Produced by Donald Lainson
URBAN SKETCHES
by Bret Harte
CONTENTS
A VENERABLE IMPOSTOR
FROM A BALCONY
MELONS
SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF MASTER CHARLES SUMMERTON
SIDEWALKINGS
A BOY'S DOG
CHARITABLE REMINISCENCES
“SEEING THE STEAMER OFF”
NEIGHBORHOODS I HAVE MOVED FROM
MY SUBURBAN RESIDENCE
ON A VULGAR LITTLE BOY
WAITING FOR THE SHIP
URBAN SKETCHES
A VENERABLE IMPOSTOR.
As I glance across my table, I am somewhat distracted by the spectacle
of a venerable head whose crown occasionally appears beyond, at about
its level. The apparition of a very small hand--whose fingers are bunchy
and have the appearance of being slightly webbed--which is frequently
lifted above the table in a vain and impotent attempt to reach the
inkstand, always affects me as a novelty at each recurrence of the
phenomenon. Yet both the venerable head and bunchy fingers belong to
an individual with whom I am familiar, and to whom, for certain reasons
hereafter described, I choose to apply the epithet written above this
article.
His advent in the family was attended with peculiar circumstances. He
was received with some concern--the number of retainers having been
increased by one in honor of his arrival. He appeared to be weary,--his
pretence was that he had come from a long journey,--so that for days,
weeks, and even months, he did not leave his bed except when he was
carried. But it was remarkable that his appetite was invariably regular
and healthy, and that his meals, which he required should be brought to
him, were seldom rejected. During this time he had little conversation
with the family, his knowledge of our vernacular being limited, but
occasionally spoke to himself in his own language,--a foreign tongue.
The difficulties attending this eccentricity were obviated by the young
woman who had from the first taken him under her protection,--being,
like the rest of her sex, peculiarly open to impositions,--and who at
once disorganized her own tongue to suit his. This was affected by the
contraction of the syllables of some words, the addition of syllables to
others, and an ingenious disregard for tenses and the governing powers
of the verb. The same singular law which impels people in conversation
with foreigners to imitate their broken English governed the family in
their communications with him. He received these evidences of his power
with an indifference not wholly free from scorn. The expression of his
eye would occasionally denote that his higher nature revolted from them.
I have no doubt myself that his wants were frequently misinterpreted;
that the stretching forth of his hands toward the moon and stars might
have been the performance of some religious rite peculiar to his own
country, which was in ours misconstrued into a desire for physical
nourishment. His repetition of the word “goo-goo,”--which was subject to
a variety of opposite interpretations,--when taken in conjunction with
his size, in my mind seemed to indicate his aboriginal or Aztec origin.
I incline to this belief, as it sustains the impression I have already
hinted at, that his extreme youth is a simulation and deceit; that he
is really older and has lived before at some remote period, and that his
conduct fully justifies his title as A Venerable Impostor. A variety of
circumstances corroborate this impression: His tottering walk, which is
a senile as well as a juvenile condition; his venerable head, thatched
with such imperceptible hair that, at a distance, it looks like a mild
aureola, and his imperfect dental exhibition. But beside these physical
peculiarities may be observed certain moral symptoms, which go to
disprove his assumed youth. He is in the habit of falling into
reveries, caused, I have no doubt, by some circumstance which suggests
a comparison with his experience in his remoter boyhood, or by some
serious retrospection of the past years. He has been detected lying
awake, at times when he should have been asleep, engaged in curiously
comparing the bed-clothes, walls, and furniture with some recollection
of his youth. At such moments he has been heard to sing softly to
himself fragments of some unintelligible composition, which probably
still linger in his memory as the echoes of a music he has long
outgrown. He has the habit of receiving strangers with the familiarity
of one who had met them before, and to whom their antecedents and
peculiarities were matters of old acquaintance, and so unerring is
his judgment of their previous character that when he withholds his
confidence I am apt to withhold mine. It is somewhat remarkable that
while the maturity of his years and the respect due to them is denied by
man, his superiority and venerable age is never questioned by the brute
creation. The dog treats him with a respect and consideration accorded
to none others, and the cat permits a familiarity which I should shudder
to attempt. It may be considered an evidence of some Pantheistic quality
in his previous education, that he seems to recognize a fellowship even
in inarticulate objects; he has been known to verbally address plants,
flowers, and fruit, and to extend his confidence to such inanimate
objects as chairs and tables. There can be little doubt that, in the
remote period of his youth, these objects were endowed with not only
sentient natures, but moral capabilities, and he is still in the habit
of beating them when they collide with him, and of pardoning them with a
kiss.
As he has grown older--rather let me say, as we have approximated to his
years--he has, in spite of the apparent paradox, lost much of his senile
gravity. It must be confessed that some of his actions of late appear to
our imperfect comprehension inconsistent with his extreme age. A habit
of marching up and down with a string tied to a soda-water bottle, a
disposition to ride anything that could by any exercise of the liveliest
fancy be made to assume equine proportions, a propensity to blacken his
venerable white hair with ink and coal dust, and an omnivorous appetite
which did not stop at chalk, clay, or cinders, were peculiarities not
calculated to excite respect. In fact, he would seem to have become
demoralized, and when, after a prolonged absence the other day, he was
finally discovered standing upon the front steps addressing a group of
delighted children out of his limited vocabulary, the circumstance could
only be accounted for as the garrulity of age.
But I lay aside my pen amidst an ominous silence and the disappearance
of the venerable head from my plane of vision. As I step to the other
side of the table, I find that sleep has overtaken him in an overt act
of hoary wickedness. The very pages I have devoted to an exposition
of his deceit he has quietly abstracted, and I find them covered
with cabalistic figures and wild-looking hieroglyphs traced with his
forefinger dipped in ink, which doubtless in his own language conveys
a scathing commentary on my composition. But he sleeps peacefully,
and there is something in his face which tells me that he has already
wandered away to that dim region of his youth where I cannot follow him.
And as there comes a strange stirring at my heart when I contemplate the
immeasurable gulf which lies between us, and how slight and feeble as
yet is his grasp on this world and its strange realities, I find, too
late, that I also am a willing victim of the Venerable Impostor.
FROM A BALCONY
The little stone balcony, which, by a popular fallacy, is supposed to be
a necessary appurtenance of my window, has long been to me a source of
curious interest. The fact that the asperities of our summer weather
will not permit me to use it but once or twice in six months does not
alter my concern for this incongruous ornament. It affects me as I
suppose the conscious possession of a linen coat or a nankeen trousers
might affect a sojourner here who has not entirely outgrown his memory
of Eastern summer heat and its glorious compensations,--a luxurious
providence against a possible but by no means probable contingency. I do
no longer wonder at the persistency with which San Franciscans adhere
to this architectural superfluity in the face of climatical
impossibilities. The balconies in which no one sits, the piazzas
on which no one lounges, are timid advances made to a climate whose
churlishness we are trying to temper by an ostentation of confidence.
Ridiculous as this spectacle is at all seasons, it is never more so than
in that bleak interval between sunset and dark, when the shrill
scream of the factory whistle seems to have concentrated all the hard,
unsympathetic quality of the climate into one vocal expression. Add to
this the appearance of one or two pedestrians, manifestly too late for
their dinners, and tasting in the shrewish air a bitter premonition of
the welcome that awaits them at home, and you have one of those ordinary
views from my balcony which makes the balcony itself ridiculous.
But as I lean over its balustrade to-night--a night rare in its kindness
and beauty--and watch the fiery ashes of my cigar drop into the abysmal
darkness below, I am inclined to take back the whole of that preceding
paragraph, although it cost me some labor to elaborate its polite
malevolence. I can even recognize some melody in the music which comes
irregularly and fitfully from the balcony of the Museum on Market
Street, although it may be broadly stated that, as a general thing,
the music of all museums, menageries, and circuses becomes greatly
demoralized,--possibly through associations with the beasts. So soft and
courteous is this atmosphere that I have detected the flutter of one or
two light dresses on the adjacent balconies and piazzas, and the front
parlor windows of a certain aristocratic mansion in the vicinity, which
have always maintained a studious reserve in regard to the interior,
to-night are suddenly thrown into the attitude of familiar disclosure. A
few young people are strolling up the street with a lounging step which
is quite a relief to that usual brisk, business-like pace which the
chilly nights impose upon even the most sentimental lovers. The genial
influences of the air are not restricted to the opening of shutters
and front doors; other and more gentle disclosures are made, no doubt,
beneath this moonlight. The bonnet and hat which passed beneath my
balcony a few moments ago were suspiciously close together. I argued
from this that my friend the editor will probably receive any quantity
of verses for his next issue, containing allusions to “Luna,” in which
the original epithet of “silver” will be applied to this planet, and
that a “boon” will be asked for the evident purpose of rhyming with
“moon,” and for no other. Should neither of the parties be equal to this
expression, the pent-up feelings of the heart will probably find vent
later in the evening over the piano, in “I Wandered by the Brookside,”
or “When the Moon on the Lake is Beaming.” But it has been permitted me
to hear the fulfilment of my prophecy even as it was uttered. From the
window of number Twelve Hundred and Seven gushes upon the slumberous
misty air the maddening ballad, “Ever of Thee,” while at Twelve Hundred
and Eleven the “Star of the Evening” rises with a chorus. I am inclined
to think that there is something in the utter vacuity of the refrain
in this song which especially commends itself to the young. The simple
statement, “Star of the evening,” is again and again repeated with an
imbecile relish; while the adjective “beautiful” recurs with a steady
persistency, too exasperating to dwell upon here. At occasional
intervals, a base voice enunciates “Star-r! Star-r!” as a solitary and
independent effort. Sitting here in my balcony, I picture the possessor
of that voice as a small, stout young man, standing a little apart from
the other singers, with his hands behind him, under his coat-tail, and
a severe expression of countenance. He sometimes leans forward, with
a futile attempt to read the music over somebody else's shoulder, but
always resumes his old severity of attitude before singing his part.
Meanwhile the celestial subjects of this choral adoration look down upon
the scene with a tranquillity and patience which can only result from
the security with which their immeasurable remoteness invests them.
I would remark that the stars are not the only topics subject to
this “damnable iteration.” A certain popular song, which contains the
statement, “I will not forget you, mother,” apparently reposes all its
popularity on the constant and dreary repetition of this unimportant
information, which at least produces the desired result among the
audience. If the best operatic choruses are not above this weakness,
the unfamiliar language in which they are sung offers less violation to
common sense.
It may be parenthetically stated here that the songs alluded to above
may be found in sheet music on the top of the piano of any young
lady who has just come from boarding-school. “The Old Arm-Chair,” or
“Woodman, spare that Tree,” will be also found in easy juxtaposition.
The latter songs are usually brought into service at the instance of
an uncle or bachelor brother, whose request is generally prefaced by a
remark deprecatory of the opera, and the gratuitous observation that “we
are retrograding, sir,--retrograding,” and that “there is no music
like the old songs.” He sometimes condescends to accompany “Marie” in a
tremulous barytone, and is particularly forcible in those passages where
the word “repeat” is written, for reasons stated above. When the song is
over, to the success of which he feels he has materially contributed, he
will inform you that you may talk of your “arias,” and your “romanzas,”
“but for music, sir,--music--” at which point he becomes incoherent and
unintelligible. It is this gentleman who suggests “China,” or “Brattle
Street,” as a suitable and cheerful exercise for the social circle.
There are certain amatory songs, of an arch and coquettish character,
familiar to these localities, which the young lady, being called upon
to sing, declines with a bashful and tantalizing hesitation. Prominent
among these may be mentioned an erotic effusion entitled “I'm talking
in my Sleep,” which, when sung by a young person vivaciously and with
appropriate glances, can be made to drive languishing swains to the
verge of madness. Ballads of this quality afford splendid opportunities
for bold young men, who, by ejaculating “Oh!” and “Ah!” at the affecting
passages, frequently gain a fascinating reputation for wildness and
scepticism.
But the music which called up these parenthetical reflections has died
away, and with it the slight animosities it inspired. The last song has
been sung, the piano closed, the lights are withdrawn from the windows,
and the white skirts flutter away from stoops and balconies. The silence
is broken only by the rattle and rumble of carriages coming from theatre
and opera. I fancy that this sound--which, seeming to be more distinct
at this hour than at any other time, might be called one of the civic
voices of the night--has certain urbane suggestions, not unpleasant to
those born and bred in large cities. The moon, round and full, gradually
usurps the twinkling lights of the city, that one by one seem to fade
away and be absorbed in her superior lustre. The distant Mission hills
are outlined against the sky, but through one gap the outlying fog which
has stealthily invested us seems to have effected a breach, and only
waits the co-operation of the laggard sea-breezes to sweep down and
take the beleaguered city by assault. An ineffable calm sinks over the
landscape. In the magical moonlight the shot-tower loses its angular
outline and practical relations, and becomes a minaret from whose
balcony an invisible muezzin calls the Faithful to prayer. “Prayer is
better than sleep.” But what is this? A shuffle of feet on the
pavement, a low hum of voices, a twang of some diabolical instrument,
a preliminary hem and cough. Heavens! it cannot be! Ah, yes--it is--it
is--SERENADERS!
Anathema Maranatha! May purgatorial pains seize you, William, Count
of Poitou, Girard de Boreuil, Arnaud de Marveil, Bertrand de Born,
mischievous progenitors of jongleurs, troubadours, provencals,
minnesingers, minstrels, and singers of cansos and love chants!
Confusion overtake and confound your modern descendants, the “metre
ballad-mongers,” who carry the shamelessness of the Middle Ages into
the nineteenth century, and awake a sleeping neighborhood to the
brazen knowledge of their loves and wanton fancies! Destruction and
demoralization pursue these pitiable imitators of a barbarous age,
when ladies' names and charms were shouted through the land, and
modest maiden never lent presence to tilt or tourney without hearing a
chronicle of her virtues go round the lists, shouted by wheezy heralds
and taken up by roaring swashbucklers! Perdition overpower such
ostentatious wooers! Marry! shall I shoot the amorous feline who nightly
iterates his love songs on my roof, and yet withhold my trigger finger
from yonder pranksome gallant? Go to! Here is an orange left of last
week's repast. Decay hath overtaken it,--it possesseth neither savor nor
cleanliness. Ha! cleverly thrown! A hit--a palpable hit! Peradventure I
have still a boot that hath done me service, and, barring a looseness of
the heel, an ominous yawning at the side, 'tis in good case! Na'theless,
'twill serve. So! so! What! dispersed! Nay, then, I too will retire.
MELONS
As I do not suppose the most gentle of readers will believe that
anybody's sponsors in baptism ever wilfully assumed the responsibility
of such a name, I may as well state that I have reason to infer that
Melons was simply the nickname of a small boy I once knew. If he had any
other, I never knew it.
Various theories were often projected by me to account for this strange
cognomen. His head, which was covered with a transparent down, like that
which clothes very small chickens, plainly permitting the scalp to show
through, to an imaginative mind might have suggested that succulent
vegetable. That his parents, recognizing some poetical significance in
the fruits of the season, might have given this name to an August child,
was an Oriental explanation. That from his infancy, he was fond of
indulging in melons, seemed on the whole the most likely, particularly
as Fancy was not bred in McGinnis's Court. He dawned upon me as Melons.
His proximity was indicated by shrill, youthful voices, as “Ah, Melons!”
or playfully, “Hi, Melons!” or authoritatively, “You, Melons!”
McGinnis's Court was a democratic expression of some obstinate
and radical property-holder. Occupying a limited space between two
fashionable thoroughfares, it refused to conform to circumstances, but
sturdily paraded its unkempt glories, and frequently asserted itself in
ungrammatical language. My window--a rear room on the ground floor--in
this way derived blended light and shadow from the court. So low was the
window-sill, that had I been the least predisposed to somnambulism, it
would have broken out under such favorable auspices, and I should have
haunted McGinnis's Court. My speculations as to the origin of the court
were not altogether gratuitous, for by means of this window I once saw
the Past, as through a glass darkly. It was a Celtic shadow that early
one morning obstructed my ancient lights. It seemed to belong to an
individual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and bristling beard. He was
gazing intently at the court, resting on a heavy cane, somewhat in the
way that heroes dramatically visit the scenes of their boyhood. As
there was little of architectural beauty in the court, I came to the
conclusion that it was McGinnis looking after his property. The fact
that he carefully kicked a broken bottle out of the road somewhat
strengthened me in the opinion. But he presently walked away, and the
court knew him no more. He probably collected his rents by proxy--if he
collected them at all.
Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purely introductory, there was little
to interest the most sanguine and hopeful nature. In common with all
such localities, a great deal of washing was done, in comparison with
the visible results. There was always something whisking on the line,
and always something whisking through the court, that looked as if
it ought to be there. A fish-geranium--of all plants kept for the
recreation of mankind, certainly the greatest illusion--straggled
under the window. Through its dusty leaves I caught the first glance of
Melons.
His age was about seven. He looked older, from the venerable whiteness
of his head, and it was impossible to conjecture his size, as he always
wore clothes apparently belonging to some shapely youth of nineteen.
A pair of pantaloons, that, when sustained by a single suspender,
completely equipped him, formed his every-day suit. How, with this
lavish superfluity of clothing, he managed to perform the surprising
gymnastic feats it has been my privilege to witness, I have never been
able to tell. His “turning the crab,” and other minor dislocations, were
always attended with success. It was not an unusual sight at any hour of
the day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to see his venerable head
appearing above the roofs of the outhouses. Melons knew the exact height
of every fence in the vicinity, its facilities for scaling, and the
possibility of seizure on the other side. His more peaceful and quieter
amusements consisted in dragging a disused boiler by a large string,
with hideous outcries, to imaginary fires.
Melons was not gregarious in his habits. A few youth of his own age
sometimes called upon him, but they eventually became abusive, and their
visits were more strictly predatory incursions for old bottles and junk
which formed the staple of McGinnis's Court. Overcome by loneliness one
day, Melons inveigled a blind harper into the court. For two hours did
that wretched man prosecute his unhallowed calling, unrecompensed, and
going round and round the court, apparently under the impression that it
was some other place, while Melons surveyed him from an adjoining fence
with calm satisfaction. It was this absence of conscientious motives
that brought Melons into disrepute with his aristocratic neighbors.
Orders were issued that no child of wealthy and pious parentage should
play with him. This mandate, as a matter of course, invested Melons with
a fascinating interest to them. Admiring glances were cast at Melons
from nursery windows. Baby fingers beckoned to him. Invitations to tea
(on wood and pewter) were lisped to him from aristocratic back-yards. It
was evident he was looked upon as a pure and noble being, untrammelled
by the conventionalities of parentage, and physically as well as
mentally exalted above them. One afternoon an unusual commotion
prevailed in the vicinity of McGinnis's Court. Looking from my window I
saw Melons perched on the roof of a stable, pulling up a rope by which
one “Tommy,” an infant scion of an adjacent and wealthy house, was
suspended in mid-air. In vain the female relatives of Tommy congregated
in the back-yard, expostulated with Melons; in vain the unhappy father
shook his fist at him. Secure in his position, Melons redoubled his
exertions and at last landed Tommy on the roof. Then it was that the
humiliating fact was disclosed that Tommy had been acting in collusion
with Melons. He grinned delightedly back at his parents, as if “by merit
raised to that bad eminence.” Long before the ladder arrived that was
to succor him, he became the sworn ally of Melons, and, I regret to say,
incited by the same audacious boy, “chaffed” his own flesh and blood
below him. He was eventually taken, though, of course, Melons escaped.
But Tommy was restricted to the window after that, and the companionship
was limited to “Hi, Melons!” and “You, Tommy!” and Melons, to all
practical purposes, lost him forever. I looked afterward to see some
signs of sorrow on Melons's part, but in vain; he buried his grief, if
he had any, somewhere in his one voluminous garment.
At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons became more
extended. I was engaged in filling a void in the Literature of the
Pacific Coast. As this void was a pretty large one, and as I was
informed that the Pacific Coast languished under it, I set apart two
hours each day to this work of filling in. It was necessary that I
should adopt a methodical system, so I retired from the world and locked
myself in my room at a certain hour each day, after coming from my
office. I then carefully drew out my portfolio and read what I had
written the day before. This would suggest some alteration, and I would
carefully rewrite it. During this operation I would turn to consult a
book of reference, which invariably proved extremely interesting and
attractive. It would generally suggest another and better method of
“filling in.” Turning this method over reflectively in my mind, I would
finally commence the new method which I eventually abandoned for the
original plan. At this time I would become convinced that my exhausted
faculties demanded a cigar. The operation of lighting a cigar usually
suggested that a little quiet reflection and meditation would be of
service to me, and I always allowed myself to be guided by prudential
instincts. Eventually, seated by my window, as before stated, Melons
asserted himself, though our conversation rarely went further than
“Hello, Mister!” and “Ah, Melons!” a vagabond instinct we felt in common
implied a communion deeper than words. In this spiritual commingling the
time passed, often beguiled by gymnastics on the fence or line (always
with an eye to my window) until dinner was announced and I found a more
practical void required my attention. An unlooked for incident drew us
in closer relation.
A sea-faring friend just from a tropical voyage had presented me with
a bunch of bananas. They were not quite ripe, and I hung them before my
window to mature in the sun of McGinnis's Court, whose forcing qualities
were remarkable. In the mysteriously mingled odors of ship and
shore which they diffused throughout my room, there was a lingering
reminiscence of low latitudes. But even that joy was fleeting and
evanescent: they never reached maturity.
Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that fashionable
thoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small boy eating a banana.
There was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis's Court I
presently met another small boy, also eating a banana. A third small
boy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidence upon
my mind. I leave the psychological reader to determine the exact
co-relation between this circumstance and the sickening sense of loss
that overcame me on witnessing it. I reached my room--and found the
bunch of bananas was gone.
There was but one who knew of their existence, but one who frequented
my window, but one capable of the gymnastic effort to procure them,
and that was--I blush to say it--Melons. Melons the depredator--Melons,
despoiled by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and
indiscreetly liberal; Melons--now a fugitive on some neighboring
house-top. I lit a cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, sought
surcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the fish-geranium. In a few
moments something white passed my window at about the level of the edge.
There was no mistaking that hoary head, which now represented to me only
aged iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, juvenile hypocrite.
He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, but
that horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit the scene
of his crime, impelled him toward my window. I smoked calmly and gazed
at him without speaking. He walked several times up and down the court
with a half-rigid, half-belligerent expression of eye and shoulder,
intended to represent the carelessness of innocence.
Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms their whole length into
his capacious trousers, gazed with some interest at the additional
width they thus acquired. Then he whistled. The singular conflicting
conditions of John Brown's body and soul we're at that time beginning to
attract the attention of youth, and Melons's performance of that melody
was always remarkable. But to-day he whistled falsely and shrilly
between his teeth. At last he met my eye. He winced slightly, but
recovered himself, and going to the fence, stood for a few moments
on his hands, with his bare feet quivering in the air. Then he turned
toward me and threw out a conversational preliminary.
“They is a cirkis”--said Melons gravely, hanging with his back to
the fence and his arms twisted around the palings--“a cirkis over
yonder!”--indicating the locality with his foot--“with hosses, and
hossback riders. They is a man wot rides six hosses to onct--six hosses
to onct--and nary saddle”--and he paused in expectation.
Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me. I still kept a fixed
gaze on Melons's eye, and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in his
capacious garment. Some other desperate means--conversation with Melons
was always a desperate means--must be resorted to. He recommenced more
artfully.
“Do you know Carrots?”
I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious name, with scarlet
hair, who was a playmate and persecutor of Melons. But I said nothing.
“Carrots is a bad boy. Killed a policeman onct. Wears a dirk knife in
his boots, saw him to-day looking in your windy.”
I felt that this must end here. I rose sternly and addressed Melons.
“Melons, this is all irrelevant and impertinent to the case. YOU took
those bananas. Your proposition regarding Carrots, even if I were
inclined to accept it as credible information, does not alter the
material issue. You took those bananas. The offence under the statutes
of California is felony. How far Carrots may have been accessory to the
fact either before or after, is not my intention at present to discuss.
The act is complete. Your present conduct shows the animo furandi to
have been equally clear.”
By the time I had finished this exordium, Melons had disappeared, as I
fully expected.
He never reappeared. The remorse that I have experienced for the part
I had taken in what I fear may have resulted in his utter and complete
extermination, alas, he may not know, except through these pages. For
I have never seen him since. Whether he ran away and went to sea to
reappear at some future day as the most ancient of mariners, or whether
he buried himself completely in his trousers, I never shall know. I have
read the papers anxiously for accounts of him. I have gone to the Police
Office in the vain attempt of identifying him as a lost child. But
I never saw him or heard of him since. Strange fears have sometimes
crossed my mind that his venerable appearance may have been actually the
result of senility, and that he may have been gathered peacefully to his
fathers in a green old age. I have even had doubts of his existence,
and have sometimes thought that he was providentially and mysteriously
offered to fill the void I have before alluded to. In that hope I have
written these pages.
SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF MASTER CHARLES SUMMERTON.
At exactly half past nine o'clock on the morning of Saturday, August
26, 1865, Master Charles Summerton, aged five years, disappeared
mysteriously from his paternal residence on Folsom Street, San
Francisco. At twenty-five minutes past nine he had been observed, by the
butcher, amusing himself by going through that popular youthful
exercise known as “turning the crab,” a feat in which he was singularly
proficient. At a court of inquiry summarily held in the back parlor at
10.15, Bridget, cook, deposed to have detected him at twenty minutes
past nine, in the felonious abstraction of sugar from the pantry, which,
by the same token, had she known what was a-comin', she'd have never
previnted. Patsey, a shrill-voiced youth from a neighboring alley,
testified to have seen “Chowley” at half past nine, in front of the
butcher's shop round the corner, but as this young gentleman chose
to throw out the gratuitous belief that the missing child had been
converted into sausages by the butcher, his testimony was received with
some caution by the female portion of the court, and with downright
scorn and contumely by its masculine members. But whatever might have
been the hour of his departure, it was certain that from half past ten
A. M. until nine P. M., when he was brought home by a policeman, Charles
Summerton was missing. Being naturally of a reticent disposition, he has
since resisted, with but one exception, any attempt to wrest from him a
statement of his whereabouts during that period. That exception has been
myself. He has related to me the following in the strictest confidence.
His intention on leaving the door-steps of his dwelling was to proceed
without delay to Van Dieman's Land, by way of Second and Market streets.
This project was subsequently modified so far as to permit a visit
to Otaheite, where Captain Cook was killed. The outfit for his voyage
consisted of two car-tickets, five cents in silver, a fishing-line,
the brass capping of a spool of cotton, which, in his eyes, bore some
resemblance to metallic currency, and a Sunday-school library ticket.
His garments, admirably adapted to the exigencies of any climate, were
severally a straw hat with a pink ribbon, a striped shirt, over which
a pair of trousers, uncommonly wide in comparison to their length,
were buttoned, striped balmoral stockings, which gave his youthful legs
something of the appearance of wintergreen candy, and copper-toed shoes
with iron heels, capable of striking fire from any flagstone. This
latter quality, Master Charley could not help feeling, would be of
infinite service to him in the wilds of Van Dieman's Land, which, as
pictorially represented in his geography, seemed to be deficient in
corner groceries and matches.
Exactly as the clock struck the half-hour, the short legs and straw
hat of Master Charles Summerton disappeared around the corner. He ran
rapidly, partly by way of inuring himself to the fatigues of the journey
before him, and partly by way of testing his speed with that of a North
Beach car which was proceeding in his direction. The conductor, not
being aware of this generous and lofty emulation, and being somewhat
concerned at the spectacle of a pair of very short, twinkling legs so
far in the rear, stopped his car and generously assisted the youthful
Summerton upon the platform. From this point a hiatus of several hours'
duration occurs in Charles's narrative. He is under the impression that
he “rode out” not only his two tickets, but that he became subsequently
indebted to the company for several trips to and from the opposite
termini, and that at last, resolutely refusing to give any explanation
of his conduct, he was finally ejected, much to his relief, on a street
corner. Although, as he informs us, he felt perfectly satisfied with
this arrangement, he was impelled under the circumstances to hurl after
the conductor an opprobrious appellation which he had ascertained
from Patsey was the correct thing in such emergencies, and possessed
peculiarly exasperating properties.
We now approach a thrilling part of the narrative, before which most of
the adventures of the “Boys' Own Book” pale into insignificance. There
are times when the recollection of this adventure causes Master Charles
to break out in a cold sweat, and he has several times since its
occurrence been awakened by lamentations and outcries in the night
season by merely dreaming of it. On the corner of the street lay several
large empty sugar hogsheads. A few young gentlemen disported themselves
therein, armed with sticks, with which they removed the sugar which
still adhered to the joints of the staves, and conveyed it to their
mouths. Finding a cask not yet preempted, Master Charles set to work,
and for a few moments revelled in a wild saccharine dream, whence he was
finally roused by an angry voice and the rapidly retreating footsteps
of his comrades. An ominous sound smote his ear, and the next moment he
felt the cask wherein he lay uplifted and set upright against the wall.
He was a prisoner, but as yet undiscovered. Being satisfied in his mind
that hanging was the systematic and legalized penalty for the outrage he
had committed, he kept down manfully the cry that rose to his lips.
In a few moments he felt the cask again lifted by a powerful hand, which
appeared above him at the edge of his prison, and which he concluded
belonged to the ferocious giant Blunderbore, whose features and limbs he
had frequently met in colored pictures. Before he could recover from
his astonishment, his cask was placed with several others on a cart, and
rapidly driven away. The ride which ensued he describes as being fearful
in the extreme. Rolled around like a pill in a box, the agonies which
he suffered may be hinted at, not spoken. Evidences of that protracted
struggle were visible in his garments, which were of the consistency of
syrup, and his hair, which for several hours, under the treatment of hot
water, yielded a thin treacle. At length the cart stopped on one of the
wharves, and the cartman began to unload. As he tilted over the cask in
which Charles lay, an exclamation broke from his lips, and the edge of
the cask fell from his hands, sliding its late occupant upon the wharf.
To regain his short legs, and to put the greatest possible distance
between himself and the cartman, were his first movements on regaining
his liberty. He did not stop until he reached the corner of Front
Street.
Another blank succeeds in this veracious history. He cannot remember
how or when he found himself in front of the circus tent. He has an
indistinct recollection of having passed through a long street of stores
which were all closed, and which made him fear that it was Sunday, and
that he had spent a miserable night in the sugar cask. But he remembers
hearing the sound of music within the tent, and of creeping on his hands
and knees, when no one was looking, until he passed under the canvas.
His description of the wonders contained within that circle; of the
terrific feats which were performed by a man on a pole, since practised
by him in the back yard; of the horses, one of which was spotted
and resembled an animal in his Noah's Ark, hitherto unrecognized and
undefined; of the female equestrians, whose dresses could only be
equalled in magnificence by the frocks of his sister's doll; of the
painted clown, whose jokes excited a merriment, somewhat tinged by
an undefined fear, was an effort of language which this pen could but
weakly transcribe, and which no quantity of exclamation points could
sufficiently illustrate. He is not quite certain what followed. He
remembers that almost immediately on leaving the circus it became dark,
and that he fell asleep, waking up at intervals on the corners of the
streets, on front steps, in somebody's arms, and finally in his own bed.
He was not aware of experiencing any regret for his conduct; he does
not recall feeling at any time a disposition to go home; he remembers
distinctly that he felt hungry.
He has made this disclosure in confidence. He wishes it to be respected.
He wants to know if you have five cents about you.
SIDEWALKINGS
The time occupied in walking to and from my business I have always
found to yield me a certain mental enjoyment which no other part of the
twenty-four hours could give. Perhaps the physical exercise may
have acted as a gentle stimulant of the brain, but more probably the
comfortable consciousness that I could not reasonably be expected to
be doing anything else--to be studying or improving my mind, for
instance--always gave a joyous liberty to my fancy. I once thought it
necessary to employ this interval in doing sums in arithmetic,--in which
useful study I was and still am lamentably deficient,--but after one or
two attempts at peripatetic computation, I gave it up. I am satisfied
that much enjoyment is lost to the world by this nervous anxiety to
improve our leisure moments, which, like the “shining hours” of Dr.
Watts, unfortunately offer the greatest facilities for idle pleasure. I
feel a profound pity for those misguided beings who are still impelled
to carry text-books with them in cars, omnibuses, and ferry-boats, and
who generally manage to defraud themselves of those intervals of rest
they most require. Nature must have her fallow moments, when she covers
her exhausted fields with flowers instead of grain. Deny her this, and
the next crop suffers for it. I offer this axiom as some apology for
obtruding upon the reader a few of the speculations which have engaged
my mind during these daily perambulations.
Few Californians know how to lounge gracefully. Business habits, and a
deference to the custom, even with those who have no business, give an
air of restless anxiety to every pedestrian. The exceptions to this rule
are apt to go to the other extreme, and wear a defiant, obtrusive kind
of indolence which suggests quite as much inward disquiet and unrest.
The shiftless lassitude of a gambler can never be mistaken for the
lounge of a gentleman. Even the brokers who loiter upon Montgomery
Street at high noon are not loungers. Look at them closely and you will
see a feverishness and anxiety under the mask of listlessness. They do
not lounge--they lie in wait. No surer sign, I imagine, of our peculiar
civilization can be found than this lack of repose in its constituent
elements. You cannot keep Californians quiet even in their amusements.
They dodge in and out of the theatre, opera, and lecture-room; they
prefer the street cars to walking because they think they get along
faster. The difference of locomotion between Broadway, New York, and
Montgomery Street, San Francisco, is a comparative view of Eastern and
Western civilization.
There is a habit peculiar to many walkers, which Punch, some years ago,
touched upon satirically, but which seems to have survived the jester's
ridicule. It is that custom of stopping friends in the street, to whom
we have nothing whatever to communicate, but whom we embarrass for no
other purpose than simply to show our friendship. Jones meets his friend
Smith, whom he has met in nearly the same locality but a few hours
before. During that interval, it is highly probable that no event of
any importance to Smith, nor indeed to Jones, which by a friendly
construction Jones could imagine Smith to be interested in, has
occurred, or is likely to occur. Yet both gentlemen stop and shake hands
earnestly. “Well, how goes it?” remarks Smith with a vague hope that
something may have happened. “So so,” replies the eloquent Jones,
feeling intuitively the deep vacuity of his friend answering to his
own. A pause ensues, in which both gentlemen regard each other with an
imbecile smile and a fervent pressure of the hand. Smith draws a long
breath and looks up the street; Jones sighs heavily and gazes down
the street. Another pause, in which both gentlemen disengage their
respective hands and glance anxiously around for some conventional
avenue of escape. Finally, Smith (with a sudden assumption of having
forgotten an important engagement) ejaculates, “Well, I must be off”--a
remark instantly echoed by the voluble Jones, and these gentlemen
separate, only to repeat their miserable formula the next day. In the
above example I have compassionately shortened the usual leave-taking,
which, in skilful hands, may be protracted to a length which I shudder
to recall. I have sometimes, when an active participant in these
atrocious transactions, lingered in the hope of saying something natural
to my friend (feeling that he, too, was groping in the mazy labyrinths
of his mind for a like expression), until I have felt that we ought to
have been separated by a policeman. It is astonishing how far the most
wretched joke will go in these emergencies, and how it will, as it were,
convulsively detach the two cohering particles. I have laughed (albeit
hysterically) at some witticism under cover of which I escaped, that
five minutes afterward I could not perceive possessed a grain of humor.
I would advise any person who may fall into this pitiable strait,
that, next to getting in the way of a passing dray and being forcibly
disconnected, a joke is the most efficacious. A foreign phrase often
may be tried with success; I have sometimes known Au revoir pronounced
“O-reveer,” to have the effect (as it ought) of severing friends.
But this is a harmless habit compared to a certain reprehensible
practice in which sundry feeble-minded young men indulge. I have been
stopped in the street and enthusiastically accosted by some fashionable
young man, who has engaged me in animated conversation, until (quite
accidentally) a certain young belle would pass, whom my friend, of
course, saluted. As, by a strange coincidence, this occurred several
times in the course of the week, and as my young friend's conversational
powers invariably flagged after the lady had passed, I am forced
to believe that the deceitful young wretch actually used me as a
conventional background to display the graces of his figure to the
passing fair. When I detected the trick, of course I made a point of
keeping my friend, by strategic movements, with his back toward the
young lady, while I bowed to her myself. Since then, I understand that
it is a regular custom of these callow youths to encounter each other,
with simulated cordiality, some paces in front of the young lady they
wish to recognize, so that she cannot possibly cut them. The corner of
California and Montgomery streets is their favorite haunt. They may be
easily detected by their furtive expression of eye, which betrays them
even in the height of their apparent enthusiasm.