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 wouldn'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.)
I.
Fowl, that sing'st in yonder pool, Where the summer winds blow cool,
Are there hydropathic cures For the ills that man endures? Know'st thou
Priessnitz? What? alack Hast no other word but “Quack?”
II.
Cleopatra's barge might pale To the splendors of thy tail, Or the
stately caravel Of some “high-pooped admiral.” Never yet left such a
wake E'en the navigator Drake!
III.
Dux thou art, and leader, too, Heeding not what's “falling due,” Knowing
not of debt or dun,--Thou dost heed no bill but one; And, though scarce
conceivable, That's a bill Receivable, Made--that thou thy stars mightst
thank--Payable at the next bank.
ON A VULGAR LITTLE BOY
The subject of this article is at present leaning against a tree
directly opposite to my window. He wears his cap with the wrong side
before, apparently for no other object than that which seems the most
obvious,--of showing more than the average quantity of very dirty face.
His clothes, which are worn with a certain buttonless ease and freedom,
display, in the different quality of their fruit-stains, a pleasing
indication of the progress of the seasons. The nose of this vulgar
little boy turns up at the end. I have noticed this in several other
vulgar little boys, although it is by no means improbable that youthful
vulgarity may be present without this facial peculiarity. Indeed, I
am inclined to the belief that it is rather the result of early
inquisitiveness--of furtive pressures against window-panes, and
of looking over fences, or of the habit of biting large apples
hastily--than an indication of scorn or juvenile superciliousness. The
vulgar little boy is more remarkable for his obtrusive familiarity. It
is my experience of his predisposition to this quality which has induced
me to write this article.
My acquaintance with him began in a moment of weakness. I have an
unfortunate predilection to cultivate originality in people, even when
accompanied by objectionable character. But, as I lack the firmness and
skilfulness which usually accompany this taste in others, and enable
them to drop acquaintances when troublesome, I have surrounded myself
with divers unprofitable friends, among whom I count the vulgar little
boy. The manner in which he first attracted my attention was purely
accidental. He was playing in the street, and the driver of a passing
vehicle cut at him, sportively, with his whip. The vulgar little boy
rose to his feet and hurled after his tormentor a single sentence of
invective. I refrain from repeating it, for I feel that I could not do
justice to it here. If I remember rightly, it conveyed, in a very few
words, a reflection on the legitimacy of the driver's birth; it hinted
a suspicion of his father's integrity, and impugned the fair fame of
his mother; it suggested incompetency in his present position, personal
uncleanliness, and evinced a sceptical doubt of his future salvation. As
his youthful lips closed over the last syllable, the eyes of the vulgar
little boy met mine. Something in my look emboldened him to wink. I did
not repel the action nor the complicity it implied. From that moment I
fell into the power of the vulgar little boy, and he has never left me
since.
He haunts me in the streets and by-ways. He accosts me, when in the
company of friends, with repulsive freedom. He lingers about the gate
of my dwelling to waylay me as I issue forth to business. Distance
he overcomes by main strength of lungs, and he hails me from the next
street. He met me at the theatre the other evening, and demanded my
check with the air of a young foot-pad. I foolishly gave it to him,
but re-entering some time after, and comfortably seating myself in the
parquet, I was electrified by hearing my name called from the gallery
with the addition of a playful adjective. It was the vulgar little boy.
During the performance he projected spirally-twisted playbills in my
direction, and indulged in a running commentary on the supernumeraries
as they entered.
To-day has evidently been a dull one with him. I observe he whistles
the popular airs of the period with less shrillness and intensity.
Providence, however, looks not unkindly on him, and delivers into his
hands as it were two nice little boys who have at this moment innocently
strayed into our street. They are pink and white children, and are
dressed alike, and exhibit a certain air of neatness and refinement
which is alone sufficient to awaken the antagonism of the vulgar little
boy. A sigh of satisfaction breaks from his breast. What does he do? Any
other boy would content himself with simply knocking the hats off their
respective heads, and so vent his superfluous vitality in a single act,
besides precipitating the flight of the enemy. But there are aesthetic
considerations not to be overlooked; insult is to be added to the injury
inflicted, and in the struggles of the victim some justification is to
be sought for extreme measures. The two nice little boys perceive their
danger and draw closer to each other. The vulgar little boy begins
by irony. He affects to be overpowered by the magnificence of their
costume. He addresses me (across the street and through the closed
window), and requests information if there haply be a circus in the
vicinity. He makes affectionate inquiries after the health of their
parents. He expresses a fear of maternal anxiety in regard to their
welfare. He offers to conduct them home. One nice little boy feebly
retorts; but alas! his correct pronunciation; his grammatical
exactitude, and his moderate epithets only provoke a scream of derision
from the vulgar little boy, who now rapidly changes his tactics.
Staggering under the weight of his vituperation, they fall easy victims
to what he would call his “dexter mawley.” A wail of lamentation goes up
from our street. But as the subject of this article seems to require
a more vigorous handling than I had purposed to give it, I find it
necessary to abandon my present dignified position, seize my hat, open
the front door, and try a stronger method.
WAITING FOR THE SHIP.
A FORT POINT IDYL.
About an hour's ride from the Plaza there is a high bluff with the
ocean breaking uninterruptedly along its rocky beach. There are several
cottages on the sands, which look as if they had recently been cast up
by a heavy sea. The cultivated patch behind each tenement is fenced in
by bamboos, broken spars, and driftwood. With its few green cabbages and
turnip-tops, each garden looks something like an aquarium with the water
turned off. In fact you would not be surprised to meet a merman digging
among the potatoes, or a mermaid milking a sea cow hard by.
Near this place formerly arose a great semaphoric telegraph with its
gaunt arms tossed up against the horizon. It has been replaced by an
observatory, connected with an electric nerve to the heart of the great
commercial city. From this point the incoming ships are signalled, and
again checked off at the City Exchange. And while we are here looking
for the expected steamer, let me tell you a story.
Not long ago, a simple, hard-working mechanic had amassed sufficient by
diligent labor in the mines to send home for his wife and two children.
He arrived in San Francisco a month before the time the ship was due,
for he was a western man, and had made the overland journey and knew
little of ships or seas or gales. He procured work in the city, but as
the time approached he would go to the shipping office regularly every
day. The month passed, but the ship came not; then a month and a week,
two weeks, three weeks, two months, and then a year.
The rough, patient face, with soft lines overlying its hard features,
which had become a daily apparition at the shipping agent's, then
disappeared. It turned up one afternoon at the observatory as the
setting sun relieved the operator from his duties. There was something
so childlike and simple in the few questions asked by this stranger,
touching his business, that the operator spent some time to explain.
When the mystery of signals and telegraphs was unfolded, the stranger
had one more question to ask. “How long might a vessel be absent before
they would give up expecting her?” The operator couldn't tell; it would
depend on circumstances. Would it be a year? Yes, it might be a year,
and vessels had been given up for lost after two years and had come
home. The stranger put his rough hand on the operator's, and thanked him
for his “troubil,” and went away.
Still the ship came not. Stately clippers swept into the Gate, and
merchantmen went by with colors flying, and the welcoming gun of the
steamer often reverberated among the hills. Then the patient face, with
the old resigned expression, but a brighter, wistful look in the eye,
was regularly met on the crowded decks of the steamer as she disembarked
her living freight. He may have had a dimly defined hope that the
missing ones might yet come this way, as only another road over that
strange unknown expanse. But he talked with ship captains and sailors,
and even this last hope seemed to fail. When the careworn face and
bright eyes were presented again at the observatory, the operator,
busily engaged, could not spare time to answer foolish interrogatories,
so he went away. But as night fell, he was seen sitting on the rocks
with his face turned seaward, and was seated there all that night.
When he became hopelessly insane, for that was what the physicians
said made his eyes so bright and wistful, he was cared for by a
fellow-craftsman who had known his troubles. He was allowed to indulge
his fancy of going out to watch for the ship, in which she “and the
children” were, at night when no one else was watching. He had made up
his mind that the ship would come in at night. This, and the idea that
he would relieve the operator, who would be tired with watching all day,
seemed to please him. So he went out and relieved the operator every
night!
For two years the ships came and went. He was there to see the
outward-bound clipper, and greet her on her return. He was known only
by a few who frequented the place. When he was missed at last from his
accustomed spot, a day or two elapsed before any alarm was felt. One
Sunday, a party of pleasure-seekers clambering over the rocks were
attracted by the barking of a dog that had run on before them. When they
came up they found a plainly dressed man lying there dead. There were a
few papers in his pocket,--chiefly slips cut from different journals of
old marine memoranda,--and his face was turned towards the distant sea.