University of Virginia Library

MY SUBURBAN RESIDENCE.

I LIVE in the suburbs. My residence, to quote
the pleasing fiction of the advertisement, “is
within fifteen minutes' walk of the City Hall.”
Why the City Hall should be considered as an
eligible terminus of anybody's walk, under any
circumstances, I have not been able to determine.
Never having walked from my residence to that
place, I am unable to verify the assertion, though
I may state as a purely abstract and separate proposition,
that it takes me the better part of an hour
to reach Montgomery Street.

My selection of locality was a compromise between
my wife's desire to go into the country, and
my own predilections for civic habitation. Like
most compromises, it ended in retaining the objectionable
features of both propositions; I procured
the inconveniences of the country without losing
the discomforts of the city. I increased my distance
from the butcher and green-grocer, without
approximating to herds and kitchen-gardens. But
I anticipate.

Fresh air was to be the principal thing sought
for. That there might be too much of this did

not enter into my calculations. The first day I
entered my residence, it blew; the second day was
windy; the third, fresh, with a strong breeze stirring;
on the fourth, it blew; on the fifth, there
was a gale, which has continued to the present
writing.

That the air is fresh, the above statement sufficiently
establishes. That it is bracing, I argue
from the fact that I find it impossible to open the
shutters on the windward side of the house. That
it is healthy, I am also convinced, believing that
there is no other force in Nature that could so
buffet and ill-use a person without serious injury
to him. Let me offer an instance. The path to
my door crosses a slight eminence. The unconscious
visitor, a little exhausted by the ascent and
the general effects of the gentle gales which he
has faced in approaching my hospitable mansion,
relaxes his efforts, smooths his brow, and approaches
with a fascinating smile. Rash and too
confident man! The wind delivers a succession of
rapid blows, and he is thrown back. He staggers
up again, in the language of the P. R., “smiling
and confident.” The wind now makes for a vulnerable
point, and gets his hat in chancery. All
ceremony is now thrown away; the luckless wretch
seizes his hat with both hands, and charges madly
at the front door. Inch by inch, the wind contests
the ground; another struggle, and he stands

upon the veranda. On such occasions I make it
a point to open the door myself, with a calmness
and serenity that shall offer a marked contrast to
his feverish and excited air, and shall throw suspicion
of inebriety upon him. If he be inclined
to timidity and bashfulness, during the best of the
evening he is all too conscious of the disarrangement
of his hair and cravat. If he is less sensitive,
the result is often more distressing. A valued
elderly friend once called upon me after undergoing
a twofold struggle with the wind and a large
Newfoundland dog (which I keep for reasons hereinafter
stated), and not only his hat, but his wig,
had suffered. He spent the evening with me,
totally unconscious of the fact that his hair presented
the singular spectacle of having been parted
diagonally from the right temple to the left ear.
When ladies called, my wife preferred to receive
them. They were generally hysterical, and often
in tears. I remember, one Sunday, to have been
startled by what appeared to be the balloon from
Hayes Valley drifting rapidly past my conservatory,
closely followed by the Newfoundland dog.
I rushed to the front door, but was anticipated by
my wife. A strange lady appeared at lunch, but
the phenomenon remained otherwise unaccounted
for. Egress from my residence is much more easy.
My guests seldom “stand upon the order of their
going, but go at once”; the Newfoundland dog
playfully harassing their rear. I was standing one
day, with my hand on the open hall door, in serious
conversation with the minister of the parish,
when the back door was cautiously opened. The
watchful breeze seized the opportunity, and charged
through the defenceless passage. The front door
closed violently in the middle of a sentence, precipitating
the reverend gentleman into the garden.
The Newfoundland dog, with that sagacity for
which his race is so distinguished, at once concluded
that a personal collision had taken place
between myself and visitor, and flew to my defence.
The reverend gentleman never called again.

The Newfoundland dog above alluded to was
part of a system of protection which my suburban
home once required. Robberies were frequent in
the neighborhood, and my only fowl fell a victim
to the spoiler's art. One night I awoke, and found
a man in my room. With singular delicacy and
respect for the feelings of others, he had been careful
not to awaken any of the sleepers, and retired
upon my rising, without waiting for any suggestion.
Touched by his delicacy, I forbore giving the alarm
until after he had made good his retreat. I then
wanted to go after a policeman, but my wife remonstrated,
as this would leave the house exposed.
Remembering the gentlemanly conduct of the burglar,
I suggested the plan of following him and
requesting him to give the alarm as he went in

town. But this proposition was received with
equal disfavor. The next day I procured a dog
and a revolver. The former went off, but the latter
would n't. I then got a new dog and chained
him, and a duelling pistol, with a hair-trigger.
The result was so far satisfactory that neither
could be approached with safety, and for some
time I left them out, indifferently, during the
night. But the chain one day gave way, and the
dog, evidently having no other attachment to the
house, took the opportunity to leave. His place
was soon filled by the Newfoundland, whose fidelity
and sagacity I have just recorded.

Space is one of the desirable features of my
suburban residence. I do not know the number
of acres the grounds contain except from the inordinate
quantity of hose required for irrigating. I
perform daily, like some gentle shepherd, upon a
quarter-inch pipe without any visible result, and
have had serious thoughts of contracting with some
disbanded fire company for their hose and equipments.
It is quite a walk to the wood-house.
Every day some new feature of the grounds is discovered.
My youngest boy was one day missing
for several hours. His head — a peculiarly venerable
and striking object — was at last discovered just
above the grass at some distance from the house.
On examination he was found comfortably seated in
a disused drain, in company with a silver spoon and

a dead rat. On being removed from this locality
he howled dismally and refused to be comforted.

The view from my suburban residence is fine.
Lone Mountain, with its white obelisks, is a suggestive
if not cheering termination of the vista in
one direction, while the old receiving vault of
Yerba Buena Cemetery limits the view in another.
Most of the funerals which take place pass my
house. My children, with the charming imitativeness
that belongs to youth, have caught the spirit of
these passing corteges, and reproduce in the back
yard, with creditable skill, the salient features of
the lugubrious procession. A doll, from whose
features all traces of vitality and expression have
been removed, represents the deceased. Yet unfortunately
I have been obliged to promise them
more active participation in this ceremony at some
future time, and I fear that they look anxiously
forward with the glowing impatience of youth to the
speedy removal of some one of my circle of friends.
I am told that the eldest, with the unsophisticated
frankness that belongs to his age, made a personal
request to that effect to one of my acquaintances
One singular result of the frequency of these
funerals is the development of a critical and fastidious
taste in such matters on the part of myself
and family. If I may so express myself, without
irreverence, we seldom turn out for anything less
than six carriages. Any number over this is

usually breathlessly announced by Bridget as,
“Here 's another, mum, — and a good long one.”

With these slight drawbacks my suburban residence
is charming. To the serious poet, and
writer of elegiac verses, the aspect of Nature,
viewed from my veranda, is suggestive. I myself
have experienced moments when the “sad
mechanic exercise” of verse would have been of
infinite relief. The following stanzas, by a young
friend who has been stopping with me for the
benefit of his health, addressed to a duck that frequented
a small pond in the vicinity of my mansion,
may be worthy of perusal. I think I have
met the idea conveyed in the first verse in some
of Hood's prose, but as my friend assures me
that Hood was too conscientious to appropriate
anything not his own, I conclude I am mistaken.

LINES TO A WATER-FOWL.

(Intra Muros.)