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 spectacleof a venerable head whose crown occasionally appears beyond, at aboutits level. The apparition of a very small hand--whose fingers are bunchyand have the appearance of being slightly webbed--which is frequentlylifted above the table in a vain and impotent attempt to reach theinkstand, always affects me as a novelty at each recurrence of thephenomenon. Yet both the venerable head and bunchy fingers belong toan individual with whom I am familiar, and to whom, for certain reasonshereafter described, I choose to apply the epithet written above thisarticle. His advent in the family was attended with peculiar circumstances. Hewas received with some concern--the number of retainers having beenincreased by one in honor of his arrival. He appeared to be weary, --hispretence 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 wascarried. But it was remarkable that his appetite was invariably regularand healthy, and that his meals, which he required should be brought tohim, were seldom rejected. During this time he had little conversationwith the family, his knowledge of our vernacular being limited, butoccasionally spoke to himself in his own language, --a foreign tongue. The difficulties attending this eccentricity were obviated by the youngwoman who had from the first taken him under her protection, --being, like the rest of her sex, peculiarly open to impositions, --and who atonce disorganized her own tongue to suit his. This was affected by thecontraction of the syllables of some words, the addition of syllables toothers, and an ingenious disregard for tenses and the governing powersof the verb. The same singular law which impels people in conversationwith foreigners to imitate their broken English governed the family intheir communications with him. He received these evidences of his powerwith an indifference not wholly free from scorn. The expression of hiseye 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 mighthave been the performance of some religious rite peculiar to his owncountry, which was in ours misconstrued into a desire for physicalnourishment. His repetition of the word "goo-goo, "--which was subject toa variety of opposite interpretations, --when taken in conjunction withhis size, in my mind seemed to indicate his aboriginal or Aztec origin. I incline to this belief, as it sustains the impression I have alreadyhinted at, that his extreme youth is a simulation and deceit; that heis really older and has lived before at some remote period, and that hisconduct fully justifies his title as A Venerable Impostor. A variety ofcircumstances corroborate this impression: His tottering walk, which isa senile as well as a juvenile condition; his venerable head, thatchedwith such imperceptible hair that, at a distance, it looks like a mildaureola, and his imperfect dental exhibition. But beside these physicalpeculiarities may be observed certain moral symptoms, which go todisprove his assumed youth. He is in the habit of falling intoreveries, caused, I have no doubt, by some circumstance which suggestsa comparison with his experience in his remoter boyhood, or by someserious retrospection of the past years. He has been detected lyingawake, at times when he should have been asleep, engaged in curiouslycomparing the bed-clothes, walls, and furniture with some recollectionof his youth. At such moments he has been heard to sing softly tohimself fragments of some unintelligible composition, which probablystill linger in his memory as the echoes of a music he has longoutgrown. He has the habit of receiving strangers with the familiarityof one who had met them before, and to whom their antecedents andpeculiarities were matters of old acquaintance, and so unerring ishis judgment of their previous character that when he withholds hisconfidence I am apt to withhold mine. It is somewhat remarkable thatwhile the maturity of his years and the respect due to them is denied byman, his superiority and venerable age is never questioned by the brutecreation. The dog treats him with a respect and consideration accordedto none others, and the cat permits a familiarity which I should shudderto attempt. It may be considered an evidence of some Pantheistic qualityin his previous education, that he seems to recognize a fellowship evenin inarticulate objects; he has been known to verbally address plants, flowers, and fruit, and to extend his confidence to such inanimateobjects as chairs and tables. There can be little doubt that, in theremote period of his youth, these objects were endowed with not onlysentient natures, but moral capabilities, and he is still in the habitof beating them when they collide with him, and of pardoning them with akiss. As he has grown older--rather let me say, as we have approximated to hisyears--he has, in spite of the apparent paradox, lost much of his senilegravity. It must be confessed that some of his actions of late appear toour imperfect comprehension inconsistent with his extreme age. A habitof marching up and down with a string tied to a soda-water bottle, adisposition to ride anything that could by any exercise of the liveliestfancy be made to assume equine proportions, a propensity to blacken hisvenerable white hair with ink and coal dust, and an omnivorous appetitewhich did not stop at chalk, clay, or cinders, were peculiarities notcalculated to excite respect. In fact, he would seem to have becomedemoralized, and when, after a prolonged absence the other day, he wasfinally discovered standing upon the front steps addressing a group ofdelighted children out of his limited vocabulary, the circumstance couldonly be accounted for as the garrulity of age. But I lay aside my pen amidst an ominous silence and the disappearanceof the venerable head from my plane of vision. As I step to the otherside of the table, I find that sleep has overtaken him in an overt actof hoary wickedness. The very pages I have devoted to an expositionof his deceit he has quietly abstracted, and I find them coveredwith cabalistic figures and wild-looking hieroglyphs traced with hisforefinger dipped in ink, which doubtless in his own language conveysa scathing commentary on my composition. But he sleeps peacefully, and there is something in his face which tells me that he has alreadywandered 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 theimmeasurable gulf which lies between us, and how slight and feeble asyet is his grasp on this world and its strange realities, I find, toolate, 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 bea necessary appurtenance of my window, has long been to me a source ofcurious interest. The fact that the asperities of our summer weatherwill not permit me to use it but once or twice in six months does notalter my concern for this incongruous ornament. It affects me as Isuppose the conscious possession of a linen coat or a nankeen trousersmight affect a sojourner here who has not entirely outgrown his memoryof Eastern summer heat and its glorious compensations, --a luxuriousprovidence against a possible but by no means probable contingency. I dono longer wonder at the persistency with which San Franciscans adhereto this architectural superfluity in the face of climaticalimpossibilities. The balconies in which no one sits, the piazzason which no one lounges, are timid advances made to a climate whosechurlishness we are trying to temper by an ostentation of confidence. Ridiculous as this spectacle is at all seasons, it is never more so thanin that bleak interval between sunset and dark, when the shrillscream of the factory whistle seems to have concentrated all the hard, unsympathetic quality of the climate into one vocal expression. Add tothis the appearance of one or two pedestrians, manifestly too late fortheir dinners, and tasting in the shrewish air a bitter premonition ofthe welcome that awaits them at home, and you have one of those ordinaryviews from my balcony which makes the balcony itself ridiculous. But as I lean over its balustrade to-night--a night rare in its kindnessand beauty--and watch the fiery ashes of my cigar drop into the abysmaldarkness below, I am inclined to take back the whole of that precedingparagraph, although it cost me some labor to elaborate its politemalevolence. I can even recognize some melody in the music which comesirregularly and fitfully from the balcony of the Museum on MarketStreet, although it may be broadly stated that, as a general thing, the music of all museums, menageries, and circuses becomes greatlydemoralized, --possibly through associations with the beasts. So soft andcourteous is this atmosphere that I have detected the flutter of one ortwo light dresses on the adjacent balconies and piazzas, and the frontparlor windows of a certain aristocratic mansion in the vicinity, whichhave always maintained a studious reserve in regard to the interior, to-night are suddenly thrown into the attitude of familiar disclosure. Afew young people are strolling up the street with a lounging step whichis quite a relief to that usual brisk, business-like pace which thechilly nights impose upon even the most sentimental lovers. The genialinfluences of the air are not restricted to the opening of shuttersand front doors; other and more gentle disclosures are made, no doubt, beneath this moonlight. The bonnet and hat which passed beneath mybalcony a few moments ago were suspiciously close together. I arguedfrom this that my friend the editor will probably receive any quantityof verses for his next issue, containing allusions to "Luna, " in whichthe original epithet of "silver" will be applied to this planet, andthat 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 thisexpression, the pent-up feelings of the heart will probably find ventlater 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 meto hear the fulfilment of my prophecy even as it was uttered. From thewindow of number Twelve Hundred and Seven gushes upon the slumberousmisty air the maddening ballad, "Ever of Thee, " while at Twelve Hundredand Eleven the "Star of the Evening" rises with a chorus. I am inclinedto think that there is something in the utter vacuity of the refrainin this song which especially commends itself to the young. The simplestatement, "Star of the evening, " is again and again repeated with animbecile relish; while the adjective "beautiful" recurs with a steadypersistency, too exasperating to dwell upon here. At occasionalintervals, a base voice enunciates "Star-r! Star-r!" as a solitary andindependent effort. Sitting here in my balcony, I picture the possessorof that voice as a small, stout young man, standing a little apart fromthe other singers, with his hands behind him, under his coat-tail, anda severe expression of countenance. He sometimes leans forward, witha futile attempt to read the music over somebody else's shoulder, butalways resumes his old severity of attitude before singing his part. Meanwhile the celestial subjects of this choral adoration look down uponthe scene with a tranquillity and patience which can only result fromthe security with which their immeasurable remoteness invests them. I would remark that the stars are not the only topics subject tothis "damnable iteration. " A certain popular song, which contains thestatement, "I will not forget you, mother, " apparently reposes all itspopularity on the constant and dreary repetition of this unimportantinformation, which at least produces the desired result among theaudience. If the best operatic choruses are not above this weakness, the unfamiliar language in which they are sung offers less violation tocommon sense. It may be parenthetically stated here that the songs alluded to abovemay be found in sheet music on the top of the piano of any younglady 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 ofan uncle or bachelor brother, whose request is generally prefaced by aremark deprecatory of the opera, and the gratuitous observation that "weare retrograding, sir, --retrograding, " and that "there is no musiclike the old songs. " He sometimes condescends to accompany "Marie" in atremulous barytone, and is particularly forcible in those passages wherethe word "repeat" is written, for reasons stated above. When the song isover, to the success of which he feels he has materially contributed, hewill inform you that you may talk of your "arias, " and your "romanzas, ""but for music, sir, --music--" at which point he becomes incoherent andunintelligible. It is this gentleman who suggests "China, " or "BrattleStreet, " 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 uponto sing, declines with a bashful and tantalizing hesitation. Prominentamong these may be mentioned an erotic effusion entitled "I'm talkingin my Sleep, " which, when sung by a young person vivaciously and withappropriate glances, can be made to drive languishing swains to theverge of madness. Ballads of this quality afford splendid opportunitiesfor bold young men, who, by ejaculating "Oh!" and "Ah!" at the affectingpassages, frequently gain a fascinating reputation for wildness andscepticism. But the music which called up these parenthetical reflections has diedaway, and with it the slight animosities it inspired. The last song hasbeen sung, the piano closed, the lights are withdrawn from the windows, and the white skirts flutter away from stoops and balconies. The silenceis broken only by the rattle and rumble of carriages coming from theatreand opera. I fancy that this sound--which, seeming to be more distinctat this hour than at any other time, might be called one of the civicvoices of the night--has certain urbane suggestions, not unpleasant tothose born and bred in large cities. The moon, round and full, graduallyusurps the twinkling lights of the city, that one by one seem to fadeaway and be absorbed in her superior lustre. The distant Mission hillsare outlined against the sky, but through one gap the outlying fog whichhas stealthily invested us seems to have effected a breach, and onlywaits the co-operation of the laggard sea-breezes to sweep down andtake the beleaguered city by assault. An ineffable calm sinks over thelandscape. In the magical moonlight the shot-tower loses its angularoutline and practical relations, and becomes a minaret from whosebalcony an invisible muezzin calls the Faithful to prayer. "Prayer isbetter than sleep. " But what is this? A shuffle of feet on thepavement, a low hum of voices, a twang of some diabolical instrument, a preliminary hem and cough. Heavens! it cannot be! Ah, yes--it is--itis--SERENADERS! Anathema Maranatha! May purgatorial pains seize you, William, Countof 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 "metreballad-mongers, " who carry the shamelessness of the Middle Ages intothe nineteenth century, and awake a sleeping neighborhood to thebrazen knowledge of their loves and wanton fancies! Destruction anddemoralization pursue these pitiable imitators of a barbarous age, when ladies' names and charms were shouted through the land, andmodest maiden never lent presence to tilt or tourney without hearing achronicle of her virtues go round the lists, shouted by wheezy heraldsand taken up by roaring swashbucklers! Perdition overpower suchostentatious wooers! Marry! shall I shoot the amorous feline who nightlyiterates his love songs on my roof, and yet withhold my trigger fingerfrom yonder pranksome gallant? Go to! Here is an orange left of lastweek's repast. Decay hath overtaken it, --it possesseth neither savor norcleanliness. Ha! cleverly thrown! A hit--a palpable hit! Peradventure Ihave still a boot that hath done me service, and, barring a looseness ofthe 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 thatanybody's sponsors in baptism ever wilfully assumed the responsibilityof such a name, I may as well state that I have reason to infer thatMelons was simply the nickname of a small boy I once knew. If he had anyother, I never knew it. Various theories were often projected by me to account for this strangecognomen. His head, which was covered with a transparent down, like thatwhich clothes very small chickens, plainly permitting the scalp to showthrough, to an imaginative mind might have suggested that succulentvegetable. That his parents, recognizing some poetical significance inthe fruits of the season, might have given this name to an August child, was an Oriental explanation. That from his infancy, he was fond ofindulging in melons, seemed on the whole the most likely, particularlyas 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 obstinateand radical property-holder. Occupying a limited space between twofashionable thoroughfares, it refused to conform to circumstances, butsturdily paraded its unkempt glories, and frequently asserted itself inungrammatical language. My window--a rear room on the ground floor--inthis way derived blended light and shadow from the court. So low was thewindow-sill, that had I been the least predisposed to somnambulism, itwould have broken out under such favorable auspices, and I should havehaunted McGinnis's Court. My speculations as to the origin of the courtwere not altogether gratuitous, for by means of this window I once sawthe Past, as through a glass darkly. It was a Celtic shadow that earlyone morning obstructed my ancient lights. It seemed to belong to anindividual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and bristling beard. He wasgazing intently at the court, resting on a heavy cane, somewhat in theway that heroes dramatically visit the scenes of their boyhood. Asthere was little of architectural beauty in the court, I came to theconclusion that it was McGinnis looking after his property. The factthat he carefully kicked a broken bottle out of the road somewhatstrengthened me in the opinion. But he presently walked away, and thecourt knew him no more. He probably collected his rents by proxy--if hecollected them at all. Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purely introductory, there was littleto interest the most sanguine and hopeful nature. In common with allsuch localities, a great deal of washing was done, in comparison withthe visible results. There was always something whisking on the line, and always something whisking through the court, that looked as ifit ought to be there. A fish-geranium--of all plants kept for therecreation of mankind, certainly the greatest illusion--straggledunder the window. Through its dusty leaves I caught the first glance ofMelons. His age was about seven. He looked older, from the venerable whitenessof his head, and it was impossible to conjecture his size, as he alwayswore 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 thislavish superfluity of clothing, he managed to perform the surprisinggymnastic feats it has been my privilege to witness, I have never beenable to tell. His "turning the crab, " and other minor dislocations, werealways attended with success. It was not an unusual sight at any hour ofthe day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to see his venerable headappearing above the roofs of the outhouses. Melons knew the exact heightof every fence in the vicinity, its facilities for scaling, and thepossibility of seizure on the other side. His more peaceful and quieteramusements 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 agesometimes called upon him, but they eventually became abusive, and theirvisits were more strictly predatory incursions for old bottles and junkwhich formed the staple of McGinnis's Court. Overcome by loneliness oneday, Melons inveigled a blind harper into the court. For two hours didthat wretched man prosecute his unhallowed calling, unrecompensed, andgoing round and round the court, apparently under the impression that itwas some other place, while Melons surveyed him from an adjoining fencewith calm satisfaction. It was this absence of conscientious motivesthat brought Melons into disrepute with his aristocratic neighbors. Orders were issued that no child of wealthy and pious parentage shouldplay with him. This mandate, as a matter of course, invested Melons witha fascinating interest to them. Admiring glances were cast at Melonsfrom nursery windows. Baby fingers beckoned to him. Invitations to tea(on wood and pewter) were lisped to him from aristocratic back-yards. Itwas evident he was looked upon as a pure and noble being, untrammelledby the conventionalities of parentage, and physically as well asmentally exalted above them. One afternoon an unusual commotionprevailed in the vicinity of McGinnis's Court. Looking from my window Isaw Melons perched on the roof of a stable, pulling up a rope by whichone "Tommy, " an infant scion of an adjacent and wealthy house, wassuspended in mid-air. In vain the female relatives of Tommy congregatedin the back-yard, expostulated with Melons; in vain the unhappy fathershook his fist at him. Secure in his position, Melons redoubled hisexertions and at last landed Tommy on the roof. Then it was that thehumiliating fact was disclosed that Tommy had been acting in collusionwith Melons. He grinned delightedly back at his parents, as if "by meritraised to that bad eminence. " Long before the ladder arrived that wasto 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 bloodbelow him. He was eventually taken, though, of course, Melons escaped. But Tommy was restricted to the window after that, and the companionshipwas limited to "Hi, Melons!" and "You, Tommy!" and Melons, to allpractical purposes, lost him forever. I looked afterward to see somesigns of sorrow on Melons's part, but in vain; he buried his grief, ifhe had any, somewhere in his one voluminous garment. At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons became moreextended. I was engaged in filling a void in the Literature of thePacific Coast. As this void was a pretty large one, and as I wasinformed that the Pacific Coast languished under it, I set apart twohours each day to this work of filling in. It was necessary that Ishould adopt a methodical system, so I retired from the world and lockedmyself in my room at a certain hour each day, after coming from myoffice. I then carefully drew out my portfolio and read what I hadwritten the day before. This would suggest some alteration, and I wouldcarefully rewrite it. During this operation I would turn to consult abook of reference, which invariably proved extremely interesting andattractive. It would generally suggest another and better method of"filling in. " Turning this method over reflectively in my mind, I wouldfinally commence the new method which I eventually abandoned for theoriginal plan. At this time I would become convinced that my exhaustedfaculties demanded a cigar. The operation of lighting a cigar usuallysuggested that a little quiet reflection and meditation would be ofservice to me, and I always allowed myself to be guided by prudentialinstincts. Eventually, seated by my window, as before stated, Melonsasserted himself, though our conversation rarely went further than"Hello, Mister!" and "Ah, Melons!" a vagabond instinct we felt in commonimplied a communion deeper than words. In this spiritual commingling thetime passed, often beguiled by gymnastics on the fence or line (alwayswith an eye to my window) until dinner was announced and I found a morepractical void required my attention. An unlooked for incident drew usin closer relation. A sea-faring friend just from a tropical voyage had presented me witha bunch of bananas. They were not quite ripe, and I hung them before mywindow to mature in the sun of McGinnis's Court, whose forcing qualitieswere remarkable. In the mysteriously mingled odors of ship andshore which they diffused throughout my room, there was a lingeringreminiscence of low latitudes. But even that joy was fleeting andevanescent: they never reached maturity. Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that fashionablethoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small boy eating a banana. There was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis's Court Ipresently met another small boy, also eating a banana. A third smallboy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidence uponmy mind. I leave the psychological reader to determine the exactco-relation between this circumstance and the sickening sense of lossthat overcame me on witnessing it. I reached my room--and found thebunch of bananas was gone. There was but one who knew of their existence, but one who frequentedmy 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 andindiscreetly liberal; Melons--now a fugitive on some neighboringhouse-top. I lit a cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, soughtsurcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the fish-geranium. In a fewmoments something white passed my window at about the level of the edge. There was no mistaking that hoary head, which now represented to me onlyaged iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, juvenile hypocrite. He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, butthat horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit the sceneof his crime, impelled him toward my window. I smoked calmly and gazedat him without speaking. He walked several times up and down the courtwith 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 intohis capacious trousers, gazed with some interest at the additionalwidth they thus acquired. Then he whistled. The singular conflictingconditions of John Brown's body and soul we're at that time beginning toattract the attention of youth, and Melons's performance of that melodywas always remarkable. But to-day he whistled falsely and shrillybetween his teeth. At last he met my eye. He winced slightly, butrecovered himself, and going to the fence, stood for a few momentson his hands, with his bare feet quivering in the air. Then he turnedtoward me and threw out a conversational preliminary. "They is a cirkis"--said Melons gravely, hanging with his back tothe fence and his arms twisted around the palings--"a cirkis overyonder!"--indicating the locality with his foot--"with hosses, andhossback riders. They is a man wot rides six hosses to onct--six hossesto onct--and nary saddle"--and he paused in expectation. Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me. I still kept a fixedgaze on Melons's eye, and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in hiscapacious garment. Some other desperate means--conversation with Melonswas always a desperate means--must be resorted to. He recommenced moreartfully. "Do you know Carrots?" I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious name, with scarlethair, 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 inhis 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 tookthose bananas. Your proposition regarding Carrots, even if I wereinclined to accept it as credible information, does not alter thematerial issue. You took those bananas. The offence under the statutesof California is felony. How far Carrots may have been accessory to thefact either before or after, is not my intention at present to discuss. The act is complete. Your present conduct shows the animo furandi tohave been equally clear. " By the time I had finished this exordium, Melons had disappeared, as Ifully expected. He never reappeared. The remorse that I have experienced for the partI had taken in what I fear may have resulted in his utter and completeextermination, alas, he may not know, except through these pages. ForI have never seen him since. Whether he ran away and went to sea toreappear at some future day as the most ancient of mariners, or whetherhe buried himself completely in his trousers, I never shall know. I haveread the papers anxiously for accounts of him. I have gone to the PoliceOffice in the vain attempt of identifying him as a lost child. ButI never saw him or heard of him since. Strange fears have sometimescrossed my mind that his venerable appearance may have been actually theresult of senility, and that he may have been gathered peacefully to hisfathers in a green old age. I have even had doubts of his existence, and have sometimes thought that he was providentially and mysteriouslyoffered to fill the void I have before alluded to. In that hope I havewritten these pages. SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF MASTER CHARLES SUMMERTON. At exactly half past nine o'clock on the morning of Saturday, August26, 1865, Master Charles Summerton, aged five years, disappearedmysteriously from his paternal residence on Folsom Street, SanFrancisco. At twenty-five minutes past nine he had been observed, by thebutcher, amusing himself by going through that popular youthfulexercise known as "turning the crab, " a feat in which he was singularlyproficient. At a court of inquiry summarily held in the back parlor at10. 15, Bridget, cook, deposed to have detected him at twenty minutespast 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 neverprevinted. Patsey, a shrill-voiced youth from a neighboring alley, testified to have seen "Chowley" at half past nine, in front of thebutcher's shop round the corner, but as this young gentleman choseto throw out the gratuitous belief that the missing child had beenconverted into sausages by the butcher, his testimony was received withsome caution by the female portion of the court, and with downrightscorn and contumely by its masculine members. But whatever might havebeen the hour of his departure, it was certain that from half past tenA. M. Until nine P. M. , when he was brought home by a policeman, CharlesSummerton was missing. Being naturally of a reticent disposition, he hassince resisted, with but one exception, any attempt to wrest from him astatement of his whereabouts during that period. That exception has beenmyself. He has related to me the following in the strictest confidence. His intention on leaving the door-steps of his dwelling was to proceedwithout delay to Van Dieman's Land, by way of Second and Market streets. This project was subsequently modified so far as to permit a visitto Otaheite, where Captain Cook was killed. The outfit for his voyageconsisted of two car-tickets, five cents in silver, a fishing-line, the brass capping of a spool of cotton, which, in his eyes, bore someresemblance to metallic currency, and a Sunday-school library ticket. His garments, admirably adapted to the exigencies of any climate, wereseverally a straw hat with a pink ribbon, a striped shirt, over whicha pair of trousers, uncommonly wide in comparison to their length, were buttoned, striped balmoral stockings, which gave his youthful legssomething of the appearance of wintergreen candy, and copper-toed shoeswith iron heels, capable of striking fire from any flagstone. Thislatter quality, Master Charley could not help feeling, would be ofinfinite service to him in the wilds of Van Dieman's Land, which, aspictorially represented in his geography, seemed to be deficient incorner groceries and matches. Exactly as the clock struck the half-hour, the short legs and strawhat of Master Charles Summerton disappeared around the corner. He ranrapidly, partly by way of inuring himself to the fatigues of the journeybefore him, and partly by way of testing his speed with that of a NorthBeach car which was proceeding in his direction. The conductor, notbeing aware of this generous and lofty emulation, and being somewhatconcerned at the spectacle of a pair of very short, twinkling legs sofar in the rear, stopped his car and generously assisted the youthfulSummerton upon the platform. From this point a hiatus of several hours'duration occurs in Charles's narrative. He is under the impression thathe "rode out" not only his two tickets, but that he became subsequentlyindebted to the company for several trips to and from the oppositetermini, and that at last, resolutely refusing to give any explanationof his conduct, he was finally ejected, much to his relief, on a streetcorner. Although, as he informs us, he felt perfectly satisfied withthis arrangement, he was impelled under the circumstances to hurl afterthe conductor an opprobrious appellation which he had ascertainedfrom Patsey was the correct thing in such emergencies, and possessedpeculiarly exasperating properties. We now approach a thrilling part of the narrative, before which most ofthe adventures of the "Boys' Own Book" pale into insignificance. Thereare times when the recollection of this adventure causes Master Charlesto break out in a cold sweat, and he has several times since itsoccurrence been awakened by lamentations and outcries in the nightseason by merely dreaming of it. On the corner of the street lay severallarge empty sugar hogsheads. A few young gentlemen disported themselvestherein, armed with sticks, with which they removed the sugar whichstill adhered to the joints of the staves, and conveyed it to theirmouths. Finding a cask not yet preempted, Master Charles set to work, and for a few moments revelled in a wild saccharine dream, whence he wasfinally roused by an angry voice and the rapidly retreating footstepsof his comrades. An ominous sound smote his ear, and the next moment hefelt the cask wherein he lay uplifted and set upright against the wall. He was a prisoner, but as yet undiscovered. Being satisfied in his mindthat hanging was the systematic and legalized penalty for the outrage hehad 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, whichappeared above him at the edge of his prison, and which he concludedbelonged to the ferocious giant Blunderbore, whose features and limbs hehad frequently met in colored pictures. Before he could recover fromhis astonishment, his cask was placed with several others on a cart, andrapidly driven away. The ride which ensued he describes as being fearfulin the extreme. Rolled around like a pill in a box, the agonies whichhe suffered may be hinted at, not spoken. Evidences of that protractedstruggle were visible in his garments, which were of the consistency ofsyrup, and his hair, which for several hours, under the treatment of hotwater, yielded a thin treacle. At length the cart stopped on one of thewharves, and the cartman began to unload. As he tilted over the cask inwhich Charles lay, an exclamation broke from his lips, and the edge ofthe cask fell from his hands, sliding its late occupant upon the wharf. To regain his short legs, and to put the greatest possible distancebetween himself and the cartman, were his first movements on regaininghis liberty. He did not stop until he reached the corner of FrontStreet. Another blank succeeds in this veracious history. He cannot rememberhow or when he found himself in front of the circus tent. He has anindistinct recollection of having passed through a long street of storeswhich were all closed, and which made him fear that it was Sunday, andthat he had spent a miserable night in the sugar cask. But he remembershearing the sound of music within the tent, and of creeping on his handsand knees, when no one was looking, until he passed under the canvas. His description of the wonders contained within that circle; of theterrific feats which were performed by a man on a pole, since practisedby him in the back yard; of the horses, one of which was spottedand resembled an animal in his Noah's Ark, hitherto unrecognized andundefined; of the female equestrians, whose dresses could only beequalled in magnificence by the frocks of his sister's doll; of thepainted clown, whose jokes excited a merriment, somewhat tinged byan undefined fear, was an effort of language which this pen could butweakly transcribe, and which no quantity of exclamation points couldsufficiently illustrate. He is not quite certain what followed. Heremembers that almost immediately on leaving the circus it became dark, and that he fell asleep, waking up at intervals on the corners of thestreets, 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 doesnot recall feeling at any time a disposition to go home; he remembersdistinctly 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 alwaysfound to yield me a certain mental enjoyment which no other part of thetwenty-four hours could give. Perhaps the physical exercise mayhave acted as a gentle stimulant of the brain, but more probably thecomfortable consciousness that I could not reasonably be expected tobe doing anything else--to be studying or improving my mind, forinstance--always gave a joyous liberty to my fancy. I once thought itnecessary to employ this interval in doing sums in arithmetic, --in whichuseful study I was and still am lamentably deficient, --but after one ortwo attempts at peripatetic computation, I gave it up. I am satisfiedthat much enjoyment is lost to the world by this nervous anxiety toimprove our leisure moments, which, like the "shining hours" of Dr. Watts, unfortunately offer the greatest facilities for idle pleasure. Ifeel a profound pity for those misguided beings who are still impelledto carry text-books with them in cars, omnibuses, and ferry-boats, andwho generally manage to defraud themselves of those intervals of restthey most require. Nature must have her fallow moments, when she coversher exhausted fields with flowers instead of grain. Deny her this, andthe next crop suffers for it. I offer this axiom as some apology forobtruding upon the reader a few of the speculations which have engagedmy mind during these daily perambulations. Few Californians know how to lounge gracefully. Business habits, and adeference to the custom, even with those who have no business, give anair of restless anxiety to every pedestrian. The exceptions to this ruleare apt to go to the other extreme, and wear a defiant, obtrusive kindof indolence which suggests quite as much inward disquiet and unrest. The shiftless lassitude of a gambler can never be mistaken for thelounge of a gentleman. Even the brokers who loiter upon MontgomeryStreet at high noon are not loungers. Look at them closely and you willsee a feverishness and anxiety under the mask of listlessness. They donot lounge--they lie in wait. No surer sign, I imagine, of our peculiarcivilization can be found than this lack of repose in its constituentelements. You cannot keep Californians quiet even in their amusements. They dodge in and out of the theatre, opera, and lecture-room; theyprefer the street cars to walking because they think they get alongfaster. The difference of locomotion between Broadway, New York, andMontgomery Street, San Francisco, is a comparative view of Eastern andWestern 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'sridicule. It is that custom of stopping friends in the street, to whomwe have nothing whatever to communicate, but whom we embarrass for noother purpose than simply to show our friendship. Jones meets his friendSmith, whom he has met in nearly the same locality but a few hoursbefore. During that interval, it is highly probable that no event ofany importance to Smith, nor indeed to Jones, which by a friendlyconstruction Jones could imagine Smith to be interested in, hasoccurred, or is likely to occur. Yet both gentlemen stop and shake handsearnestly. "Well, how goes it?" remarks Smith with a vague hope thatsomething may have happened. "So so, " replies the eloquent Jones, feeling intuitively the deep vacuity of his friend answering to hisown. A pause ensues, in which both gentlemen regard each other with animbecile smile and a fervent pressure of the hand. Smith draws a longbreath and looks up the street; Jones sighs heavily and gazes downthe street. Another pause, in which both gentlemen disengage theirrespective hands and glance anxiously around for some conventionalavenue of escape. Finally, Smith (with a sudden assumption of havingforgotten an important engagement) ejaculates, "Well, I must be off"--aremark instantly echoed by the voluble Jones, and these gentlemenseparate, only to repeat their miserable formula the next day. In theabove example I have compassionately shortened the usual leave-taking, which, in skilful hands, may be protracted to a length which I shudderto recall. I have sometimes, when an active participant in theseatrocious transactions, lingered in the hope of saying something naturalto my friend (feeling that he, too, was groping in the mazy labyrinthsof his mind for a like expression), until I have felt that we ought tohave been separated by a policeman. It is astonishing how far the mostwretched joke will go in these emergencies, and how it will, as it were, convulsively detach the two cohering particles. I have laughed (albeithysterically) at some witticism under cover of which I escaped, thatfive 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 forciblydisconnected, a joke is the most efficacious. A foreign phrase oftenmay 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 reprehensiblepractice in which sundry feeble-minded young men indulge. I have beenstopped in the street and enthusiastically accosted by some fashionableyoung man, who has engaged me in animated conversation, until (quiteaccidentally) a certain young belle would pass, whom my friend, ofcourse, saluted. As, by a strange coincidence, this occurred severaltimes in the course of the week, and as my young friend's conversationalpowers invariably flagged after the lady had passed, I am forcedto believe that the deceitful young wretch actually used me as aconventional background to display the graces of his figure to thepassing fair. When I detected the trick, of course I made a point ofkeeping my friend, by strategic movements, with his back toward theyoung lady, while I bowed to her myself. Since then, I understand thatit is a regular custom of these callow youths to encounter each other, with simulated cordiality, some paces in front of the young lady theywish to recognize, so that she cannot possibly cut them. The corner ofCalifornia and Montgomery streets is their favorite haunt. They may beeasily detected by their furtive expression of eye, which betrays themeven in the height of their apparent enthusiasm. Speaking of eyes, you can generally settle the average gentility andgood breeding of the people you meet in the street by the manner inwhich they return or evade your glance. "A gentleman, " as the Autocrathas wisely said, is always "calm-eyed. " There is just enough abstractionin his look to denote his individual power and the capacity forself-contemplation, while he is, nevertheless, quietly and unobtrusivelyobservant. He does not seek, neither does he evade your observation. Snobs and prigs do the first; bashful and mean people do the second. There are some men who, on meeting your eye, immediately assume anexpression quite different from the one which they previouslywore, which, whether an improvement or not, suggests a disagreeableself-consciousness. Perhaps they fancy they are betraying something. There are others who return your look with unnecessary defiance, whichsuggests a like concealment. The symptoms of the eye are generally borneout in the figure. A man is very apt to betray his character by themanner in which he appropriates his part of the sidewalk. The man whoresolutely keeps the middle of the pavement, and deliberately brushesagainst you, you may be certain would take the last piece of pie at thehotel table, and empty the cream-jug on its way to your cup. The man whosidles by you, keeping close to the houses, and selecting the easiestplanks, manages to slip through life in some such way, and to evade itssternest duties. The awkward man, who gets in your way, and throws youback upon the man behind you, and so manages to derange the harmoniousprocession of an entire block, is very apt to do the same thing inpolitical and social economy. The inquisitive man, who deliberatelyshortens his pace, so that he may participate in the confidence youimpart to your companion, has an eye not unfamiliar to keyholes, andprobably opens his wife's letters. The loud man, who talks with theintention of being overheard, is the same egotist elsewhere. If therewas any justice in Iago's sneer, that there were some "so weak of soulthat in their sleep they mutter their affairs, " what shall be said ofthe walking revery-babblers? I have met men who were evidently rollingover, "like a sweet morsel under the tongue, " some speech they wereabout to make, and others who were framing curses. I remember oncethat, while walking behind an apparently respectable old gentleman, hesuddenly uttered the exclamation, "Well, I'm d----d!" and then quietlyresumed his usual manner. Whether he had at that moment become impressedwith a truly orthodox disbelief in his ultimate salvation, or whether hewas simply indignant, I never could tell. I have been hesitating for some time to speak--or if indeed to speakat all--of that lovely and critic-defying sex, whose bright eyesand voluble prattle have not been without effect in tempering theausterities of my peripatetic musing. I have been humbly thankful thatI have been permitted to view their bright dresses and those charmingbonnets which seem to have brought the birds and flowers of springwithin the dreary limits of the town, and--I trust I shall not be deemedunkind in saying it--my pleasure was not lessened by the reflection thatthe display, to me at least, was inexpensive. I have walked in--andI fear occasionally on--the train of the loveliest of her sex who haspreceded me. If I have sometimes wondered why two young ladies alwaysbegan to talk vivaciously on the approach of any good-looking fellow;if I have wondered whether the minor-like qualities of all largeshow-windows at all influenced their curiosity regarding silks andcalicoes; if I have ever entertained the same ungentlemanly thoughtconcerning daguerreotype show-cases; if I have ever misinterpreted theeye-shot which has passed between two pretty women--more searching, exhaustive and sincere than any of our feeble ogles; if I have evercommitted these or any other impertinences, it was only to retire beatenand discomfited, and to confess that masculine philosophy, while itsoars beyond Sirius and the ring of Saturn, stops short at the steelperiphery which encompasses the simplest school-girl. A BOYS' DOG As I lift my eyes from the paper, I observe a dog lying on the stepsof the opposite house. His attitude might induce passers-by and casualobservers to believe him to belong to the people who live there, and toaccord to him a certain standing position. I have seen visitors pathim, under the impression that they were doing an act of courtesy to hismaster, he lending himself to the fraud by hypocritical contortionsof the body. But his attitude is one of deceit and simulation. He hasneither master nor habitation. He is a very Pariah and outcast; inbrief, "A Boys' Dog. " There is a degree of hopeless and irreclaimable vagabondage expressed inthis epithet, which may not be generally understood. Only those who arefamiliar with the roving nature and predatory instincts of boys in largecities will appreciate its strength. It is the lowest step in the socialscale to which a respectable canine can descend. A blind man's dog, orthe companion of a knife-grinder, is comparatively elevated. He at leastowes allegiance to but one master. But the Boys' Dog is the thrall of anentire juvenile community, obedient to the beck and call of the smallestimp in the neighborhood, attached to and serving not the individual boyso much as the boy element and principle. In their active sports, insmall thefts, raids into back-yards, window-breaking, and other minorjuvenile recreations, he is a full participant. In this way he is thereflection of the wickedness of many masters, without possessing thevirtues or peculiarities of any particular one. If leading a "dog's life" be considered a peculiar phase of humanmisery, the life of a Boys' Dog is still more infelicitous. He isassociated in all schemes of wrong-doing, and unless he be a dog ofexperience is always the scapegoat. He never shares the booty of hisassociates. In absence of legitimate amusement, he is considered fairgame for his companions; and I have seen him reduced to the ignominy ofhaving a tin kettle tied to his tail. His ears and tail have generallybeen docked to suit the caprice of the unholy band of which he is amember; and if he has any spunk, he is invariably pitted againstlarger dogs in mortal combat. He is poorly fed and hourly abused; thereputation of his associates debars him from outside sympathies; andonce a Boys' Dog, he cannot change his condition. He is not unfrequentlysold into slavery by his inhuman companions. I remember once to havebeen accosted on my own doorsteps by a couple of precocious youths, whooffered to sell me a dog which they were then leading by a rope. Theprice was extremely moderate, being, if I remember rightly, but fiftycents. Imagining the unfortunate animal to have lately fallen intotheir wicked hands, and anxious to reclaim him from the degradation ofbecoming a Boys' Dog, I was about to conclude the bargain, when I sawa look of intelligence pass between the dog and his two masters. Ipromptly stopped all negotiation, and drove the youthful swindlersand their four-footed accomplice from my presence. The whole thing wasperfectly plain. The dog was an old, experienced, and hardened Boys'Dog, and I was perfectly satisfied that he would run away and rejoin hisold companions at the first opportunity. This I afterwards learned hedid, on the occasion of a kind-hearted but unsophisticated neighborbuying him; and a few days ago I saw him exposed for sale by those twoArcadians, in another neighborhood, having been bought and paid for halfa dozen times in this. But, it will be asked, if the life of a Boys' Dog is so unhappy, whydo they enter upon such an unenviable situation, and why do they notdissolve the partnership when it becomes unpleasant? I will confess thatI have been often puzzled by this question. For some time I could notmake up my mind whether their unholy alliance was the result of theinfluence of the dog on the boy, or vice versa, and which was theweakest and most impressible nature. I am satisfied now that, at first, the dog is undoubtedly influenced by the boy, and, as it were, is led, while yet a puppy, from the paths of canine rectitude by artful anddesigning boys. As he grows older and more experienced in the ways ofhis Bohemian friends, he becomes a willing decoy, and takes delight inleading boyish innocence astray, in beguiling children to play truant, and thus revenges his own degradation on the boy nature generally. It isin this relation, and in regard to certain unhallowed practices Ihave detected him in, that I deem it proper to expose to parents andguardians the danger to which their offspring is exposed by the Boys'Dog. The Boys' Dog lays his plans artfully. He begins to influence theyouthful mind by suggestions of unrestrained freedom and frolic which heoffers in his own person. He will lie in wait at the garden gate for avery small boy, and endeavor to lure him outside its sacred precincts, by gambolling and jumping a little beyond the inclosure. He will set offon an imaginary chase and run around the block in a perfectly franticmanner, and then return, breathless, to his former position, with a lookas of one who would say, "There, you see how perfectly easy it's done!"Should the unhappy infant find it difficult to resist the effect whichthis glimpse of the area of freedom produces, and step beyond the gate, from that moment he is utterly demoralized. The Boys' Dog owns himbody and soul. Straightway he is led by the deceitful brute into theunhallowed circle of his Bohemian masters. Sometimes the unfortunateboy, if he be very small, turns up eventually at the station-house asa lost child. Whenever I meet a stray boy in the street looking utterlybewildered and astonished, I generally find a Boys' Dog lurking on thecorner. When I read the advertisements of lost children, I always addmentally to the description, "was last seen in company with a Boys'Dog. " Nor is his influence wholly confined to small boys. I have seenhim waiting patiently for larger boys on the way to school, and byartful and sophistical practices inducing them to play truant. I haveseen him lying at the school-house door, with the intention of enticingthe children on their way home to distant and remote localities. He hasled many an unsuspecting boy to the wharves and quays by assuming thecharacter of a water-dog, which he was not, and again has induced othersto go with him on a gunning excursion by pretending to be a sportingdog, in which quality he was knowingly deficient. Unscrupulous, hypocritical, and deceitful, he has won many children's hearts byanswering to any name they might call him, attaching himself to theirpersons until they got into trouble, and deserting them at the verymoment they most needed his assistance. I have seen him rob smallschool-boys of their dinners by pretending to knock them down byaccident; and have seen larger boys in turn dispossess him of hisill-gotten booty for their own private gratification. From being atool, he has grown to be an accomplice; through much imposition, hehas learned to impose on others; in his best character, he is simply avagabond's vagabond. I could find it in my heart to pity him, as he lies there through thelong summer afternoon, enjoying brief intervals of tranquillity andrest which he surreptitiously snatches from a stranger's doorstep. Fora shrill whistle is heard in the streets, the boys are coming home fromschool, and he is startled from his dreams by a deftly thrown potato, which hits him on the head, and awakens him to the stern reality that heis now and forever--a Boys' Dog. CHARITABLE REMINISCENCES As the new Benevolent Association has had the effect of withdrawingbeggars from the streets, and as Professional Mendicancy bids fair tobe presently ranked with the Lost Arts, to preserve some records of thisnoble branch of industry, I have endeavored to recall certain traits andpeculiarities of individual members of the order whom I have known, and whose forms I now miss from their accustomed haunts. In so doing, I confess to feeling a certain regret at this decay of ProfessionalBegging, for I hold the theory that mankind are bettered by theoccasional spectacle of misery, whether simulated or not, on the sameprinciple that our sympathies are enlarged by the fictitious woes ofthe Drama, though we know that the actors are insincere. Perhaps Iam indiscreet in saying that I have rewarded the artfully dressed andwell-acted performance of the begging impostor through the same impulsethat impelled me to expend a dollar in witnessing the counterfeitedsorrows of poor "Triplet, " as represented by Charles Wheatleigh. I didnot quarrel with deceit in either case. My coin was given in recognitionof the sentiment; the moral responsibility rested with the performer. The principal figure that I now mourn over as lost forever is onethat may have been familiar to many of my readers. It was that of adark-complexioned, black-eyed, foreign-looking woman, who supportedin her arms a sickly baby. As a pathological phenomenon the baby wasespecially interesting, having presented the Hippocratic face and othersymptoms of immediate dissolution, without change, for the past threeyears. The woman never verbally solicited alms. Her appearance wasalways mute, mysterious, and sudden. She made no other appeal thanthat which the dramatic tableau of herself and baby suggested, with anoutstretched hand and deprecating eye sometimes superadded. She usuallystood in my doorway, silent and patient, intimating her presence, ifmy attention were preoccupied, by a slight cough from her baby, whom Ishall always believe had its part to play in this little pantomime, andgenerally obeyed a secret signal from the maternal hand. It was uselessfor me to refuse alms, to plead business, or affect inattention. Shenever moved; her position was always taken with an appearance of latentcapabilities of endurance and experience in waiting which never failedto impress me with awe and the futility of any hope of escape. There wasalso something in the reproachful expression of her eye whichplainly said to me, as I bent over my paper, "Go on with your mocksentimentalities and simulated pathos; portray the imaginary sufferingsof your bodiless creations, spread your thin web of philosophy, but lookyou, sir, here is real misery! Here is genuine suffering!" I confessthat this artful suggestion usually brought me down. In three minutesafter she had thus invested the citadel I usually surrendered atdiscretion, without a gun having been fired on either side. She receivedmy offering and retired as mutely and mysteriously as she had appeared. Perhaps it was well for me that she did not know her strength. I mighthave been forced, had this terrible woman been conscious of her realpower, to have borrowed money which I could not pay, or have forged acheck to purchase immunity from her awful presence. I hardly know if Imake myself understood, and yet I am unable to define my meaningmore clearly when I say that there was something in her glance whichsuggested to the person appealed to, when in the presence of others, a certain idea of some individual responsibility for her sufferings, which, while it never failed to affect him with a mingled sense ofludicrousness and terror, always made an impression of unqualifiedgravity on the minds of the bystanders. As she has disappeared withinthe last month, I imagine that she has found a home at the San FranciscoBenevolent Association, --at least, I cannot conceive of any charity, however guarded by wholesome checks or sharp-eyed almoners, that couldresist that mute apparition. I should like to go there and inquireabout her, and also learn if the baby was convalescent or dead, but Iam satisfied that she would rise up, a mute and reproachful appeal, sopersonal in its artful suggestions, that it would end in the Associationinstantly transferring her to my hands. My next familiar mendicant was a vender of printed ballads. Theseeffusions were so stale, atrocious, and unsalable in their character, that it was easy to detect that hypocrisy, which--in imitation of moreambitious beggary--veiled the real eleemosynary appeal under the thinpretext of offering an equivalent. This beggar--an aged female ina rusty bonnet--I unconsciously precipitated upon myself in an evilmoment. On our first meeting, while distractedly turning over theballads, I came upon a certain production entitled, I think, "The FireZouave, " and was struck with the truly patriotic and American mannerin which "Zouave" was made to rhyme in different stanzas with "grave, brave, save, and glaive. " As I purchased it at once, with a gratifiedexpression of countenance, it soon became evident that the act wasmisconstrued by my poor friend, who from that moment never ceased tohaunt me. Perhaps in the whole course of her precarious existence shehad never before sold a ballad. My solitary purchase evidently mademe, in her eyes, a customer, and in a measure exalted her vocation; sothereafter she regularly used to look in at my door, with a chirping, confident air, and the question, "Any more songs to-day?" as though itwere some necessary article of daily consumption. I never took any moreof her songs, although that circumstance did not shake her faith in myliterary taste; my abstinence from this exciting mental pabulum beingprobably ascribed to charitable motives. She was finally absorbed by theS. F. B. A. , who have probably made a proper disposition of her effects. She was a little old woman, of Celtic origin, predisposed to melancholy, and looking as if she had read most of her ballads. My next reminiscence takes the shape of a very seedy individual, whohad, for three or four years, been vainly attempting to get back tohis relatives in Illinois, where sympathizing friends and a comfortablealmshouse awaited him. Only a few dollars, he informed me, --theuncontributed remainder of the amount necessary to purchase a steerageticket, --stood in his way. These last few dollars seem to have beenmost difficult to get, and he had wandered about, a sort of antitheticalFlying Dutchman, forever putting to sea, yet never getting away fromshore. He was a "49-er, " and had recently been blown up in a tunnel, orhad fallen down a shaft, I forget which. This sad accident obliged himto use large quantities of whiskey as a liniment, which, he informedme, occasioned the mild fragrance which his garments exhaled. Thoughbelonging to the same class, he was not to be confounded with theunfortunate miner who could not get back to his claim without pecuniaryassistance, or the desolate Italian, who hopelessly handed youa document in a foreign language, very much bethumbed andillegible, --which, in your ignorance of the tongue, you couldn't helpsuspiciously feeling might have been a price current, but which youcould see was proffered as an excuse for alms. Indeed, whenever anystranger handed me, without speaking, an open document, which bore themarks of having been carried in the greasy lining of a hat, I alwaysfelt safe in giving him a quarter and dismissing him without furtherquestioning. I always noticed that these circular letters, when writtenin the vernacular, were remarkable for their beautiful caligraphy andgrammatical inaccuracy, and that they all seem to have been written bythe same hand. Perhaps indigence exercises a peculiar and equal effectupon the handwriting. I recall a few occasional mendicants whose faces were less familiar. One afternoon a most extraordinary Irishman, with a black eye, a bruisedhat, and other traces of past enjoyment, waited upon me with a pitifulstory of destitution and want, and concluded by requesting the usualtrifle. I replied, with some severity, that if I gave him a dime hewould probably spend it for drink. "Be Gorra! but you're roight--Iwad that!" he answered promptly. I was so much taken aback by thisunexpected exhibition of frankness that I instantly handed over thedime. It seems that Truth had survived the wreck of his other virtues;he did get drunk, and, impelled by a like conscientious sense of duty, exhibited himself to me in that state a few hours after, to show that mybounty had not been misapplied. In spite of the peculiar characters of these reminiscences, I cannothelp feeling a certain regret at the decay of Professional Mendicancy. Perhaps it may be owing to a lingering trace of that youthfulsuperstition which saw in all beggars a possible prince or fairy, andinvested their calling with a mysterious awe. Perhaps it may be froma belief that there is something in the old-fashioned alms-givingsand actual contact with misery that is wholesome for both donor andrecipient, and that any system which interposes a third party betweenthem is only putting on a thick glove, which, while it preserves us fromcontagion, absorbs and deadens the kindly pressure of our hand. It is avery pleasant thing to purchase relief from the annoyance and troubleof having to weigh the claims of an afflicted neighbor. As I turnover these printed tickets, which the courtesy of the San FranciscoBenevolent Association has--by a slight stretch of the imagination insupposing that any sane unfortunate might rashly seek relief from anewspaper office--conveyed to these editorial hands, I cannot helpwondering whether, when in our last extremity we come to draw upon theImmeasurable Bounty, it will be necessary to present a ticket. "SEEING THE STEAMER OFF" I have sometimes thought, while watching the departure of an Easternsteamer, that the act of parting from friends--so generally one ofbitterness and despondency--is made by an ingenious Californian customto yield a pleasurable excitement. This luxury of leave-taking, in whichmost Californians indulge, is often protracted to the hauling in of thegang-plank. Those last words, injunctions, promises, and embraces, whichare mournful and depressing perhaps in that privacy demanded on otheroccasions, are here, by reason of their very publicity, of an edifyingand exhilarating character. A parting kiss, blown from the deck of asteamer into a miscellaneous crowd, of course loses much of thatsacred solemnity with which foolish superstition is apt to invest it. Abroadside of endearing epithets, even when properly aimed and apparentlyraking the whole wharf, is apt to be impotent and harmless. A husbandwho prefers to embrace his wife for the last time at the door ofher stateroom, and finds himself the centre of an admiring group ofunconcerned spectators, of course feels himself lifted above any feelingsave that of ludicrousness which the situation suggests. The mother, parting from her offspring, should become a Roman matron under the likeinfluences; the lover who takes leave of his sweetheart is not apt tomar the general hilarity by any emotional folly. In fact, this system ofdelaying our parting sentiments until the last moment--this removal ofdomestic scenery and incident to a public theatre--may be said to beworthy of a stoical and democratic people, and is an event in our liveswhich may be shared with the humblest coal-passer or itinerant venderof oranges. It is a return to that classic out-of-door experienceand mingling of public and domestic economy which so ennobled thestraight-nosed Athenian. So universal is this desire to be present at the departure of anysteamer that, aside from the regular crowd of loungers who make theirappearance confessedly only to look on, there are others who takeadvantage of the slightest intimacy to go through the leave-takingformula. People whom you have quite forgotten, people to whom you havebeen lately introduced, suddenly and unexpectedly make their appearanceand wring your hands with fervor. The friend, long estranged, forgivesyou nobly at the last moment, to take advantage of this gloriousopportunity of "seeing you off. " Your bootmaker, tailor, andhatter--haply with no ulterior motives and unaccompanied by officialfriends--visit you with enthusiasm. You find great difficulty indetaching your relatives and acquaintances from the trunks on whichthey resolutely seat themselves, up to the moment when the paddles aremoving, and you are haunted continually by an ill-defined idea thatthey may be carried off, and foisted on you--with the payment of theirpassage, which, under the circumstances, you could not refuse--for therest of the voyage. Your friends will make their appearance at the mostinopportune moments, and from the most unexpected places, --dangling fromhawsers, climbing up paddle-boxes, and crawling through cabin windows atthe imminent peril of their lives. You are nervous and crushed by thisadded weight of responsibility. Should you be a stranger, you will findany number of people on board, who will cheerfully and at a venture takeleave of you on the slightest advances made on your part. A friendof mine assures me that he once parted, with great enthusiasm andcordiality, from a party of gentlemen, to him personally unknown, whohad apparently mistaken his state-room. This party, --evidently connectedwith some fire company, --on comparing notes on the wharf, being somewhatdissatisfied with the result of their performances, afterward renderedmy friend's position on the hurricane deck one of extreme peril andinconvenience, by reason of skilfully projected oranges and apples, accompanied with some invective. Yet there is certainly something tointerest us in the examination of that cheerless damp closet, whosepainted wooden walls no furniture or company can make habitable, whereinour friend is to spend so many vapid days and restless nights. The sightof these apartments, yclept STATE-ROOMS, --Heaven knows why, except itbe from their want of cosiness, --is full of keen reminiscences to mostCalifornians who have not outgrown the memories of that dreary intervalwhen, in obedience to nature's wise compensations, homesickness wasblotted out by sea-sickness, and both at last resolved into a chaoticand distempered dream, whose details we now recognize. The steamer chairthat we used to drag out upon the narrow strip of deck and doze in, over the pages of a well-thumbed novel; the deck itself, of afternoons, redolent with the skins of oranges and bananas, of mornings, damp withsalt-water and mopping; the netted bulwark, smelling of tar in thetropics, and fretted on the weather side with little saline crystals;the villanously compounded odors of victuals from the pantry, and oilfrom the machinery; the young lady that we used to flirt with, and withwhom we shared our last novel, adorned with marginal annotations; ourown chum; our own bore; the man who was never sea-sick; the two eventsof the day, breakfast and dinner, and the dreary interval between; thetremendous importance giver, to trifling events and trifling people; theyoung lady who kept a journal; the newspaper, published on board, filledwith mild pleasantries and impertinences, elsewhere unendurable; theyoung lady who sang; the wealthy passenger; the popular passenger; the-- [Let us sit down for a moment until this qualmishness, which theseassociations and some infectious quality of the atmosphere seem toproduce, has passed away. What becomes of our steamer friends? Why arewe now so apathetic about them? Why is it that we drift away from themso unconcernedly, forgetting even their names and faces? Why, when wedo remember them, do we look at them so suspiciously, with an undefinedidea that, in the unrestrained freedom of the voyage, they becamepossessed of some confidence and knowledge of our weaknesses that wenever should have imparted? Did we make any such confessions? Perish thethought. The popular man, however, is not now so popular. We have heardfiner voices than that of the young lady who sang so sweetly. Our chum'sfascinating qualities, somehow, have deteriorated on land; so havethose of the fair young novel-reader, now the wife of an honest miner inVirginia City. ] --The passenger who made so many trips, and exhibited a recklessfamiliarity with the officers; the officers themselves, now somodest and undemonstrative, a few hours later so all-powerful andimportant, --these are among the reminiscences of most Californians, andthese are to be remembered among the experiences of our friend. Yet hefeels, as we all do, that his past experience will be of profit to him, and has already the confident air of an old voyager. As you stand on the wharf again, and listen to the cries of itinerantfruit venders, you wonder why it is that grief at parting and theunpleasant novelties of travel are supposed to be assuaged byoranges and apples, even at ruinously low prices. Perhaps it may be, figuratively, the last offering of the fruitful earth, as the passengercommits himself to the bosom of the sterile and unproductive ocean. Evenwhile the wheels are moving and the lines are cast off, some hardyapple merchant, mounted on the top of a pile, concludes a trade witha steerage passenger, --twenty feet interposing between buyer andseller, --and achieves, under these difficulties, the delivery of hiswares. Handkerchiefs wave, hurried orders mingle with parting blessings, and the steamer is "off. " As you turn your face cityward, and glancehurriedly around at the retreating crowd, you will see a reflection ofyour own wistful face in theirs, and read the solution of one of theproblems which perplex the California enthusiast. Before you lies SanFrancisco, with her hard angular outlines, her brisk, invigoratingbreezes, her bright, but unsympathetic sunshine, her restless andenergetic population; behind you fades the recollection of changeful, but honest skies; of extremes of heat and cold, modified and madeenjoyable through social and physical laws, of pastoral landscapes, of accessible Nature in her kindliest forms, of inherited virtues, oflong-tested customs and habits, of old friends and old faces, --in a wordof HOME! NEIGHBORHOODS I HAVE MOVED FROM I. A bay-window once settled the choice of my house and compensated formany of its inconveniences. When the chimney smoked, or the doorsalternately shrunk and swelled, resisting any forcible attempt toopen them, or opening of themselves with ghostly deliberation, or whensuspicious blotches appeared on the ceiling in rainy weather, there wasalways the bay-window to turn to for comfort. And the view was a fineone. Alcatraz, Lime Point, Fort Point, and Saucelito were plainlyvisible over a restless expanse of water that changed continually, glittering in the sunlight, darkening in rocky shadow, or sweeping inmimic waves on a miniature beach below. Although at first the bay-window was supposed to be sacred to myselfand my writing materials, in obedience to some organic law, it by and bybecame a general lounging-place. A rocking-chair and crochet basketone day found their way there. Then the baby invaded its recesses, fortifying himself behind intrenchments of colored worsteds and spoolsof cotton, from which he was only dislodged by concerted assault, andcarried lamenting into captivity. A subtle glamour crept over all whocame within its influence. To apply one's self to serious work there wasan absurdity. An incoming ship, a gleam on the water, a cloud lingeringabout Tamalpais, were enough to distract the attention. Reading orwriting, the bay-window was always showing something to be looked at. Unfortunately, these views were not always pleasant, but the window gaveequal prominence and importance to all, without respect to quality. The landscape in the vicinity was unimproved, but not rural. Theadjacent lots had apparently just given up bearing scrub-oaks, but hadnot seriously taken to bricks and mortar. In one direction the vista wasclosed by the Home of the Inebriates, not in itself a cheerful-lookingbuilding, and, as the apparent terminus of a ramble in a certaindirection, having all the effect of a moral lesson. To a certain extent, however, this building was an imposition. The enthusiastic members ofmy family, who confidently expected to see its inmates hilariouslydisporting themselves at its windows in the different stages ofinebriation portrayed by the late W. E. Burton, were much disappointed. The Home was reticent of its secrets. The County Hospital, also in rangeof the bay-window, showed much more animation. At certain hours of theday convalescents passed in review before the window on their way toan airing. This spectacle was the still more depressing from a singularlack of sociability that appeared to prevail among them. Each manwas encompassed by the impenetrable atmosphere of his own peculiarsuffering. They did not talk or walk together. From the window I haveseen half a dozen sunning themselves against a wall within a few feetof each other, to all appearance utterly oblivious of the fact. Had theybut quarrelled or fought, --anything would have been better than thishorrible apathy. The lower end of the street on which the bay-window was situate, openedinvitingly from a popular thoroughfare; and after beckoning the unwarystranger into its recesses, ended unexpectedly at a frightful precipice. On Sundays, when the travel North-Beachwards was considerable, thebay-window delighted in the spectacle afforded by unhappy pedestrianswho were seduced into taking this street as a short-cut somewhere else. It was amusing to notice how these people invariably, on coming to theprecipice, glanced upward to the bay-window and endeavored to assume acareless air before they retraced their steps, whistling ostentatiously, as if they had previously known all about it. One high-spirited youngman in particular, being incited thereto by a pair of mischievous brighteyes in an opposite window, actually descended this fearful precipicerather than return, to the great peril of life and limb, and manifestinjury to his Sunday clothes. Dogs, goats, and horses constituted the fauna of our neighborhood. Possessing the lawless freedom of their normal condition, they stillevinced a tender attachment to man and his habitations. Spirited steedsgot up extempore races on the sidewalks, turning the street into aminiature Corso; dogs wrangled in the areas; while from the hill besidethe house a goat browsed peacefully upon my wife's geraniums in theflower-pots of the second-story window. "We had a fine hail-storm lastnight, " remarked a newly arrived neighbor, who had just moved into theadjoining house. It would have been a pity to set him right, as hewas quite enthusiastic about the view and the general sanitaryqualifications of the locality. So I didn't tell him anything about thegoats who were in the habit of using his house as a stepping-stone tothe adjoining hill. But the locality was remarkably healthy. People who fell down theembankments found their wounds heal rapidly in the steady sea-breeze. Ventilation was complete and thorough. The opening of the bay-windowproduced a current of wholesome air which effectually removed allnoxious exhalations, together with the curtains, the hinges of the backdoor, and the window-shutters. Owing to this peculiarity, some ofmy writings acquired an extensive circulation and publicity in theneighborhood, which years in another locality might not have produced. Several articles of wearing apparel, which were mysteriously transposedfrom our clothes-line to that of an humble though honest neighbor, wasundoubtedly the result of these sanitary winds. Yet in spite of theseadvantages I found it convenient in a few months to move. And the resultwhereof I shall communicate in other papers. II. "A house with a fine garden and extensive shrubbery, in a genteelneighborhood, " were, if I remember rightly, the general terms of anadvertisement which once decided my choice of a dwelling. I should addthat this occurred at an early stage of my household experience, when Iplaced a trustful reliance in advertisements. I have since learnedthat the most truthful people are apt to indulge a slight vein ofexaggeration in describing their own possessions, as though the merecircumstance of going into print were an excuse for a certain kind ofmendacity. But I did not fully awaken to this fact until a much laterperiod, when, in answering an advertisement which described a highlyadvantageous tenement, I was referred to the house I then occupied, andfrom which a thousand inconveniences were impelling me to move. The "fine garden" alluded to was not large, but contained severalpeculiarly shaped flower-beds. I was at first struck with the singularresemblance which they bore to the mutton-chops that are usually broughton the table at hotels and restaurants, --a resemblance the more strikingfrom the sprigs of parsley which they produced freely. One plat inparticular reminded me, not unpleasantly, of a peculiar cake, knownto my boyhood as "a bolivar. " The owner of the property, however, whoseemed to be a man of original aesthetic ideas, had banked up one ofthese beds with bright-colored sea-shells, so that in rainy weatherit suggested an aquarium, and offered the elements of botanical andconchological study in pleasing juxtaposition. I have since thoughtthat the fish-geraniums, which it also bore to a surprising extent, wereintroduced originally from some such idea of consistency. But it wasvery pleasant, after dinner, to ramble up and down the gravelly paths(whose occasional boulders reminded me of the dry bed of a somewhatcircuitous mining stream), smoking a cigar, or inhaling the rich aromaof fennel, or occasionally stopping to pluck one of the hollyhocks withwhich the garden abounded. The prolific qualities of this plant alarmedus greatly, for although, in the first transport of enthusiasm, my wifeplanted several different kinds of flower-seeds, nothing ever came upbut hollyhocks; and although, impelled by the same laudable impulse, Iprocured a copy of "Downing's Landscape Gardening, " and a few gardeningtools, and worked for several hours in the garden, my efforts wereequally futile. The "extensive shrubbery" consisted of several dwarfed trees. One wasa very weak young weeping willow, so very limp and maudlin, and soevidently bent on establishing its reputation, that it had to be tied upagainst the house for support. The dampness of that portion of the housewas usually attributed to the presence of this lachrymose shrub. Andto these a couple of highly objectionable trees, known, I think, by thename of Malva, which made an inordinate show of cheap blossoms that theywere continually shedding, and one or two dwarf oaks, with scaly leavesand a generally spiteful exterior, and you have what was not inaptlytermed by our Milesian handmaid "the scrubbery. " The gentility of our neighbor suffered a blight from the unwholesomevicinity of McGinnis Court. This court was a kind of cul de sac that, on being penetrated, discovered a primitive people living in a state ofbarbarous freedom, and apparently spending the greater portion of theirlives on their own door-steps. Many of those details of the toilet whicha popular prejudice restricts to the dressing-room in other localities, were here performed in the open court without fear and without reproach. Early in the week the court was hid in a choking, soapy mist, whicharose from innumerable washtubs. This was followed in a day or two laterby an extraordinary exhibition of wearing apparel of divers colors, fluttering on lines like a display of bunting on ship-board, and whoseflapping in the breeze was like irregular discharges of musketry. It wasevident also that the court exercised a demoralizing influence over thewhole neighborhood. A sanguine property-owner once put up a handsomedwelling on the corner of our street, and lived therein; but althoughhe appeared frequently on his balcony, clad in a bright crimsondressing-gown, which made him look like a tropical bird of some rareand gorgeous species, he failed to woo any kindred dressing-gown to thevicinity, and only provoked opprobrious epithets from the gamins of thecourt. He moved away shortly after, and on going by the house one day, I noticed a bill of "Rooms to let, with board, " posted conspicuously onthe Corinthian columns of the porch. McGinnis Court had triumphed. Aninterchange of civilities at once took place between the court andthe servants' area of the palatial mansion, and some of the young menboarders exchange playful slang with the adolescent members of thecourt. From that moment we felt that our claims to gentility wereforever abandoned. Yet, we enjoyed intervals of unalloyed contentment. When the twilighttoned down the hard outlines of the oaks, and made shadowy clumps andformless masses of other bushes, it was quite romantic to sit by thewindow and inhale the faint, sad odor of the fennel in the walks below. Perhaps this economical pleasure was much enhanced by a picture in mymemory, whose faded colors the odor of this humble plant never failed torestore. So I often sat there of evenings and closed my eyes until theforms and benches of a country schoolroom came back to me, redolent withthe incense of fennel covertly stowed away in my desk, and gazed againin silent rapture on the round, red cheeks and long black braids of thatpeerless creature whose glance had often caused my cheeks to glow overthe preternatural collar, which at that period of my boyhood it wasmy pride and privilege to wear. As I fear I may be often thoughthypercritical and censorious in these articles, I am willing to recordthis as one of the advantages of our new house, not mentioned in theadvertisement, nor chargeable in the rent. May the present tenant, whois a stock-broker, and who impresses me with the idea of having alwaysbeen called "Mr. " from his cradle up, enjoy this advantage, and trysometimes to remember he was a boy! III. Soon after I moved into Happy Valley I was struck with the remarkableinfelicity of its title. Generous as Californians are in the use ofadjectives, this passed into the domain of irony. But I was inclined tothink it sincere, --the production of a weak but gushing mind, justas the feminine nomenclature of streets in the vicinity was evidentlybestowed by one in habitual communion with "Friendship's Gifts" and"Affection's Offerings. " Our house on Laura Matilda Street looked somewhat like a toy SwissCottage, --a style of architecture so prevalent, that in walking down theblock it was quite difficult to resist an impression of fresh glue andpine shavings. The few shade-trees might have belonged originally tothose oval Christmas boxes which contain toy villages; and even thepeople who sat by the windows had a stiffness that made them appearsurprisingly unreal and artificial. A little dog belonging to a neighborwas known to the members of my household by the name of "Glass, " fromthe general suggestion he gave of having been spun of that article. Perhaps I have somewhat exaggerated these illustrations of the dappernicety of our neighborhood, --a neatness and conciseness which I thinkhave a general tendency to belittle, dwarf, and contract their objects. For we gradually fell into small ways and narrow ideas, and to someextent squared the round world outside to the correct angles of LauraMatilda Street. One reason for this insincere quality may have been the fact that thevery foundations of our neighborhood were artificial. Laura MatildaStreet was "made ground. " The land, not yet quite reclaimed, wascontinually struggling with its old enemy. We had not been long in ournew home before we found an older tenant, not yet wholly divested ofhis rights, who sometimes showed himself in clammy perspiration on thebasement walls, whose damp breath chilled our dining-room, and in thenight struck a mortal chilliness through the house. There were no patentfastenings that could keep him out, --no writ of unlawful detainer thatcould eject him. In the winter his presence was quite palpable; hesapped the roots of the trees, he gurgled under the kitchen floor, hewrought an unwholesome greenness on the side of the veranda. In summerhe became invisible, but still exercised a familiar influence over thelocality. He planted little stitches in the small of the back, soughtout old aches and weak joints, and sportively punched the tenants of theSwiss Cottage under the ribs. He inveigled little children to playwith him, but his plays generally ended in scarlet fever, diphtheria, whooping-cough, and measles. He sometimes followed strong men aboutuntil they sickened suddenly and took to their beds. But he kept thegreen-plants in good order, and was very fond of verdure, bestowingit even upon lath and plaster and soulless stone. He was generallyinvisible, as I have said; but some time after I had moved, I saw himone morning from the hill stretching his gray wings over the valley, like some fabulous vampire, who had spent the night sucking thewholesome juices of the sleepers below, and was sluggish from theeffects of his repast. It was then that I recognized him as Malaria, and knew his abode to be the dread Valley of the shadow ofMiasma, --miscalled the Happy Valley! On week days there was a pleasant melody of boiler-making from thefoundries, and the gas works in the vicinity sometimes lent a mildperfume to the breeze. Our street was usually quiet, however, --afootfall being sufficient to draw the inhabitants to their frontwindows, and to oblige an incautious trespasser to run the gauntlet ofbatteries of blue and black eyes on either side of the way. A carriagepassing through it communicated a singular thrill to the floors, and caused the china on the dining-table to rattle. Although we werecomparatively free from the prevailing winds, wandering gusts sometimesgot bewildered and strayed unconsciously into our street, and findingan unencumbered field, incontinently set up a shriek of joy, and wentgleefully to work on the clothes-lines and chimney-pots, and had a goodtime generally until they were quite exhausted. I have a very vividpicture in my memory of an organ-grinder who was at one time blown intothe end of our street, and actually blown through it in spite of severalineffectual efforts to come to a stand before the different dwellings, but who was finally whirled out of the other extremity, still playingand vainly endeavoring to pursue his unhallowed calling. But these werenoteworthy exceptions to the calm and even tenor of our life. There was contiguity but not much sociability in our neighborhood. From my bedroom window I could plainly distinguish the peculiar kind ofvictuals spread on my neighbor's dining-table; while, on the other hand, he obtained an equally uninterrupted view of the mysteries of my toilet. Still, that "low vice, curiosity, " was regulated by certain laws, anda kind of rude chivalry invested our observation. A pretty girl, whosebedroom window was the cynosure of neighboring eyes, was once broughtunder the focus of an opera-glass in the hands of one of our ingenuousyouth; but this act met such prompt and universal condemnation, as anunmanly advantage, from the lips of married men and bachelors who didn'town opera-glasses, that it was never repeated. With this brief sketch I conclude my record of the neighborhoods I havemoved from. I have moved from many others since then, but they havegenerally presented features not dissimilar to the three I haveendeavored to describe in these pages. I offer them as types containingthe salient peculiarities of all. Let no inconsiderate reader rashlymove on account of them. My experience has not been cheaply bought. Fromthe nettle Change I have tried to pluck the flower Security. Draymenhave grown rich at my expense. House-agents have known me and were glad, and landlords have risen up to meet me from afar. The force of habitimpels me still to consult all the bills I see in the streets, nor canthe war telegrams divert my first attention from the advertising columnsof the daily papers. I repeat, let no man think I have disclosed theweaknesses of the neighborhood, nor rashly open that closet whichcontains the secret skeleton of his dwelling. My carpets have beenaltered to fit all sized odd-shaped apartments from parallelopiped tohexagons. Much of my furniture has been distributed among my formerdwellings. These limbs have stretched upon uncarpeted floors, or havebeen let down suddenly from imperfectly established bedsteads. I havedined in the parlor and slept in the back kitchen. Yet the result ofthese sacrifices and trials may be briefly summed up in the statementthat I am now on the eve of removal from my PRESENT NEIGHBORHOOD. MY SUBURBAN RESIDENCE. I live in the suburbs. My residence, to quote the pleasing fiction ofthe advertisement, "is within fifteen minutes' walk of the City Hall. "Why the City Hall should be considered as an eligible terminus ofanybody's walk, under any circumstances, I have not been able todetermine. Never having walked from my residence to that place, I amunable to verify the assertion, though I may state as a purely abstractand separate proposition, that it takes me the better part of an hour toreach Montgomery Street. My selection of locality was a compromise between my wife's desire togo into the country, and my own predilections for civic habitation. Likemost compromises, it ended in retaining the objectionable features ofboth propositions; I procured the inconveniences of the country withoutlosing the discomforts of the city. I increased my distance fromthe butcher and green-grocer, without approximating to herds andkitchen-gardens. But I anticipate. Fresh air was to be the principal thing sought for. That there mightbe too much of this did not enter into my calculations. The first dayI entered my residence, it blew; the second day was windy; the third, fresh, with a strong breeze stirring; on the fourth, it blew; on thefifth, 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 toopen 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 Naturethat 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 thegeneral effects of the gentle gales which he has faced in approachingmy hospitable mansion, relaxes his efforts, smooths his brow, andapproaches with a fascinating smile. Rash and too confident man! Thewind delivers a succession of rapid blows, and he is thrown back. He staggers up again, in the language of the P. R. , "smiling andconfident. " The wind now makes for a vulnerable point, and gets his hatin chancery. All ceremony is now thrown away; the luckless wretch seizeshis hat with both hands, and charges madly at the front door. Inch byinch, the wind contests the ground; another struggle, and he standsupon the veranda. On such occasions I make it a point to open the doormyself, with a calmness and serenity that shall offer a marked contrastto his feverish and excited air, and shall throw suspicion of inebrietyupon him. If he be inclined to timidity and bashfulness, during the bestof the evening he is all too conscious of the disarrangement of hishair and cravat. If he is less sensitive, the result is often moredistressing. A valued elderly friend once called upon me afterundergoing a twofold struggle with the wind and a large Newfoundland dog(which I keep for reasons hereinafter stated), and not only his hat, buthis wig, had suffered. He spent the evening with me, totally unconsciousof the fact that his hair presented the singular spectacle of havingbeen parted diagonally from the right temple to the left ear. Whenladies called, my wife preferred to receive them. They were generallyhysterical, and often in tears. I remember, one Sunday, to have beenstartled by what appeared to be the balloon from Hayes Valley driftingrapidly past my conservatory, closely followed by the Newfoundland dog. I rushed to the front door, but was anticipated by my wife. Astrange lady appeared at lunch, but the phenomenon remained otherwiseunaccounted for. Egress from my residence is much more easy. My guestsseldom "stand upon the order of their going, but go at once"; theNewfoundland dog playfully harassing their rear. I was standing one day, with my hand on the open hall door, in serious conversation with theminister of the parish, when the back door was cautiously opened. The watchful breeze seized the opportunity, and charged through thedefenceless passage. The front door closed violently in the middle ofa sentence, precipitating the reverend gentleman into the garden. The Newfoundland dog, with that sagacity for which his race is sodistinguished, at once concluded that a personal collision had takenplace between myself and visitor, and flew to my defence. The reverendgentleman never called again. The Newfoundland dog above alluded to was part of a system of protectionwhich my suburban home once required. Robberies were frequent in theneighborhood, and my only fowl fell a victim to the spoiler's art. Onenight I awoke, and found a man in my room. With singular delicacy andrespect for the feelings of others, he had been careful not to awakenany of the sleepers, and retired upon my rising, without waiting for anysuggestion. Touched by his delicacy, I forbore giving the alarmuntil after he had made good his retreat. I then wanted to go aftera policeman, but my wife remonstrated, as this would leave the houseexposed. Remembering the gentlemanly conduct of the burglar, I suggestedthe plan of following him and requesting him to give the alarm as hewent in town. But this proposition was received with equal disfavor. Thenext day I procured a dog and a revolver. The former went off, but thelatter wouldn't. I then got a new dog and chained him, and a duellingpistol, with a hair-trigger. The result was so far satisfactory thatneither could be approached with safety, and for some time I left themout, indifferently, during the night. But the chain one day gave way, and the dog, evidently having no other attachment to the house, tookthe 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. Ido not know the number of acres the grounds contain except from theinordinate quantity of hose required for irrigating. I perform daily, like some gentle shepherd, upon a quarter-inch pipe without any visibleresult, and have had serious thoughts of contracting with some disbandedfire company for their hose and equipments. It is quite a walk to thewood-house. Every day some new feature of the grounds is discovered. My youngest boy was one day missing for several hours. His head--apeculiarly venerable and striking object--was at last discovered justabove the grass at some distance from the house. On examination he wasfound comfortably seated in a disused drain, in company with a silverspoon and a dead rat. On being removed from this locality he howleddismally and refused to be comforted. The view from my suburban residence is fine. Lone Mountain, with itswhite obelisks, is a suggestive if not cheering termination of the vistain one direction, while the old receiving vault of Yerba Buena Cemeterylimits the view in another. Most of the funerals which take place passmy house. My children, with the charming imitativeness that belongs toyouth, have caught the spirit of these passing corteges, and reproducein the back yard, with creditable skill, the salient features ofthe lugubrious procession. A doll, from whose features all traces ofvitality and expression have been removed, represents the deceased. Yet unfortunately I have been obliged to promise them more activeparticipation in this ceremony at some future time, and I fear thatthey look anxiously forward with the glowing impatience of youth to thespeedy removal of some one of my circle of friends. I am told that theeldest, with the unsophisticated frankness that belongs to his age, made a personal request to that effect to one of my acquaintances. Onesingular result of the frequency of these funerals is the developmentof a critical and fastidious taste in such matters on the part of myselfand family. If I may so express myself, without irreverence, we seldomturn out for anything less than six carriages. Any number over this isusually breathlessly announced by Bridget as, "Here's another, mum, --anda good long one. " With these slight drawbacks my suburban residence is charming. To theserious poet, and writer of elegiac verses, the aspect of Nature, viewedfrom my veranda, is suggestive. I myself have experienced moments whenthe "sad mechanic exercise" of verse would have been of infinite relief. The following stanzas, by a young friend who has been stopping with mefor the benefit of his health, addressed to a duck that frequented asmall pond in the vicinity of my mansion, may be worthy of perusal. Ithink I have met the idea conveyed in the first verse in some of Hood'sprose, but as my friend assures me that Hood was too conscientious toappropriate 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 thouPriessnitz? What? alack Hast no other word but "Quack?" II. Cleopatra's barge might pale To the splendors of thy tail, Or thestately caravel Of some "high-pooped admiral. " Never yet left such awake E'en the navigator Drake! III. Dux thou art, and leader, too, Heeding not what's "falling due, " Knowingnot of debt or dun, --Thou dost heed no bill but one; And, though scarceconceivable, That's a bill Receivable, Made--that thou thy stars mightstthank--Payable at the next bank. ON A VULGAR LITTLE BOY The subject of this article is at present leaning against a treedirectly opposite to my window. He wears his cap with the wrong sidebefore, apparently for no other object than that which seems the mostobvious, --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 pleasingindication of the progress of the seasons. The nose of this vulgarlittle boy turns up at the end. I have noticed this in several othervulgar little boys, although it is by no means improbable that youthfulvulgarity may be present without this facial peculiarity. Indeed, Iam inclined to the belief that it is rather the result of earlyinquisitiveness--of furtive pressures against window-panes, andof looking over fences, or of the habit of biting large appleshastily--than an indication of scorn or juvenile superciliousness. Thevulgar little boy is more remarkable for his obtrusive familiarity. Itis my experience of his predisposition to this quality which has inducedme to write this article. My acquaintance with him began in a moment of weakness. I have anunfortunate predilection to cultivate originality in people, even whenaccompanied by objectionable character. But, as I lack the firmness andskilfulness which usually accompany this taste in others, and enablethem to drop acquaintances when troublesome, I have surrounded myselfwith divers unprofitable friends, among whom I count the vulgar littleboy. The manner in which he first attracted my attention was purelyaccidental. He was playing in the street, and the driver of a passingvehicle cut at him, sportively, with his whip. The vulgar little boyrose to his feet and hurled after his tormentor a single sentence ofinvective. I refrain from repeating it, for I feel that I could not dojustice to it here. If I remember rightly, it conveyed, in a very fewwords, a reflection on the legitimacy of the driver's birth; it hinteda suspicion of his father's integrity, and impugned the fair fame ofhis mother; it suggested incompetency in his present position, personaluncleanliness, and evinced a sceptical doubt of his future salvation. Ashis youthful lips closed over the last syllable, the eyes of the vulgarlittle boy met mine. Something in my look emboldened him to wink. I didnot repel the action nor the complicity it implied. From that moment Ifell into the power of the vulgar little boy, and he has never left mesince. He haunts me in the streets and by-ways. He accosts me, when in thecompany of friends, with repulsive freedom. He lingers about the gateof my dwelling to waylay me as I issue forth to business. Distancehe overcomes by main strength of lungs, and he hails me from the nextstreet. He met me at the theatre the other evening, and demanded mycheck 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 theparquet, I was electrified by hearing my name called from the gallerywith the addition of a playful adjective. It was the vulgar little boy. During the performance he projected spirally-twisted playbills in mydirection, and indulged in a running commentary on the supernumerariesas they entered. To-day has evidently been a dull one with him. I observe he whistlesthe popular airs of the period with less shrillness and intensity. Providence, however, looks not unkindly on him, and delivers into hishands as it were two nice little boys who have at this moment innocentlystrayed into our street. They are pink and white children, and aredressed alike, and exhibit a certain air of neatness and refinementwhich is alone sufficient to awaken the antagonism of the vulgar littleboy. A sigh of satisfaction breaks from his breast. What does he do? Anyother boy would content himself with simply knocking the hats off theirrespective heads, and so vent his superfluous vitality in a single act, besides precipitating the flight of the enemy. But there are aestheticconsiderations not to be overlooked; insult is to be added to the injuryinflicted, and in the struggles of the victim some justification is tobe sought for extreme measures. The two nice little boys perceive theirdanger and draw closer to each other. The vulgar little boy beginsby irony. He affects to be overpowered by the magnificence of theircostume. He addresses me (across the street and through the closedwindow), and requests information if there haply be a circus in thevicinity. He makes affectionate inquiries after the health of theirparents. He expresses a fear of maternal anxiety in regard to theirwelfare. He offers to conduct them home. One nice little boy feeblyretorts; but alas! his correct pronunciation; his grammaticalexactitude, and his moderate epithets only provoke a scream of derisionfrom the vulgar little boy, who now rapidly changes his tactics. Staggering under the weight of his vituperation, they fall easy victimsto what he would call his "dexter mawley. " A wail of lamentation goes upfrom our street. But as the subject of this article seems to requirea more vigorous handling than I had purposed to give it, I find itnecessary to abandon my present dignified position, seize my hat, openthe 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 theocean breaking uninterruptedly along its rocky beach. There are severalcottages on the sands, which look as if they had recently been cast upby a heavy sea. The cultivated patch behind each tenement is fenced inby bamboos, broken spars, and driftwood. With its few green cabbages andturnip-tops, each garden looks something like an aquarium with the waterturned off. In fact you would not be surprised to meet a merman diggingamong the potatoes, or a mermaid milking a sea cow hard by. Near this place formerly arose a great semaphoric telegraph with itsgaunt arms tossed up against the horizon. It has been replaced by anobservatory, connected with an electric nerve to the heart of the greatcommercial city. From this point the incoming ships are signalled, andagain checked off at the City Exchange. And while we are here lookingfor the expected steamer, let me tell you a story. Not long ago, a simple, hard-working mechanic had amassed sufficient bydiligent 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 knewlittle of ships or seas or gales. He procured work in the city, but asthe time approached he would go to the shipping office regularly everyday. 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, thendisappeared. It turned up one afternoon at the observatory as thesetting sun relieved the operator from his duties. There was somethingso 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 strangerhad one more question to ask. "How long might a vessel be absent beforethey would give up expecting her?" The operator couldn't tell; it woulddepend 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 comehome. The stranger put his rough hand on the operator's, and thanked himfor his "troubil, " and went away. Still the ship came not. Stately clippers swept into the Gate, andmerchantmen went by with colors flying, and the welcoming gun of thesteamer often reverberated among the hills. Then the patient face, withthe old resigned expression, but a brighter, wistful look in the eye, was regularly met on the crowded decks of the steamer as she disembarkedher living freight. He may have had a dimly defined hope that themissing ones might yet come this way, as only another road over thatstrange unknown expanse. But he talked with ship captains and sailors, and even this last hope seemed to fail. When the careworn face andbright 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 rockswith his face turned seaward, and was seated there all that night. When he became hopelessly insane, for that was what the physicianssaid made his eyes so bright and wistful, he was cared for by afellow-craftsman who had known his troubles. He was allowed to indulgehis fancy of going out to watch for the ship, in which she "and thechildren" were, at night when no one else was watching. He had made uphis mind that the ship would come in at night. This, and the idea thathe would relieve the operator, who would be tired with watching all day, seemed to please him. So he went out and relieved the operator everynight! For two years the ships came and went. He was there to see theoutward-bound clipper, and greet her on her return. He was known onlyby a few who frequented the place. When he was missed at last from hisaccustomed spot, a day or two elapsed before any alarm was felt. OneSunday, a party of pleasure-seekers clambering over the rocks wereattracted by the barking of a dog that had run on before them. When theycame up they found a plainly dressed man lying there dead. There were afew papers in his pocket, --chiefly slips cut from different journals ofold marine memoranda, --and his face was turned towards the distant sea.