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 had 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 the 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 around 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 off
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, 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 2200 miles, but you can happily accomplish a part
of the journey by railroad. The Pacific Railroad id completed
twelve miles to Folsom, leaving only 2188 miles to go by stage.
This breaks the monotony; but as it is midwinter and as there are
well substantiated reports 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 light-hearted
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.