University of Virginia Library

4. IV.
CALIFORNIA.

We reach San Francisco one Sunday afternoon.
I am driven to the Occidental Hotel by a kind-hearted
hackman, who states that inasmuch as I have
come out there to amuse people, he will only charge
me five dollars. I pay it in gold, of course, because
greenbacks are not current on the Pacific coast.

Many of the citizens of San Francisco remember
the Sabbath day to keep it jolly; and the theatres,
the circus, the minstrels, and the music halls are all
in full blast to-night.

I “compromise” and go to the Chinese theatre,
thinking perhaps there can be no great harm in listening
to worldly sentiments when expressed in a
language I don't understand.

The Chinaman at the door takes my ticket with
the remark, “Ki hi-hi ki! Shoolah!”

And I tell him that on the whole I think he is right.

The Chinese play is “continued,” like a Ledger

story, from night to night. It commences with the
birth of the hero or heroine, which interesting event
occurs publicly on the stage; and then follows him
or her down to the grave, where it cheerfully
ends.

Sometimes a Chinese play lasts six months. The
play I am speaking of had been going on for about
two months. The heroine had grown up into womanhood,
and was on the point, as I inferred, of being
married to a young Chinaman in spangled pantaloons
and a long black tail. The bride's father comes in
with his arms full of tea chests, and bestows them,
with his blessing, upon the happy couple. As this
play is to run four months longer, however, and as
my time is limited, I go away at the close of the
second act, while the orchestra is performing an overture
on gongs and one-stringed fiddles.

The door-keeper again says, “Ki hi-hi ki! Shoolah!”
adding, this time however, “Chow-wow.”
I agree with him in regard to the ki hi and hi ki,
but tell him I don't feel altogether certain about the
chow-wow.

To Stockton from San Francisco.

Stockton is a beautiful town, that has ceased to
think of becoming a very large place, and has quietly
settled down into a state of serene prosperity. I
have my boots repaired here by an artist who informs
me that he studied in the penitentiary; and I visit
the lunatic asylum, where I encounter a vivacious
maniac who invites me to ride in a chariot drawn by
eight lions and a rhinoceros.

John Phoenix was once stationed at Stockton, and
put his mother aboard the San Francisco boat one
morning with the sparkling remark, “Dear mother,
be virtuous and you will be happy!”

Forward to Sacramento—which is the capital of
the State, and a very nice old town.

They had a flood here some years ago, during
which several blocks of buildings sailed out of town
and have never been heard from since. A Chinaman
concluded to leave in a wash-tub, and actually set
sail in one of those fragile barks. A drowning man
hailed him piteously, thus: “Throw me a rope, oh
throw me a rope!” To which the Chinaman excitedly

cried, “No have got—how can do?” and
went on, on with the howling current. He was
never seen more; but a few weeks after his tail was
found by some Sabbath-school children in the north
part of the State.

I go to the mountain towns. The sensational
mining days are over, but I find the people jolly and
hospitable nevertheless.

At Nevada I am called upon, shortly after my
arrival, by an athletic scarlet-faced man, who politely
says his name is Blaze.

“I have a little bill against you, sir,” he observes.

“A bill—what for?”

“For drinks.”

“Drinks?”

“Yes, sir—at my bar, I keep the well known and
highly-respected coffee-house down street.”

“But, my dear sir, there is a mistake—I never
drank at your bar in my life.”

“I know it, sir. That isn't the point. The point
is this: I pay out money for good liquors, and it is
people's own fault if they don't drink them. There

are the liquors—do as you please about drinking them,
but you must pay for them! Isn't that fair?”

His enormous body (which Puck wouldn't put a
girdle round for forty dollars) shook gleefully while
I read this eminently original bill.

Years ago Mr. Blaze was an agent of the California
Stage Company. There was a formidable and
well organized opposition to the California Stage
Company at that time, and Mr. Blaze rendered them
such signal service in his capacity of agent that they
were very sorry when he tendered his resignation.

“You are some sixteen hundred dollars behind in
your accounts, Mr. Blaze,” said the President, “but
in view of your faithful and efficient services, we shall
throw off eight hundred dollars of that amount.”

Mr. Blaze seemed touched by this generosity. A
tear stood in his eye and his bosom throbbed audibly.

“You will throw off eight hundred dollars—you
will?” he at last cried, seizing the President's hand
and pressing it passionately to his lips.

“I will,” returned the President.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Blaze, “I'm a gentleman, I
am, you bet! And I won't allow no Stage Company

to surpass me in politeness. I'll throw off the other
eight hundred dollars, and we'll call it square! No
gratitude, sir—no thanks; it is my duty.”

I get back to San Francisco in a few weeks, and
am to start home Overland from here.

The distance from Sacramento to Atchison, Kansas,
by the Overland stage route, is twenty-two hundred
miles, but you can happily accomplish a part of the
journey by railroad. The Pacific railroad is completed
twelve miles to Folsom, leaving only two thousand
and one hundred and eighty-eight miles to go by
stage. This breaks the monotony; but as it is
midwinter, and as there are well substantiated reports
of Overland passengers freezing to death, and of the
Piute savages being in one of their sprightly moods
when they scalp people, I do not—I may say that
I do not leave the Capital of California in a lighthearted
and joyous manner. But “leaves have their
time to fall,” and I have my time to leave, which is
now.

We ride all day and all night, and ascend and
descend some of the most frightful hills I ever saw.

We make Johnson's Pass, which is 6752 feet high,
about two o'clock in the morning, and go down the
great Kingsbury grade with locked wheels. The
driver, with whom I sit outside, informs me, as we
slowly roll down this fearful mountain road, which
looks down on either side into an appalling ravine,
that he has met accidents in his time, and cost the
California stage company a great deal of money;
“because,” he says, “juries is agin us on principle,
and every man who sues us is sure to recover.
But it will never be so agin, not with me, you
bet.”

“How is that?” I said.

It was frightfully dark. It was snowing withal,
and notwithstanding the brakes were kept hard
down, the coach slewed wildly, often fairly touching
the brink of the black precipice.

“How is that?” I said.

“Why, you see,” he replied, “that corpses never
sue for damages, but maimed people do. And the
next time I have a overturn I shall go round and
keerfully examine the passengers. Them as is dead,
I shall let alone; but them as is mutilated I shall finish

with the king-bolt! Dead folks don't sue. They
ain't on it.”

Thus with anecdote did this driver cheer me up.