University of Virginia Library

16. XVI
MATTERS AND THINGS IN SAN FRANCISCO.

The Limantour (Le Menteur) title to about
one-half of San Francisco, has lately been confirmed
amid weeping, wailing, and gnashing of
teeth. John Nugent of the Herald, remarked to
me that he didn't like the title of my book, “Phenixiana;”
said it wasn't a good one. I told him
it was as good as any one; no title was worth a
red cent in this country. (Play on the word
deed — he! he!)... Like unto Mr. Sparrowgrass,
I have recently purchased a horse;
bought him as “perfectly sound.” With the exception
of two wind-galls, a splint, and a ring-bone,
he appears to be. But lo, you! as I was
driving him a-down the street this morning, a man

(Johnson, you don't know him) said unto me:
“Hello! why don't you get two horses for that
heavy buggy? — that's too much for one.” I
know you don't like puns — I don't; despise any
body that makes them: but I told Johnson I didn't
like display, and preferred to drive about in a one-horsetentatious
manner. (Play on the word
charger.) Johnson smiled, and I went off with
upright carriage.... Since writing the
above, a little incident has (actually) transpired
that I think will please you. Our little girl,
yclept Daisey, fourteen months old, blue eyes, yellow
hair, and with a gradually increasing taste for
comic almanacs, pleasing to notice, sat upon the
floor playing with Harper, Putnam, ye Eclectic,
and ye goodlye Knickerbocker, when a sudden
ejaculation from the maternal relative, and the
spectacle of the baby borne from the room with
great precipitancy, attracted my attention. The
periodicals suffered. “Never mind,” said I to my
wife, “I must tell my friend `Old Knick' of that,
and he will rejoice with exceeding great joy to
hear it.” “I don't see why,” said she. “No?”
answered I; “why what could be a more satisfactory
proof of a literary turn, than to find a child
of this precocious age pouring over the columns of
the Knickerbocker?” By the way, this reminds
me of “suthin” else. Many months ago, when
Daisey was but a callow infant, I was afflicted
with a grievous cough, and one night, far in the
deep watches, I gave vent to such a cough, prolonged,
terrific, hideous, that I woke myself, wife,
and infant, which last set up a most unearthly and-tremendous
yell. “There,” said my sympathizing
partner: “You've gone and woke up the
baby.” I was wroth at this uncalled-for remark,
and replied: “Well, I'm glad of it.” There was
a moment's silence, and then she asked: “Why?”
“Well,” said I, “it shows the child has a tender
disposition and feeling heart. She is weeping over
her father's coughing.” There was silence at the
Mission of Dolores for the space of about half an
hour after that.... I did not intend to have
commenced another sheet, but as I have done so,
I cal'late I had better tell you a small anecdote
about Captain Wallen, of the Fourth Foot, which
he told me, and I thought at the time, I remember,
was worthy of repetition. Wallen started
down from the Dalles to Vancouver, to bring up a
party of recruits to fight the locomotive Indians.
He stopped for the night at the Cascades, in the
house of an old man, hight “Uncle Sammy,” an
inquisitive old fellow, about eighty-six, and deaf
as a haddock. After supper the old man, old woman,
and Wallen, drew up chairs around a blazing
wood fire. The old man immediately commenced
applying the brake, (good expression for pump?)
“What are ye goin' daöwn to the maöuth of the
river for?” “After recruits,” replied Wallen, at
the top of his voice. “Hey?” “After Recruits!”
roared Wallen again. “Can't hear ye.”
Then the old lady moved round, and putting her
mouth to the old man's ear, shouted, in a voice
that would have done credit to Stentor after he'd
got a little in years: “He's a goin' daöwn — arter
re-cruits — sugar — and — coffee — and sich!”
... One small (Irish) yarn more, and I'll
“dry up,” tambien. Premises: You know a soldier
has two dresses — full-uniform and fatigue:
the one blazing with worsted embroidery; t'other,
dull and sombre-looking. Patrick Hogan, of the
Second United States Foot, stationed, in the year
of grace, '36, at Tampa Bay, E. F., went forth
one day into the wilderness near the barracks,
and seating himself beneath a palmetto, essayed
to read a small Roman Catholic book called “The
Words of Jesus,” when “zoom!” a yellow-jacket
hornet stung him under the left ear.
“It hurt,” and Pat chased the “little animil” for
some time, but fruitlessly. Next day, went forth
again: same tree; same book; “words,” etc.;
every thing quiet, when, buzz! buzz! a large
brown beetle came flying up. Pat looked at him,
and left: “Ah! be J—,” said he, “my boy,
d'ye think I don't know you in yer fatagues?”
On reading this over it don't sound as funny as it
did when Dr. Byrne of the United States Army
told it to me; but it's a deuced good story, and if
ever we three meet again, I'll have him tell you
that, et al., which you never heard before.