all eyes in a
peignoir of three ply carpeting, with a corsage de
gunny bag and a point appliqué robe de nuit, or
the sweet Misses C. in elaborate Swiss ginghams,
with gimp cord and tassels and a fauteuil de cabriolet.
Suffice it to say that the loveliest ladies
of San Francisco were there, and the belle of the
evening was unquestionably Miss —, though
many preferred the mature charms of the radiant
Mrs. —. [You perceive that these blanks are
left for the convenience of those who wish to send
this description to the Eastern States, who hereby
have my express permission to insert any names
they may think appropriate.] One lady, I observed,
whose dress, though no great judge of dry
goods, I should imagine to have cost in the neighborhood
of fifty barrels of mess pork. Everything
went off admirably. Wobbles, of Wobbles &
Strycum, who was present with his daughter, a
young lady of nine years, with a violent propensity
to long curls, dressed in crimson silk with
orange colored pantalettes. Wobbles, who has a
very pretty way of saying poetical things, remarked
with great originality, that “soft eyes
spoke love to eyes that spoke again, and all went
berry as a marriage mell,” and I agreed with him.

The officers were all there, moreover, radiant
in brass coats and blue buttons — I mean blue
buttons and brass coats — and looking divinely.
One of them accidently trod on my toe, but before
I could utter the exclamation of anguish that
I was about to give vent to, he said so sweetly
“Don't apologise,” that the pain left me in a moment.
“The officers of the Vincennes, though
sufficiently handsome are not tall men. This,
Podgers remarked, was a dispensaton of Divine
Providence, as the Vincennes is only four feet six
between decks, and they would be constantly bumping
their heads if they were taller.

At two o'clock we sat down to supper. Magnificent

indeed — turkeys, chickens, salads, champagne
— everybody gobbling and guzzling everything,
presenting to my mind a far finer spectacle
than the vaunted Falls of Niagara, which I think
have been much overrated.

Podgers, who is always doing something unpleasant,
emptied a plate of oyster soup on my
head, merely saying, “Beg pardon, Butterfield,”
in consequence of which I found a large stewed
oyster in my right whisker on returning to the
ball room, and was made exceedingly uncomfortable
during the rest of the morning.

The ball was delightful. I heard the Consul
of New Zealand say it was ravissant, and though
with but a dim idea of his meaning, I am sure it
was. We returned home at 3½ A. M. The street
around our residence was lighted up as if for a
celebration; people stood around the door-steps,
and an old gentleman with a watchman's rattle in
his hand, both slightly sprung, was leaning out of
an upper window of No. 3 below. A loud shout
hailed us as we approached, but high above that

shout, loud above the whirr of the rattle, shrill
above the rolling of our carriage, sounded an alarum
that we recognized but too well. It was the voice
of our little Amos. The dear child had woke up
the whole street, and it is a marvel that he had
not awakened the sleepers in John Jones of
Peter's cemetery, “just beyond.” For — the
name of Butterfield, as you well know, is synonymous
with that of Truth, — but if that boy hadn't
shattered every pane of glass in our front windows,
and loosened all the top bricks of the chimney by
the concussion of the air produced by his screaming,
I wish I may never sell another lot of extra
clear bacon. The paper was loosened from the
walls, the plaster falling from the ceiling, the
wash basin and —, everything was broken, and
there lay Amos black in the face, gurgling in his
throat, and his small blue legs kicking up toward
Heaven. We did not get asleep until rather late
that morning, and what with damages, repairs,
hack, drivers, dresses and tickets, the little balance
at Doolittle, Walker & Leggett's is nearly exhausted.

Perhaps we shall go to another ball at Madame
Pique's, soon, if so, I will send you an account of it.